It's my life...

Waiting anxiously to unplug

2009-12-23T15:00:00.000-08:00

Knowing that I was heading out state for two weeks to spend the holidays with my sister, her family, my other sister, and my mother, I busted my butt to get as much work done as possible so I could sit back, shut down the computer, and relax for a good long stretch of time.

Of course even the best laid plans often go awry and this one was no exception.

Instead of a project being nicely wrapped up just before our departure it all blew up as we were taking off and I have been struggling to collect all the pieces and patch it back together ever since. Not an easy feat in between the quality family time and the time difference. The fact that I'm bitter and resentful about the whole thing and bringing a terrible attitude to the table about it isn't helping either.

In theory the whole shebang should be put to rest tonight, finally allowing me to shut down the computer for a few days. If all works out I'll just pop back here to post an obligatory Christmas Morning snap shot or two, but aside from that I'll be gloriously computer free for four days.

And frankly?

I can't wait.

Edited to add: The deadline I was scrambling to meet last night was moved to Monday. Without anyone telling me. The frustration and irritation I feel about that knows no bounds. Would have been nice to know that three days ago when the decision was made.

Fun with Cousins

2009-12-22T22:09:00.000-08:00

One of the greatest things about traveling cross country to spend time with my sister and her family is that the girls get to spend some time with their cousins.

The instant we walked in C ran off to play. It was like we had seen them just last week, not six months ago. And for once Little L is able to keep up with the "big kids" which means that this really is quite a relaxing vacation for us. The kids entertain each other, leaving us to enjoy time with the grown-ups, read, work, or just hang out.
Periodically a child will wander through the main living area, gather a kiss and a cookie, and meander off again. They're happy, they're entertained, and they're forging those priceless family memories that will remain with them forever.

No Little L in this shot.

She was already bored with the whole picture taking thing and had wandered off.

Gearing up for Christmas

2009-12-21T19:52:00.000-08:00

Now that we've put the trip behind us we can to focus on the truly important stuff... family and Christmas!

The cousins have been gathered.

Though it's a bit challenging to get them all to focus on the camera at the same time.

The elf is keeping everyone on their toes.

Rudolf has made it onto the tree.

The tree is all ready.

And UPS has been by... a few times.

Let the holiday begin!

Hello OHIO!

2009-12-20T12:12:00.000-08:00

Have you ever tried getting a full night's sleep on a four hour cross country flight with a wriggly toddler sitting on your lap?

I don't recommend it.

It's not the most restful thing in the world. Especially when the airplane air vent thing is blowing in your face, but you can't reach it because the toddler has finally fallen asleep and you don't want to wake her up because god forbid she might not go back to sleep.

Miraculously we all did finally doze off, Little L instantly becoming a dead weight that threatened to fall into the aisle every time my grip on her body relaxed, C curled up on the seat between M and I, resting her head on her daddy's lap. And M and I did our best to get comfortable in the cramped space.

About a minute after taking off we arrived in Cincinnati, covered in snow, a world away from the sunny unseasonal warmth we had just left back in California. The rental company pointed us to our car in the lot and left us to figure out how to clear the snow covering it. M and I looked at each other over the mounds of snow, flashing back to our time together in Boston.

No snow to clear off cars. Another reason to love living in California.

But then we drove to my sister's house where we were greeted by said sister, her kids, and my other sister. We ate fresh croissants and bagels, chatted over coffee, and let the tired fall away. The snow kept falling outside, but inside, where there was no airplane vent, wriggly toddler, or snow to clear off anything, it was easy to forget how far we had to come to get here.

Lights, love, and books

2009-12-18T00:17:00.000-08:00

Two years after I started our first family holiday tradition I am holding firm and starting to reap the benefits of what I sowed. Instead of heaping more toys on two girls who are about to receive a heap of things on Christmas morning, we're still giving books for Hanukah.

I love this tradition that we're sticking to. We gather in the kitchen or the dining room and light the candles. This year C's sweet voice is joining ours as we sing the traditional blessings and Little L interjects a word or a phrase wherever she can. Then, to the light of the menorah, the girls pounce on their one wrapped book. One book, two girls, and they have been amazing about opening it together. (I've been using the same wrapping paper every night. It's like the Hanukah miracle all over again. I'm hoping it lasts all eight nights.)

They scramble to the couch, new book in hand, and we all sit together to read it.

It's fun, it's cozy, and I love that it's about the moment and not the stuff.

Happy Hanukah to everyone who is celebrating this week. May your latkes always be crispy and your candles burn bright.

Editing struggles

2009-12-16T23:57:00.000-08:00

In the middle of everything I'm dealing with, there is a book. It calls to me from inside the computer. It wants me to pay attention to it, fix what's wrong with it, brush up what's almost there, and acknowledge what's good.

I want so badly to just sit down and work on my novel. I'm itching to act on the feedback that I have received from my alpha readers. And it's fun to get back into it. I love writing fiction. I love spending time with my characters in the story I crafted. I love discovering a plot point that had escaped me the first time around. I love tightening sentences, perfecting descriptions, and taking care of everything else that catches my eye as I read. It's the same high I used to feel when I was writing the thing in the first place.

But at the same time I just want to be done with it.

I still deal with the constant tug between paid work and working on the novel. I have a limited amount of time to write and sadly the paid stuff tends to take precedence. If I could just be done with the book and start shopping it around it could suddenly flip from being my pipe dream hobby to an actual potential source of income. I'd have the luxury of setting aside two or three hours to work on a new novel without feeling guilty about using my time frivolously.

As much as I want to call "good enough!" I'm not there yet. Every time I open the file and dive into the story I find a hundred little things that need to be tweaked and reworked. Today I even discovered a major plot change that needed to be hammered out.

It's not impossible that I could send out a query tomorrow and get a few nibbles. I could even get some people to ask to see the full manuscript. But I'd know that the book wasn't as good as it could be. I'd know I hadn't given it all the attention and time that it deserved.

So, for the time being, I shall ignore the voices in my head that are screaming that income is the only thing that shows whether something has been worthwhile and I shall try to find some time every day to devote to this book. Because, the day that it's printed and sold, what's going to make me smile isn't the money in the bank, it's knowing that people are reading my story and loving it. And on that day I want to know that they're reading my best work, not my "good enough" work.

Support is support no matter where it comes from

2009-12-15T22:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday a 2-year-old boy fell int a pool and drowned and, if that weren't tragic enough, today insensitive people attacked the poor child's mother, accusing her of faking her son's death for attention.

The basis for their attack?

She tweeted that he had drowned.

That's right. Her crime was that, as the paramedics were trying to revive her baby, she tweeted asking people to pray for her son.

Apparently some people, even heavy twitter users, cannot fathom that, faced with a personal tragedy, someone would hop online and share it with their followers.

It infuriated me that people would make the blanket assumption that the fact that she was even online meant that she wasn't really grieving, was in fact faking.

Now I'm sorry, you might hate Twitter and Facebook and all that they stand for. That's your prerogative. But you can't ignore the fact that some people have a real network of friends online. People they turn to to share their joys and their frustrations. And yes, people they turn to for support in times of great tragedy.

Shocking as it may seem, for many people Twitter and Facebook offer a real support network, far beyond what most people can imagine. Being a mom is an isolating job. You can't always go out and meet up with people to get the grown-up interaction you crave. You're often at the mercy of tiny little irrational dictators. This is even more true for moms who live in rural areas. So we turn to the Internet and to social networks to vent or share our triumphs, we joke with a mom we've met here or there, and slowly real friendships develop. Because the mom on the other side of the computer is living a parallel life she understands that you might pop in and out of the conversation. And because she's always there, it's easy to talk to her and update her in snippets.

That's why, when something happens and we need emotional support, we turn to our online friends. They're there. They're accessible. And they are amazing when it comes to the instant support that a terrible tragedy calls for. Tweeting out that something bad has happened - a car accident, an injury, anything - and getting a slew of supportive responses makes you feel less alone. It makes it less scary to pull your shoulders back and deal with the situation. Simply knowing that others, even people who have never met you in person, are thinking of you as you struggle makes it possible to go on.

Just because it's virtual support doesn't make it less real. The invisible hands holding you up are just as tangible as real hands. And that's why mothers who have lost their child in the most tragic way imaginable might come tell their followers. Not because they don't care. But because they need their friends.

Stress level scarlet

2009-12-15T00:15:00.000-08:00

It is 11:42 and instead of getting ready for bed I am
- editing Parenting on the Peninsula articles that I should have edited two days ago.
- thinking up blog posts for the Tiny Prints blog.
- wondering if the kids have any clean clothes for tomorrow.
- wondering if I have any clean clothes for tomorrow.
- worrying about a deadline that I didn't meet today.
- trying to think ahead to our trip on Saturday so that I get everything ready before we leave.
- trying to remember everything that needs to be done before we leave Saturday.
- worrying about all the Christmas shopping that I haven't done.
- worrying about the book that I haven't yet read. (Sorry Genevieve!)
- worrying about the fact that I haven't lost any weight in the last few months. Instead I have gained some.
- eating some rice pudding.
- worrying about the car that is starting to show signs of imminent demise.
- scratching my rash. (Soon none of this will matter because I shall be a lizard. Yay me.)
- agonizing over the housing/move situation
- agonizing over the school situation
- agonizing over the money situation.
- wondering when I'll ever find the time to start ~~finish~~ the edits for my novel.
- feeling sad for yet another blogging/twitter mother who lost her 2-year-old son today.

He was Little L's age. And just as full of life and fun as she is. Thinking of him and his mother tonight should make everything else just fade into perspective, but it's really just bringing it further into the light. I hate being tortured by these piddly worries when there are huge big monster issues that people are dealing with. I want to just focus on the fact that my kids and my husband are healthy and sleeping soundly close by. But that's not getting the articles edited, or the suitcases packed. It's not getting the presents ordered, or the blog posts written.

I want to stop and weep for this mom and dad who have lost their son. I want to wail and scream that the world is unfair and that babies should never die, but I also want to just get my stuff done so I can finally get some sleep so I can deal with tomorrow which will be just as busy and crazy as today. And I feel terrible guilt that I'm too stressed to give this poor baby the attention and grief that he deserves.

And if that isn't messed up, I really don't know what is.

A final stab at organized living

2009-12-13T21:40:00.000-08:00

When we moved into this house almost 7 years ago it was just M and me. Well, M, me, and the cat. The place was so big that we didn't have enough furniture to fill all the rooms. Our dining room remained empty for years.

Then we had a first kid. And she came with all the usual stuff kids come with - swing, bassinet, bouncy seats, high chairs, toys, toys, and more toys. All of a sudden we started filling the space. Only M and I aren't the most organized at the best of times, and, well, as any new parent knows, that first year of parenthood is many things, but it's not the best or times, nor the most organized of times.

So stuff got piled in corners, shoved in tight spaces, and lined up against the walls.

Then we had another child and the chaos grew even more out of control. We got more furniture, more baby stuff, more books, more toys. The barely controlled mess grew out of control.

In the past couple of months we've made a conscious effort to organize the house. We've bought a storage system for the toys, we've culled clutter here and there. And today I finally did something I should have done years ago: I cleaned my things off the shelves in the girls' room so they would have more room for their stuff.

I packed up books and memorabilia from my pre-baby life and I replaced them with stuffed animals, Little People planes, Weeble Wobble houses, and a million other little toys. When I tucked them in tonight I looked around and for once their room really looked like a kid's room, not a pastel painted room where kids had been placed while we waited to figure out where to put them for real.

And the motivation for all this cleaning?

Today we visited our second open house. We're quickly getting on board for a possible move and we badly need to get organized in case we find the perfect house and need to start packing.

As ironic as it may be that we'll finally get the house organized just in time to have to pack it up and leave, I'm hopeful that it'll also give me a better idea of how to start off better organized no matter what new home we end up in.

A girl can dream, right?

Administrative postity post (aka dealing with the IE issue)

2009-12-10T22:26:00.000-08:00

Just a few quick things then we'll go back to our usual literary brilliance. Heh.

1) If you usually read this blog in Internet Explorer, I'm sorry. I had heard rumors that there were issues opening posts, but I hadn't been able to replicate the problem on this end. I have now replicated the problem and I am baffled. I emailed Karen of the awesome blog design to see if she might have some insight as to how I might have broken the blog. Let's all hope she can fix it. (Or say, one of you super smart, super savvy people can help. Anyone? Ben? Anyone?)*
In the meantime can I entreat you to try Firefox maybe? Or Chrome? I love the former and I've heard great things about the latter. I promise to post an update when we're back on track.

2) If you happen to be on Facebook and you're in any way interested in the novel I have been writing, I'd love it if you would join the Facebook Fan Page I created last week. As you know, I'm on a quest to publish my first novel. One day it will be my author fan page. In the meantime it's all about my journey to get there!

Writing a book is like raising a child. I'm going to need my village to help me to get it off the ground.

Also, I might post tiny snippets from the novel here and there. Fun!

3) I have been nominated for a couple blog awards. I would be honored and touched if you might vote for me. I'm putting the buttons right here for your voting convenience! (Thank you. Really. It means a lot to me. And I'm not saying that because you're pretty.)

*Edited to add: Well, dagnabit. It's not a problem with just my blog. It's a well known issue with Internet Explorer. I'm going to have to play a bit with the sidebar items to see if I can fix it. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. The blog does open correctly in all other browsers...

The tragedy of the stolen Snuggie

2009-12-09T22:56:00.000-08:00

You know the Snuggie. Oh yes you do. That blanket with sleeves that everyone loves to hate. There are so many parodies of the infomercial on YouTube that I was hard pressed to pick just one to share with you.

The Snuggie is that one thing that absolutely no one is putting on their wishlist this year, no one is admitting they want, and no one is buying.

And yet, tonight, at the TinyPrints marketing team's white elephant holiday party everyone's eyes shone brightly when I opened up my gift and found a leopard skin Snuggie.

I joked about how awesome it was, but I was thinking about my freezing house and easily imagining myself wrapped in the Snuggie's fleece while working on my computer. It wasn't hard to do.

We have a 1930s home with 1930s windows. They all leak cold air to a certain extent. And we have one central heating vent. Not central air. One central air vent. As in, it's central to the house. In the livingroom. You are basically warm if you stand over it. And since that's usually where M stands, you'd have to fight him for it.

Even though the couch is all of a foot away from the vent my feet and hand still freeze when I sit on it. By the time I shut down for the night my toes are numb with cold. A Snuggie would be a perfect.

The very next person to pick a present after me stole my Snuggie. The person after that chose an unwrapped gift. And then the Snuggie changed hands again. Twice.

That's right. The Snuggie, product that no one wants to admit they want, changed hands three times tonight, more than any other gift. And every time it changed hands my toes got a little colder.

But you know, it's OK. The Snuggie isn't cool, in fact it's the opposite of cool. Everyone knows that, even Ellen.

Because they give meaning to our lives

2009-12-08T23:16:00.000-08:00

I haven't mentioned it much, but the Kindergarten situation is still very much in the forefront of my mind as I go about my busy days. We have not found the perfect school for C, nor do we have much of an idea about how we're going to go about finding said school. It's actually much more of an issue now than it was back in September when I first blogged about the issue.

We met with the preschool director last Thursday in the hopes that she might have some helpful insights for us. She's an amazing woman with years and years of experience. She's been in the area for a long time and she knows most of the schools in the vicinity. Plus, by now she knows C pretty well so we figured she wouldn't steer us in the wrong direction.

In the end though she didn't tell us anything we didn't know. The public school we are zoned to really is sub-par. The private schools that would work for us are insanely expensive. Parochial school is not a good choice for us. And if we're going to sink a ton of cash into tuition we might as well move to a better school district and put the money towards a mortgage.

We started looking at home listings this past weekend and realized that to move to a better school district we would have to pay more for a similarly sized or smaller house. Which we knew, but hadn't really admitted until we traipsed through an open house late Sunday.

The place had one more bedroom than our current home, but was smaller by a good 600sq feet and had no yard. The bedrooms were tiny. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were essentially one small room that could have easily fit into our current living room. It was classy, cute, and compact. It would have been perfect for us before we had kids.

"Why..." M started, eying the two little devils that were trying hard to destroy the zen decor of the model home.

"Because they give meaning to our lives." I replied quickly to squelch the thought that was forming. "More so than any of the romantic dinners we used to have, or long walks along the Seine, last minute getaways to exotic locations, artsy movies..." I trailed off and watched C and Little L fight over a potentially fragile ornament they had snagged from a side table. "They give meaning to our lives. Some days it's just harder than others to remember what that meaning might be."

The man at Starbucks

2009-12-07T22:14:00.000-08:00

He arrives an hour or so after I have set up shop at my favorite corner table. He walks in, looks around for an open table, and heads over to it. His Sudoku puzzle of the day and book are clutched in his left hand. He prints those puzzles out every morning. No newspaper cut-out for this aficionado. I like that kind of dedication to rituals.

When we first noticed each other months ago - the only two morning regulars at this particular Starbucks - we barely acknowledged each other. After a few mornings spent working at neighboring tables we started nodding a brief greeting. Today as he surveys the line at the counter our eyes meet and we smile at each other conspiratorially. I've been keeping an eye on his favorite table, hoping it would still be open when he arrived. Hoping he would arrive. I haven't seen him in a few days and I've been worried.

He came in right on time today and I smiled a bit brighter than usual, taking him aback. I've missed my morning companion. He's wearing the fleece vest that he always wears and his forest green shirt seems familiar too. He is the constant in my ever changing days and I feel more grounded when I start the day seeing him performing his coffee and Sudoku ritual.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he orders his Tall Latte and frown as he pulls out a brand new iPod touch instead of his printed out puzzle. I look around on his table to see if I can spot the folded sheet of white paper, but it's nowhere to be seen.

A bit later, after some intense peering at his new gizmo, he jumps up when he sees the manager walk by. I strain to overhear their conversation. He can't get online. The technology is failing him. I force myself to bite back a snort and keep my eyes focused on the computer screen.

Ten to one says that tomorrow he's back, green shirt, black vest, wire rimmed glasses, and a printed out puzzle clutched in his hand. You can't mess with morning rituals.

This post was written in response to the second {W}rite-of-Passage prompt - Character. I'm a bit of a rebel (and terrible at reading instructions) so instead of observing a stranger and building a story around him, I plucked one out of my day to day life and shared him with you. Visit the following posts to see how other writers tangled with this topic. Join us if you want some writing challenges!

Close Encounters of the Third Grade Kind - an SV Moms Book Club post

2009-12-06T22:11:00.000-08:00

I walked into the classroom hesitantly, eying the semi circle of small desks warily. In my classroom the tables were bunched together in tiny groups of three, this was different, not what I had expected.

Then again, nothing in the class was as I had expected. This room was much cheerier than my classroom. There was more light, more bright decorations on the wall, even the children seemed much happier.

The teacher interrupted my visual exploration of her room by gently guiding me to a vacant desk in the middle of the semi-circle. That was different too, my regular teacher would have just barked at me from her desk. I sat down and stared hard at the desktop. Then the girl sitting next to me leaned over and whispered a quiet hi. And the boy on the other side leaned in an hissed at me.

"That's my friend Matt's desk. He's sick. Don't take anything, he'll know."

He leaned away and the friendly girl just shrugged. I tucked my hands between my thighs and tried not to touch anything on Matt's desk.

The day continued much like that, I was a visitor in a cheerful, welcoming classroom, but a visitor nonetheless. I hated my current school, my class governed by mean girls who had assigned me a best friend who didn't much like me, or me her for that matter. My crazy, bitter teacher, who barked at us more than she taught us. And the sheer size of the school - huge and bewildering to a kid who was not only trying to learn to be an American girl, but who was also trying to learn the language.

My visit to this new school was a step towards getting me transferred from the bigger public school to the cozier and friendlier public school. And it was great. I loved that little school with its little playground and gentle teachers. I loved the kids there. Yes, even the infamous Matt who ended up in my class the following year and never let me live down the fact that a pencil vanished from his desk the day that I visited.

I was only at that school for two years before my family packed up and moved to another country. I went on to attend two other radically different schools before going on to college. I'd almost forgotten the joy of that small classroom until I picked up Phillip Done's book Close Encounters of the Third Grade Kind. It's an at times hilarious, at times moving, account of his days as a teacher to a third grade class right here in the San Francisco Bay Area.It took me right back.

It's clear from this book that Done would have been the kind of teacher who would have been right at home at that little school that I so loved. And now I'm looking into seeing where Phillip Done teaches, because I would be thrilled for my kids to experience the kind of warm inspiring classroom environment that he has created.

This post was written in honor of this month's Silicon Valley Moms Blog book club and the inspiring book that we just read: Philippe Done's Close Encounters of the Third Grade Kind. I was sent this book from the publisher for review purposes. The opinions about it and stories that it has inspired are all mine.

The next step is a really big one

2009-12-03T23:13:00.000-08:00

I ended up sending the book to four people and handing it to M right here at home. Three are still reading it, but M and one of the readers have finished it.

Both of them have declared it to be fantastic. And I'm not allowed to throw it under the bed and never talk about it again.

Gulp.

Both of them agreed on the aspects that need to be tweaked, and since they are both very different people, with very different points of views and centers of interests they must be on to something.

Which is all fine and dandy... but did I mention GULP.

Because now I have to take the next step, and that next step is huge.

Instead of putting the book in a nice and tight little box and hiding it under the bed next to the much bigger box that houses my wedding gown, I'm going to have to open the computer file and, starting on page 1, I'm going to have to start fixing up the weak spots.

While I wrote the first draft and did my first read through I was constantly plagued with horrible crippling doubt and I comforted myself with the notion that a first book is supposed to be bad. It didn't matter if things didn't quire work. I could just type END and hide it away forever. One day I'd even laugh about that terrible first novel.

But they liked it. Apparently it's really good. And so now I get to go back and make it even better, without that safety net protecting me from the evil voices in my head.

Wish me luck. It might be a bumpy road.

From the Mouths of Babes: A little thankfulness

2009-12-02T22:33:00.000-08:00

On the way up to Tahoe to celebrate Thanksgiving I pondered how I could start getting the girls to understand the gist of the holiday. It's hard to explain gratitude of that amplitude to young children. I can get them to say thank you and please, but gratitude for the great things in life... that's much harder.

I finally boiled it down to the bare essence of the notion and asked "What makes you really happy in your life?"

I have a feeling C was coached a bit at school, or she's just too cute, because she instantly replied that she loved her sister and her family. Little L took longer to answer. In fact she took so long that I thought she wasn't going to say anything.

Then she mumbled something around her pacifier.

I turned down the radio and asked her to repeat what she had said.

I heard the plop of the pacifier being pulled out of her mouth followed by her clear reply.

"Princess Baby. Princess Baby make me happy." Then she nodded once definitively.

It's her favorite book. We read it pretty much every night. She recites it along, points out her favorite pictures, and often requests that we call her Buttercup, Cupcake, or, obviously, Princess Baby.

I thought it was too sweet not to share, so I emailed Karen Katz, the author, to tell her about what makes my baby happy. I hope she's as moved by the story as I am.

Wordless Wednesday: The progression of a woeful tale

2009-12-01T21:32:00.000-08:00

Cold snow + Wet hands = Sad face

Mommy's lack of compassion = even sadder face

And a hint of the start of a tantrum.

Does she rally?

And.... no.

Poor baby.

The day I broke a tooth that wasn't my own.

2009-11-30T23:29:00.000-08:00

The pristine white bathroom always gleamed. White tiles, white counter tops, white bathmats and towels, the only splashes of color that marred the still space came from the two little boys playing with their bright plastic tub toys in the large white tub.

We had a daily ritual. I would arrive at 5 to relieve the daytime sitter, sit them down to go over their homework, and then, after a bit of horsing around I would herd the two of them into their parents' bathroom for their evening bath. They were little, 6 and 3, sweet and innocent, and much too young to be self aware in front of their favorite babysitter. I had known both boys since infancy, spending countless afternoons with them while their parents worked late. I loved them like I would have loved little brothers and they, in turn, trusted me like they would have trusted a sister.

One afternoon like any other I knelt by the side of the tub, washing one child after the other, squeezing the little rubber shark to splash them with water. Giving them a bath had long since lost any nerve-wracking aspect. The caution that had governed me the first few months of the evening routine had long since given way to playful attention. I washed them, I played, but I no longer cringed when they slipped a little in the tub. I no longer watched them like hawks to make sure that they didn't drown in the couple of inches of water that I allowed.

On that one day though, that one day like every other, I'm the one who slipped up. I had successfully washed the younger brother. He sat, gleaming and dripping, at one end of the massive tub, waiting to be taken out and dried off, patient while I turned my attention to his older brother.

The bigger boy grinned up at me, brown eyes bright under his mop of curly hair, smile tugging at his mouth, oversized brand new "grown-up" incisors peeking out over his bottom lip, then he ducked out of my way when I reached over to wash him. I parried and he ducked again, and then, getting into the spirit of the game, I lunged for him, ticklers at the ready.

Just as the tips of my fingers were about to touch his side, a massive THUNK dropped my stomach into my toes. The blood curdling scream that followed did little to reassure me.

The younger brother whimpered as the older brother looked up at me, fear mingling with the tears that were pooling in his eyes. His mouth opened wide to let loose another cry and the jagged front tooth told me what my ears had failed to translate.

While leaning forward to avoid being tickled he had smashed his face against the side of the tub and broken his brand new permanent tooth cleanly in half.

You would think that the mortification would end there, with the little boy, maimed at my hand, waiting for me to comfort him and make it all better. But no, I still had to find the piece of tooth, take both children out of the tub, comfort the one whose smile I had destroyed, dry them, dress them, and finally find the telephone so I could call their mother to tell her what I had done.

Which still wouldn't have been so bad if while I was doing all this, fighting back tears and swallowing bile, the same little boy hadn't felt the need to comfort me with pats on the shoulder and sweet words of encouragement as he watched me dial her number.

Clearly the pain of breaking a tooth was nothing compared to the horror of betraying their mother's trust. The dentist magicians managed to reattach the broken part of his tooth the next morning, but I've never forgotten the sound of his face hitting the side of the tub or the knowledge that I had not only failed to protect the child who had been placed in my care, but I had been the one to hurt him.

(I have written about this family once before. Oddly enough it was to relate another mortifying story. Despite what you may imagine I did not stop watching those two boys until I moved away. I still miss them, though. Their Facebook profiles are proof that both have grown up into strapping young men and that neither bears any scars from the time they spent with me.)

This post was written in response to the first ever Write-of-Passage challenge. Write-of-Passage is a brand new Ning group created for and by writers who hope to improve their writing through constructive critiquing. Other posts on the topic of Most Embarrassing Stories are linked to below.

Thanksgiving weekend in images

2009-11-29T23:09:00.000-08:00

Our drive to Tahoe took a record 3.5 hours during which the children slept blissfully. We had watched the weather forecasts like hawks, hoping that the predictions for clear skies would hold true. M's little Honda is sexy and fun, but it would be no match for icy snowy roads. We were in luck and the roads were both clear of holiday travelers and snow.

Between the hours I've been working and Little L's run-in with Hand Foot & Mouth I was beyond fried by the time we packed up the car and headed to the mountains. I desperately needed up unplug and recharge. Long before we had started to gain altitude I was sleeping just as hard as the girls.

It was a perfect weekend, lots of quality family time, plenty of relaxing downtime.

We had a very class and low key Country Club dinner. No leftovers, but no cooking, which is, all in all a pretty decent trade off.

Little girls even get to have Mac&Cheese and curly fries for Thanksgiving at the club!

It makes them happy.

And even though it did eventually snow, we didn't let that dampen our fun. Instead we got bundled up nice and warm...

Hats and gloves...

Big thick jackets...

... and we trudged out to enjoy some of the snow.

Where we found mammoth pine-cones.

Worried about the snow in the trees...

and pulled out daddy's sled from when he was a kid...

And then someone took her gloves off and discovered that snow isn't just soft, white, and fluffy. It's also very, very cold.

We made it home safe and sound despite the snow on the roads, pulling in late last night after another pleasantly sleepy drive. Even before we left I had plenty to be thankful for, I'm just glad I had a low key, stress free weekend to enjoy it all.

Grateful for so much

2009-11-25T16:41:00.000-08:00

Even before I took on the Tiny Prints Gratitude Challenge I was already very focused on appreciating the good things in my life rather than lamenting the things I didn't have. I haven't stopped. (And not just because that ended so fortuitously.)

I love how pausing and thinking about the things I'm grateful for can turn a bad moment or even a bad day around. Even on a good day it doesn't hurt to 'Take note and give thanks.'

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving here in the U.S. In honor of it and the upcoming holiday season I challenge you to take the 21 day Gratitude Challenge. (Or the 7 day one if you just don't think you can maintain that level of positive thinking.) It might not result in you snagging the coolest job evah, but it might change your outlook on your day to day life. And frankly that's nothing to sneeze at.

We're heading to Tahoe to spend the weekend with part of M's family and you can bet that I'm going to make them all share a few things they're grateful for. It's good for the soul and it sparks awesome conversations. Before I go I'm leaving you with a few of the things I'm grateful for and an inspiring video to get you started on your quest.

I'm grateful for...
- My husband, who is the most understanding and supportive man I could ever have hoped to snag.
- My kids, who, even when they are sick or grumpy, are loving, funny, and sweet.
- My sisters. I don't see them often enough, but I feel their love despite the distance.
- My parents, also too far to hug, but never too far to appreciate!
- My friends, virtual, real, far, near. Love them all, need them all.
- My life. It's not what I would have imagined for myself, but nothing I had dreamed of touches a candle to it.

I wish you all a fabulous, loving, and fun Thanksgiving. (Yes, even if you aren't in the US.)

It's not just a mommy blog.

2009-11-24T22:56:00.000-08:00

I've never been one to bristle at being called a mommy blogger. In fact, I've always been quite proud of it. What's there not to be proud of?

I'm a mommy and I'm proud of that.

I'm a blogger and I'm proud of that.

And I blog about being a mommy quite often. Therefore clearly I am a mommy blogger. And I'm proud of it.

Yet, today I took some mild offense when someone I was chatting with online asked me if I was "just" a mommy blogger. (And no, she did not say "just," I inferred it. And yes, I know that she did not mean it pejoratively, she meant it in a good way. Because she is a good person who understands what mommy blogging entails. And I'm not just saying that because she reads my blog. Ahem.)

When I saw those words in my IM message box I bristled. I love my blog, but I do so much more than just blog. Or rather blogging is so much more than just the blog. There's the social media component, the promotional component, the PR component, the research, the editing, the photography, and everything else that goes into it. It's a full time job that few of us have 8 hours a day to dedicate to. We do it at night and in the minutes between everything else that takes up our energy and our attention. We pour our hearts and our souls into this little editing window. We share our hopes and our fears with the world. And we do it for a million different reasons - to hear ourselves think, to lend some meaning to our days, to reach out to friends, family, or people who might be sharing similar experiences.

A mommy who blogs about her kids and her family life is by definition a mommy blogger, but she's never just a mommy blogger.

Hand Foot and Mouth Hell

2009-11-23T22:05:00.000-08:00

I don't want to whine. I know it could be way worse. Blah blah blah. But man does this Hand Foot and Mouth deal deserve some nasty strychnine laced insults.

Here's what I've been dealing with since Saturday morning:

- a hungry little girl who can't eat because she has sores all over the inside of her mouth. She throws herself at food and then wails piteously as soon as she takes a bite. Then she buries her face in my shoulder and sobs before picking her head up again and trying another bite. It's torture.

- a tired little girl who falls asleep only to be woken up by what I assume are shooting pains from the diaper rash that has turned her skin to mush. She bounces and jerks in my arms, trying to get herself away from her wet diaper. Then she howls through diaper changes, kicking me the whole time, and only settles down long after I've replaced her wet diaper with a dry clean one. She goes back to sleep sobbing softly. Half the time she won't let me put her back in her crib. She's spent quite a bit of time sleeping in my arms these last three days. It makes it hard to work, or even type.

- a cranky little girl who doesn't want to do anything that doesn't involve touching me, being in my arms, or being draped across my chest. She's heavy. And sweet. But heavy.

- a little girl who knows when her medicine is wearing off and who begs for her next dose and then falls into a sad little heaving heap when I tell her she can't have it yet. I call her my little Motrin addict. She's cute when she grabs the cup and gulps it down. Except, you know, that it's not cute.

- a little girl with nasty looking blisters all over her hands. They don't seem to bother more than her sense of propriety. She points them out with awe, showing me all her "booboos," then she goes back to ignoring them. I have to fight the urge to touch them and check on them every two seconds.

It is not a dangerous life threatening illness. Technically it's no worse than a cold. The symptoms are just different and oh so much more challenging.

According to the pediatrician day 3 is the worst, and that was either yesterday or today, so we can hope to see some improvement soon. Maybe she'll sleep a bit better tonight. Maybe she'll be able to eat some of her yogurt in the morning. Maybe I'll be able to go back to work and let her go play with her friends again, instead of being bored at home with me.

I hope.

Loss of personal space - the hardest part of parenting

2009-11-22T23:14:00.000-08:00

Forget the whole concept of a room of her own. Not that it wouldn't me amazing to have one. Four walls encapsulating a space all my own. My things. My books.

But that's a pipe dream. And frankly I don't need that much.

No. Some days all I really want is just a foot of my own. A one foot radius all around me, that is all mine.

I gave that up the day C was born. One could even argue that I gave that up the day I got pregnant with her.

Most of the time I don't mind always having someone hanging off of me, or having two little people not understand that my body isn't their personal playground. Even when I'm in the bathroom. Or when Little L peers down my shirt to make remarks about my chest. It's part of the game.

But then there are weekends like this one. Which started with a splat Friday night as we were loading up the car to head to the beach. I was putting on Little L's her shoes when she started to throw up. Then she threw up some more, and then some more. Crying hysterically the whole time.

Much to everyone's chagrin I pulled the plug on the weekend trip and I got busy cleaning up the child and the mess she had made. Just to be thorough I also took her temperature and instantly started worrying that she might have gotten Swine despite all my heroic efforts at getting her vaccinated.

Of course the next morning I checked in with the pediatrician's office before discovering the massive blister on the side of her tongue. Blister that, in conjunction with a rapidly developing diaper rash, screamed Hand, Foot, and Mouth.

In all my innocence I thought that a small blister or two and a bit of a fever were all we'd have to contend with for the weekend. I did not expect endless whining, no sleeping, and the torture of having to feed a starving child who screamed every time food was placed in her blistered mouth.

It was a long weekend.

She spent the weekend in my arms or hanging on my leg begging to be picked up. And it would have been OK if by Sunday afternoon C wasn't echoing her whine for whine.

And even that might have been OK, if C hadn't somehow managed to erase all the progress I had made on the Nintendo DS game which was all I was able to do all day while holding and cuddling a restlessly sleeping toddler. And I realize that it is absurd be be annoyed, or even upset by something so trivial as a video game score that has been erased, but at the end of this weekend where I was nothing more than an extension of my sick toddler, it was almost more than I could take.

So I grabbed my car keys, waved a hasty goodbye, and ran to the grocery store where I stocked up on rice pudding.

Yes, rice pudding. I might not have a room of my own, or even a foot of my own, but at least I know I have rice pudding neither kid likes. Rice pudding of my own. It's what I've been reduced to.

Sharing my book. Baring my soul.

2009-11-19T22:58:00.000-08:00

Sitting in my favorite Starbucks this morning, sipping my usual coffee - half caf drip, I finished the first round of edits on my novel.

I thought I'd have to fit in a few more editing sessions, but I whipped through the last pages and suddenly I was at the end and shutting the heavy binder I've been lugging everywhere with me for the last two months. I've lived in fear of losing it, of forgetting it somewhere. I hated the thought of having to start all those edits again, of losing those notes.

And suddenly, that binder which had been priceless moments before, was instantly worthless.

And all of a sudden, the excuse I'd been giving to people for months was moot.

I no longer had edits to enter. I could send out the book to the first round of readers.

I sat there, coffee seekers milling around me, listening to a Jazz album playing softly from speakers cunningly hidden around the room. I watched a little boy drink his milk with intense concentration. And I ignored the massive file on my computer.

My book.

My novel.

The book that was now ready to be shared.

I had this flashback to that last moment before I had to let my children be born. That last instant when they were all mine and no one else knew them. I hated having to share either with the world. Hated having to hear people's judgment of them.

But with C and Little L I had no choice. It was let them be born or let them die and that was definitely not an option. Technically I could have left the book on my hard drive and kept it to myself. It didn't have a placenta that would eventually disintegrate, depriving it of nourishment.

I sat there a little longer. Spotted the man who comes in at 11 every day, fresh Sudoku puzzle printed out, paper in the other. He ordered his regular cup of coffee and sat down, nodding and smiling at me on his way to his favorite corner table. I smiled and nodded back.

Then I opened an email window and typed in two addresses. I added a quick note and attached the file. And I sent it off before I could change my mind.

I didn't carry this book in my womb for nine months, I carried it in my head and in my heart for two years. I could have let it sit in my computer forever, it would never have withered, never have died. But it would also never have grown. And considering the energy and emotion that I've poured into it, that would have been a shame.

Tonight I watched M sit curled up in an armchair, my big black binder on his lap, as he read the first pages of the novel. I studied his face - was that a smile? a frown? I looked up at every twitch, or shift. He won't believe me, but I bit my tongue time and time again, resisting the urge to keep asking, "Is it good? Do you like it?" After a while the intensity of my observation must have gotten to him because he got up and went to read in the kitchen.

Which is where later I finally broke down and begged for feedback.

"It's.... it's good." He answered, looking up from the page he was reading, hesitating to say more. I waited. And then he rushed on. Comments, critiques, advice. Useful stuff, some I suspected, some that came as a bit of a surprise.

I had expected to feel some resentment, like I did the first time others were able to hold and care for my babies, but instead I felt nothing but elation as I jumped into the conversation about how I could make my book better.

I thought that writing a great passage was the ultimate high. I had no clue that it is nothing compared to the thrill of sharing that passage with someone and seeing the passion it has created in their eyes.

Kissing, licking, and nibbling our way to tasting new foods

2009-11-18T23:13:00.000-08:00

"RabiOly! RabiOly!"

The chant from the back seat made me smile. My two girls demanding something they'd never had before, that was a first for sure. But hey, I'm not one to be begged. And there wasn't really much else for dinner at home. So we'd try the mini-raviolis from Trader Joes. Noodles are noodles after all.

I wasn't too worried about C. This morning she gave me a whole shpiel about how it was bizarre that her friends at school kept saying they didn't like something without even trying it. I know that tomorrow she'll be back to turning up her nose at anything that doesn't look exactly like one of the foods on her "approved list," but today I had a feeling she'd still be on her "I try anything kick."

Little L was another issue.

She'll get caught up in her sister's excitement over something without really taking the consequences into account. Playing 'bed time,' running through the cold sprinklers naked, and yes, trying raviolis for the first time.

That is, until I actually place the raviolis in front of her.

"I no liiiiike that! I don't want it!" Look of sheer disgust on her face, warning signs of a massive tantrum in her face. It had all the makings of a disastrous dinner hour.

I resisted the urge to demand that she eat, knowing full well that it would backfire. Instead I sat down at the table with a fun catalog filled with bright holiday decorations and toys to try to distract her.

I had a faint hope that I'd be able to sneak in a bite here or there, something which always worked with C at her age. But Little L is savvy to her mother's tricks. So I had to pull my other ace out of my sleeve. Usually it's what I lead with, but I was a bit off my game tonight. Lack of sleep does that to me.

"Hey? Goose? This teeny tiny ravioli is just a baby and he's a bit sad. Can you give him a kiss? Just a little kiss, not a big one!" She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, but my impeccable acting skills swayed her and she leaned in a bit. When she hesitated I egged her on until her pouty lips connected with the tiny ravioli and gave it a tiny kiss.

It's all about making that first contact. Once her lips have touched the offending food, it only takes a tiny nudge to get her to lick it. And once she's licked it it's just another tiny step to taking a nibble or a real bite. And usually once one bite has been taken, we're golden.

I've seen people throw me odd looks in restaurants when I beg my baby to kiss her food. To be sure, it's an odd request. But what do I care? My kid is trying new foods and sometimes she even likes it, as the "Mmmmms" that followed the first nibble all the way to the emptying of her bowl tonight can attest.

*********
Need a little humor today? Over at the Tiny Prints blog we're poking fun at the silly things parents say that truly shows the world that they're parents. "You know you're a parent when..." I'd love to know what it was you said!