I Believe In Super Heroes

When I was six years old, my brothers and I often tugged towels off my mother’s clothes line and pinned them around our necks. Something marvelous happened as the tattered terry cloth draped down our backs. We became more than tow-headed children. We transformed into Super Man, Batman, and Captain Marvel. Our shoulders straightened, our demeanor grew noble, our fists found their way, in classic hero style, to rest on our skinny hips. Then, with impromptu capes streaming behind us, we raced off to save the world as super heroes.

As I grew older, I discovered a bitter truth—super heroes only lived in books and on the movie screen. They didn’t soar through the clouds and swoop down to rescue hapless civilians. They couldn’t stop wars, save humanity, or even pluck kittens from treetops. I stopped raiding the clothes line for capes. I stopped believing in super heroes.

More years passed, and I grew into adulthood. Children of my own came into my life as wee babes. As I cradled them in my arms, images of my magical childhood flickered in their blue eyes. I envisioned them racing across green pastures with homemade capes streaming behind them. However, life had a different plan.

We soon learned they carried a special gene, a mutated bit of DNA smuggled into their X chromosomes. They were disabled. There was no running, wild and free. There were no capes, no victories, and no magic. There were no heroes.

Instead, I saw a world full of villains who would mock and bully my special ones, Jokers who would torment and Lex Luthers who would apply cruel kryptonite. The world looked dark, and I cowered behind my fear.

But then, magic and wonder crept back into my world in the form of a teacher who spent hours at home each week hand-making greeting cards to mail to my son to help him learn his name. She didn’t wear colorful spandex or stand like a mighty warrior. Instead, she sported a bouffant hair style and dangling ear rings.

Neighbors and friends showed up with hugs and babysitting help. Siblings and grandparents rallied. Therapists and educators spent years teaching my sons to walk, eat, and function. More time passed and an amazing young woman escorted my sons to proms, parties, and school events. This led to friends who took them to movies where they all watched Iron Man and Captain America join with Thor and the Hulk to save the world from evil and death.

However, the greatest saving didn’t happen on the screen. It happened in real life. It happened a little bit at a time, person by person, as living heroes flowed into and out of our lives. None of them wore uniforms or leaped tall buildings in a single bound. None of them were bullet proof. None of them could fly. But in my mind’s eye, I see capes flowing behind every one of them, because I believe in super heroes. They are real. They love and serve and give, and yes, they save the world.

I believe in real-life super heroes.

I've Been Robbed and How The Universe Failed To Keep Me Away From Small Children

I've been robbed. Really. It happened at my house. While I was home. My whole family was there, the kids sleeping in their beds, hubby and I tucked in as well. The thief broke in and pilfered from us--right under our noses. Door locks couldn't keep him out, not even our attack cat could deter this guy. I mean look at our cat, he's a major deterrent.


But even Krinky the Fang didn't stop this thief. And the crook took something precious from me.

An hour of sleep.

I can hear you out there wondering and worrying and rattling your dead bolts just to be safe, but it's too late. He's been to your house, too. He slipped past your attack cats and stole your hour the same night he took mine. Yup. Daylight Savings Time. May he rot in a dank prison for eternity for what he has done. If you catch him, show no mercy.

And to top it all off, the universe doesn't want me to talk to children. It's true. How do I know? Well, it told me so when I went with a writer friend to speak to an elementary class about writing and art. I'm telling you, nothing boosts your confidence like the universe asking you to please be quiet. I mean really, I started my presentation and got about three sentences in when the fire alarm went off. Yup. That's when you know that you should go home and stumble back into bed. But I did get to stand in a muddy soccer field for several minutes, so it wasn't a complete bust.

AND I got back at the universe. I'm like a ninja that way because we spoke to the kids anyway. And they liked it. Really. I know this because they opted to give up some of their recess to hear more about art. Okay, that may have had more to do with my friend giving them an awesome art lesson than with me showing them a few pictures and telling them they could work magic with only a pencil and an eraser. But still, I got me some ninja skills.

So take that, Universe. And Daylight Savings Time, be warned, I'm looking for you.

What's Wrong With Killing The Good Guy?

So, while Kid D was down with the nasties last week, we set up a portable DVD player in her room. Can you say movies galore? Her brain may be fried, but her sense of story is doing great. How do I know? Let's just say a young movie reviewer has been born.

One of the shows she watched for the first time was Megamind.


I'd never seen the show and was busy trying to get something/anything done while the wonders of movie land distracted the little sicky from her aches and chills. What I got instead was a ongoing summons to the bedroom with very real story worries.

It went something like this:

Kid D in tears: Mom!

Me hurrying to the room expecting bodily fluids and clean up duty: What's wrong?

Kid D: This isn't right. The good guy just died. The bad guy killed him! They're doing this all wrong!

Me thinking, What has Hollywood done now?: Hmmm. That is strange. Are you sure?

Kid D: He got blown up with the full power of the sun. All that was left was his bones.

Me: You're watching the cartoon I put in for you, right?

Kid D: Yes. The blue guy with the big head killed Metroman.

Me: Well, now. Maybe the blue guy isn't really the bad guy.

Kid D: He is. He said so. And he has a minion.

Me: How do you know he has a minion?

Kid D: Because he's named Minion. Not the blue guy, he's Megamind. Minion's a fish.

Me: Alrighty then.

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Mom! It's okay, the blue guy feels bad about killing the good guy so he's making a new good guy.

Me: Alright then. Again.

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Mom! The new good guy isn't good! What's wrong with this movie?

Me: Is the new good guy blue?

Kid D: No, he's just doing bad things. People who aren't blue can do bad things, too.

Me really wondering what the show was all about: What's the blue guy doing?

Kid D: Trying to stop him.

Me: So he's good?

Kid D: No. He still says he's bad.

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Mom! The good guy, Metroman, isn't dead. He's just pretending. It's all going to be okay.

Me: Sure it is. *Wink*

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Mom! Metroman won't be good. And Megamind has to save the city.

Me: Hmmmm. Didn't see that one coming. *Wink, wink*

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Megamind is the good guy! He saved the city! That's so cool!

Needless to say I had to watch the show. It was fun, but the best part was watching my seven-year-old gain a greater grasp of story. By the end she loved the twists and challenges to her perceptions of good and bad. I think it was a real eye opener to her that the real good guy wasn't good because of his looks, flowing cape, and flashy smile, and she loved the blue guy. Me, I loved listening to her dissect it with her child's understanding, and okay, Megamind is kind of lovable.

I can't wait for Kid D's reading skills to get to the point we can do this with books. It will be such fun to give her The Thief and wait for the, "Mom!"

What books or movies have challenged your kids? You? Did the experience make you love the story more? Do you like being surprised as you read?

The Nasties

First off, if you like art check out this contest at The Wonderful Obsessions.

Second, you get a short post today because it's been one of those weeks. You know the kind filled with groans, wet compresses, and sick kids. Kid D is down with the nasties, and I've spent most of my days (and nights) comforting her. This means I've spent zero time writing.

The surprising thing is that the forced time away from the computer turned out to be good. You see, my WIP was sick, too. Not deathly ill or anything, just a fever, cough, and chills.

I knew the poor thing felt off it's game, but I kept thinking, Just plow through this part and it will get better. Wrong.

The time away helped me see the problems in a broader way. I mentally reworked my plot, added a character, got rid of some others, and put a few more twists into the mix. AND I'm so excited to get back to work. Now I just need my lap and arms back.

Does time away from your projects help you see them in a new light?

What Is It With Love Stories?

So, I've been pondering all the important questions of the universe: what's for dinner, why don't my pants fit right (I have a sneaking suspicion that these two are somehow connected), and what is it with love stories (probably not connected, but who knows)?

Don't we all love a good romance? Seriously, even you men. Now before the egg starts flying (Hmmm eggs for dinner?), I don't mean to imply you men like romance novels or anything damaging to your manness, but admit it, you like a story with a romantic element. I mean, didn't Trinity spice up the Matrix for you?


And who would Jason Bourne have been without his love interest? See, guys like romance. Girls? Yeah, that's a given.

Now, even my own Kid C has discovered the joy of having a sweetheart. Earlier this week the little guy came to me and Hubby with a giant smile spread on his face like he'd woken up and discovered an extra Christmas or something. He gave us both hugs and told us he had a girlfriend. See, Christmas-for him.

Not so much for me. I admit, I panicked a bit. He is pretty young after all, and we tend to shelter him a bit with his disability. His body may be twelve, but his mind isn't.

It went like this:

Me experiencing mild heart palpitations: What?

Kid C just grinning: *grin*

Me growing a smile because his is so darn contagious: You have a girlfriend?

Him: Yup.

Me hiding a giggle, because I can never resist a good love story for long: Who is she?

Him just reveling in the moment.

Me: Is she in your class at school?

Him: Nah.

Me getting into it because I also love a good mystery: What's her name?

Him hugging his ever-present stuffed baby elephant: Rapunzel.

Me savoring the moment of Kid C's cuteness: She is pretty.

Him: Uh huh!

Christmas after all.

I mean, what's not to love? She's nice, she's led a sheltered life, she has great hair, she has a pan and knows how to use it (maybe she knows what's for dinner), she even carries an animal around on her shoulder. So does Kid C, the animal part, not the pan because that would be less safe for everyone. Really. But his baby elephant rides around on his shoulder like it's an extra appendage. Yup, this is a match made in Kid C heaven.

So, spill, what lures you to a love story? Why are we such suckers for them? What draws you to a character in a book? And what is your favorite romance ever?

The Magic and Mayhem Of Firsts

Saturday was a day of firsts at our house. First we slept in for three glorious hours. Can you say bliss? Then we got up, because for some reason the children like to be fed and such, and they seem to depend on us for that. Weird.

At 10:18 we experienced a whole new kind of first. Kid A got a phone call. Not that she hasn't talked on the phone before, it's what happened during that call that changed our whole day.

She talked for a few minutes then came to us for guidance. Our conversation went something like this:

Kid A: Mom, Dad, I need to talk.

Us: Okay.

Kid A: That was Friend A. She wants me to ask this guy out to the Sweet Heart Ball.

Me staring at Kid A with bulging eyes: Ummmmmmmm. Ummmmmmm. Ummmmmm. Isn't that today?

Kid A: Yes?

Hubby trying not to laugh: Do you want to go?

Kid A: I don't know. Friend A really, really, really wants me to ask this guy.

Me trying to breath normally so that Kid A won't be frightened: Isn't the dance semi-formal?

Kid A: Yes.

Me still trying to breath normally since this would be Kid A's first date, and I remember how terrifying that is, but also being a mom and knowing how much effort goes into preparing for a dance, and not knowing what Kid A would wear to a semi formal dance that just happens to be in a about six hours: Isn't that today?

Hubby patting my back to calm me down while asking Kid A: Do you want to go?

Kid A: I don't know. They're doing the day activities at noon.

Me staring in dumb disbelief at the clock, which reads 10:22, and realizing my six hours just shrank to one-and-a-half, and thinking we need a dress, shoes, hair, make-up, money, oh crap--she still needs to ask this guy out: Ummmmmm. Ummmmmm. Ummmmmm.

Hubby still trying not to laugh: Well, you'd better make up your mind fast. Who is this guy?

Kid A: I don't know. Some senior.

I'd finish this conversation for you, but it would be painful for most of us--okay, probably just for me. So instead of pain, I'll sum up. She decided to go because she didn't want to let Friend A down and because there was Chinese food involved. Okay, and because she's a brave girl who can have fun under pressure.

She called to inform Friend A of this monumentous decision while I hyperventilated for a minute or two. Then Kid A informed me that Friend A would be at our door in ten minutes to pick her up to go ask the guy out. I hyperventilated some more and ordered Kid A into the shower.

Then the rush began. I ran to the kitchen shouting, "What do we have to ask someone to a dance?" I yanked open the pantry and stared. "Beans! We have beans!"

Hubby, who had followed me, told me I couldn't use beans. We made cookies. Fast. Okay, I started the cookies, and hubby finished them while Kid A and I did the speediest hair and make-up job in the history of the world. Then she left to go ask some poor, unsuspecting senior to the dance (with a plate of cookies and a can of beans) that was in just a few hours. I felt bad for his mother for a second or two. It would have been more, but I didn't have time.

While she was gone, I called in reinforcements, my mom for a dress, my sister for the real hair and make-up, my neighbor for pictures, a prayer or two for sanity and a miracle. They all came through with flying colors.

By the time Kid A came back from asking the now-stressed senior to the dance we had eleven semi-formal gowns, shoes, and everything else lined up--except an oxygen tank for me.

So the long and short of this tale is, we made it. Kid A looked beautiful. The dance was a success, and so was Kid A's first date.

What does this have to do with writing? Oh, tons of things, but I've gone on too long already. So I'll just list three.

1: Firsts are exciting and scary, and all of us like to relive them. That's why I love YA. It's all about firsts.

2: Sometimes you just have to dive into the writing, like Kid A did with her first date, and let the words fall where they may.

3: When you do dive in, have a support group like someone to help with a dress and make-up. You know, readers, and critique partners, and back-patters, and such. But most of all, just love it. There's nothing better than the rush of excitement as the words come. Oh, and keep some beans and chocolate chips handy, you never know when you'll need them.

Are you going to write a first today?

Leisha Maw

My Shadow, Love, and First Publication Rights

First off, sorry about the late post. The sub-zero temperatures iced over our ISP's satellite tower and the world almost ended from lack of Internet. I couldn't even check my e-mail. Shudder.

Well, on to the post.

It's that time again. You know, parent teacher conference time. I took Kid D last night. It turned out well, and once again the first grade wrote stories. Last time I had buy the first publication rights to get Kid D to let me post one of her stories on my blog. This time she was ready for me. It went like this.

Me: You did awesome!

Kid D grinning.

Me: Can I put a story on my blog?

Kid D: Sure. How much are you going to pay me?

Me grinning, too: Two dollars for two stories.

Kid D: Deal.

I laughed and paid her. I think she's liking this write and get paid thing. Who can blame her? I'd really like to try it some day soon.

So, here are her two stories with translations attached. Enjoy.

My Shadow





Translation:

I am jumping on the trampoline with my shadow in the sun. It is fun. If the sun is up very high, your shadow is low.

And the second masterpiece:

Love





Translation:

I love to eat ice cream. I love Mrs. Tingey!!! I love school. I love me!!! I love my mom!!! I love my dad!!!

I love this story. Who wouldn't? Ice cream--yum. A beloved teacher--awesome. Love for Mom and Dad--bonus. But love for herself--ahhh a mother's dream come true. I'm so glad she let me buy these.

I'm off to write. I have big shoes to fill. Who knew I'd be trying to keep up with a first-grader. :)

Leisha Maw

The Magic of Birthdays and Books

First off, I have a post at The Scribblers Cove today, too. Check it out.

Second off, (okay this should probably be first, but it looked better on the page this way) today is Kid D's Seventh Birthday. She woke up expecting magic. You could feel the anticipation in the air, see it in her missing-the-two-front-teeth grin, and taste it in the cake-and-frosting-rich air.

I asked her if she felt older, and she told me,"Yes! My legs are even longer. You can tell, see? My pajamas don't touch my feet like they did last night."

I smiled and smothered a laugh. You don't laugh at seven-year-olds on their birthdays, even if they are amusing.

Kid D's excitement made me think about books and writing. Don't act all surprised. Most things make me think of writing and books because that's how I roll.

Anywho, every time I pick up a book, I'm like Kid D. I expect magic. Not necessarily real magic with spells and wands and elves and such (though that doesn't hurt), but the magic and wonder of fantastic stories and amazing characters. I want to be transported to a new place, time, and setting. I want to feel like I'm seven and grew during the night only to wake up to balloons and cake. All of it for me.

I want to feel the emotions of characters. I want to experience fear, longing, love, adrenaline spikes, and warm fuzzies. I want to live between the covers with the characters.

I want the magic of a book.

What about you? What do you want when you open a book?

Leisha Maw

Spiders And Other Poisonous Habits

A couple of nights ago I sat down on the couch with Kids A and D to read, chat, and watch for my hubby to come home. It was relaxing until Kid A saw a spider on the couch.

I told her to kill it.

Being a brave young woman, she got some tissue and bent in for the death strike. Then she paused and calmly said, "Mom, it's a Black Widow."



We all vacated the couch in a speedy manner--a very speedy manner.

I told Kid A not to kill it. Some jobs you just can't have a kid do, and poisonous spider slaying calls for adult action. And something more deadly than a tissue. I grabbed the hairspray (yes, hairspray) and doused the intruder with it. Several times. You try escaping (or attacking someone) when your whole body is covered in hardening glue.

Needless to say, the evil interloper didn't take kindly to her full-body drenching and tried to crawl behind the couch. Kid A yanked it (the couch not the spider) away from the wall, and I reapplied the hairspray. Then I did it again several more times. We poked the spider into a mason jar with a pencil, sealed the jar, and put it on the front porch for disposal.

I'm still a little freaked about sitting on the couch. I may have to move every stick of furniture in the house, vacuum under/in/around them all with one hand on the vacuum and the other on the hairspray, and then shower (again) just to get the heebie jeebies to leave me alone.

What does this have to do with writing? A whole heck of a lot. All of us have spiders lurking in our pages or hiding as bad habits. It could be procrastination hanging out on the couch waiting to sink its fangs into you. Or it might be over-confidence and pride that keeps you from heading back to your manuscript for another round of revisions. It may even be doubt that builds its sticky web and entangles you before you can get going.

All of these, and so many more, are camouflaged against our writing couches. If we don't search them out with hairspray in hand, they will bite us. Ouch.

What spiders are you going to pursue and kill today? I'm going searching for distractions, and boy will they be sorry. Will you be a spider slayer today? Enjoy the hunt.

A Grind, A Plop, and A Lot Of Smoke--And Inflicting Pain

How did your New Years go? Ours went off with a bang...or maybe I should say a grind, a plop, and a lot of smoke. Here's how it went down.

First Hubby's car started making a horrible grinding sound. You know the kind that means your car just became roadkill, and you immediately see an image of yourself as a Flintstones character followed closely by dollar signs. Lots of them.



But we weren't smiling.

And we don't have a dinosaur for a pet. Just saying.

As for the plop, well it was worse than the grind--for Kid B at least, and for my heart. You remember how I blogged about the magic of Christmas and waiting for decades for my disabled sons to get excited? And how it had finally happened? And how happy I was?

Well, Kid B asked for something for the very first time. Ever. He wanted a Mario Cart DS. And that was all. It's the only thing he's ever wanted in fourteen years, and he asked for it every day. A lot. Santa brought it cause he's an old softy.

Kid B had five glorious days with his DS, then it slipped from his fingers and fell with a plop into, you guessed it, the toilet. The evil thing ate it.



We, yet again, shoved a hand down the toilet and retrieved the DS. It now lies in pieces in a bag of rice drying out for a week accompanied by fervent prayers for a miracle.

Kid B feels like this:



Except he's a lot bigger and has more hair. Oh, and more clothes.

I feel worse.

Now on to the smoke. Sigh. Sunday we prepped a chicken to cook while we went to church. I set the oven for 325 degrees and headed out the door. Three-and-a-half hours later we came home and opened the door to billowing smoke. Like this:



But without the flames. Every sad story must have at least one silver lining, that's ours.

One of our kids (probably Kid C cause he often inspires...er inflicts drama on us) helped us out by cranking the oven to 475. Yup. Smoke and charred chicken. And smell that bonded on a molecular level with every surface in our home. Ug.

Yes, it was that kind of weekend.

What does this have to do with writing? Tons. As a writer you must inflict pain on your characters, loads of it, like some demented torturer obsessed with producing tears and heartbreak.

Why? It helps them. Really it does. It provides challenges for them to overcome, and they morph into a hero right in front of your eyes as they rise above all the pain and suffering. It also creates sympathy. You love them for their pain. (This means you should love me right now. Just saying. He he.)

Think about Katniss, would you love her as much if nothing bad ever happened to her? Or Harry Potter? What if he'd had a great childhood with loving parents, and friends, and magic in his life, and roses, and lots of great food, and a dog, and and and... Well, he'd be boring for one, and not nearly as endearing as the Boy Who Lived.

So, does this make me feel better about my weekend? Yes. A little. After all, who wouldn't want to be compared to awesome characters in some small way? I mean, I can go to the grocery store today and tell some poor, unsuspecting stranger that me and Katniss are buds. (And, yes, the odd looks will be so worth it.) Maybe I will even morph into something wonderful in time. Here's to hoping and overcoming drowned gameboys.

Christmas Wonder

This is the last week for my contest. Click here for details.

Christmas is just three days away. Three, not four because you don't count today. I know this because Kids B, C, and D told me so. A lot. And by a lot we're talking national debt numbers here.

The fun part of this is, they are so excited. Wonder walks around my house every moment in the form of those three kids. And we've waited a long time for it to come. With the boys' disability they never got Christmas until last year. Kid B's fourteen. That's a lot of waiting for wonder to strike. But strike it has. They're all bursting with it.

Their little bodies squirm and the magic name of Santa falls from their lips more times than they can breathe. Reindeer dance on the rooftops, elves peek in windows, and every present holds a wish my children can hold and shake.

It's more than a single Christmas worth of excitement. It's years of waiting, hoping, and faith all bundled up and delivered to me. And I thank my Lord for it, after all, he understands Christmas best. It all started with him and his own son. And the wonder of a special night.

Maybe as the years thunder past my boys will come to see the true miracle of the night, not in a jolly fat man and brightly wrapped presents, but in Christ. That is worth waiting decades for.

Merry Christmas.

Say What?

My contest is still on. Don't forget to drop a comment and facebook, twitter, or blog about it for extra points.

Now on to today's post.

Saturday we took the whole fam to our church's Christmas party. Think lots of smiling people, lights, and kids bursting with excitement as they waited for Santa to make an appearance. When he appeared, the fat man in red disappeared behind a wall of children and the waiting began. Picture this



but in color, and with more children all hyped on candy, pizza, and good old fashioned yearning. Oh, and it's in the church. Filled with church people. Lots of church people.

Now place me, my kids, and hubby smack dab in the middle of it. And this is what I heard:

Awesome neighbor, who always asks about my books and knows I've been trying to off the bad guy, yelling over crowd noise to my hubby: Hey, did your wife kill that guy yet?

This is what I saw on the faces of about 100 church going neighbors:



Hubby, who didn't see the above reaction: Actually, she killed him today.

Every head swiveled to stare at Hubby. And this happened again:



Awesome neighbor, who also didn't notice the staring throng: Really? Did she blow him up?

Hubby: No. She stabbed him.

Now picture awesome neighbor giving me fist bump and asking if I used an exploding sword.

It was super funny to watch everyone's reaction. It was also super fun to finally kill the guy off. He had it coming for a long time.

How was your weekend? Did you have any say what moments?

Snow

So, the time has come for snow. This is how I feel about that:


(Actual photo)

This is how Kid D feels about it:


(Not actual photo. She grins way bigger than that when it snows.)

This is what I have to say about it: Let it end. *Whimper*

This is what she has to say about it: Mom, this is a wonderful time of year for me! *Grins and dances through the house chanting "Snowstorm" repeatedly*

This is what the National Weather Service has to say about it:

...BLIZZARD HEADING FOR UTAH THIS AFTERNOON THROUGH TONIGHT...

STRONG SOUTHWEST WINDS WILL DEVELOP AHEAD OF AN ARCTIC COLD FRONT
EXPECTED TO MOVE FROM NORTHWEST TO SOUTHEAST ACROSS THE AREA LATE
THIS AFTERNOON THROUGH TONIGHT. HEAVY SNOW...STRONG WINDS...AND
BLOWING SNOW WILL ACCOMPANY THE PASSAGE OF THE ARCTIC FRONT.
EXTREMELY COLD TEMPERATURES WILL DEVELOP ACROSS THE REGION
WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY...

My translation: Sit by the fire and pray for June.

Kid D's translation: Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

The Corn Maze

Last night I took Kid D to parent teacher conference. She sat and giggled as her teacher praised her and her work. They've been writing stories, cute little first grade stories. The three of us, Kid D, the teacher and I, spent a few minutes reading them. I smiled and hugged her a lot. Kid D, not the teacher. That would have been a bit awkward.

Anywho, I asked Kid D if I could share one of her stories on my blog. She turned me down flat. I begged, I cajoled, I gave her puppy dog eyes. Nada. Her decision was firm.

I sat and pondered her cute little face and asked,"Why not?"

She said, "I'm embarrassed."

I told her I wouldn't use her name.

She shook her head, still firm.

I was stumped. After all, intellectual property is serious business, and she owned it. I complained to my hubby that his daughter wouldn't grant me usage. He urged her to let me post it. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I told Kid D that I wanted people to read my stories. Heck, I wanted people to pay me for my stories.

A small smile tickled the corners of her mouth, and a glint appeared in her eye as she said, "No one pays me for my stories."

You guessed it, I bought her story. She's walking around the house two bucks richer, and I have the goods.

Here it is complete with illustrations. The light pencil scrawl is hard to read, so I'll provide a typed translation. (Without the 1st grade spelling. )

The corn maze was tricky! In one path there was a dead woman! There were scary decorations! The corn maze was scary!

Don't you love the dead woman in the box? And, yes, I asked about that. There really was a "dead" woman at the corn maze they went to for the class Halloween field trip. Personally I'm relieved because that means I don't need to get her counseling.

I'm also proud as a bag full of onion rings over my youngest's first published story. I can see great things ahead for this budding writer. Can't you?

Flashlights, Washing Machines, Sinking Ships, and Perfect Storms.

Last night I went on a lovely boat ride on a vast and swift river. The clear water lapped at the ship's sides then began to fill the ship's belly. Fast. People began to fill the life boats even faster. I began to wrap my computer in about 900 layers of plastic and Duct Tape to protect it from the rising water. Hubby logged on the ship's Internet to check the sport scores. Yup, we have priorities.

Things were going well, after all I had my water tight computer taped to my back, hubby had his sport scores, and we could both swim. Then Kid D sloshed into the scene and announced in her six-year-old lisp that there were no more life jackets.

Kid D can't swim.

I panicked and woke up just before the ship went under. I then lay in bed from four to six trying to do a major rewrite on my dream to include a life jacket for my youngest, or figure out how to swim with both her and my laptop in my arms. Somehow it never occurred to me to try to edit out the flood or not have Kid D on board the doomed vessel. Because why would you remove such a nice plot twist? In the end, I left the computer because, like I said, I have priorities. I did attach a beacon buoy and a pink floaty to it so I could come back and retrieve it.

It's been a few months since I had a flood dream. It's also been a few months since our last washing machine catastrophe. I'm beginning to thing the two are linked because, you guessed it, we had a real flood last night. Thanks so much to the cosmic laundry Carma guy or whatever governs these things. Here are the main points to keep in mind during this story:

1: We just finished remodeling our basement.

2: We have a history of washing machine disasters. (Click here in case you missed the other link)

3: We just finished remodeling our basement.

4: Unlike the boat dream, the washing machine wasn't something you get to wake up from.

5: Did I mention that we just finished a remodel of our basement?

Here are the main facts:

1: Flashlights, even smallish ones, are not good items to place in your washing machine. Especially when they get stuck and jam up the whole monster. It's bad. Very bad.

2: Having about three batches worth of denim pants piled into the same batch by overly helpful children is also bad. So very very bad.

3: Having about five times the correct amount of laundry soap is also bad. And bubbly.

4: Walking down into your newly remodeled basement to find water and suds EVERYWHERE is beyond bad. In fact, it makes you cry. A lot. And maybe think bad words. And use a lot of towels. And cry.

So anyway, there you have the perfect storm of dreams and laundry conditions. Can you guess what I'll be doing today? Writing about it of course. Yup, I have priorities. :)

Promises and Pics

First off, we’re doing a fun pass-along story at The Scribbler’s Cove. Head over there and add you own paragraph!

Second off, today is the Halloween parade at my kids’ school. For those of you who don’t have kids this means that not only do I have to have all my little ones dressed up in their various costumes, but I also have to get out of my pajamas and make myself presentable to the world. This means that you get a goofy picture and a promise.

Here is the goofy pic:



And here is the promise: I solemnly swear to wake up earlier next Tuesday and post a real post in which I use more words than pictures, and that the words will even have meaning and sound decent. Maybe. And I also promise to do it again next Thursday. See? Good promises, huh?

Memories of Sword Fighting and Cornfields

My whole family, including all the brothers and sisters, spouses (Except Joycelyn, who came by iPhone because she had to work. We missed you.), and all the nieces and nephews, gathered at my parents' house last night to open their mission call

For you non-Utah peeps, a mission is where a young man or woman, or retired couple, volunteer to spend eighteen months to two years teaching religion somewhere in the world for the Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints. They don't know where they'll be sent, so opening the call is a big thing. It could be Russia or Idaho, France or Brazil, or almost anywhere in the world. My parents are heading to Portugal! So exciting! (Even if I'll miss them terribly.)

Anywho, while we were there, the nephews and some of the nieces discovered cornstalk sword fighting. What is that, you say? It's where this



becomes this



And yes, you can wear a kilt. Just saying.

I sat and watched all these little kids with their cornstalk swords and remembered the days when I was the one with my own sword, fighting to the imaginary death with my four brothers and two sisters. We came in every night with welts and bruises from our battles, but it was fun. So very fun.

The next day we'd rush home from school and cut a new weapon. We'd disperse through the fields to check our secret bases hidden in the apple trees or irrigation ditches, then the wars began. We reenacted every light saber duel in Star Wars, and every sword fight in all the pirate books and fantasy novels I'd ever read. Then we invented our own personas, and we put Captain Jack to shame.

Can you hear the laughter and the thunk thunk of cornstalk swords raised in battle? Do you smell the sun on heat-dried grass or taste the apples plucked right from the trees. I can. And I miss it all. All the grass stains and scraped knuckles from over-zealous duels, perching in the trees, gorging on fruit while waiting for the enemy to show themselves. No wonder I write fantasy. Maybe it takes me back to the days when I lived it all with a cornstalk sword, six siblings, and my imagination.

More Ham

Today I told my six-year-old she was so sweet I could eat her. She leveled me with one of those are-you-kidding-me-because-you-have-no-idea-how-this-world-works-and-I-do kind of stares. Then with a straight face she said, "Eat Kid B instead. He has more ham."

I choked back a laugh and tried to keep my face neutral. It was hard, but I managed it before I asked, "Why does Kid B have more ham than you?"

She graced me with the same are-you-kidding-me stare and said, "Because he's bigger than me."

This got me thinking about having more ham. But not in the Oh-my-gosh-I-just-stepped-on-the-scale-and-I-have-more-ham kind of way. I'm talking the little extra umph some people seem to have. The pizazz kind. It's like Alice in the movie Alice In Wonderland. We're talking muchness with a rabbit kind of ham.



And I want some. In every aspect of my life. Writing, momming, wifeing, even cleaning (crazy talk, I know). I want to attack my life and have it be ham. Loads and loads of ham. We're talking this:



not this:



So, today is the day that I will get more ham. How about you? Do you want more ham?

Driver's Ed. and Writing

My latest post for The Scribblers Cove is up. All you never wanted to know about driver's ed. and writing. Check it out.

Silence Falls

The time has come! School is back in session. The house echoed for three months, and now it sits and listens--waiting for sound to burst through the doors on the heels of grinning children. You can almost feel the wood and carpet and paint settle into the silence.

And me? I'm settling, too. Sinking into the peace and absense of TV, and video games, and obnoxious, beeping toys. My brain thrills with the silence, as if it found the perfect sound and is applauding.

Yet, at the same time the quiet strikes another chord in my soul. One of sadness.One of fear. My childen are gone and took with them the smiles and hugs and laughter. And for the first time, I see the future stalking me with mute promise. One day the laughter and noise might go for good and leave me listening to wood and carpet and paint.

And, I will miss it all. All the shouts, and blaring electronics, and yes, even the quarreling and noise, noise, noise. Because their sound fills me. Rattles around my being, seeps into my heart, which translates it into love.

For now, the silence is temporary, and I can embrace it with a sigh. But, I know now that it hunts me, and we stare at each other with knowing eyes. One day it will come to stay, but for now, my front door is open--waiting for the echoes of my children.