Writer's Block

I am grateful that no philosopher ever said, I blog, therefore I am, because I’d be in some serious trouble at this point. This is the reason I hesitated to ever start a blog – I feared this sort of lapse and the accompanying guilty feelings. Oh well, I guess I’ll have to get over it. My apologies to the three people who ever even look at this blog. I’ll try to do better…Really. Other people’s blogs are sometimes a bright spot in a dull or dreary day, and if I've ever been your bright spot...well, I haven't been too bright lately.

Lately, actually, I’ve been…scattered. Lots of people for Thanksgiving. Play practices. Basketball. Christmas shopping. Working. I can’t seem to collect my thoughts to say anything at all on this blog. Ideas, anyone?

I hoped this blog would help me start writing, and though I continue to contemplate the seed of this book that's in my head and give it some water and sun...it's all still in there...and not only am I not writing it, I'm not writing this blog. Oh well, time to clean the house and finish Christmas shopping.

The Good, the Bad, and the Mundane

I'm not sure whether I'm staying remotely faithful to my blog title. These are the kind of small things I worry about.

So, in keeping with the motherhood angle of the title, here goes. It's a sort of modified day in the life of a working mom.

5 a.m.-- Wake up. Wonder at the fact that I've not been woken up earlier by Son2 who's had a migraine for 48 hours and has been in my room standing by the side of my bed the past two mornings at approximately 3:30, gripping his head in blinding pain. Phew. Maybe it's over.

5:30 -- Get up, go downstairs and realize immediately that the fire is out in the woodstove. It's freezing. Feed cats who are behaving as if they haven't eaten in weeks. Make coffee!

5:40 -- Try to pray, but that proves elusive for some reason. Brain overload or something. Read Bible until it's time to make lunches.

6:30 -- Make lunches. Ten minutes out of the day that I really hate. Where are all the lunchboxes? Why didn't everyone put their cold packs back in the freezer? Wait! Someone (Son1) left the freezer ajar last night. Great. Load lunchboxes with water, apples, packs of chips, a different sandwich for everyone, and squeezable yogurt. Say thanks that it's done for another day. If I was wealthy and school lunches were healthy and vegetarian, then I'd have my kids buy lunch every day.

7:22 --I say to Son1 before he walks out the door, "why are you wearing your new basketball shoes?" He says, "Because my sneakers have poop on them and the other ones smell because they got all wet." Lovely. Why do his sneakers have poop on them? Because he and his brothers don't pick up after the dog out in the yard like they're supposed to.

7:27 -- They've left for school. Breathe deeply and remember what work I need to get done.

7:30 -- E-mail, work, exercise, shower, laundry, and so forth. Get a decent amount of work done but avoid a project that I don't feel like starting.

1:30 p.m. -- Leave the house to do errands. This includes buying a bizarre assortment of items for the boys. Sweatpants for Son3 because he's playing in this flag football league after school on Wednesdays and he doesn't have a pair of sweatpants that aren't way too short. Son1 needs a calculator that does sin and cosin (sp?). We didn't have those calculators when we were kids. In fact, I'm fairly certain we were never allowed to use a calculator. He also needs posterboard for a history project presentation, and I need to buy a toner cartridge because our toner is low and he'll have to print out a million things. Of course, he's known about this for weeks, but he'll be putting together the project tonight -- the night before it's due.

3:00 -- Get to school and dispense cash to Son1 and Son2 for snacks because I've forgotten to bring any. Sit on the freezing cold metal bleachers for the next hour and a half to watch Son3 play flag football. Miss his touchdown because I'm so engrossed in another mom's story about her oldest son's concussion. With three sons I figure it's important to listen to someone describe in vivid detail the signs of a concussion. Decide to pretend I saw the touchdown since I saw him make some other plays.

4:28 -- Find out from another parent that my child doesn't need POSTER board, he needs a presentation board. Realize I will now have to take my freezing and starving children back to Staples before we can go home.

5:10 -- Driving home after the day's second visit to Staples, Son2 pipes up from the back seat, "Do you have any medicine with you?" Feel my stomach sink.

And so it goes. We get home, I proceed to direct everyone to their work and help Son2 get comfortable on the couch. Son3 has math, history, vocab, Bible, and science homework. History and science involve me helping him look information up online. What are three natural resources of Maryland? Name three important dates in Maryland's history. Find a picture of a place you like to visit in Maryland. Why does this take so long? Fortunately, the science isn't due until Friday. Let's procrastinate! Gee all you'll have to do tomorrow night is write a half-page paper about the Sycamore tree, collect a twig and some leaves, and draw a picture. No problem.Hopefully there won't be too much other homework. Finally I send him to bed at 8:30 to study his Bible verse.

Son2 has fallen asleep on the couch. He's too big to carry. I have to wake him up and he does the class drunken sailor weave through the house and up the steps. He climbs up to his bunk and is immediately back in a deep sleep. I have to wake him again to get him to swallow his migraine meds. Phew.

Son1 will be working until 10:40 p.m on his history presentation. With my help. Printing. Cutting. Glueing. There's nothing like the last minute.

Can't wait to get up and make lunches in the morning.

Fifth Grade Writing

Yesterday afternoon Son2 came home from school and told me that his teacher had sent his book report home with him. She said some of his answers were too short, and he needed to expand his paragraphs. He said, "I answered the questions. I don't know what else to say."

First let me say that some of his answers were lacking. But others were simply short and to the point. Perhaps fifth grade is where people learn to blather on unnecessarily. Perhaps all fifth grade teachers out there believe they need to train the next generation of twenty-four hour cable newscasters. Keep talking, even if you have nothing to say.

I went to journalism school, and I confess to a certain obsession with the news. It's not a path I followed in my career, that whole thing about spending years writing obituaries kind of deterred me, but I feel a little crazy inside when I can't keep up with the news basics. I want the news when I want it, and the web is great for that. But cable news? Ugh.

CNN has introduced us to the horror of taking local news national. A five-car acccident is causing traffic on an LA freeway. A prisoner has escaped from a work detail in Texas. These are the headlines. I work at home and sometimes when my work is really dull or I'm just writing email I turn on the news to keep me company. Then I've been known to walk into my husband's office and announce the latest headlines with a voice of doom: "There is a fire at a nursing home in New Jersey! A fire! In a nursing home! In New Jersey! They'll keep us updated, but right now the fire appears to be under control."

This is what we're reduced to. Nothing about Africa, except perhaps that another celebrity has adopted a child from Ethiopia. Nothing about China, except those lead toys. No news about Europe unless it's about a princess who's been dead for ten years or her offspring or there's some unusually bad weather. But plenty of time to endlessly obsess about wildfires. California is burning! "I literally have soot on my clothes," announces the newscaster. "The sky is an eerie orange. I can smell the smoke." I guess those fifth grade writing teachers have really done their job.

When Books Become Movies

I pretty much hate it when books I've read become movies. The latest casualty is Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. I loved this book. I must read it again to remind myself why I love it so much. Anyway, the news that this book is soon to become a movie made me sad. Well, sad for the story, which in the book is just perfect. Happy for the author because she will hopefully get a big paycheck, which is something I can't begrudge almost any author. Notice I said, "almost any." A topic for another day.

I rarely enjoy movie versions of books, although I did love the Lord of the Rings movies, perhaps because it had been quite some time since I'd read them. I think there's almost no way for a movie to do justice to a story you love, one that you've pictured in your mind as you've read it, one that you've invested so much time in. I will have to ponder the best and worst examples of books made into movies and get back to you with my opinions, which surely you'll be breathlessly waiting for.

In the meantime, perhaps you can think of your own examples of dreadful and wonderful movie versions of books you've loved and let me know.

Little Hopeful Lies

I had no idea how much of motherhood would involve just totally making stuff up. This morning my youngest came downstairs still warm and fuzzy with sleep and said, "I have a pain in my temple." Hmmm. I leaned down and kissed his forehead to see if he had a fever. Nope. So I say, "Have some orange juice. You're probably just thirsty." What? If my husband said, "My temple hurts," I doubt I'd respond with a direction to drink some OJ.

I find I do this all the time. My response to nearly all pain complaints is: "You're fine." These are probably the words I've spoken more than any other (except, I hope, "I love you") since I became a mother. It works for everything.

Boy: "My leg hurts." Mom: "Put your leg up. You'll be fine."
Boy: "I cut my knee." Mom: "Don't drip blood on the couch. Go wash the cut. You're fine."
Boy:: "My throat hurts. " Mom: "Have a drink. You're fine."
"Boy: "I got a bug in my eye." Mom: "Close your eyes for a minute. It will come out. You'll be fine."
Boy: "I have a pain in my side." Mom: "Use the heating pad. You'll be fine."
Boy: "My stomach hurts." Mom: "You're just tired. Go back to bed. You're fine."

Sometimes I worry that I say it too much. I fear one of the boys will come to me with blood shooting out of his eye and I'll say, "Go lay down with your eyes closed. You're fine."

The flipside of this would be to take every complaint seriously, which sounds like a recipe for making some whiner babies to me. Seriously. Buck up little buddy, you'll be fine. Hopefully someday they won't each be sitting in therapy telling some stranger that I never took their pain seriously.

A Confession

I must admit that I love to overhear conversations. This really isn't a confession because I'm not eavesdropping. I just keep my ears open when I'm out walking around. You never know what you might hear. Recently in the grocery store I saw a guy run into an old friend. She inquired about his wife and he told her they'd gotten divorced. "I took care of everything for nine years," he said. "She didn't work and she didn't have to worry about any bills, and I just thought it wasn't too much to ask that the house not be a pigsty and she put some dinner on the table by nine o'clock." That even left me wondering what his wife did all day.

Two weeks ago our wonderful local bank was taken over by a much larger bank. I went into the bank on Friday afternoon before the switch and some guys from the new bank were behind the counter observing. My teller was frustrated because she felt like some of the other tellers were spending too much time chatting with the city folk. The great moment came when I heard one of the tellers ask the big bank guys, "Do you have any livestock?" Their reply? "We're from New Jersey. If there's room in the backyard, we put in a swingset." A wonderful rural moment.

Reading...

I'm approaching the end of A Thousand Splendid Suns. It is completely devastating. I don't love it for the writing. Definitely not. But as a window into a different culture, it is illuminating. I already knew that as a woman I was thankful to be born in 20th century America. This book confirms it. If you're a woman and you're feeling a bit depressed about your life, this novel just might provide a necessary dose of perspective.

I'm also reading the YA novel Sold about a young girl sold into the sex trade in India. I'm a fan of YA novels; well, some anyway. (More on that later.) It's what I want to write, so I guess it makes sense that it's what I want to read. They're always easily devoured. This one is written in an interesting style. No "chapter" is longer than two or three pages. Some are just a few lines. All are topical although they also propel the novel forward in time.

I'd say more, but I'd rather finish reading one of these books.

The Joy of New Books

My love of reading started in elementary school, likely fed by the mean kids in my neighborhood who would, at times, drop me like a hot potato and leave me with nothing better to do than read. Thinking about it now, that's probably the best thing that could have happened. I learned to love books, and that passion has never waned. I believe I spent my entire summer between fourth and fifth grade immersed in books, compelling my mother to make countless trips to the library. People didn't buy many books in those days -- at least we didn't. It was all about the library, and that was fine with me. But during the school year, my favorite days were the days the teacher passed out those flimsy Scholastic book catalogs-- and the days when the books finally arrived. I loved to choose books and check the little boxes to order them almost as much as I loved receiving them. I guess I always have been a big fan of anticipation.

But has anyone seen a Scholastic handout recently? You'd be hard-pressed to find a book on it. In fact, the latest one my boys brought home did not have one stand-alone book. Instead you'll find games for the Wii, games for Nintendo DS, games for Leapster, games for your PC, games for GameBoy. It's Scholastic's "Interactive Learning Club." Aah yes, my sons will learn so much playing Pirates of the Carribean: At World's End. Better yet is the next page of the catalog titled "As Seen on TV (and the Movies!)." Now our kids can learn to "problem solve" by playing Drake & Josh or Zoey 101. There's only a handful of books in this catalog and all of those come with CDs or CD-ROMs. I think it's time for "Scholastic" to change its name. Does anyone have a fitting suggestion?

Clunky sentences

I'm currently reading A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. It took me a while to begin to appreciate it, but the other night it kicked in and I read a hundred pages when I should have been sleeping. That night I came across this sentence and I found it just dreadful. Here is most of the paragraph; the last sentence is the clunker:

Mariam swooned. Her eyes watered. Her heart took flight. And she marveled at how, after all these years of rattling loose, she had found in this little creature the first true connection in her life of false, failed connections.

False, failed connections? I read that sentence and it was like hitting a rutted dirt road in the middle of a smooth ride. Does anyone else find it clunky? How did it make it all the way to publication?

An Anniversary & a Poem

Six years ago today my mom died. It feels more vivid to me this year; I am not sure why. It's odd how you adjust eventually. At some point, and I know it took more than a year, I stopped thinking I would give her a call. Now such a thought crops up rarely. When it does, I almost feel happy -- that she still feels possible and real. Here's a poem I wrote two months after she died:


Thanksgiving

your veins ran to crimson
your bruises to mulberry
your skin to honey
before autumn even arrived

my eyes I could not lift
suspended
I was transfixed
upon the unexpected
passage of your seasons

so I drank your honey skin
warmed myself
at the bedside of your illumination
tenderly held
your stained and thinning hands
in September, thanksgiving was upon me

now winter is nearly here
but your autumn haunts me still
the hushed morning
a Saturday
when your last leaves blew away

Terry Gross

For my fortieth birthday my husband gave me a Sirius radio. I am obsessed. This is probably the best present I've ever received. There is little radio reception where we live. Well...little reception of anything I want to hear. Namely, I can't get NPR. Honestly, I cannot overstate the delight I now have as I drive back and forth to school, baseball, soccer, church, the grocery store, everywhere. My car looks like a roving living room. Oh well. It doesn't matter. I can listen to Terry Gross. This morning she was interviewing Viggo Mortensen. What could be better? I guess just the way Terry Gross says, "I'm Terry Gross and this is Fresh Air." She says it with such relish. And why not? She's got quite the gig.

Highs and Lows

Tonight my youngest son had a baseball game. Fall ball in our little league is supposed to be an instructional league -- in other words, not all about winning. Tonight's game was a devastating loss: 15-2. Son3 emerged from the dugout with downcast eyes and an expression I'd never seen on his face before. Son1 is all about competition and winning, and if this had been him, I would have known just what to do (which is listen with restraint, wait for the storm to pass, then wield a bit of humor). But Son3 is a bit different, not competitive in the same way. I couldn't quite figure it out, although losing by 13 doesn't make anyone happy.

When we got home, I got down on my knees and hugged Son3 and he melted into my arms and laid his head on my shoulder. It's really so sad that this time passes from childhood -- the time when a hug will do it. Our time for that is ticking away -- when a physical connection can make the emotional one. What a loss that will be.

He was pretty reticent about the real problem. I finally resorted to a wee bit of manipulation to weedle it out of him. I let him skip his shower and simply wash his oniony armpits with a soapy cloth, so I said, "Hey, since I let you skip your shower, I think you should let me know what the trouble is." As it turned out, there were two problems. First, he felt he'd made a bad play when he threw the ball from second base (acting as the cut-off man) to home to get the runner out. It was a good throw, but too late, and then the runner on first advanced. It wasn't the worst mistake and certainly plenty of teammates had urged him to make the throw. But he hates to blow it; his competition is all with himself. Poor buddy, it's tough to have such a demanding taskmaster. The second problem was something his coach said. It was, as Son3 said, "The D word." Is it sick that I love that the use of a bad word makes him so sad?

So, these are his baseball lows, but two weeks ago after his first practice when he blew all his coaches away with his mad skills at second base, and then the coach took them all out for ice cream at a nearby dairy farm (delicious), he said to me, "I feel like a million bucks."

And my highs and lows? On the rare ocassion when all of us actually sit down and eat dinner together, we play high low (a concept we stole from the movie The Story of Us). What was your high today? What was your low? So today, my low is my continuing battle with fleas, a battle that started two weeks ago and wore thin on the first day. My high? Writing my first blog entry.