Generation Exhausted

A thousand words

Middle kid has the Grade 8 grad this year, so, as per tradition, she has to bring in three photos of herself "when she was a child" for the slideshow they have at the ceremony.  You know the deal - they show a baby picture or two, and everyone giggles, and then they show the grad picture, and everyone goes "Ahh, she's so grown up now."

Which means she was hunting for photos, which means I was supervising the hunt for photos. Now, I have never mastered photo albums - I have 5 albums, and about 400 snapshots in envelopes and shopping bags. (300 of which are too dark, or too light, or just look stupid, or are of my thumb) I've also never mastered scrapbooking, though I have tried. And since going digital two years ago, my computer folders look much like the real-life version of the shopping-bag-and-envelope system. Take pictures. Store pictures. Hardly ever look at pictures again.

So I came across this photo tonight, all by itself.  And instantly, I was transported, back in time, to March 2000.

This is a cropped and zoomed version, but even at 200%, no one who wasn't me could possibly identify this photo. But I remember. Oh, how I remember. How could I forget?

It was March 2000, probably around the 20th, because my brother and I had taken my little one (on left) and his daughter to WalMart to spend the Baby Bonus. My daughter was 3 1/2, my niece was 4 1/2. As we went through the checkout, one of the girls, I don't remember which one, snagged a Kindersurprise off the candy rack. "Put that back," I said. And the girls ran. They ran all the way from checkout #14 to the doors near checkout #1, with us chasing behind. And then, wonder of wonders, those little girls actually PUSHED THE DOOR OPEN, at which point I REALLY ran, and caught them both by the hood just before they got to the RUNNING IN TRAFFIC part.

Oh, were they in trouble. We marched them all the way back inside, made them return the Kindersurprise they'd STOLEN, and gave them a lecture that you'd think would have stayed with them forever. (it didn't. As I told the story tonight, my now-eight-year-old said "don't have a clue mom, really.")

This picture was taken on the sidewalk in front of my house. When we arrived home from WalMart, the two little girls, miffed at being LECTURED, refused to come in.  They just stood on the sidewalk, looking at the ground, the sky, each other, refusing to acknowledge the unpleasantness of PARENTS. And they looked so darn cute, I took their picture. It was one of those "don't let the laughter interfere with your stern voice" moments.

That's what happened before I took the picture, the episode forever known as The Day Our Children Were Thieves. Here's what happened after:

We finally went in the house, and while brother got the children's coats off, I checked the voice mail. There was a message.

"This is Big Editor at Today's Parent Magazine. We liked the essay you sent us and we're going to publish it in our September issue. And we're going to PAY you. Please call back as soon as possible."

I couldn't hear the last part of the message because I was all screaming "Ohmigod, ohmigod, OHMIGOD!!" and my brother was all running into the kitchen going "What, WHAT?"

See, it was my FIRST. Not just my first national clip but my First. Clip. Ever.

I saved that message on my phone for a year before finally erasing it. And until today, I thought I didn't have anything else to remember it by. (except the obligatory photocopy of the First Cheque)

That picture is worth a thousand words - the first thousand words I ever sold. It's a picture of the day I became a writer. And my daughter became a thief.

P.S. If you want to read that first piece, it's a part of my First Book. Why not check it out?

Sitting on my buts

Found a great article at Holly Lisle's site last night that will help tremendously through the revision process. Oddly enough, what she describes is what I was already doing, she's just much more organized with her thoughts than I was, and mentions a few things I hadn't thought of. So I've printed off the article and have it sitting next to the printed draft.

But...

I have no spiral notebook.  Now, before you get all "what the heck do you need a sprial notebook for?" let me tell you - the spiral notebook is important. Holly Lisle says so. Except I already knew that, because my spiral notebook is VITAL in my day-to-day work routine.  I don't use a phone message pad. I don't use a PDA. My spiral notebook sits on my desk, and in it I record every phone message (both taken and left), phone numbers, client leads, query ideas, tasks I must attend to SOON, and just about everything else you can imagine. This works well, because nine months from now when I'm trying to recall a conversation with a client, I can flip through my spiral notebooks (I keep them when they're full) and tell you instantly that I spoke to Jane Smith on July 15, and she said such and such, and I told her this and that.

And on Friday, I filled up the last page in my current spiral notebook. And no one got me one for Christmas (like scented candles, a spiral notebook has become a standard gift at Christmas, Mother's Day and my birthday, someone ALWAYS gets me one. Except this Christmas) so I have to get a new one.  And even though I remembered FINALLY to pick up a new shower curtain liner while I was out, I forgot the spiral notebook.

I could still probably be revising now, because even though I'm experiencing the Great Spiral Notebook Shortage of 2005, I still have tons of notepads and paper.

But...

It's dark in the living room. You may remember the power outage issue we're having, and with the painting, the lamp we were using in the living room has been moved to add more light in the bedroom during the painting. And there's no point in reminding me that Dickens somehow managed to write without light, or even electricity, because Dickens I ain't.  I need light, and lots of it, and tomorrow is another day.

My office has plenty of light, and I could revise in here. There is a large expanse of tabletop just waiting for me to spread out my printed draft and my spiral notebook paper and notepads. And the chair is comfy.

But...

I was really thinking that revising in a different space than the one I wrote in would be good. Change of scenery, different perspective, yada yada.

I could revise in my room, there's light there, and it's a change of scenery.

But...

There's a child sleeping in my bed. See previous post about heap of stuff in all other rooms of the house/painting/etc. And I wouldn't want to wake her up.

So, essentially, tomorrow I will go buy MANY spiral notebooks, and possibly a lamp, and also probably the painting will get finished. For tonight, I'm just going to blog, and try not to think about the snowstorm that apparently is headed our way. Because if we get ten inches of snow on the first of March, I may just have to go Groundhog hunting.

A ray of sunshine...

A few days ago, determined that I would NOT leave the mall until I found a pair of pants that fit me, the unthinkable happened:

I found pants! Two pairs! That fit! And they were marked down to $20 each!

And the clouds shifted, and the sun shone, and choirs of angels sang...

Sadly, none of the other 23 pairs I tried on in three different stores were quite right. I simply cannot get used to this low-waist thing. When I said as much, the middle daughter embarked upon yet another lecture on how "Mom, what you call your waist isn't really your waist anymore..."

Well yes, it is. "They" simply cannot decide that the waist on the human form isn't the waist anymore. That would be like "them" deciding that the thing on the end of your arm? The thing with the fingers? We're going to call that the foot now. Get with the times, would you? No.

So regardless of current fashion, my waist is still my waist.  Thus endeth the lesson.

Then went looking for shoes and saw the cutest little apple-green purse in the shoe store, but would not allow myself to indulge, as I felt it was inherently wrong to buy a purse in the shoe store if I was not also buying shoes. (couldn't find any I liked) Had I found shoes, I would have bought the purse. I'm just weird that way.

We're painting the little one's room this weekend. Looking at the pile - and by pile I mean HEAP - of books/toys/furniture/stuff now sitting in the living room, the dining room, the kitchen and on the porch - I have decided that engineers from around the world should come here and study just how it is that we normally manage to fit it all in a 10 x 10 room.

Thanks to all who played along with the previous thread, and to those who linked back. It ain't easy being Suzy Mary Sunshine, but hey, we can at least try, right?

And tomorrow I'm going to wear my Pants! Because they Fit!

Pass me a glass half-full

Earlier this week (or late last week maybe?) it occurred to me to blog about the Mommy Madness kerfuffle sparked by Judith Warner, and her upcoming book.  All the cool kids were doing it, so I was tempted. In the end, I did not, in large part because there was nothing I could say that did not either A) - repeat what had already been said by many, or B) - sound like I was judging, on some level, some mothers. And B) is something I try very, very hard not to do.

Sparked originally by that whole "judging" thing, a popular blogger began a thread about "mommy drive bys" and asked readers to share with her their experiences of having their parenting practices criticized or questioned.  We all have those stories, right? From the fairly innocuous "you have THREE? I'd lose my mind" to  the more hurtful "You should burn in hell for bottle feeding", we all have a "wait 'til you hear what someone said to me" story.

As of my last visit to Getupgrrl's site tonight, 308 women had shared their "drive-by" experiences.

Three. Hundred. and Eight.

And yet...

I don't have one.

Now, I've been a parent for fiteen years. And I'm willing to bet that, in that fifteen years, roughly half of the people I've encountered disagreed with half the parenting moves I made. (and the other half disagreed with the OTHER half of the parenting moves I made) It's ridiculous to think that every person I've come in contact with since becoming a parent has been flawlessly non-judgmental, perfectly tactful, and not the least bit intrusive. In other words, if I were to write here that no one has ever treated me to what Grrl refers to as a "drive-by" I'd be lying.

But I don't remember any of them.

They didn't sink in.

Here are some of the things I did absorb:

"You're doing a really good job with those kids."

"I like the way you handled that/responded to/dealt with/..."

"I like the way your kids did....Can you tell me how you...?"

"I'm really impressed with the way you're doing...."

Like all mothers, I am not perfect. And there is no shortage of people who wouldn't hesitate to tell me so. They probably do, I just don't hear it.

To me, the sad part of Getupgrrl's post is that the impact of negative remarks has stayed with 308 (and counting) people for so long. I know that the point of her post was to highlight how much criticism mothers get. Point made.

Was also proud of the moms over at Getupgrrl's who admitted - they could see themselves making some of the same comments.

But maybe - just maybe - if we didn't take the negativity to heart, if we didn't allow the criticisms to have so much power over us, we'd feel a whole lot better about what we're doing.

Maybe that's the point behind Mommy Madness after all-  that even if we don't do it to ourselves, we allow others to do it to us and we do it to each other.

There may be some who disagree. They will deny that someone else's negativity had any impact on them. But you know, if you're still carrying around what your mother-in-law/sister/cousin/neighbour/friend said to you one, five or ten years ago, and you can still repeat it today, maybe it did.  And I'm suggesting this: let it go. Forget about it. You let it in one ear, now it's time to let it go out the other.

Way back, like a million years ago, when I first met Kim, she accused me of wearing rose-coloured glasses. (actually, I think she asked to borrow them)  And she's not the first one to have done so. I often ask my children, "Tell me something good that happened today." It's a very Pollyanna way of living, I know, and some days it's really hard to keep walking on the sunny side of the street, but it works for me.

My most favourite part of my job is listening to parents tell me what they like about parenting. Whether they're breast feeding, bottle feeding, working in an office, staying at home, co-sleeping, homeschooling, using formal day care or sending the kids to Grandma's once a week, I can always see something good in what they're doing, and I tell them so.

I doubt it will generate 300+ comments (though it would be great if that were the case!) but I'd like to know the opposite of what Getupgrrl asked:

Tell me something positive someone said to you about your parenting choices/style. I'd like some reassurance that we can carry the good stuff around for as long as we do the crappy stuff. And then give yourself a pat on the back, to go along with the one that person gave you.

And if you can't remember one? Well, here's one from me to you: Parenting is really hard, whether you have one kid or ten. Consider yourself patted on the back for signing on for the job in the first place.

From nothing to something

I haven't typed The End yet, but it's only days away, if that. Could be hours, except that hubby was away, and now he's home, and, well, I'm just so darn glad to see him that any all-nighters in my near future won't be spent at the keyboard, ifyouknowwhatImean.

Ok, I lied. I have typed The End, typed it on November 30, 2004, as a matter of fact. But there was work to be done, and now Chapter Eleven is currently a big old blank Word document that need only to be filled in. And the "fill" is right here in my pretty little head. It's like colouring a picture in a colouring book. I've done everything but this one little part, and I know what colour it's going to be, and I'm sharpening the crayon now.

And it's not THAT part. What I call the IT scene (regular readers will know what I'm talking about) was written weeks ago, then improved upon, and wouldn't you know it, I even ended up with a second IT scene. So go figure.

I've written for a long time. As long as I can remember. And I write some good stuff, I really do.  But fiction - novels - were beyond me. Oh, I had ideas. But I couldn't seem to do anything with them.

Imagine, if you will, a lump of clay. It sits in front of you, daring you to turn it into something.  But then you spend so much time envisioning what that lump of clay could do, could be, that you never actually turn it into something.  So in the end, all you have are a bunch of visions, and a lump of clay that you've maybe poked at a bit. You have a lump of clay with poke marks in it.

Now imagine that you - and your lump of clay - are at the mercy of the clock. You have 30 days to turn that lump of clay into something. Doesn't matter what. A crappy ashtray. A wall plaque. A spoon rest.

So you just dig your hands in, and start making something. It might end up being the ugliest something you've ever made, but it's something.

On November 30, 2003, I had something. I had finished! And it wasn't as ugly as I thought it would be.  So when November 1, 2004 rolled around, I wasn't afraid to pick up another lump of clay and start manipulating, crafting, working the vision into another something.

I've spent the last six weeks turning something into something more. I've made it sturdier. Prettier. Better.

And it's better than any of the visions I started with.

That's what National Novel Writing Month did for me. It gave me permission to dig into a lump of clay and turn it into the best darn spoon rest I could.

By week's end, I'll be spell-checking, and proofing, but beyond that, I'm done. It's time to start putting my novel out where people can see it. And maybe they'll like it, and maybe they won't, but hey - it's not bad for something that started as a lump of clay.

Kids today, I'm tellin' ya...

A few years ago, it took me several frustrating weeks to master the basics of QuarkXpress. And that was after being a daily computer user for two years, mastering all the Windows programs (Publisher, Word, Excel, etc). And after spending umpty thousand hours watching over other people's shoulders as THEY worked in QuarkXpress. And even now, two years after mastering the basics, there are still times when I call my production manager in the sanctity of his own home to ask, "How do you do blahblahblah?"

So it really crumbles my cake that my 12 year old and three of her friends, after getting a five minute lesson from me, were happily Quarking away and didn't need my help anymore, thankyouverymuch. We're talking a commercial level design program here folks, and these INFANTS caught on in the time it takes me to tie my shoes.

It takes me ten minutes to tap out a text message consisting of three words.  My teen can text at 30 words a minute. However, as we discovered this weekend, being able to text quickly is not always a good thing, especially when TMs cost a dime apiece, and according to the cell phone bill you sent 214 of them in a 30-day period and it's time to pay the piper. It's nice to be able to "reach out and touch someone" but if they're only on the other side of the school cafeteria, it's much cheaper to just holler and wave.

For us GenX-ers, computers have been a part of our lives since we were children, true. (in most cases) But I think most of us still have this little unspoken, un-named fear in the back of our minds that if we hit the wrong button, or take the wrong action, the whole machine will explode, or worse, we will LOSE ALL OUR DATA.  So as proficient as we may be, we're cautious.

Our kids learn more quickly than we do because they have no fear of the technology that's been around since before they were born.  So they'll click something just to see what happens, and if it doesn't work, they'll click something else. They'll play with a new piece of software, trying out different things, and eventually - quickly - they'll figure out how to make it do what they already firmly believe it can do.

I imagine this is what it was like for previous generations too.  The first telephones were things to be revered - placed in a position of honor in the home, used sparingly and only in times of great neccessity. To make, or receive, a phone call was a privilege. Later generations didn't have the same sense of AWE for the telephone. Likewise, the typewriter, the radio and the television.

Also on the topic of plowing ahead with NO FEAR - I passed the 60k word mark on the novel that's almost finished.  The search for an agent and/or publisher begins March 1, and I'll be ready. It's amazing how much more quickly you make progress when you already firmly believe that you can do what you need to do.

The February blahs

Many many many years ago, I stopped scheduling appointments for 9 a.m. unless I absolutely had NO choice, because that particular time of day is just not good for me. To be conscious, coherent and competent that early is difficult for me.

Oh, who am I kidding? To be DRESSED that early is difficult for me.

Not impossible. Oh, no no no, not impossible. When they want me on the morning show at 6 a.m. I'm there with bells on. Or rather, I'm on the phone in my jammies, all chipper and smart, glad that no one can see me mainlining coffee and pinching myself to stay awake.

Handy grooming tip - a super-short hairstyle allows you to shower, dress and leave the house only ten minutes after you leapt from the bed going, "Crap, I didn't hear the alarm!"

So.

As stated here before, I've learned to work within what works for me. I'm not a morning person, oh no I am not.

But when you have scheduled a lunch meeting for NOON, and you find yourself leaping from the bed at 11:10 a.m. shouting "CRAP, I DIDN'T HEAR THE ALARM!" then things are getting pretty bad.

I keep promising to do better. I keep resolving to go to bed at a decent hour - say, 1 a.m. - so that I can live and work like normal people do.

I keep promising. But it's not working so well.

It's all February's fault, and I just know that when the first of March rolls around, the sun will shine for more than 60 seconds a day, and the gloom of winter will fade, and I will feel better.  Year after year, this happens to me, and so I have to hold out the hope that this year, like last year, and the year before that, I will feel better.

Only 11 more days to go.

In other news, they've announced the cancellation of the NHL season, to which I have only this to say: No Duh.

Doesn't loyalty count?

Thanks to an eager young Customer Service Rep who caught me on a good day a few weeks ago, The Telephone Company now has my email address. Although, since my Internet bill is now on my phone bill, you'd think they would have had it anyway.

So The Telephone Company (hereafter known as Mr. Bell) has been emailing me. And today, once again, I got another Special Email Offer.

You know the one- you probably get postcards in the mail all the time. "Sign up now and get the Introductory Rate of Almost Free!" or "New Customers Will Be Treated LIke Kings For The First Six Months!"

Be it telephone, cable, cell,, satellite or Internet, they're all the same. And truly, it really frosts my socks. My socks were particularly frosted today, because the offer invited me to sign up for something I signed up for three months ago.  Had I waited three months, I could have Saved Big.

I have had the same long distance provider, the same ISP and the same cell phone service for nigh on five or more years now.  I'm not fickle, changing my providers at every Special Offer that comes down the pike. The only thing I've changed recently was when cable decreased the number of channels they were giving me and raised the price of my package - ON THE SAME DAY.

I'm loyal. I'm stable. I'm dependable.

So where's my reward?

Mr. Bell, I think it would be a very good idea if you would send me an email that says "You've been such a great customer for AGES that we're going to thank you by giving you a HUGE DISCOUNT. Just for sticking with us. Loyal, non-fickle customers like you are our bread and butter, and we know it. Thanks for that."

But I'm not going to hold my breath.

It's the little things

Happy Valentine's Day!

From Kira:

The most fabulous day ever experienced couldn’t ever encompass love, because love isn’t an event. Love is showing up day after day after day, all the tiny decisions in someone’s life that points them in the direction of someone else’s best interest. Love is, as my mom says, where your feet are planted.

The teenager woke us up this morning with the news that the light in the refrigerator was off. In my Mother-of-the-Year haze that tends to make itself known at 6 in the morning, I thought to myself, "Oh good, the power's out. That means the weather's bad, and maybe THAT means volleyball practice is cancelled and I don't have to get out of bed."

The kitchen light, however, shone brighter than a thousand suns, and so the power was not out. Not completely.

In addition to no light in the refrigerator, there was also no light in my bedroom, the little girl's bedrooms, the living room OR the dining room. Turns out, all fifty gabillion things that were on a single circuit breaker (this house is OLD) were out. Half the house.

Love is climbing up the stepladder at 6 in the morning, and looking in the attic to make sure the roof isn't leaking and causing an electrical issue.

There is a bright side - it's not ALL the electricity that's out. The washer, the dryer, the stove, my office, the bathroom lights, the upstairs computer plug and the aquarium plugs are all working. So I can do laundry, the man can cook, we can both send email, and the fish will not die. We can also watch TV.

Kira's right. Love isn't a day - it's a million little things that become a part of your sub-conscious reality. It's cooking a roast beef so that it's rare on one end and well done on the other, just so that all five palates in the house are pleased. It's pouring an extra cup of coffee when you fix your own, on the off chance that the other person might want one. It's handing over the remote midway through Holmes on Homes and saying, "Here, did you want to watch something?" It's letting her hog the covers on a cold night.

Love is remembering to put the toilet seat down.

Love is kindness, and generosity, and consideration, and respect. And all of those things, little by little, day after day, are worth more than dozens of roses and tons of chocolate.

Happy Valentine's Day dear. I love you more than you could possibly imagine. Looks like we'll be dining by candlelight!

The one where things just HAPPEN to me

There are days when I wonder why it was I was so anxious for my mother to "learn the Internet."  As regular readers will know, my mother is a commenter (commentor?) here sometimes. Here I've been cautious not to reveal TOO much on my blog, and my mother has decided it's a great place to tell what my family refers to as "Shelley stories." (or maybe I just call them that)  How's that for value? You get the blog - and the sidebar info! Woot woot!

Mother, this is the Internet. Strangers happen by. Try to be discreet, um kay?

But in response to yesterday's comment (see "I used to climb trees" below)...

Oh god, the motor oil. Here is MY version of that story - told through the lens of a memory that's - ohmigod - THIRTY years old.

I was three, or at least I think I was. If my brother was already born, I was three. That's how we tell time through memories, by surrounding them with scenery and supporting cast. There is before my brother was born, before we moved, after my grandfather died, what car did we own at the time. You get it.

So I think I was three. And in my memory, I was wearing a new dress or jumper. Possibly a yellow one, or maybe a red one. (so it was definitely before school, because after Grade One, I refused to wear dresses, but they made me on Picture Day)

My mother was taking me to the doctor, possibly to get a shot. She let me go out the back door ahead of her, and warned me, "Don't go near that pail of oil by the garage!"

So what do you think I did? I went to have a look. There was a dishpan full of motor oil, I'm assuming from my dad changing the oil in the car, and I went to have a look.

And I stood, and I looked. And looked. And then something happened - possibly I tripped on the gravel driveway, possibly I leaned a little too far over. I prefer to think that Fate came along and gave me a shove, but there you have it.

I ended up in the dishpan full of oil. Hand to god, I do not know, to this day, if I fell, or tripped, or jumped. I don't remember.

I do remember being hosed off in the backyard. And I remember that my beautiful, past-the-shoulder, light brown, naturally curly hair had to be all cut off, because they just couldn't get the motor oil out. And the story was passed down, and will be passed down, for generations to come...

Now, here's the confession part. And this is not a judgment - no sirree. It is an honest-to-god admission, and a plea for someone, somewhere, to help me understand.

When I think about the motor oil story, and the ruffled dress story, and the crawled under the gate and down the street story, and the wandered off and got lost story and the crawled through the kitchen window story and the best friend stuffed a bean up her nose story, and the jumped into the pool holding onto the side and got three stitches in my chin story, I cannot help but wonder:

Why are so many women honestly surprised by how challenging parenthood is?

Do they not remember being children? Or were they perfect children that sat still and didn't run, jump, crawl, explore, or experiment? When someone told them "no", did they listen? Every single time? Did they never chew a poinsettia leaf, or pour shampoo in the toilet, just to see what would happen? Did they never cry and kick and scream, because they couldn't stay up to watch Little House On The Prairie? Have they never been told stories of when they cut their own bangs or fed the dog chewing gum?

I try to understand parents of all types, at all stages of their parenting journey. It's my job. But I always have a hard time with that part. I knew it was going to be hard. Admittedly, I didn't think I needed to tell my 12 year old not to stand on a spinny chair, but still...I never had a single moment of doubt that parenting was going to be the most confusing, challenging, terrifying, exhilarating thing I ever did.

I know I will never have all the answers. I will fail, sometimes. I will make mistakes. I will doubt myself. That's motherhood. All guts, and very little glory.

And someday, I will tell a grandchild about how I had to call Poison Control sixteen times between her mother's first and second birthdays because the child would put ANYTHING in her mouth.