Open A Drawer

Today's 15 minute writing exercise, from The Observation Deck: A Tool Kit for Writers, by Naomi Epel

______________________

I thrust my hand into the deep well of life -- in this case, the drawer of my office filing cabinet -- and came out with a parking ticket. That I have not paid.

Ah, the metaphor right there. The things not attended to. The niggling pieces of life that cause shame and denial. Shame, you say? Denial? It's a parking ticket. Pay it and move on.

Why does a slip of paper like a parking ticket, or the memory of getting it (read: not paying attention enough to realize I couldn't park in the miracle spot I thought I found), evoke such negativity and self reproach?

Option 1: It really is representative of the ways I don't pay attention, the ways I let life's small responsibilities and annoying demands pile up in ways that come back to bite me.

Option 2: It actually represents the ways in which "the man" is working every day, in every way, to keep. us. down. Control. Rules. Restrictions that thwart us at every turn. The capitalistic enterprise, squeezing pennies and dollars out of us every chance it gets.

Either way, this particular slip of paper makes me mad. Mad at myself, mad at the SFMTA, mad at inflation. Plenty of anger to go around, thank you very much.

What to do in the face of that anger? How to navigate the downward pull of self and municipal loathing?

RESIST. Everything is resistance. Instead of giving in to the loathing, ground myself in the sure knowledge that I am more than the profit I generate for the state, that I am more than a cog in the economic machine, that the parking ticket does not define me. Seems silly, no? Seems silly, yes. But it's the little things, man, that pile up and bite us, the little things that layer one on top the other. 

So what is the work? The work is to be the artisan, laying other, better things one on top the other. Do not let the parking tickets, and the missed train, and the leaking tire, and the Christmas tree decaying in the corner of the yard be the things that build up on your precious frame. Decide what belongs there. Make creative choices. Choose colors, forms, mediums that you love. You don't have to say why you love them. You don't have to justify a single choice, because it's your precious frame and your wild, precious canvas, and you can layer on these things: paella. fire in the hearth. goal in the back of the net. fiddle callouses. children. carmelized onions. music. crunchy gravel. all the things that reveal the great beauty all around you, in you, breathing between you and the ones you love.

Do not let T*ump or the utterly, shockingly, mind-numbingly disappointing political landscape occupy a single centimeter of your canvas. Layer beauty upon beauty and watch the slings and arrows -- and parking tickets -- bounce and slide right off.

* * * 

I AM FROM

My daughter Tallulah is our guest writer today! Please enjoy this poem she wrote last November, as well as the art she made to go with it.

I AM FROM

by Tallulah Alatorre

I am from long days in the yard lost in my imagination.

I am from a minivan stuffed full with 5 whirly children and two exhausted parents.

I am from the sound of NPR echoing in the halls on Sunday morning.

I am from apples and peanut butter served on a smooth wooden cutting board.

I am from trips to the beach with hot cocoa.

I am from hikes and creek explorations.

I am from long nights spent on a soccer field with the feel of an icy chill on my face.

I am from the evening sun hitting the yellowish walls of my home, illuminating the living room.

I am from the warm sweet smell of dinner preparing in the oven.

I am from walks to the corner store and soccer tennis at the park.

I am from hand-me-downs and everything used and loved before me.

I am from the crackling of the fireplace during winter time.

I am from doing my homework at a table splattered with paint and carved initials.

I am from lemonade stands and making cookies.

I am from warmth, love, and devotion. 

-----

Maybe we got some things right.  Thank you, Tallulah!

Three Minutes

My friend Janelle texted me the other day: "Do you have three minutes?" I did not, at that precise moment, because I was driving.

When I got to my destination – a soccer field, of course, where Little T was experiencing the joy of "pod" training (thank you COVID) – I texted Janelle to let her know that I now had three minutes.  Next, she asked if I was in a quiet place.  Yes, I told her, for once, I was in a quiet place, not surrounded by my boisterous, busy family.

I was in for a treat. She sent me a link to this video and told me to listen:

Three minutes of sheer beauty and joy! Such a treat, so welcomed in this time of chaos and anxiety.

I have listened to it several times since and shared it with friends and family.  But in addition to bringing me real joy, this brief three-minute video has also taught me some uncomfortable truths about myself that are not at all joyful.  

The first time I listened to it, I couldn't focus on it. I immediately loved it, to be sure, but I was also distracted. Less than one minute in, I was already thinking about sharing it, already crafting a tweet or a post about it, already thinking about how MY take on it would be received (by my very, very few followers, no less). Mere seconds had gone by, and the beautiful music was already competing in my head with noisy thoughts about who I should send it to, who needed to hear it, why it was important, why my kids should listen, and what kind of moral decay the world was in if they couldn't appreciate music like this.  It was unsettling to recognize that I couldn't simply sit still and listen to two incredibly talented musicians for three tiny minutes; instead, I was neurotically scheming about how to use this piece of art for myself.

Thankfully, I forced myself to quit that nonsense. Don't tweet. Don't post. Just listen. Just enjoy. Just be with the music. I am out of habits like that. I am in the habits of curating my responses for social media, thinking in sound bites, and anticipating notifications. Creativity cannot compete with such foolishness: I need different habits of being. 

Today, I deleted Twitter and Facebook from my phone, the number one places where I get sucked down into the valley of scrolling death. Yes, I'm writing this reflection on my blog: irony is a bitch in heels.  

The task in front of me is to figure it all out: figure out how to enjoy art and beauty, and how to create whatever it is I'm going to create, and how to do it authentically, and how to share it authentically. I think it starts with stopping: stop being on social media for awhile, stop scrolling and reading one-liners and hot takes and having nanosecond reactions to things that barely register before I'm on to the next thing, like some never satiated hunger that grows larger with every swipe. Stop being horrified by Trump, and racists, and DeVos, and anti-maskers, and whatever new horror comes along. Scrolling is numbing me and depressing me; it is lulling me into imagining that my outrage is my activism. It is not.

We must be able to take in beauty, deep inside: it is an act of self-preservation.  I wasn't able to do that with The Swan the first time I heard it. I will keep trying.

 

Bring On the 40 Days

Welcome, Lent.


This year, I am using this season to force myself to do something I've been meaning to do for a long time now: re-establish the habit of writing.

I stopped writing regularly awhile ago, and as a result, I don't know what I think about pretty much anything anymore, except that I really want the Trump presidency to come to a screeching halt.  But other than that, I can't really figure out much about life.  Writing used to help me make sense of things, and I'm hoping it will again.  Things like:

• Why do my teenage daughters' midriffs (and sculpted eyebrows and endless, curated selfies) bother me so much?
• How can one person make a stand against the divisions and rancor that are everywhere?
• When will I figure out how to make my iPhone serve me, rather than the other way around?
• Why is life so unbelievably hard?  Why is life so unbelievably beautiful?  And why is it so hard to focus on the beautiful?

I used to write a ton on this blog about raising my kids.  Now, I am deep into this parenting thing and have been doing it mostly without the outlet of writing.  I've now been parenting for almost 22 years.  Still have quite a few more years ahead before that day in the distant future when I invite my grown kids over for dinner.  I think about that day a lot -- what it will be like, who will be there.  Will I like the people my children bring in to the family?  How many grandkids will I have?  Will my adult children trash my house then as they do now?

I feel simultaneously seasoned at motherhood and baffled by every new experience that comes my way as each individual child grows and changes.  It's stunning, really, how unprepared I can still feel for the things that life throws our way.  And I think life is trying to teach me to never feel like I have arrived, to always stay open to learning more and changing and becoming who I am.

This week marks one very gigantic milestone in my family: we officially change pediatricians as of March 1, and I'm seriously deep in mourning over it.  21.5 years ago, after I had failed at one of the first TO DO items I ever became aware of as a newly expectant mother (research, interview and carefully choose a pediatrician for your new baby!), we were lucky enough to give birth on a night when Dr. Maria happened to be on call checking out all the newborns.  She asked if we had a pediatrician and I sheepishly said no.  She offered to be ours, and what the heck, she seemed nice, so we said YES.

It turned out to be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.  Ever since, she has been by my side.  She has helped us through the usual fevers and ear infections and viruses and sprains.  She got us through a lacerated kidney and a rather unusual bowel movement issue (nuff said, truly).  She has a perspective and approach to medicine that is fundamentally based on the relationships she is able to build with parents and kids, and IT WORKED FOR US.  I have never, for one minute, been a mother without the amazing Dr. Maria in my back pocket, as it were, and we -- me, my husband, and all five of these little shits -- are beyond fortunate to have fallen into her lap.

Alas, health insurance rates don't care one whit about those relationships.

Faced with a choice of sticking with Dr. Maria and seeing our health insurance cost go up by $450 per month or switching to a plan that will only go up $150 -- which is to say, not much of a choice at all -- we "adulted" and did the totally sucky responsible practical fiscally smart very sad thing, and switched.  (I'll have you know that I consciously chose not to use commas in that sentence because that's how it feels in my head: a steady, uninterrupted litany of yuckiness.)

It's fine.  We'll all be fine.  Maria will still be a big part of our lives (because BONUS: We became FRIENDS over the past two decades!  We play FIDDLE together!).  The kids will get another doctor, and I have a recommendation for a great one at Kaiser, where they will now be seen.  It will all be fine.  So why do feel like I'm in mourning?

Maria has been formative to my mothering, and to my identity as a mom.  So now, I have to forge a new mom-dentity, with a new pediatrician who doesn't know our history, who doesn't know that Sam is the sweetest boy ever, or that Vincenzo and Lola are basically Picassos, that Elizabeth is wicked smart and hilarious, that Tallulah is a force of nature that we're gonna try not to screw up too much.

The new doctor will learn.  She will come to see these kids as the freakin' miracles that they are.  If she doesn't, I'll find a new doctor.

I saw Maria tonight (fiddle lessons every Thursday, yo!), and told her of my heartbreak.  She gave me a hug and said: "I'll always be your pediatrician.  You can always call me with stuff -- I just can't prescribe for you anymore."

See?  She's gold.

Looking forward to seeing what I write about tomorrow.

Peace.

Kelly Corrigan, on illness

Kelly Corrigan has done it again: written something that resonates loudly and beautifully.

Take a moment to click through and read what she has to say about illness and what it wants from us.  She has indeed made herself useful with her words:

Click here to continue reading.

Thank you Kelly!

* * *

Sporty Fresh

Ever heard of NaBloPoMo? The community effort to post every day for one month?

I tried it back in November of 2009, and I came darn close to posting every day. Close, but no cigar. I'm giving it another go for August 2011, in which the theme is Fiction. (From what I can tell, you can choose to write on the theme or not. The daily posting is really the thing; the theme is a structure you can use if you wish.)

Anyway, I think a little blog posting muscle flexing is in order, as I've not been the most disciplined writer of late. So I'll use the writing prompt provided by NaBloPoMo for today, for their July 2011 daily bloggers, to get me started. Here's the prompt:

"What was the last thing you bought?"

The last thing I bought was a stick of Right Guard Sport deodorant.

Because someone in my family was leaving the house for a music lesson, and someone else in my family suggested to the young prodigy that he apply a health dose of deodorant to himself, since after his lesson he would be going straight out for the entire evening with other people, and because when the suggest-or picked up the suggest-ee from the music lesson, it was entirely clear that this sage advice had not been followed, and because there was no time to go home and remedy the problem properly, and because the inside of the van, which was en route to drop off the young prodigy at the home of a third and innocent party, was beginning to have the air of a torture chamber...

For all of these reasons, I dashed into a drugstore and purchased a stick of Right Guard Sport, not the healthy kind, not just deodorant but actual antiperspirant, the stuff that traps everything in, clogs pores and bestows sweet relief on family and friends. Pressed for time as I was, I did the drugstore dash, turned in a C+ effort of holding my tongue with respect to the unfollowed advice, and managed to get him to his destination on time and smelling Sporty Fresh.

Because I want him to be invited back.

And because it's my job to teach him things about sweat.

And because I love him.

* * *

Happy Birthday Shakespeare!

Happy Birthday, Bard Dude! We're busy hanging streamers and transforming our living room into a mini Globe Theatre so we can have an authentic party for Will Shakes today.

As for this blog? Well, I want to post, but I have nothing to say. I've run through many ideas in my head. I'd like to write about watching my son play Boulevard of Broken Dreams in his first guitar recital. Or about the Alatorre Plague that has afflicted our house for the past week and half. Maybe about how my entire life seems to consist of moving stuff: laundry, food, shoes, and for some reason furniture, since my living room chairs have an annoying habit of migrating all over and are never placed just so, the way I like them and the way I set them each and every damn day.

I could write about The Middle. My kids have discovered this show. My oldest kid is a pretty amazing mimic, so he's been repeating lines from this show all week, especially imitating Axel the teenager. I swear, Sam is the next Rich Little: he's really good at voices, and intonation, and it's kind of eerie how well he can capture people. And the character of Axel is a treasure trove of funny lines, which I am now thoroughly sick and tired of.

I could post my score in the latest New Yorker quiz. Nah, I bombed it.

I could write about today being Holy Saturday, the holiest Vigil of the year. But it's been a strange Lent for me, and with our family being very sick this whole past week, it's been a strange Easter celebration. Sadly, I am feeling like it snuck up on me and I am not ready. Not ready for any of it: the silly baskets (of which I am not a fan), the special meal (picnic, anyone?), the proper way of marking the day with my kids (so they know we are not celebrating chocolate bunnies and plastic eggs)... Somehow in the next 24 hours, I will try to salvage some way of giving Easter it's due. It's important to me.

But I can't find a good way to write about any of this. It's official. I got nothin'. Nothing funny. Nothing profound. Nothing particularly moving or insightful. Nothing interesting.

Anyone want to give me a writing topic?

* * *

And I'm kidding about the birthday party for Shakes. No streamers. No Globe Theatre. Just useless trivia to bore people with on the soccer field today.

* * *

The Abandoned Road

I drove past an abandoned road the other day.

It was an old farming road, not paved, and it bent away from the main highway and into marshy hay fields that bent and swished in the breeze. An old and unconvincing fence stood across the entrance to the road, keeping out people, but not time. The marsh lands had begun to take the road back, grasses and weeds encroached its edges, rising up along its center and asserting their quiet, persistent strength against human enterprise. About 75 yards down the road, off to the left, stood an empty threshing house, only its frame still standing. The concrete floor was swept clean by the breeze, as if at any moment it could be used once more to catch, cut, and cube bales of hay for a prosperous farm. But it too was abandoned, no longer an active or thriving place.

I had a few moments to gaze at this essentially empty scene, sitting as I was in an unmoving line of bumper to bumper traffic, impatiently waiting to thread through a two lane highway and into the business of the coming day. Cars stretched out endlessly in front of me and behind me, and I sat there frustrated by this inconvenience which had interrupted my progress, my productivity, my efficiency.

But with the interruption came the gift of this little abandoned road. As I looked at it, I imagined a time when it was heavily traveled by trucks and tractors and men whose livelihood depended upon the threshing that happened at its end. I imagined the farmer, employing the men and working beside them, all of them striving together to accomplish a task, to bring in the hay, and send it back out in a useful form. They must have worked very hard, sweating daily at a dirty and tedious task, but there no longer existed any trace of their efforts or struggles.

My fellow travelers on the highway were, like me, scurrying to work, to errands, to things that must be done. Some of us, no doubt, were bound for important destinations, such as hospitals to care for the ill or schools to teach the young or markets to deliver needed goods. Some were probably going shopping, or headed out to the beach, or on their way to the dentist. But all of the sudden, none of those destinations mattered. Because once upon a time, the threshing house at the end of this road mattered, too. Once upon a time, it represented a family's sustenance; now, it stands empty, abandoned, unimportant. Once, it was the center of a worker's day, the sum total of his productivity and purpose; now, it is useless and ignored.

But somewhere, there is a child whose father, or grandfather, or great-grandfather, drove down this road every single day, in order to bring back food to his family's table and keep them healthy. Somewhere, a child lives and breathes because of another person who traveled this road and worked in this threshing house each and every day. Behind the work and the struggle: a beating heart, a grasping hand, a dripping nose, a lilting voice. Because of the work and the struggle: generations roll forward, people meet, children grow. This is what lasts, what does not become abandoned or forgotten. This is what transcends utility and productivity.

Someday, all our efforts and struggles and projects and goals will be taken over by marshy wetlands and quiet, persistent weeds. Someday, none of what masquerades as important today will matter. But there are other things, things that do not tremor with utility or economy or productivity, things that seem lesser because they simply exist and don't do anything at all.

And as my car finally toiled away from the abandoned road, I saw with clarity that the business of the coming day was in many ways only a distraction, not to be confused with what really matters. So I will tend to those lesser things, the things that do not produce, that are not useful, and that will not pass away. I will tend to you, my love, and to the small sweaty hands that come from our tending of each other, and to the hearts that beat because ours beat together.

Happy Birthday, my own true love. I love you with all my heart, all my soul, all my strength, and all my breath.

* * *

This reflection was written 11 years ago, originally as an Anniversary Essay; converted to a Birthday Essay this year, and shared with my readers.

* * *

30 or So Tales To Tell

There is just something about sitting in Peet's Coffee on a rainy afternoon. Lovely classical notes waft through the thick, confident smell of coffee, every seat is crowded with people talking or working or reading, rain falls through the plentiful North Berkeley trees outside the corner window. Right now, this place is the center of the world, buzzing with life, people, relationships, ideas, and caffeine.

And there is so much more here than meets the eye.

A young guy at the next table, knit cap pulled down over his ears, skinny jeans half holding him on the wooden chair, clicks earnestly away at his iPhone thingamajiggy, looking for all the world like a dude connected, to people, movements, important events. He is intent, focused, thumbs working purposefully.

I spy his screen. He is playing solitaire.

The older gent sitting across the way is reading a thick paperback with a Moe's bookmark clutched in one hand. I strain to catch the title (I am forever trying to spy on what people are reading) but cannot see it. Head bowed, he reads and reads and reads. Strange, but he does not turn any pages.

He is sound asleep, chin to chest, book rising and falling on his protruding belly. It doesn't much matter what he's reading, apparently.

Another man, looking dapper, or Berkeley's version thereof, holds court on one of the benches, chatting with the other regulars. He would appear to be the picture of community, the keeper of a good story for a rainy day. I catch snippets of his conversation, and realize he is a few bolts shy of stable.

Actually, he's homeless, and discussing at length the best places to stay dry in rainy weather. I look closer and see the tell tale signs of someone who has been on the streets for a long, long time. Leathery skin, slack mouth, unfocused eyes. But he's here, in this little space, sipping the best coffee known to man and sharing conversation with people who are clearly friends of his.

An older man sits down next to me and takes out two notebooks filled with copious, pencil written notes. He hoists a large hard bound book out of his satchel and thunks it on the table; the phrase Homeric Translation is in the title. Even the Greeks are alive and well here at Vine and Walnut.

Everywhere I look, things are so much more interesting than they might seem at first glance, so much more complex. A warm cafe on a cold day, with 30 or so patrons, with 30 or so tales to tell.

Life is a mystery. I sip my own best coffee known to man and make up little stories in my mind about the patrons. That couple over there is in the middle of a huge, silent, chip on their shoulders fight and they are trying desperately to ignore each other. That young mother is in a sleep-deprived haze, waiting in line for what will surely be the highlight of her long, caring-for-others day: a medium, non-fat latte. She is hoping the elixir will stave off the afternoon blues. The server behind the counter, the cheerful one who helps people with their whole bean orders, has recently fallen head over heels in love and is riding a wave of exhilaration through his work day until he can get to her again.

I feel a tug and hear a small gasp of joy. I turn and at my sleeve, I see my very own tale to tell. My four year old has arrived with her daddy, singing Matchmaker Matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof and telling me her good news: Rozie (from preschool, whence she has just come) is her friend.

Friends are indeed good news, little one. Look around you: there is good news everywhere.

* * *

The Perfect Writing Lesson

OK, so see? Right here! This is perfect. Let's talk about what writing can really do. Now, you could say the following:

I slipped and hit my face on the couch and my tooth fell out. I bled a lot. It was gross.

There's nothing really wrong with that. It communicates information. It gets the idea across. But oh, the picture you could paint instead:

I was minding my own business, not bothering anyone, just going about my day. Little did I know what awaited me in my own living room. Two steps into the room and my foot met up with a sheet of paper carelessly (and typically) left there by my good-for-nothing brother, who never thinks of anyone but himself. My legs shot out from under me and WHAM! I slammed face first into the back of the couch. My first thought was, "That's funny, I didn't think I was eating anything just now" and my second thought was "Holy Moly, that's not food roiling around in my mouth, that's my TOOTH!" My third thought was "Wow, I didn't know a mouth could generate that much blood." And that third thought stayed with me for a good long time, as did the spurting blood soaking through tissues my semi-panicky mother kept shoving in my mouth. I did, in fact, knock one of my baby teeth clean out of my mouth, but the real blood was coming from my gums, where two other adult teeth have been making their glacial-like way into their front and center position. Adult teeth. You know, the ones I'm really going to USE, if I want to keep eating all that meat I enjoy so much? Yay, those adult teeth. That are now gushing blood down the front of my face and freaking out my younger siblings. That little one keeps trying to hug me. She's so annoying. You'd think my blood-curdling screams would keep her away, but she seems strangely fascinated in a can't-look-away-from-the-car-crash kind of way. Anyway, what I'd really like to do right now is relax and enjoy my first full day of being a homeschooled homegirl, but instead it looks like I'll be taking a little trip to the ER to see what they know about bloody gums. Let's hope the rest of this year turns out to be a little less exciting.

And that, dear daughter, is a lesson in writing, brought to you by life. Welcome to homeschooling. Now please stop marking big occasions with a trip to the hospital. You are starting to get predictable. * * * Good first day, until the bloody part. Will write about it later. Maybe by the time I get them all into Ivy League colleges. Because that's why I'm doing this, right? * * *

Three Cheers for Great Writing

I wanted to share a lovely essay from the Lives series in the New York Times Magazine. Montana Soccer-Mom Moment is written by Laura Munson and captures a beautiful moment between her and her daughter:

This essay literally took my breath away: at the final line I was all at once speechless and teary. Admittedly, there may be some chemical reasons for that. But there is also the very large fact that my kids are catapulting towards their teenage years and I already see glimpses of these moments in my future.

Plus, I googled her, found her website, sent her an email telling her how much I liked her essay, and she wrote back! So she's awesome, right there. Her website led me to another essay of hers that appeared in the NYTimes, which is also a lovely read.

Enjoy!

* * *

Memory

A reflection on memory, inspired by a poem by our incoming Poet Laureate, W. S. Merwin. The poem is called A Likeness, and I heard it this morning on NPR's Fresh Air. Click the link, read the poem.

* * *

I have only what I remember, Take One: The only things that last are the fleeting memories I manage to hang on to. Everything passes, and quickly. Nothing gold can stay. Love, people, things, books, the best meal I ever enjoyed: all of these are mere puffs of air, ghosts that vanish when I try to look at them. I cannot catch them, cannot hold them, cannot keep them. Memories are the only things I am left with, and these are themselves fleeting, capricious, unreliable.

I have only what I remember, Take Two: Everything I have is captured in a memory: the muscle memory of our first embrace, of the first time I held my first born child, of watching five children play soccer in the evening light. All of the important joys and tears of my life, the ones that define me, are here, inside me, carried in my heart and my mind, and no one, nothing can ever take them from me. Everything I have of any value will always be with me, cannot be damaged, cannot be lost, cannot be diminished.

Everything I have is what I remember.

* * *

Award Love

One of the most wonderful parts of blogging, for me, has been the opportunity to read amazing writing that I'm sure I would not otherwise ever see. Reading the words of my fellow bloggers reassures me that the written word is alive and thriving, not dying on the internet vine as some might have us believe. Equally wonderful has been the warm and enthusiastic responses I've enjoyed from friends and strangers to my own writing. I've always wanted to be a writer; thanks to Blog Land, I get to be.

Yesterday, I received a blog award from Teacher Mommy at Diapers and Dragons (don't worry, links below). She really shouldn't have, because I am long overdue in giving HER one, for a wonderful and creative post of hers from a few weeks ago. But she did anyway, because she's just that devious kind.

All of this got me thinking about how much blogs and blogging have become a part of my life over the past few years. How many of us check our favorite writers every morning? How many of us experience something during the day, and immediately start composing our next post in our heads? How many of us have "met" over the internet, united by nothing more than words that resonate between us? It's pretty awesome.

So today's post is all about celebrating blogging.

First, I finally bestow an award on Teacher Mommy, for her fabulous post If I Were.... For this out-of-the-box take on a traveling meme, I am giving her the Kreativ Blogger Award. (insert applause here.) I especially liked her "If I were a car" response.



Second, I gratefully display the award Teacher Mommy bestowed on me yesterday, for my Laundry Sonnet, which was really fun to write, but which sadly did not result in my laundry getting done.



And third, I encourage each of you to select a post that has recently touched you, made you laugh, think, cry, or finally get off the couch and take some action, and share it with others. Give it an award, or simply write about it on your blog and link to it so that others can read it as well. And then leave me a comment so I can visit your blog and see what you've been reading lately.

I'm so grateful to this blog. And to Teacher Mommy's blog. And to Jen at DiagnosisUrine. And to Viv, a Proud Mom to Many. And to many, many others. Let's share the love.

* * *

Apologies, Mr. Frost

Stopping By My Living Room on a Regular Evening

Whose shoes these are I do not care
Their stink and steam do fill the air;
They’ve been here for a week or more
Kicked beneath the comfy chair.

There are backpacks thrown behind the door
And cheerios stuck right to the floor.
Is that a banana, for the love of God?
This disarray is the stuff of lore.

My three year old must think it odd
To see me hone my staff and rod
When spying books and dishes--UGH!
And towels and clothing stained with sod.

She gives her blankey a tighter hug
To warn siblings of the coming thug.
She sees the quaking in my gait
And tries to hide beneath the rug.

It’s chaos that I truly hate.
But with children, chaos is my fate.
The laundry's always in a heap.
The order always little and late.

The mess is scary, dark and deep.
But I have a house to clear and keep.
And heads will roll before I sleep
And heads will roll before I sleep.

* * *

My inspiration.

* * *

Olympic Reflections

The Olympics make me cry.

I listen to the stories of the athletes, and I weep. I listen to coverage of them crossing finish lines, or beating the odds, or achieving a "first," and I choke up. I watch them interviewed after they've won their medals and their joy makes my eyes well.

Yesterday, the Canadians won their very first gold medal on Canadian soil. I wept.

Yesterday, Johnny Spillane won the first American medal (a silver!) in Nordic Combined, a combination of cross country skiing and ski jumping. I choked back tears.

Don't even get me started on figure skating. (Although, for some reason, pairs skating leaves me cold.)

So what's this all about? I've done some thinking about it, and I think it's my response to the sheer amount of dedication and hard work these athletes have devoted their lives to. I am awestruck and moved by their commitment and their sacrifice.

* * *

And I have a tinge of envy mixed in too: what an amazing gift it must be to be able to concentrate with singular purpose on one thing, to excel at a talent and to rise to the top.

I was once a pretty good piano player, and even started my college career as a music major. I quickly discovered that I did not have what it takes to really be a musician. Maybe that was because I lack the requisite devotion or maybe it was simpler than that, that I just didn't have enough talent or interest to do it right. It was not a difficult decision to drop out of music, but it is one that I regret a little bit. I regret not trying harder and seeing where it might have taken me. Today, I can hardly play a note.

I dabble now at writing. And I wonder where my writing could take me if I tried harder, committed myself more fully to it. What if I had enough time to give most of it to writing? What if five little people weren't constantly pulling at my arms, my coattails, my mind, my heart? Yesterday I decided to keep track of how often someone needed something from me, whether that be just an answer to a question or for me to find something or do something, feed someone, wipe someone. I stopped counting after 5 requests in under 5 minutes.

For now, they are my great opus, my canvas and my pages. For now, that is good and right. Someday? Maybe I'll have the chance to pour myself into some other endeavor and see where it takes me.

* * *

Book Circuit, Here I Come

Dear Mom and Dad,

Well, I'm writing with some good news! I have finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up. I know, I know, it took me awhile. But here I am, about to turn 41, and I finally know what I want to be: a writer. More specifically, a published memoir author.

I have noticed, on the NPR interview circuit, that all of today's most interesting books are memoirs, so I am going to write one.

This is where you come in. See, I have noticed that most of these memoir author people have some pretty intense family stuff to write about, wacky parents and bumpy childhoods, drugs, alcohol, mental disorders, etc. So I need you to give me a list of all the stuff you've kept from me over the years, all the really sordid details of our family's lore. Feel free to embellish.

Perhaps you could use some "prompts" or ideas. Think of these categories: Violence...substance abuse...craziness...scandals...shameful events...big family secrets, etc.

Mary Karr, for example, wrote about the night her mother threatened to kill her and her sister with a butcher knife. Now that stuff makes for some good memoir, don't you think? I'm looking for a real attention grabber like that, something Terry Gross can delve into when I am a guest of Fresh Air after my book comes out.

I am hoping to really make it big with this book -- and maybe several sequels -- so I encourage you to think hard about what you can dredge up from the past for me to use.

I am so happy to have finally discovered my true calling. I am going to work hard to make you proud while also portraying you in such a way that I will sell lots of books. It will be a fine line to walk, so I'd just like you to know that whatever I write, I write with purpose. I will not use something just for its sensational value; I will only use what will get me published, I promise.

Hope you are well.

Love,

your daughter

ps. Until I get that big advance towards my book, can you send me some cash? I'd really appreciate it.

* * *

Job Opening

Today I was thinking about writing. I do this frequently, in lieu of actually writing. So I was pondering the problem that writing presents which is basically this: you have to tell the truth. You can't hide behind much of anything at all, or what you write will be boring at best and bad at worst.

And bam: there in my head was a Marine Corps Drill Sargeant Type, standing over me and shouting:

"You've got to stand somewhere! This writing thing, this writing happens in the most uncomfortable room you've ever been in, sister: no comfy chairs or couches, no blankets or pillows, lady, nothin'! Nothing to get comfortable on, so you've got to stand up or you're gonna fall down on your ASS! You a little uncomfortable??!? Good! That's exactly where you should be, or your should get your ass out of this house!"

OK, so maybe I don't need quite that level of animosity clamoring down on my head, but I do need that drill sargent pushing me to stand up. Writing isn't for the weak, and it's not for those who would prefer sitting somewhere comfortable, sipping on a Mint Julep. (Of course, a writer can take a much-deserved break to do such things...in another room, where cushions actually exist.)

So, I'm in the market for a drill sargeant.

Job Qualifications: Ability to speak Truth to Weakness. Experience yelling the following:

You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!

Desired, not required: Proficiency in making Old-Fashioneds. Ability and willingness to change diapers. 10+ years of experience simultaneously being threatening and pumping sunshine.

Anyone out there want to be my motivational, life/writing coach, drill sargent, and personal bad ass?

* * *

Why Not?

Rick found an essay on the New York Times website tonight, by Verlyn Klinkenborg. (In much the same way I would like to be Nina Totenberg, Rick would like to be Verlyn Klinkenborg.) Klinkenborg is an essayist who writes about The Rural Life for the Op Ed page. He is thoughtful and observant.

The essay Rick found is from October of 2007, and it has gotten me thinking. I love writing this blog. I love having this outlet to write about funny things my kids do, or about days that would make me cry if I didn't find a way to laugh , or about ideas that percolate in my head.

Even though I love it so much, I recently stopped posting for almost three weeks. This was a particularly stressful time for us, with work and school and work and soccer and work and feeding people taking up most of our time and energy. But other weeks have been as full, and I've still managed to post. So why the break?

Well, I think it has something to do with Politeness and Authority. In this essay, Klinkenborg explores the idea that women writers tend to apologize for their own ideas, to avoid offending others. I have a million ideas a day to write about, most of which end up in one of the trash bins of my mind labeled: NO ONE CARES or YOU CAN'T SAY THAT or THAT'S JUST PLAIN STUPID. When pressed, I can admit that I do not actually believe this. I really do believe that I have something to say. I do not, however, behave this way.

I took a break from blogging because blogging was starting to scare me. Reading Klinkenborg's essay tonight took the questions roiling around in my head and placed them squarely on the page where I had to face them:

Why not, I asked, be as smart and perceptive as you really are? Why not accept what you’re capable of? Why not believe that what you notice matters?

I enjoy making people laugh with my posts -- and lots of people have told me how much fun it is to read about my children's shenanigans. But I've got more to say than that my daughter didn't wear underwear to Mass or that my laundry pile is threatening to stage a coup. And I shy away from those interesting ideas. Blog guidelines suggest that you find a voice for your blog, a niche, a "persona" of sorts. I don't think mine has one. But I do know that it's hard to swing back and forth between silly little anecdotes about my kids and more weighty topics like what I really think of Sarah Palin, the fears I harbor about my parenting, or the spiritual side of living a chaotic, messy, stressful life. I want to write about both. I need a little courage to do so.

Women everywhere should read Klinkenborg's essay. And then answer that question for themselves: Why not believe that what I notice matters?

Looks like it's gonna rain!

Here I dive, into the wonderful world of blogging. Having been inspired by many a mom-blogger out there, here is my contribution to the online world of writing. I have five children. In another month, after three upcoming birthdays, they will be 9, 7, 5, 3, and 1. They are...hmmm...how to describe the little darlings? They are wonderful, exasperating, adorable, brilliant, exceptional, infuriating, exhausting, and time-consuming. So basically, they are just like yours. Over the past nine years, I can't tell you how many times I thought to myself, or had someone say to me: "You should write that down!" This in response to some story or utterance from one of my kids that made me laugh, cry, stop and think, or want to scream. I also can't count the number of times each day I think about how ridiculous parenting and motherhood actually are. By this, I mean I can't quite believe the situations I find myself in, the questions that are put to me (and that somehow need to be answered) by my kids, the lengths I will go to in the name of a child, and a million other difficult to fathom things that are now my life. Being an eternally, if not obviously, hopeful person, I just have to believe that there is some great truth to be gleaned from being a mother. I catch glimpses of this, and I think it has something to do with learning to live with, and even to delight in, massive contradictions. Anyway, the kids do make me laugh, and boy do I need to laugh EVERY DAY.

Here's one: After having taken a very hard-hit soccer ball to the crotch the other day (kicked by his father, no less), my oldest son has been spending quite a bit of time with an ice pack. After one recent session, he was sitting on the couch moaning. Next oldest son asked him if his crotch still hurt, to which he replied: "Nah, my crotch only bothers me when the weather changes." Ha!

Welcome to my blog. I am hoping it helps me save my sanity...which can only make me a better mother.