It took me a little longer than I'd have liked but that's how my life goes.
I finished The Kids Are Alright yesterday morning at about 1:00. Wow. As I started to write in my previous post, this book is just wonderfully written. I love that all the Welch kids take turns writing chapters. I almost hate to call them chapters, since they're mostly just a few paragraphs, maybe a page or two, but they are always significant. In any case, it's how the reader gets to know each of the Welches in turn, and in their own words. Each of them has their own distinctive voice and their own way with words. Liz and Diana have become professional writers and I'm not at all surprised.
I'm finding myself relating most to Diana, the baby of the Welch family, since I myself am the baby of my family. Not that I faced the kind of heartbreaks that the Welch kids did, but I also lost one parent very young and had the other parent just check out on me. I spent my growing-up years with people other than my family, not sure how I got there or what would happen to me. And ultimately it was my sisters who helped me find my way.
This story is just a powerful testament to love and to family and to the ties that bind. No matter how far-flung the Welch siblings were, they always loved each other and took care of one another the best way they knew how. Amanda, who seemed so angry and didn't want any part of "family bullshit" like vacations together, turned out to be a pretty darn good mom to her younger brother and sisters and never gave up on any of them. She had the most time with her mom, but she had to learn so much on the fly. Liz loved fiercely and was always ready to drop everything when she was needed. Dan drifted toward adulthood and real life aimlessly but he had two guiding lights to keep him from going off the edge of a cliff. I feel especially for Dan, because he was the only boy in the family and he didn't have anyone to help him learn what it means to be a man, a partner, a husband, a father. Diana, well, God love her, I feel a real kinship with her. I would argue that she drew the short straw for being the baby and being the one who had to work the hardest at understanding what was happening.
I wrote out this whole long post, and when I read it before I hit 'post' it occurred to me that it sounded like a book report. Which really doesn't do it justice at all. Let me try again.
What I really want to say about this book, is that it touched me deeply. I felt drawn in, like I was one of them. I laughed with them and I cried with them. Dan broke my heart when he didn't think anyone gave a crap about how much acid he was dropping. I wanted to just wrap Diana up in my arms and take her home with me when Nancy told her that she was ugly and no one wanted her around. Amanda wanted and tried to just forget everything and party her way through life, and I just wanted to slap her a high five reading about how she started to get it, about how important her siblings were to her, and when she creates new holiday traditions with them. And I love that Liz pursued her own life and studied abroad and yet was still always there for the others. What a phenomenal family. Just...wow.
And at the end, there is hope and forgiveness. As much as they had stacked up against them, the Welches keep on keepin' on, and refused to give up or give in. As much as they've all struggled to find their way, they have all come out ahead. Marriage, careers, and the ultimate expression of hope, children.
Yeah, the kids are alright.
15 October 2010
11 October 2010
The Kids Are Alright
Oh look. Another month and a half gone.
Fall quarter is in full swing for me, and you know what that means. For a history major, it means tons and tons and TONS of reading. Which is why I'm still trying desperately to find time to finish The Kids Are Alright. I started it at least ten times, during the few moments I could steal to read something for pleasure rather than for an obligation, always dozing off before I got past page 5. Not because the book is boring or dull....it isn't. Not because the story isn't compelling and heart-wrenching and phenomenally written....it is.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I must tell you that I am only about halfway through the book. But what I've read so far, is why I read so much of it in one afternoon. I found myself with some time today and picked it up (again) and honestly couldn't put it down. I'm blowing off a book on Hitler (which, to a history major with a serious love for military history, is a bit like turning down a hit on the ol' crack pipe) to finish it tonight.
It's the story of four siblings, the Welch family, written in turn by each of them. Each chapter heading is the name of the sibling that wrote those particular pages. It's the story of their father's sudden and kind of mysterious death, and their mother's illness that came on the heels of it. It is about how they each experienced these life altering and world shattering events, as children.
Each of them has their own very distinctive voice, and it didn't take me long to figure out who was writing, even without the chapter headings. Amanda is the oldest and she sounds angry. She is MAD. Maybe she's not now, but then....whoo. Liz is ironic and articulate, and it doesn't surprise me to read on the back cover that she is a writer. Dan is kind of sarcastic and blunt and doesn't mince his words. And Diana is the baby. She seems kind of bewildered at all that is going on around her. She can't influence any of it and must just go along for the ride. They're all heartbroken and devastated by their father's death and angered by their mother's inability to deal with it. It's funny and sad and touching and messy and real.
I love it. I am invested in the players...do you call them characters when they are real people?...and I want to know more. So, I'm going to go finish the book, so I can finish writing about it.
Fall quarter is in full swing for me, and you know what that means. For a history major, it means tons and tons and TONS of reading. Which is why I'm still trying desperately to find time to finish The Kids Are Alright. I started it at least ten times, during the few moments I could steal to read something for pleasure rather than for an obligation, always dozing off before I got past page 5. Not because the book is boring or dull....it isn't. Not because the story isn't compelling and heart-wrenching and phenomenally written....it is.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I must tell you that I am only about halfway through the book. But what I've read so far, is why I read so much of it in one afternoon. I found myself with some time today and picked it up (again) and honestly couldn't put it down. I'm blowing off a book on Hitler (which, to a history major with a serious love for military history, is a bit like turning down a hit on the ol' crack pipe) to finish it tonight.
It's the story of four siblings, the Welch family, written in turn by each of them. Each chapter heading is the name of the sibling that wrote those particular pages. It's the story of their father's sudden and kind of mysterious death, and their mother's illness that came on the heels of it. It is about how they each experienced these life altering and world shattering events, as children.
Each of them has their own very distinctive voice, and it didn't take me long to figure out who was writing, even without the chapter headings. Amanda is the oldest and she sounds angry. She is MAD. Maybe she's not now, but then....whoo. Liz is ironic and articulate, and it doesn't surprise me to read on the back cover that she is a writer. Dan is kind of sarcastic and blunt and doesn't mince his words. And Diana is the baby. She seems kind of bewildered at all that is going on around her. She can't influence any of it and must just go along for the ride. They're all heartbroken and devastated by their father's death and angered by their mother's inability to deal with it. It's funny and sad and touching and messy and real.
I love it. I am invested in the players...do you call them characters when they are real people?...and I want to know more. So, I'm going to go finish the book, so I can finish writing about it.
06 September 2010
Oh look
I did it again, let more than two weeks slip by without typing one coherent sentence.
It's Labor Day, a day of rest for those who labor. It's also the day after my middle man-cub's 8th birthday. I feel a little melancholy today, and although I've never been a mom who gets weepy at the thought of her babies growing up, birthdays certainly indicate that time does indeed march on. He's kind of in between, he's not a little kid anymore, but he's not quite a big kid yet. He's a textbook middle child, going with the flow and low maintenance in so many ways, yet always seeming to be afraid he'll be left out or forgotten. If one of his brothers get praised for something, Larry chimes in, "What about me? I did that too!" Or if someone gets scolded for something, he pipes up, "That wasn't me! I didn't do that!"
He's all boy, in almost every way, even down to being kind of a mama's boy but only when his friends aren't looking. This picture isn't current, by any means, but it's one of my top two or three favorites of him. He's walking into the surf, for the very first time, holding his big brother's hand. It's just my favorite.
Happy birthday big dude.
So, noticing the passage of time today. And sad about hearing of the rough patch in a marriage of two people who are very dear to me. I'm hoping and praying that the power of love and the power of forgiveness can and will overcome the power of anger and the power of hurt feelings. The only thing I can do to help them is to pray for them, and be here to listen if they need or want me to. It doesn't feel right to sit by silently when people I care about are suffering, but at the same time, they are the only ones who can fix the issue. It's not mine to fix. But it still makes me sad, and at the same time, it makes me feel grateful for the people in my life who are willing to overlook my faults, forgive my mistakes and love me in spite of them.
It's Labor Day, a day of rest for those who labor. It's also the day after my middle man-cub's 8th birthday. I feel a little melancholy today, and although I've never been a mom who gets weepy at the thought of her babies growing up, birthdays certainly indicate that time does indeed march on. He's kind of in between, he's not a little kid anymore, but he's not quite a big kid yet. He's a textbook middle child, going with the flow and low maintenance in so many ways, yet always seeming to be afraid he'll be left out or forgotten. If one of his brothers get praised for something, Larry chimes in, "What about me? I did that too!" Or if someone gets scolded for something, he pipes up, "That wasn't me! I didn't do that!"
He's all boy, in almost every way, even down to being kind of a mama's boy but only when his friends aren't looking. This picture isn't current, by any means, but it's one of my top two or three favorites of him. He's walking into the surf, for the very first time, holding his big brother's hand. It's just my favorite.
Happy birthday big dude.
So, noticing the passage of time today. And sad about hearing of the rough patch in a marriage of two people who are very dear to me. I'm hoping and praying that the power of love and the power of forgiveness can and will overcome the power of anger and the power of hurt feelings. The only thing I can do to help them is to pray for them, and be here to listen if they need or want me to. It doesn't feel right to sit by silently when people I care about are suffering, but at the same time, they are the only ones who can fix the issue. It's not mine to fix. But it still makes me sad, and at the same time, it makes me feel grateful for the people in my life who are willing to overlook my faults, forgive my mistakes and love me in spite of them.
15 August 2010
Where did the summer go?
First there was Vacation Bible School, then there was basketball camp. Then there was another basketball camp, and then football camp. Oh yes, and then there was zoo camp, and a few blessedly un-busy quiet days on a lake in Maine.
Here we are, the 15th of August, and summer break is officially over. The little people are not quite back to school yet, but we've done our school-supply shopping (including a special car box of Kleenex for me as my baby goes off to all-day school), packed backpacks, and we've pushed back bedtime and started force-marching a little earlier in the morning in preparation. But the real reason I know summer is over?
Sports practices have started.
Yep, one kid has two soccer practices each week, in addition to two nights at the karate studio. Another kid has four (count 'em, FOUR) football practices each week, and the other kid gets a whole lot of time either watching his brothers do stuff or riding in the car to and from. And did I mention that my husband travels for work? A lot? Like half of every month?
This is when I know that Hillary was right and it truly does take a village, to get my kids to and from all their stuff. In fairness, we signed up the one dude for soccer before he chose karate, and we're all about honoring our commitments here (as well as not wasting the money already spent on the sign-up fee). But fortunately, once school starts in a couple weeks, the soccer practices go away, and he'll only have games. Soccer season is over mid October, depending on how they do in the tournament. Football drops one practice, but that still means three practices and a game each week. Football season is also over mid October. And thankfully we have friends to carpool with for all the activities.
I had a mini meltdown yesterday over the chaos my life has become. Some people thrive on chaos, and having a million things to do and a million places to go all the time. I'm honestly not one of them. I like being busy, having a reason to get up and get moving every day and getting things accomplished, but crazybusy makes me, well, crazy.
Thank God for good friends, truly. My good friend listened to me patiently, gave me a hug and told me that she loved me, and then she arranged my week for me.
Mondays are especially tricky right now, given my involvement with a women's retreat group at church. Because that takes me totally out of the loop, when one kid has to be at karate, the other has to be at football and the other just needs to be corralled. Captain America has been home a lot lately, but he's going flying tonight and I'm a leetle nervous. I lean on him pretty hard when he's home and he's fantastic about doing (more than) his fair share of driving, laundry and dishes.
But I can't, I WON'T, give up my time with my girls and my God on Monday nights. I need it. It feeds me in a way that being a good and dutiful mother and wife does not and cannot. What I guess I do need is to learn better time management skills, and to put limits on what I (and my kids) can reasonably do.
How did a post about summer being over turn into a post about my scheduling needs? That's how I roll.
Here we are, the 15th of August, and summer break is officially over. The little people are not quite back to school yet, but we've done our school-supply shopping (including a special car box of Kleenex for me as my baby goes off to all-day school), packed backpacks, and we've pushed back bedtime and started force-marching a little earlier in the morning in preparation. But the real reason I know summer is over?
Sports practices have started.
Yep, one kid has two soccer practices each week, in addition to two nights at the karate studio. Another kid has four (count 'em, FOUR) football practices each week, and the other kid gets a whole lot of time either watching his brothers do stuff or riding in the car to and from. And did I mention that my husband travels for work? A lot? Like half of every month?
This is when I know that Hillary was right and it truly does take a village, to get my kids to and from all their stuff. In fairness, we signed up the one dude for soccer before he chose karate, and we're all about honoring our commitments here (as well as not wasting the money already spent on the sign-up fee). But fortunately, once school starts in a couple weeks, the soccer practices go away, and he'll only have games. Soccer season is over mid October, depending on how they do in the tournament. Football drops one practice, but that still means three practices and a game each week. Football season is also over mid October. And thankfully we have friends to carpool with for all the activities.
I had a mini meltdown yesterday over the chaos my life has become. Some people thrive on chaos, and having a million things to do and a million places to go all the time. I'm honestly not one of them. I like being busy, having a reason to get up and get moving every day and getting things accomplished, but crazybusy makes me, well, crazy.
Thank God for good friends, truly. My good friend listened to me patiently, gave me a hug and told me that she loved me, and then she arranged my week for me.
Mondays are especially tricky right now, given my involvement with a women's retreat group at church. Because that takes me totally out of the loop, when one kid has to be at karate, the other has to be at football and the other just needs to be corralled. Captain America has been home a lot lately, but he's going flying tonight and I'm a leetle nervous. I lean on him pretty hard when he's home and he's fantastic about doing (more than) his fair share of driving, laundry and dishes.
But I can't, I WON'T, give up my time with my girls and my God on Monday nights. I need it. It feeds me in a way that being a good and dutiful mother and wife does not and cannot. What I guess I do need is to learn better time management skills, and to put limits on what I (and my kids) can reasonably do.
How did a post about summer being over turn into a post about my scheduling needs? That's how I roll.
29 June 2010
Somewhere in the in-between
I've been reading several books lately, at the same time. I know that probably sounds ridiculous, so let me explain a little more.
One I'm reading, called A Postcard from the Volcano, is historical fiction. It's a serious book, with heavy and thought-provoking themes. It's about Germany and all its historical and political angst between WWI and WWII. It could be required reading for a college history course. I love it. But, I can't read it in bed, because when I am reading in bed, I usually make it for about 15 minutes before I doze off. Reading something like this requires more brain power and it also requires me to not be asleep. So I'm moving through it more slowly, saving it for when I have time during the day (not often) so I can really concentrate and follow it.
These other two books I'm reading inspired the title for my post.
I'm re-reading Eclipse, because the movie is coming out this week, and I'm going to go see it with one of my Twi-Mom friends, and call me whatever you will, I love that dang Twilight series. It's overly angst-y (I like that word today) and dramatic and all high-school-girl-swoony-romantic, but I can't help myself. I love it. Yes, I know I'm a good 20, maybe 25 years older than the target audience. I get that I probably look silly waiting in line for tickets to Eclipse. Whatever. Even my single-digit-age boy children laugh at me for my not-so-secret obsession. Again, whatever. I'm Team Edward, all the way.
And I'm also reading a book called Committed, by Elizabeth Gilbert. She is the author of Eat, Pray, Love, and Committed is the follow-up of sorts to that story. In a nutshell, the author, having been through a gut-wrenching divorce and having sworn off the institution of marriage, finds herself in a relationship with a man who is a citizen of another country. He has also been through a horrible, gut-wrenching divorce and they are perfectly matched in their desire to A) be with one another and B) not be joined in holy matrimony. They lead this multi-continental life together, staying in many places for a time, but never too long, until one day their jig is up and his American visa is revoked. So, they either have to live somewhere besides America or get married, making him a citizen. For this couple with their horror of marriage, it's quite a quandary.
Now, to be fair, I'm still in the early part of the book, and so I don't know yet how it turns out. Right now, I'm reading through the author's historical research on the institution of marriage, and what it actually means in other cultures. And it ain't all that romantic. Or holy. In fact, it sounds like a rather cynical view of marriage, where it's all about survival (safety in numbers) or power (arranged marriages to keep rich landowners rich). And there are lots of Biblical references to Jesus and His apostles instructing men not to get involved with women at all, to remain celibate and follow Him, and ONLY get married as a last resort if one simply could not follow the higher path.
So, on the one hand, there is a book written for teenage girls, idealizing and romanticizing the notion of being together for all eternity and how loving the right boy (and giving up your whole identity and free will to him) will complete you as a person. In this book in the series, Edward and Bella decide to seal their fates together and get married. Bella does have some reservations about getting married at 18, but the overall theme is still the same, that loving (marrying) the right boy makes everything ok.
And on the other hand is a book that starts out with the quote, "Plant an expectation, and reap a disappointment." With joined gold wedding bands as the cover art and a title like Committed. Cynical, I tell you!
A contradiction of sorts, yes?
I didn't choose to read these two together purposely, but I find it an amusing coincidence. In my admittedly limited experience of relationships and marriage, I have found the truth of the matter to be somewhere in the in-between of the two extremes illustrated in my summer reading. Sometimes I expect a whole lot of my spouse and my marriage...I expect him to just know when I'm having a bad day, and I expect him to somehow make it better. I expect fulfillment and happiness from being a wife and a mother (among other things). And it just flat pisses me off when things don't work out that way. Making me feel somewhat, dare I say it, cynical.
My husband is a good guy and a great dad, whom I would choose over and over again. But is he perfect? Can he magically make my bad day all better? Can he read my mind and soothe every anxiety and fear I harbor? No. To me, the more relevant question is, should he be expected to? I also have to answer that with no.
What do these books tell us about our society, our expectations, our relationships? Are they reflective of real truths, or are they just one woman's ideas?
And what are the odds that I'd pick up these two at the same time?!
One I'm reading, called A Postcard from the Volcano, is historical fiction. It's a serious book, with heavy and thought-provoking themes. It's about Germany and all its historical and political angst between WWI and WWII. It could be required reading for a college history course. I love it. But, I can't read it in bed, because when I am reading in bed, I usually make it for about 15 minutes before I doze off. Reading something like this requires more brain power and it also requires me to not be asleep. So I'm moving through it more slowly, saving it for when I have time during the day (not often) so I can really concentrate and follow it.
These other two books I'm reading inspired the title for my post.
I'm re-reading Eclipse, because the movie is coming out this week, and I'm going to go see it with one of my Twi-Mom friends, and call me whatever you will, I love that dang Twilight series. It's overly angst-y (I like that word today) and dramatic and all high-school-girl-swoony-romantic, but I can't help myself. I love it. Yes, I know I'm a good 20, maybe 25 years older than the target audience. I get that I probably look silly waiting in line for tickets to Eclipse. Whatever. Even my single-digit-age boy children laugh at me for my not-so-secret obsession. Again, whatever. I'm Team Edward, all the way.
And I'm also reading a book called Committed, by Elizabeth Gilbert. She is the author of Eat, Pray, Love, and Committed is the follow-up of sorts to that story. In a nutshell, the author, having been through a gut-wrenching divorce and having sworn off the institution of marriage, finds herself in a relationship with a man who is a citizen of another country. He has also been through a horrible, gut-wrenching divorce and they are perfectly matched in their desire to A) be with one another and B) not be joined in holy matrimony. They lead this multi-continental life together, staying in many places for a time, but never too long, until one day their jig is up and his American visa is revoked. So, they either have to live somewhere besides America or get married, making him a citizen. For this couple with their horror of marriage, it's quite a quandary.
Now, to be fair, I'm still in the early part of the book, and so I don't know yet how it turns out. Right now, I'm reading through the author's historical research on the institution of marriage, and what it actually means in other cultures. And it ain't all that romantic. Or holy. In fact, it sounds like a rather cynical view of marriage, where it's all about survival (safety in numbers) or power (arranged marriages to keep rich landowners rich). And there are lots of Biblical references to Jesus and His apostles instructing men not to get involved with women at all, to remain celibate and follow Him, and ONLY get married as a last resort if one simply could not follow the higher path.
So, on the one hand, there is a book written for teenage girls, idealizing and romanticizing the notion of being together for all eternity and how loving the right boy (and giving up your whole identity and free will to him) will complete you as a person. In this book in the series, Edward and Bella decide to seal their fates together and get married. Bella does have some reservations about getting married at 18, but the overall theme is still the same, that loving (marrying) the right boy makes everything ok.
And on the other hand is a book that starts out with the quote, "Plant an expectation, and reap a disappointment." With joined gold wedding bands as the cover art and a title like Committed. Cynical, I tell you!
A contradiction of sorts, yes?
I didn't choose to read these two together purposely, but I find it an amusing coincidence. In my admittedly limited experience of relationships and marriage, I have found the truth of the matter to be somewhere in the in-between of the two extremes illustrated in my summer reading. Sometimes I expect a whole lot of my spouse and my marriage...I expect him to just know when I'm having a bad day, and I expect him to somehow make it better. I expect fulfillment and happiness from being a wife and a mother (among other things). And it just flat pisses me off when things don't work out that way. Making me feel somewhat, dare I say it, cynical.
My husband is a good guy and a great dad, whom I would choose over and over again. But is he perfect? Can he magically make my bad day all better? Can he read my mind and soothe every anxiety and fear I harbor? No. To me, the more relevant question is, should he be expected to? I also have to answer that with no.
What do these books tell us about our society, our expectations, our relationships? Are they reflective of real truths, or are they just one woman's ideas?
And what are the odds that I'd pick up these two at the same time?!
04 June 2010
Everybody's doing it
Apparently, it's "post your most embarrassing moment" week in blog-world.
Everybody's doing it.
Hmmmm, so many to choose from....there was the time I had gone into my office, shortly after the birth of my first child, to show him off. Now mind you, I worked in a flying squadron in the Air Force. Perhaps not the most baby-friendly environment one could think of. My boss was Lt. Col D, a tall, solid-built pilot with a booming voice that, with his Georgia accent, sounded remarkably like Foghorn Leghorn. Lt Col D was out of his office for a meeting (super top secret code for "at the golf course") and the baby needed to eat. I closed myself into his office after securing promises of privacy and interference-running for the following 20 minutes or so, from the folks who worked right outside his office. Not twenty seconds into nursing the baby, Lt Col P flings the door open, hollering, "Hey Bill!" scaring the crap out of me, the baby and then also himself. Thanks for running interference for me, guys. Just a couple of weeks before that, I had been just one of the guys in a flight suit in the squadron. I think we both came away from that incident scarred. I still have a hard time looking him in the eye.
Or perhaps the time I was with one of my darling offspring in a public restroom. Said offspring was in the process of potty training at the time of the incident. I sat down to, um, do my business, and as I finished, said offspring cheered me, saying, "Good job Mommy! I KNEW you could do it!" Hmm, wonder where he heard that before?
Maybe it's the time I had tried to take all three of my lovely children to Mass by myself, when Captain America was away on a trip. Ages of lovely children were 8, 6 and 3. The 8 and 6 year olds were ok, but the 3 year old was having none of it. He refused to take his winter coat off, which was fine. But then he needed to lay down on the kneelers, and as I tried to pick him up with that coat on, I ended up poking him with my thumb. Hard. During a quiet, reflective moment of the Mass, my child had a quiet and reflective screaming fit: "OWW!! MOMMY! You poked me! That really hurt! Why did you poke me?!" I didn't mean to poke him but after his outburst, during which every single person in church was staring at us, I would have gladly poked him on purpose. Hard.
There are many to choose from, and I don't know if I can definitively say which one was the most embarrassing.
Oh, you didn't think I was going to pull out the really good stuff, did you? I have so many ways in which I have embarrassed myself that I could talk for a couple of days without getting to the good stuff. How much time do you have? ;)
Everybody's doing it.
Hmmmm, so many to choose from....there was the time I had gone into my office, shortly after the birth of my first child, to show him off. Now mind you, I worked in a flying squadron in the Air Force. Perhaps not the most baby-friendly environment one could think of. My boss was Lt. Col D, a tall, solid-built pilot with a booming voice that, with his Georgia accent, sounded remarkably like Foghorn Leghorn. Lt Col D was out of his office for a meeting (super top secret code for "at the golf course") and the baby needed to eat. I closed myself into his office after securing promises of privacy and interference-running for the following 20 minutes or so, from the folks who worked right outside his office. Not twenty seconds into nursing the baby, Lt Col P flings the door open, hollering, "Hey Bill!" scaring the crap out of me, the baby and then also himself. Thanks for running interference for me, guys. Just a couple of weeks before that, I had been just one of the guys in a flight suit in the squadron. I think we both came away from that incident scarred. I still have a hard time looking him in the eye.
Or perhaps the time I was with one of my darling offspring in a public restroom. Said offspring was in the process of potty training at the time of the incident. I sat down to, um, do my business, and as I finished, said offspring cheered me, saying, "Good job Mommy! I KNEW you could do it!" Hmm, wonder where he heard that before?
Maybe it's the time I had tried to take all three of my lovely children to Mass by myself, when Captain America was away on a trip. Ages of lovely children were 8, 6 and 3. The 8 and 6 year olds were ok, but the 3 year old was having none of it. He refused to take his winter coat off, which was fine. But then he needed to lay down on the kneelers, and as I tried to pick him up with that coat on, I ended up poking him with my thumb. Hard. During a quiet, reflective moment of the Mass, my child had a quiet and reflective screaming fit: "OWW!! MOMMY! You poked me! That really hurt! Why did you poke me?!" I didn't mean to poke him but after his outburst, during which every single person in church was staring at us, I would have gladly poked him on purpose. Hard.
There are many to choose from, and I don't know if I can definitively say which one was the most embarrassing.
Oh, you didn't think I was going to pull out the really good stuff, did you? I have so many ways in which I have embarrassed myself that I could talk for a couple of days without getting to the good stuff. How much time do you have? ;)
A sign, perhaps?
I've been reading a few blogs lately, here and here and here, that have got me thinking. They've all recently had posts in the last few days about writing: finding time for writing, dreaming of writing, writing about writing.
I'm not always very consistent with writing, but I love to write. Some say I'm pretty good at it. I have, on occasion, gotten paid to do it. I've got stuff to say.
But the thing is, what I have to say, the stories I have to tell, I haven't written down. Yet.
Why? Heh.
It's this little thing I like to call, life. I'm a mom. I have kids who need, demand and deserve my attention. I'm a student. And it's important to me to dedicate myself to my studies. Thankfully they're almost over for the time being, but they're not over yet. I'm a USAF reservist, and my commander expects things from me, and rightly so. He expects me to fulfill my obligations, to show up and do my job (writing!) and all of the other things that come with the uniform. All kinds of extra requirements that would be a whole other post. Maybe someday. Oh, and I also have a house to keep somewhat cleaned up, clothes that need washed and put away, a refrigerator that I must fill with food now and then, and a husband who, heaven knows why, wants to spend time with me and also deserves my attention. Friends I'd like to see and talk to once in a while. You see where I'm going with this.
Hmm. Where did I fit writing in again?
But, I have stuff to say. A story to tell. If God has given me a gift, I'd like to think it is the written word. I have snippets of stories I've written, that are part of the whole. Some pieces are my own experiences and some belong to others. I have a couple of people I trust to read my unvarnished, un-proofread work, raw and emotional, sometimes funny and insightful, but all me, my heart and soul. They tell me what I have so far is good and it's compelling. Keep working at it, this is good, they say. I just need to find the time. But there's more.
I want desperately to tell my story, to see my words in print.
But I'm afraid too. I understand that publishing is a tough, tough business to break into. I am not sure my skin is thick enough yet. I'm afraid of telling this story that means so much to me, and nobody cares.
I'll get over those fears, I know. Even the best authors have been rejected a gazillion times. So, I'll be in good company, if I ever get the thing done and sent off to someone who might possibly want to consider putting my heart and soul between a front cover and a back cover.
I had to get up in the middle of this post to take the dog out, take a kid's temperature who seems to be coming down with something and on way to get the Tylenol, discovered the ice-maker hemorrhaging water onto the kitchen floor. And Captain America is somewhere between LA and Salt Lake City. Where he is of no use to me in this situation ;)
See what I mean about life?
I'm not always very consistent with writing, but I love to write. Some say I'm pretty good at it. I have, on occasion, gotten paid to do it. I've got stuff to say.
But the thing is, what I have to say, the stories I have to tell, I haven't written down. Yet.
Why? Heh.
It's this little thing I like to call, life. I'm a mom. I have kids who need, demand and deserve my attention. I'm a student. And it's important to me to dedicate myself to my studies. Thankfully they're almost over for the time being, but they're not over yet. I'm a USAF reservist, and my commander expects things from me, and rightly so. He expects me to fulfill my obligations, to show up and do my job (writing!) and all of the other things that come with the uniform. All kinds of extra requirements that would be a whole other post. Maybe someday. Oh, and I also have a house to keep somewhat cleaned up, clothes that need washed and put away, a refrigerator that I must fill with food now and then, and a husband who, heaven knows why, wants to spend time with me and also deserves my attention. Friends I'd like to see and talk to once in a while. You see where I'm going with this.
Hmm. Where did I fit writing in again?
But, I have stuff to say. A story to tell. If God has given me a gift, I'd like to think it is the written word. I have snippets of stories I've written, that are part of the whole. Some pieces are my own experiences and some belong to others. I have a couple of people I trust to read my unvarnished, un-proofread work, raw and emotional, sometimes funny and insightful, but all me, my heart and soul. They tell me what I have so far is good and it's compelling. Keep working at it, this is good, they say. I just need to find the time. But there's more.
I want desperately to tell my story, to see my words in print.
But I'm afraid too. I understand that publishing is a tough, tough business to break into. I am not sure my skin is thick enough yet. I'm afraid of telling this story that means so much to me, and nobody cares.
I'll get over those fears, I know. Even the best authors have been rejected a gazillion times. So, I'll be in good company, if I ever get the thing done and sent off to someone who might possibly want to consider putting my heart and soul between a front cover and a back cover.
I had to get up in the middle of this post to take the dog out, take a kid's temperature who seems to be coming down with something and on way to get the Tylenol, discovered the ice-maker hemorrhaging water onto the kitchen floor. And Captain America is somewhere between LA and Salt Lake City. Where he is of no use to me in this situation ;)
See what I mean about life?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)