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

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.

Morning Mayhem

So, yesterday was one of those days. It all started with the melodious yowl of a cat fight outside my window. Have you ever been jerked from slumber by a cat fight? I'm almost positive that they use cat fights as a form of torture. Not a nice way to wake up--especially if it's your cat and you have to run down the stairs half asleep and rescue the thirteen-year-old puddy from probable death and certain vet bills. Yup it was that kind of morning.

As I stumbled back into the house silently cursing my cat, my sleep-fogged mind realized Kid A was in the shower. I stared at the light streaming from under the bathroom door and sighed. No more sleep for me. Time to wrangle the kids.

I descended into the basement, pulled Kid B from bed, asked-begged-urged-forced him to get dressed for school, and made his bed. Then I came upstairs and oozed into my chair and started opening emails. Kid A came in wearing a very confused look.

Here is our ensuing conversation:

Me: You okay?

Kid A: What time is it?

Me looking at the little clock on my computer. Me still looking at the little clock on my computer. Me staring at my watch. Me glaring at the little clock on my computer: Five o'clock!

Kid A: Why is it five?

Me, still glaring at my stupid clock: I don't know. It should be six. Why isn't it six?

Both of us staring at each other doing mental math.

Kid A: You mean I got up at four?

Me: You mean I got up at four?

Me: Why did you get up at four?

Kid A: My clock said six.

Me: My cat said, "**$#!@#%^&*!"

I almost said **$!@%^&*! as I realized I had missed out on two hours of blessed sleep. Two hours! If any of you are moms, I know you share my horror. And I haven't even mentioned that I didn't go to bed until almost one. Yes, cry for me. I cried for myself.

But there is a silver lining. I sat down on the couch to watch for the different buses with the kids, by the time they all departed, so did I. To dream land. I woke up four hours later with a kinked neck and a few missed appointments. So, if I stood you up yesterday, I'm sorry. But at least now you know why.

So, how was your day?

A Place Of My Own

It's done, my office that is. And I've moved in. Up until now, I shared a small corner of the front room with four kids and my hubby. Picture this, a desk squeezed between the couch and the door, stacks of manuscripts shoved under the desk, leaning on the couch, and piled on the floor. Books and pens, folders and staplers, my laptop and me, perched amidst it all. This is how I wrote, with young children tugging on my arm and sliding down my towers of papers. Adventure reigned--and not the good kind.

I wanted my own space. A place to put all my stuff. A place where my computer could live without the risk of becoming a launch (or landing) pad for rocketing children. A place where I could sit and think, and write, and plot, and create. This wish spurred months of remodeling, and now my room is done. Can you hear the cheering? Because I can. Oh, wait, that's me.



And it has a lock on the door. Heaven.

I love it. One of my favorite features is a chalkboard wall. Yes, an entire wall for me to write on, plot on, ponder on, and even doodle on. And I bought colored chalk. *Grin* It's like being a kid, but I'm bigger. And I don't have to share the chalk. He he.



Here's a list of things I won't miss.

Fickle sticky notes fluttering to the floor only to be eaten by the vacuum.
Me yelling, "Who turned off my computer?"
Me yelling, "Who erased my book?"
Me crying because someone erased my book.
Me wishing I had a room with a lock.
Piles and piles and piles of manuscripts stacked around me like I was some kind of crazed paper hoarder.
Piles and piles and piles of manuscripts not stacked around me because the kids decided to play in them.
Me thinking naughty words when I found the piles and piles and piles of scattered pages.
Me wishing I had a room with a lock.
Answering the door right after I discovered the piles and piles and piles of scattered pages.
Me thinking more naughty words.
The wide-eyed stare of visitors at the door when I answered it.
Me wishing I had a room with a lock.

Yup, I like the lock. Can you tell?

Anywho, I'm in. I'm organized, and now I'm going to get down to business. Time to write.

What is your secret, or not so secret, wish? Mine came true. At least the one about a room with a lock, I'm still working on the getting published one. Drop a comment and share your wish.

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.

The Dentist and Other Scary Stories

I took Kid C to the dentist yesterday, and yes, I seem to be blogging about him a lot lately. Poor Kid C.

Now, taking a child to the dentist is never fun. Ever. But, taking a special needs child to the dentist is bad. Really bad. (For those of you who are new to the blog, Both Kid B and C have fragile X syndrome and are mentally handicapped. See here , here, or here for glimpses of past adventures.)

Anywho, the dentist was awesome, and Kid C did pretty good. He only threw up twice. What horrible thing was the dentist doing? Drilling? Extracting teeth? Sucking in the laughing gas? Nope. He was brushing Kid C's teeth. Yup. That's how we roll around here.

This got me thinking about some other adventures we've had. Okay, they're more like scary stories, but here's a short one for you to enjoy. We'll pick on Kid B this time.

Kid B loves food. Not likes, or sort-of-loves, but the kind of love that becomes scary. He especially adores pasta salad. Around here we call it Kid B salad and make it every time we have a family get together.

Which leads us to grandma's house and a giant bowl of Kid B salad--and grandma's unlocked cupboard filled with several boxes of fruit snacks. Can you guess where this is heading? Yup. Brace yourselves.

Kid B devoured three enormous plates full of pasta salad then snuck into the fruit snacks. All of them. A few minutes later the groaning commenced. Then came the vomit and the multi-colored mess on grandma's new carpet. Hmmm come to think of it, this might be why everyone refers to it as Kid B salad.

Strange how both these stories deal with puke.

I hate puke.

Shudder.

My Name Is Inigo Montoya

I know I promised to shoot off a post last Friday, but I didn't. I was in mourning. Kid C, who can not be held responsible for his actions, killed a large portion of my manuscript Thursday afternoon. It's gone. Disintegrated into nothingness with a few clicks of my mouse.

But I have back ups, right?

Wrong.

Why?

I'm stupid.

I've been feverishly working on a major rewrite, and in my addled state, I didn't back it up for several days. Several long, productive days. That sound you hear is me hitting myself in the forehead repeatedly. Oh, and crying. Gobs of crying.

There was also a fair amount of yelling. That is how I became Inigo Montoya. Except, I have way less chest and facial hair.



And, I'm a girl.

While my son's life wasn't in danger, he apparently thought it was. Maybe. After I calmed down, I asked him if he was ever going to touch mommy's computer again. He shook his head and pretended to slit his throat with his finger. Then, he pretended to slit his stuffed elephant's throat, too. Why? To show me what he thought would happen if he did touch my computer again.

Yup, send me the mother-of-the-year award right now. Just label it: Inigo Montoya--Super Mom.

I feel like I should slip into some leather pants and a frizzy wig and yell, "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my manuscript. Prepare to die."

But seriously, Kid C and I made up. I gave baby elephant CPR, mouth-to-mouth, and a band aid. I gave kid C a big hug and some ice cream. He's steering clear of my computer, and I'm busy trying to reconstruct my pages. Sigh.

Now, all I have to do is find the six fingered man. Wink.

I'm Swamped Today

Today is crazy busy. The kind of crazy busy where you have seven kids screaming and running around you in circles. The kind of crazy where you still have a toilet sitting on your deck, and you're worried about what the seven screaming children will do with the toilet. The kind of crazy where you think things like, Maybe it will be okay if they use it.

But the point of all this is, I'm not going to get around to a real blog post today. I mean, I could continue to rattle on and not say anything of real importance. (Please don't mention that I rarely, if ever, say anything of real importance. It might shatter my self image. And that would be mean.)

So anyway, I vow to post something slightly above sad and pathetic tomorrow. Maybe. For right now, be content with this pic of me giving seven children the evil eye every time they get too close to the toilet. And, Mom, sorry I used the word toilet four times in three paragraphs.

Things I Never Thought I'd Have To Say

Sometimes, I hear things come out of my mouth that make me do a quick, "say what?" Most of them have to do with my children. Now, I love my kids. They're great. They also do some of the weirdest stuff I've ever heard of.

Hubby has often wondered aloud things like, "Now, who could they have gotten that from?" followed by a quick glance in my direction.

I admit, I'm a bit ... eccentric at times, and some of the things the kids do may have a distant connection to me, but not all of them. Just the ones that are completely normal. For example, I have never filled my drinking glass from the toilet. Ever. Nor do I plan on it. Shudder. But, I have eaten a dandelion. See, normal.

But as far as parenting goes, my hubby and I do okay, not perfect, or even great, but okay. All of our kids get fed. We read books to them, we teach them things, we love them, and they are all still breathing. Normally, I'd pat myself on the back for this, but I don't want to sound too all that. So instead, I'm providing you with a list of actual things we've had to say to our children over the past fifteen years, and yes, all of these things did happen. Promise.

1: We don't lick car tires.

2: We don't eat the brown things out of the toilet. EVER!

3: We don't eat food we find in the gutter at Walmart.

4: We don't eat food we find in the gutter anywhere.

5: We don't drink from the gutter, either.

6: We don't eat raw chicken.

A lot of these are about eating, scary huh? Now, you're starting to see why I'm so proud that my kids are all still breathing.

7: Don't lick the TV.

8: The vacuum isn't alive.

9: The vacuum isn't your friend. Promise.

10: We don't dive under moving cars.

11: We don't try to pet skunks. They are not cats.

12: You can't go to church in your Sponge Bob pajamas.

13: You can't go to church in your underwear.

14: Blood doesn't taste like cherries.

15: We don't eat our blood.

As I look back over this list, I'm not surprised that I look like this.



But with a head.

And okay, the skunk thing didn't happen, but as I was typing, I got this image of Kid C walking up to a skunk saying, "Here, kitty, kitty." It was pretty vivid, as was the resulting smell, in my imagination, that is. So, I put it on the list, but have now fessed up to it's non authenticness. And, authenticness should be a real word.

What crazy things have you had to say to your kids? Or what things did your parents tell you that just didn't compute?

How Many Washes Does It Take?

Kid C has a thing with my washing machine. He likes to watch it swish and swirl. He likes to watch the bubbles form. He likes to put things in it. What kind of things? Oh, so many kinds of things.

Here's a list of just a few:

Shoes
Socks
DVDs
Phone books
The entire content of the garbage can
Video Games
Toys
Four extra loads of dirty clothes, maybe five, depending on the day. Yes. All crammed in together. Nice huh?
Food, all kinds
Phones
Cat food
Litter
Dirt
Bleach
The cat (This one didn't work so well, and was just a one time thing.)
Manuscript pages
Picture books
Magazines
House plants
Hair accessories
Tools
and
Laundry soap

This post is mostly about the last item on the list. Laundry soap. Do you know how many times you have to rewash a batch of shirts if a small child dumps an entire bottle of liquid laundry soap into the machine? Well, let me tell you. I don't know, but it's a lot. I'm working on ten times right now, and the suds are still billowing out of the clothes like they have rabies. It's not a pretty sight.

Usually, I lock up the washing machine. I know it sounds strange, but hey, you try picking twenty-five pounds of clumping cat litter out of your pants and see if you don't grab the power drill and attach a padlock to your washer and dryer. I'm telling you, it would only take a few times and your house would go into lock down, too.

So what happened today? I thought, What the heck, live a little. Leave it unlocked. What's the worst that could happen? Yup. I'm brilliant and now, I'm paying the price. And what a bubbly price it is.

How could I be so OLD?

My daughter is trying to kill me. Not outright with a weapon or anything like that, she's much more subtle and devious. She's getting her driver's permit.

Do any other words in the English language strike such fear into the hearts of adults? Even boys aren't that scary. (Well, at least not yet. She can't date for six-and-a-half more months.) Am I really expected to turn this girl loose with a car? I've spent a large portion of my life taking care of her and keeping her out of danger. I spoon-fed this kid strained sweet potatoes, and read labels, and researched car seats, and changed the batteries in the smoke detectors. For years! Well, I didn't keep spoon feeding her the sweet potatoes, but the point is I devoted sixteen years of my life to keeping her alive. And now I'm supposed to say, "Here's the keys, try not to die?"

Am I alone in this?

And what happened to me? Somehow I went from a young woman and leaped in one giant hurdle to middle-aged woman. Ouch. What is it about having a child behind the wheel that makes you old? I mean other than the self inflicted claw marks down your cheeks from gripping your face too tight as you try to teach them to parallel park, and the bald patches from ripping out your hair by the roots during a close encounter with a semi in an intersection?

It's basic math. They teach it in school. Math makes you old. Someone sees your kid driving, and then out pops their fingers. “Let's see,” they say. “If she was at least twenty when she gave birth add six, carry the one." Walla! Old.

I don't feel old, well, not until ten p.m. or so, and I don't think I look that old. I don't have grey hair (yet), or that many wrinkles, but who can argue against the powers of addition? I'm now officially old.