When television came on the scene, there were many who decried the time it would take from family and other such negatives. Fred Rogers was one of those who saw its potential. He spoke passionately about the possibilities for using television to reach many and educate them.
Society has a love/hate relationship with the media. We resent its intrusive, gossip-mongering aspects but rely on the information we get from it. The internet in particular has begun to impact daily life. Never before could people on opposite sides of the globe receive information seconds after it happened. This possibility (like television) is a two-sided sword. We all have seen negative aspects: misleading information and rumor that (in Chesterton's memorable phrase) goes 'round the world before the truth puts on its boots. It's harder to see the phenomenal possibilities of the internet bear fruit.
Then I read an article with a beautiful example.
Two male fans started a web site last January in hopes of getting a hug from Taylor Swift. She learned about it in March, and she issued some challenges to the two guys. Rather than ask for displays of slavish affection, she asked them to do good deeds (helping a little old lady across the street as the first one). The two collegiates responded with a video montage of them (and many others from around the world) helping people across the street as a result of Taylor's request. She challenged them to do some creative deeds involving the number thirteen (her lucky number). They responded on April 13 with a video of deeds like giving 13 roses to the woman they helped across the street, submitting 13 items each to a food pantry, picking up trash on 13th street, paying for $13 of gas for a stranger, and helping a small boy meet his favorite Auburn baseball player (who wears jersey #13). Two days ago Taylor Swift showed up at a karaoke session the guys were having in an auditorium on Auburn's campus to give each of the guys a hug--and gave each a kiss on the cheek plus a front-row ticket to one of her concerts. She capped it off by giving a short impromptu concert with the help of her band, who had come along with her.
Although I appreciate the kindness, integrity and positive character shown, what riveted me was the seized positive impact the internet had. Two friends had a wish, and out of that wish a number of people (many of them strangers to each other, since the guys requested viewers to submit videos of their own) were inspired to impact the world in many positive ways, without any expectation of reward or reimbursement other than a hug.
I marvel at the difference in generations, and the mobilization potential of the millennial generation (those born in early 1980s to early 2000s). They are not fazed by odds against outstanding success, and they intuitively grasp the power inherent in large groups of people. If only there were a consistent method of motivating the masses to such heights on a regular basis!
April 28, 2010
April 20, 2010
Repetition
There are parts of being a mom that are delightful. I love hearing the random questions: "Mommy, do you like street hustling?" I love seeing the new lessons they learn about the world around them: books will not stick to the wall like magnets do to the fridge. I love experiencing the language development and translating their attempts: bah-bah means "bottle", a hand waggled side to side means "ball", etc. I love the hugs, the unself-conscious dancing to music, the unapologetic perspectives, and the full-bore enjoyment of living.
Children do not add difficulty and confusion to daily tasks; they multiply it, and multiply it on an exponential scale. Doing laundry with a toddler's "help" adds physical obstacles, interrupting questions, instruction for how they might help, un-doing of incorrectly-done "help", increased restraint in the midst of rising frustration and impatience, and a greater supply of determination to see the task through to the end. My creativity gives out after finding five different ways to say, "Please bring the toy to me." My ears are tired after hearing some rendition of, "Mommy, is that a ____?" for the twelfth time. My patience gives out after a boundary is drawn and reinforced four times in as many minutes.
Motherhood often means needing space away from your kids, but being worried about what havoc they might create in your absence. Sometimes the child can be isolated (stuck in a crib, closeted in their room with toys and a closed door) and sometimes the mom needs to be isolated (locking herself in the bathroom or out in the car, for instance). Days immediately after a vacation or a visit from grandparents or a sleepover w/ a friend will always be more draining.
The number of times you will be interrupted are proportional to the importance of the task and inversely proportional to the available timeline. --And speaking of timelines, I should peel my child away from the computer and get him some lunch (more decision-making!). It's already 2 o'clock.
It's all of the repetitive tasks that drain me. Getting breakfast once (or even twice) is fun. Making it every morning for three people is not. By the time supper rolls around, I loathe the prospect of making any more decisions: what will we eat? What nutrients have we been lacking lately? Who will eat or can eat what I have in the house? Do I have time to make X or should I go with Y? Will it make enough for leftovers? Do I start before nap time ends, or do I wait and hope they'll play and keep each other occupied? Do I need to make a run to the store before supper (please, please, please let this be "no")? Do I aim for the family to eat all together, or do I plan on the kids eating before their dad gets home so they have time to play before bedtime?
Children do not add difficulty and confusion to daily tasks; they multiply it, and multiply it on an exponential scale. Doing laundry with a toddler's "help" adds physical obstacles, interrupting questions, instruction for how they might help, un-doing of incorrectly-done "help", increased restraint in the midst of rising frustration and impatience, and a greater supply of determination to see the task through to the end. My creativity gives out after finding five different ways to say, "Please bring the toy to me." My ears are tired after hearing some rendition of, "Mommy, is that a ____?" for the twelfth time. My patience gives out after a boundary is drawn and reinforced four times in as many minutes.
Motherhood often means needing space away from your kids, but being worried about what havoc they might create in your absence. Sometimes the child can be isolated (stuck in a crib, closeted in their room with toys and a closed door) and sometimes the mom needs to be isolated (locking herself in the bathroom or out in the car, for instance). Days immediately after a vacation or a visit from grandparents or a sleepover w/ a friend will always be more draining.
The number of times you will be interrupted are proportional to the importance of the task and inversely proportional to the available timeline. --And speaking of timelines, I should peel my child away from the computer and get him some lunch (more decision-making!). It's already 2 o'clock.
April 05, 2010
On Writing
I've kept a journal since grade school. If ever I want to know who I was then, I can dip back into words that the 13-yr-old wrote and be her and my present self in the same moment. Words can be a time machine.
My memories are strongly rooted in physical sensations: sight, sound, smell, feel and taste. When I record the sensations, the memories spring up of their own accord. Just the words 'Jovan musk' conjure up a hug from my grandmother. Words can recreate experience and make the dead live again.
Find the right word can be a struggle. "The difference between the right word and its second cousin," said Mark Twain, "is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug." It can physically hurt to find that right word. Sometimes a word is used to hold the place until you find the right word, but any writer can tell you which words fit their vision exactly and which ones still bother them. Words can be as finicky as finding the exact shade of oil for a portrait.
Words and language are a gift. No other method in our world allows one person to describe an idea, no matter how esoteric and ephemeral, to a person centuries later. The writer will never know the reader; the reader will never see the writer. Only the words exist -- and in all likelihood, the writer will never know that those particular words are what changed the reader's life for all time.
The realization of these things could effectively stifle any perfectionist from ever putting text to page. Who can live up to that sort of burden and expectation? Writers can write for the market, to sell copy and make money. Writers can write for the public, to stroke pleasurable spots and affirm people where they are. Writers can also write for the most difficult audience of all: their own muse, their passions.
I write to fill an ache, a question inside me that seeks an answer. When I see a lack in my life or lives around me, I try to meet some of that need with words. To solve a problem, any good diagnostician knows that correct identification of the problem is necessary.
For now, life is busy. Chores must be done and meals must be made. Parenting requires a lot of hands-on discipline and damage control. Sometimes words simmer inside until they escape in a rush, inarticulate in their need to be said or written. Sometimes I procrastinate because I don't have anything to say that feels necessary. As my mom used to say, "If you can't say something in seven words, for heaven's sake don't say it in fifteen." Obfuscation and wordiness are not writing.
In words of one syllable: I have not been good at word craft as a job. I am not -- I must go. The word smith must give way to the mom. Once more.
My memories are strongly rooted in physical sensations: sight, sound, smell, feel and taste. When I record the sensations, the memories spring up of their own accord. Just the words 'Jovan musk' conjure up a hug from my grandmother. Words can recreate experience and make the dead live again.
Find the right word can be a struggle. "The difference between the right word and its second cousin," said Mark Twain, "is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug." It can physically hurt to find that right word. Sometimes a word is used to hold the place until you find the right word, but any writer can tell you which words fit their vision exactly and which ones still bother them. Words can be as finicky as finding the exact shade of oil for a portrait.
Words and language are a gift. No other method in our world allows one person to describe an idea, no matter how esoteric and ephemeral, to a person centuries later. The writer will never know the reader; the reader will never see the writer. Only the words exist -- and in all likelihood, the writer will never know that those particular words are what changed the reader's life for all time.
The realization of these things could effectively stifle any perfectionist from ever putting text to page. Who can live up to that sort of burden and expectation? Writers can write for the market, to sell copy and make money. Writers can write for the public, to stroke pleasurable spots and affirm people where they are. Writers can also write for the most difficult audience of all: their own muse, their passions.
I write to fill an ache, a question inside me that seeks an answer. When I see a lack in my life or lives around me, I try to meet some of that need with words. To solve a problem, any good diagnostician knows that correct identification of the problem is necessary.
For now, life is busy. Chores must be done and meals must be made. Parenting requires a lot of hands-on discipline and damage control. Sometimes words simmer inside until they escape in a rush, inarticulate in their need to be said or written. Sometimes I procrastinate because I don't have anything to say that feels necessary. As my mom used to say, "If you can't say something in seven words, for heaven's sake don't say it in fifteen." Obfuscation and wordiness are not writing.
In words of one syllable: I have not been good at word craft as a job. I am not --
March 09, 2010
Tired
Moms often get through a day, look at the list of things they intended to do (perhaps were even looking forward to doing, though cleaning my floors just doesn't do it for me), and wonder how on earth they could be so tired. Today? Today I already know why I'm tired.
1-Woke up and left bed ~7:50 a.m., almost an hour later than usual
2-Changed diaper and got milk for the 16 mo. old, who is teething (and not happy about it)
3-Got kids (and self) dressed, which necessitated digging through some laundry baskets & the dryer
4-Got breakfast for kids and self, the fed 16 mo. old and self
5-Let dog outside
6-Assemble needed paraphanalia for MOPS meeting this morning
7-Load kids into the car
8-Let the dog back inside, then closed him in the laundry room (thanks to his muddy paws)
9-Load tub of items into the back of the van
10-Drive to the next town for the meeting
11-Drop kids off at their respective places for childcare during the meeting
12-Return to van and retrieve my books and materials (in the rain)
13-Race to meeting room
14-Return to the rain outside to get tub of cloth diapers from another mom, then place the tub in our van
15-Meeting time (eat, watch video, dismiss for discussion time)
16-Lead/facilitate discussion
17-Hear familiar crying across the hall, and go to investigate--yes, it's my child.
18-Realize it's close to time to leave, so change child's diaper, pack up 16 mo. old's things, and return to meeting room
19-Explain that I need to leave early and arrange for my materials to be gathered together so I can get them some other time
20-Pick up second child from care site
21-Load children into the van
22-Running late, race home in ~10 minutes to pick up the dog
23-Load the dog into the van
24-Take the dog to his grooming appointment, 10 minutes late (just a bath, but most necessary!)
25-Return home to pick up parents' tool that we borrowed
26-Go to parents' house to return tool
27-Drive to store to pick up groceries
28-Return home to unload groceries
[aside from coming into the store itself, yes, the kids have been in the van since #21]
[aside from coming into the store itself, yes, the kids have been in the van since #21]
29-Return to groomer's to retrieve dog
30-Return home to unload dog, children, and various things from the morning
31-Put away groceries, feed kids lunch, unload dishwasher, put away dishes and reload dishwasher
32-Sit down and (gasp!) eat lunch myself
I may not have gotten things done on my mental list (fold laundry, put away clean clothes, organize/file paperwork, clean the floors, clean up toys, shower, work on afghan, put tub of scrap-booking supplies away), but I'll extend grace.
Today, I know why I'm tired and my to-do list is undone.
March 03, 2010
Writer's Blockheadedness
Writing.
I love language, and somewhere around freshman year I had a teacher ask to submit a writing piece to a lit magazine. I took a lit course as an extracurricular in college and got reamed for my writing style; such is the result of getting reamed earlier in college for being 'too literary' on engineering lab reports, I suppose.
What I'm trying to say is that I don't ever remember dreaming of being an author. It's only as I've been writing and submitting a piece here and there that I look back over my shoulder and see earlier things scattered along the path that led me here: the book I wrote that took me to a Young Authors convention; the poems I wrote for sports seasons, family birthdays, and just because. The persistent (though sporadic) journal entries. I think I have writings/journal entries for every year going back 20+ years.
In spite of writing being a long-standing way in which I express myself, I often dread it. Sitting at a keyboard means facing down internal daemons.
"Just look at how long it's been since you wrote anything of importance."
"Why do you keep putting this off when others have told you this is a gift?"
"What kind of a writer are you, that you can't even sit down for 10 minutes a day to write about your kids and keep regular updates in a file for them?"
When I do sit down, I can type in stream-of-consciousness (like now), and it feels like a release of pressure. Whether I write a publishable piece or not, framing my thoughts/struggles on the page has always helped me. When it comes to making words say what I want them to, though, they become unwieldy and my lexicon is suddenly insufficient.
Communication has the possibility of telling someone what you're thinking, but also how you feel about what you're thinking and perhaps a shade of how others have felt about your thoughts. I'm all for denotation (the technical definition of a word), but it's connotation (the social perception and mood surrounding a particular word) that drives me. 'Dark' and 'inky' could be interchangeable, but the latter sounds and feels more image-oriented and poetic. A person can lecture or berate someone about a poor choice, but a berating implies more scorn and contempt. It is possible to paint with words; their colors just aren't visual.
I think most, if not all, writers have a vision of what a finished piece could say; most, if not all, will feel deflated after finishing something because it falls short of that vision. Sometimes by rewriting, sometimes by editing, that vision is reached, but rarely.
I promised God several years ago that if I got a solicitation for a written piece, I would submit at least one writing to it. I have not succeeded in keeping that promise, since I didn't write or submit a piece for this last request. Now I have another request from the same individual; the deadline is May, but the earlier I submit, the better. I think I know of something I could write, but words cannot express how I dread facing a blank page to start writing it out. Once written, I'll have to leave it alone for at least a week or two before I attempt editing. I rarely like anything I've written right after I write it. It seems to take somewhere around 2 years before I can read a writing and not feel like I dropped the ball somewhere.
So... I'm off to spend some time with my journal, then hopefully to shower. The writing piece will hang over my head for a while longer, I think.
I love language, and somewhere around freshman year I had a teacher ask to submit a writing piece to a lit magazine. I took a lit course as an extracurricular in college and got reamed for my writing style; such is the result of getting reamed earlier in college for being 'too literary' on engineering lab reports, I suppose.
What I'm trying to say is that I don't ever remember dreaming of being an author. It's only as I've been writing and submitting a piece here and there that I look back over my shoulder and see earlier things scattered along the path that led me here: the book I wrote that took me to a Young Authors convention; the poems I wrote for sports seasons, family birthdays, and just because. The persistent (though sporadic) journal entries. I think I have writings/journal entries for every year going back 20+ years.
In spite of writing being a long-standing way in which I express myself, I often dread it. Sitting at a keyboard means facing down internal daemons.
"Just look at how long it's been since you wrote anything of importance."
"Why do you keep putting this off when others have told you this is a gift?"
"What kind of a writer are you, that you can't even sit down for 10 minutes a day to write about your kids and keep regular updates in a file for them?"
When I do sit down, I can type in stream-of-consciousness (like now), and it feels like a release of pressure. Whether I write a publishable piece or not, framing my thoughts/struggles on the page has always helped me. When it comes to making words say what I want them to, though, they become unwieldy and my lexicon is suddenly insufficient.
Communication has the possibility of telling someone what you're thinking, but also how you feel about what you're thinking and perhaps a shade of how others have felt about your thoughts. I'm all for denotation (the technical definition of a word), but it's connotation (the social perception and mood surrounding a particular word) that drives me. 'Dark' and 'inky' could be interchangeable, but the latter sounds and feels more image-oriented and poetic. A person can lecture or berate someone about a poor choice, but a berating implies more scorn and contempt. It is possible to paint with words; their colors just aren't visual.
I think most, if not all, writers have a vision of what a finished piece could say; most, if not all, will feel deflated after finishing something because it falls short of that vision. Sometimes by rewriting, sometimes by editing, that vision is reached, but rarely.
I promised God several years ago that if I got a solicitation for a written piece, I would submit at least one writing to it. I have not succeeded in keeping that promise, since I didn't write or submit a piece for this last request. Now I have another request from the same individual; the deadline is May, but the earlier I submit, the better. I think I know of something I could write, but words cannot express how I dread facing a blank page to start writing it out. Once written, I'll have to leave it alone for at least a week or two before I attempt editing. I rarely like anything I've written right after I write it. It seems to take somewhere around 2 years before I can read a writing and not feel like I dropped the ball somewhere.
So... I'm off to spend some time with my journal, then hopefully to shower. The writing piece will hang over my head for a while longer, I think.
February 10, 2010
Nothings
Any time I sit down to write anything (particularly if I know it will be seen by others), I rack my brain for thought-provoking, witty, or hilarious things to write or ways to write uninteresting topics. I'm a ham. Have been my whole life.
Tonight, all I can think of is how mundane my life suddenly seems. --Not bad, you understand, just mundane. The topics that come easily to mind concern my kids, complaints about something in society, or my latest addiction (whatever that is).
Tonight I don't feel like I'm capable of being entertaining or thought-provoking. Writing a blog, by its very nature, is self-centered. It assumes that 1-I'm worth writing about regularly, and 2-Others want to read that writing.
I'm usually an open book. I don't cringe away from telling much about myself; getting married has meant re-evaluating that for DH's sake. Some things should remain private, after all! I'm now hampered with the voice in my head that recites a continual litany of how ineffective I am in anything I do (I'm pretty sure other people have these voices, too, but if you don't just smile and nod along) and the lack of anything meaningful to write about. [Note: One of my great-grandfathers would have a problem with the preposition end to that sentence, but I'll leave it--it's in recognition of my inescapable imperfection and brokenness. The poor man would probably die of a stroke -- if he wasn't already dead -- if he saw the deteriorated forms of grammar used for texting.]
For now... I'll head downstairs and play some more video games. If it's Little Big Planet, I get to make a sack person jump over electrified rods (or onto them, if I'm suicidal); if it's Burnout, I get prizes for running other cars off the road. Right now either sounds kind of fun. : )
Tonight, all I can think of is how mundane my life suddenly seems. --Not bad, you understand, just mundane. The topics that come easily to mind concern my kids, complaints about something in society, or my latest addiction (whatever that is).
Tonight I don't feel like I'm capable of being entertaining or thought-provoking. Writing a blog, by its very nature, is self-centered. It assumes that 1-I'm worth writing about regularly, and 2-Others want to read that writing.
I'm usually an open book. I don't cringe away from telling much about myself; getting married has meant re-evaluating that for DH's sake. Some things should remain private, after all! I'm now hampered with the voice in my head that recites a continual litany of how ineffective I am in anything I do (I'm pretty sure other people have these voices, too, but if you don't just smile and nod along) and the lack of anything meaningful to write about. [Note: One of my great-grandfathers would have a problem with the preposition end to that sentence, but I'll leave it--it's in recognition of my inescapable imperfection and brokenness. The poor man would probably die of a stroke -- if he wasn't already dead -- if he saw the deteriorated forms of grammar used for texting.]
For now... I'll head downstairs and play some more video games. If it's Little Big Planet, I get to make a sack person jump over electrified rods (or onto them, if I'm suicidal); if it's Burnout, I get prizes for running other cars off the road. Right now either sounds kind of fun. : )
February 05, 2010
Attn: Snow Plow Driver
To the driver of the municipal snow plow that drove past our house this morning:
I understand you have a job to do. When my 4-yr-old and I went out to shovel snow off the driveway, I was already dreading the pile of snow and ice chunks that had accumulated at the end of the driveway from your prior visits. 20 minutes into the job (and after being hit by snow wildly thrown by the 4-yr-old and said 4-yr-old's shovel), you drove past--and deposited the first round of snow under my nose.
My shoulders slumped and I gazed in frustration after you, but I tried to cheer myself with the thought that it could have been so much worse, and after all, you had a job to do, too. You didn't know I have no snow blower, my husband's out of town, or that I have only 2-3 times in a day I even have the possibility of shoveling: morning nap, afternoon naps, or after offspring bedtime. I can't get to the grocery store until I shovel without risking getting stranded in our own driveway. I tried to apply grace.
When you passed the 2nd time--closer to our driveway, of course--and deposited another 6" of ice clods at my feet, the only thing that kept me from making obscene gestures or yelling profane things your direction was the presence of that 4-yr-old.
An hour after all this, and I'm still wondering if I could contact the city and reason with them.
"Dear City of _________:
"While I appreciate your efforts to keep our town streets clear of winter precipitation, I view my resulting increased workload with increasing displeasure. Please know that you are capable of rendering single parents housebound because of your actions.
"Sincerely, An Irked Citizen"
Hmph.
I understand you have a job to do. When my 4-yr-old and I went out to shovel snow off the driveway, I was already dreading the pile of snow and ice chunks that had accumulated at the end of the driveway from your prior visits. 20 minutes into the job (and after being hit by snow wildly thrown by the 4-yr-old and said 4-yr-old's shovel), you drove past--and deposited the first round of snow under my nose.
My shoulders slumped and I gazed in frustration after you, but I tried to cheer myself with the thought that it could have been so much worse, and after all, you had a job to do, too. You didn't know I have no snow blower, my husband's out of town, or that I have only 2-3 times in a day I even have the possibility of shoveling: morning nap, afternoon naps, or after offspring bedtime. I can't get to the grocery store until I shovel without risking getting stranded in our own driveway. I tried to apply grace.
When you passed the 2nd time--closer to our driveway, of course--and deposited another 6" of ice clods at my feet, the only thing that kept me from making obscene gestures or yelling profane things your direction was the presence of that 4-yr-old.
An hour after all this, and I'm still wondering if I could contact the city and reason with them.
"Dear City of _________:
"While I appreciate your efforts to keep our town streets clear of winter precipitation, I view my resulting increased workload with increasing displeasure. Please know that you are capable of rendering single parents housebound because of your actions.
"Sincerely, An Irked Citizen"
Hmph.
February 04, 2010
Big Numbers
Big numbers seem to be popping up a lot lately. One million, billion, trillion, even quadrillion. A lot of the words just sound like the childish term 'bajillion'. I don't have any more concept of a quadrillion than I do a jillion or a bajillion.
The one thing that has helped was a time comparison.
One million seconds ago? That's 12 days ago.
One billion seconds? More than 31 years ago.
One trillion seconds? More than 32,000 years ago. Uh-huh. That's 30,000 B.C. or earlier.
One quadrillion seconds? 32.8 million years ago.
I can't casually read articles about the national debt ceiling being raised by another 1.9 trillion. I keep seeing it as 32,000 years' worth of seconds.
Please excuse me while I go contemplate the fewer than 1.122 billion seconds I've been alive. At a penny a second, I'd already be a multi-millionaire. Oy.
The one thing that has helped was a time comparison.
One million seconds ago? That's 12 days ago.
One billion seconds? More than 31 years ago.
One trillion seconds? More than 32,000 years ago. Uh-huh. That's 30,000 B.C. or earlier.
One quadrillion seconds? 32.8 million years ago.
I can't casually read articles about the national debt ceiling being raised by another 1.9 trillion. I keep seeing it as 32,000 years' worth of seconds.
Please excuse me while I go contemplate the fewer than 1.122 billion seconds I've been alive. At a penny a second, I'd already be a multi-millionaire. Oy.
February 01, 2010
In the last 24 hours I've:
-- cleaned offal from the bathroom floor (the 4yo didn't get on the toilet fast enough)
-- said good-bye to my DH, who will be gone until Saturday or Sunday
-- located sundry screws and nuts for a toy construction set before the 14mo could think to swallow them
-- thought of, procured and prepared nine meals
-- fed two kids a sit-down supper, bathed them, and got them to bed in an hour and a half
--finally completed the castle level on the islands in Little Big Planet
None of it was easy, all of it involved some effort, but (sadly enough) the last one took the most time and caused the most frustration!
Maybe I should play more video games so parenting seems easier.
-- cleaned offal from the bathroom floor (the 4yo didn't get on the toilet fast enough)
-- said good-bye to my DH, who will be gone until Saturday or Sunday
-- located sundry screws and nuts for a toy construction set before the 14mo could think to swallow them
-- thought of, procured and prepared nine meals
-- fed two kids a sit-down supper, bathed them, and got them to bed in an hour and a half
--finally completed the castle level on the islands in Little Big Planet
None of it was easy, all of it involved some effort, but (sadly enough) the last one took the most time and caused the most frustration!
Maybe I should play more video games so parenting seems easier.
January 29, 2010
Little Big Problem
I'm ready to sack out. It's been a draining day, and there's an annoyingly repetitive song that's stuck in my head. I can't even blame my kids. It's really DH's fault. If he didn't have a certain person as a friend, we never would have thought of purchasing his older PS3 around Christmas-time. No PS3, no Little Big Planet. No Little Big Planet, no problem.
There are sack people you control in this video game to run through various worlds, collecting bubbles (I'm suddenly struck by the irony of collecting bubbles while I seclude myself in a video game bubble world) and prizes. A TV character once remarked that she never knew hell would be catered. Well, I never thought it would have a soundtrack.
It does.
The song is what plays during the Metropolis world on the Construction Site level. And I, silly shmuck that I am, find it difficult to walk away from something and leave it unfinished. -I'm fine with turning off the game while there are levels and worlds still to conquer; but if I took some aspect of a level personally and keep getting killed at one particular point, you better believe I'll play it until I figure out how to pass the obstacle.
Hmph.
Don't mind me. I'm just the one secluded in the cave of the basement until I get just one... last... bubble!
Argh.
I died.
Guess I'll have to give it another try.
There are sack people you control in this video game to run through various worlds, collecting bubbles (I'm suddenly struck by the irony of collecting bubbles while I seclude myself in a video game bubble world) and prizes. A TV character once remarked that she never knew hell would be catered. Well, I never thought it would have a soundtrack.
It does.
The song is what plays during the Metropolis world on the Construction Site level. And I, silly shmuck that I am, find it difficult to walk away from something and leave it unfinished. -I'm fine with turning off the game while there are levels and worlds still to conquer; but if I took some aspect of a level personally and keep getting killed at one particular point, you better believe I'll play it until I figure out how to pass the obstacle.
Hmph.
Don't mind me. I'm just the one secluded in the cave of the basement until I get just one... last... bubble!
Argh.
I died.
January 28, 2010
Parenting Insider Knowledge
Every new endeavor has its own batch of unknowns, "gotcha" bits of information that only the group members know. Parenting, it seems, has a whole host of these things.
All these have become part of my compendium of parenting insider knowledge:
- If pregnant and ill, expect suggestions of ginger root, B vitamins, peppermint tea, prescription drugs, and perfected diet plans. If they work for you, great, but focus on finding what works for you--I would recommend standing over the sink instead of the toilet: less kneeling/rising and potential use of the garbage disposal to boot!
- If nursing, you will not regret purchasing a breast pump. Period.
- With each kid you will be paranoid you'll screw this one up and They will revoke your parenting license. Every child takes time to know, and as the parent, you'll know them best the soonest. Give yourself grace and time to get to know them. Having a person inside your body for 9 months does not (unfortunately) give you immediate and complete knowledge.
- Buy multiples of the kid's special blanket/toy/security item. If you only have one, it will quickly become filthy (you'll never get it away long enough to wash it) and losing it is a catastrophe in the making.
- Even if the child is no longer napping, having them spend 30-60 minutes in "alone time" (not punishment; play time by themselves) during the day can be a sanity-saver for you and teach them the valuable skill of being able to amuse themselves.
- Potty training happens when it happens. If the kid is 18 mo and ready, great; if (s)he is 4 and only just starting to be interested, push off the perceived disapproval and go with the kid's timetable. After upwards of five attempts over the course of a year and a half that didn't work (with a LOT of accompanying frustration), it finally happened.
- Used clothing places are great places to find clothing items for kids, who always outgrow things quickly. I highly recommend using Resale Shopping as a starting point.
- Caveat to the above: it is unlikely in the extreme that you will find used clothing (pants in particular) for preschool and elementary school-age boys. They're hard enough on their clothing that it doesn't survive more than one kid. Either make it yourself (and make it to last) or buy several cheap items that you know will wear out.
- Teaching your kids that next developmental step is a two-edged sword. If they know how to walk before 12 months, you'll be chasing them a lot longer. If they know how to read, it's that much earlier you have to be sneaky about what you're reading/writing/consuming in hopes they won't recognize the label.
All these have become part of my compendium of parenting insider knowledge:
- If pregnant and ill, expect suggestions of ginger root, B vitamins, peppermint tea, prescription drugs, and perfected diet plans. If they work for you, great, but focus on finding what works for you--I would recommend standing over the sink instead of the toilet: less kneeling/rising and potential use of the garbage disposal to boot!
- If nursing, you will not regret purchasing a breast pump. Period.
- With each kid you will be paranoid you'll screw this one up and They will revoke your parenting license. Every child takes time to know, and as the parent, you'll know them best the soonest. Give yourself grace and time to get to know them. Having a person inside your body for 9 months does not (unfortunately) give you immediate and complete knowledge.
- Buy multiples of the kid's special blanket/toy/security item. If you only have one, it will quickly become filthy (you'll never get it away long enough to wash it) and losing it is a catastrophe in the making.
- Even if the child is no longer napping, having them spend 30-60 minutes in "alone time" (not punishment; play time by themselves) during the day can be a sanity-saver for you and teach them the valuable skill of being able to amuse themselves.
- Potty training happens when it happens. If the kid is 18 mo and ready, great; if (s)he is 4 and only just starting to be interested, push off the perceived disapproval and go with the kid's timetable. After upwards of five attempts over the course of a year and a half that didn't work (with a LOT of accompanying frustration), it finally happened.
- Used clothing places are great places to find clothing items for kids, who always outgrow things quickly. I highly recommend using Resale Shopping as a starting point.
- Caveat to the above: it is unlikely in the extreme that you will find used clothing (pants in particular) for preschool and elementary school-age boys. They're hard enough on their clothing that it doesn't survive more than one kid. Either make it yourself (and make it to last) or buy several cheap items that you know will wear out.
- Teaching your kids that next developmental step is a two-edged sword. If they know how to walk before 12 months, you'll be chasing them a lot longer. If they know how to read, it's that much earlier you have to be sneaky about what you're reading/writing/consuming in hopes they won't recognize the label.
January 27, 2010
*Blink*blink*
Wow. Getting on to a year and half, and I'm writing a new post.
Finally.
-In my defense, we only just (as in this morning) got internet connectivity at home. Yes, we've chosen the dark side until now. They had cookies. I like cookies.
Anyway, I've wasted almost no time in reconnecting via blog.
Life now is... chaotic. DH was on the road M-F for October, November, much of December and half of January. He's been at home (at night; he does still work during the day) the last two weeks. Until he came home, it was all I could do to survive the solo parenting of a 4yo and a 14mo. The 4yo is very talkative (and tech-inclined, meaning he likes buttons) and the 14mo is my doppelganger [sidenote: how is one supposed to put in umlauts on a blog?]. The 14mo scares me. I haven't finished a book since she started walking--I kid you not. Before then, I could still read 3-5 books a week. A week.
I'm also up to my ears in genealogy shtuff. Geeked out on Ancestry.com and delving into Ontario censuses from 1871 and such. Great fun, very time-consuming and prone to activate my addictive proclivities. "Yes, yes, I know the kids haven't eaten today and it's 5:30 p.m., but I just found a 12th cousin!"
Speaking of kids, it's approaching lunchtime. I should make sure we're actually dressed to meet the day--or what's left of it. I'm sure I'll be back later (and sooner than my last 'later').
Finally.
-In my defense, we only just (as in this morning) got internet connectivity at home. Yes, we've chosen the dark side until now. They had cookies. I like cookies.
Anyway, I've wasted almost no time in reconnecting via blog.
Life now is... chaotic. DH was on the road M-F for October, November, much of December and half of January. He's been at home (at night; he does still work during the day) the last two weeks. Until he came home, it was all I could do to survive the solo parenting of a 4yo and a 14mo. The 4yo is very talkative (and tech-inclined, meaning he likes buttons) and the 14mo is my doppelganger [sidenote: how is one supposed to put in umlauts on a blog?]. The 14mo scares me. I haven't finished a book since she started walking--I kid you not. Before then, I could still read 3-5 books a week. A week.
I'm also up to my ears in genealogy shtuff. Geeked out on Ancestry.com and delving into Ontario censuses from 1871 and such. Great fun, very time-consuming and prone to activate my addictive proclivities. "Yes, yes, I know the kids haven't eaten today and it's 5:30 p.m., but I just found a 12th cousin!"
Speaking of kids, it's approaching lunchtime. I should make sure we're actually dressed to meet the day--or what's left of it. I'm sure I'll be back later (and sooner than my last 'later').
September 19, 2008
I thought I'd emerge from this pregnancy unscathed, cold-wise, but Trent brought one home with him last week and I picked it up from him. Hence, several days of severe congestion, nose-blowing (we should buy stock in Kleenex) and general yuckiness. Now I'm in the "hacking so hard I might bring up a lung" phase.
There's an added aspect of advanced pregnancy when it comes to coughing during a cold. The abdominal muscles are already under some strain; my dad explained it by telling me to picture a paper towel tube with a hole cut out of one side to illustrate what happens with pregnancy. The growing uterus pushes abdominal muscles to the sides that usually run the full width of the abdomen.
Now imagine coughing like that. Fun, eh? I usually end up holding my stomach at some point in the process just because it aches more than coughing usually does.
-On a brighter note, I have an end date in sight! The c-section is scheduled for 8 a.m. on November 6th, so I know that by noon on that day (assuming I don't go into labor or something before then) Trent & I will have our daughter in hand. YAY!!!!!!!!!
I can handle thinking of 48 days a whole heckuva lot easier than the ambiguity of sometime in early November. It's part of being a concrete-sequential sort of person. : )
There's an added aspect of advanced pregnancy when it comes to coughing during a cold. The abdominal muscles are already under some strain; my dad explained it by telling me to picture a paper towel tube with a hole cut out of one side to illustrate what happens with pregnancy. The growing uterus pushes abdominal muscles to the sides that usually run the full width of the abdomen.
Now imagine coughing like that. Fun, eh? I usually end up holding my stomach at some point in the process just because it aches more than coughing usually does.
-On a brighter note, I have an end date in sight! The c-section is scheduled for 8 a.m. on November 6th, so I know that by noon on that day (assuming I don't go into labor or something before then) Trent & I will have our daughter in hand. YAY!!!!!!!!!
I can handle thinking of 48 days a whole heckuva lot easier than the ambiguity of sometime in early November. It's part of being a concrete-sequential sort of person. : )
September 04, 2008
Uncivil Impatience
I have a tremendous dearth of patience when I want something.
Right now my impatience is with the government--specifically, the U.S. Postal Service. I ordered two DVD series by Ken Burns (The Civil War, and his most recent about WWII) last week Thursday. Amazon told me they thought I'd have the two series by September 3.
They're still not here.
-As of last night, I couldn't even get updated tracking information about the package. All I knew was that the supplier had shipped them from Indiana on August 29th.
The last two days, I have waited with baited breath for the mailman, feeling the eager anticipation of, "Maybe today..." only to have the morning pass and 3rd party fliers occupy the space in my mailbox.
I read through Doris Goodwin Kearns' phenomenal book about Abraham Lincoln, Team of Rivals, and my brain has been cogitating on Civil War data... humming "Ashoken Farewell," the violin solo piece that is the theme of Burns' Civil War documentary... checking other Civil War books out from the library...
As if I didn't know already: I'm a geek.
I hope they come tomorrow. It'd be nice to have something to watch while I fold laundry. : )
Right now my impatience is with the government--specifically, the U.S. Postal Service. I ordered two DVD series by Ken Burns (The Civil War, and his most recent about WWII) last week Thursday. Amazon told me they thought I'd have the two series by September 3.
They're still not here.
-As of last night, I couldn't even get updated tracking information about the package. All I knew was that the supplier had shipped them from Indiana on August 29th.
The last two days, I have waited with baited breath for the mailman, feeling the eager anticipation of, "Maybe today..." only to have the morning pass and 3rd party fliers occupy the space in my mailbox.
As if I didn't know already: I'm a geek.
I hope they come tomorrow. It'd be nice to have something to watch while I fold laundry. : )
September 01, 2008
Overheard
Conversation between Nathan and Grandma, in Grandma's sun room:
"I really like the sparkles, don't you, Nathan?"
"It's a SPARKLY!"
"That's right! -Actually, it's a Swarovski crystal. Can you say 'Swarovski'?"
"Yeah."
Not quite 3, and he already knows how to punt.
"I really like the sparkles, don't you, Nathan?"
"It's a SPARKLY!"
"That's right! -Actually, it's a Swarovski crystal. Can you say 'Swarovski'?"
"Yeah."
Not quite 3, and he already knows how to punt.
Breathe
Right now it is beyond my ability to obey the lyrics of Faith Hill's song, "Breathe".
There's something about a small child shoving all internal organs out of the way that kinda' hampers any and all other body systems from functioning normally. I know my gallbladder is crammed up into my rib cage with my lungs, so who knows where my poor diaphragm is these days.
I remember dissecting frogs in 8th grade science lab. My group happened to have a male frog, but other groups had females. At least a couple of those female frogs were pregnant--ovaries extremely pronounced, abdominal cavities packed full of eggs, all other organs crammed into any available space... It made it difficult to find, let alone identify, which formaldehyde-soaked bit was a stomach, which were kidneys, etc. There are days of late that have me feeling like one of those pregnant frogs--without the formaldehyde, I hasten to add.
Abdominal discomfort sliding into pain is pretty standard these days. The uncertainty comes in trying to pin down the what or why of the discomfort. Have I not eaten recently enough? Did I not eat enough? Did I eat the wrong thing? (Greasy foods are guaranteed to make the next day a miserable one.) Did I eat too much? Am I lacking sleep? (This answer is almost always "yes".) Would a different position of sitting/standing/lying down help at all? (This answer is often "no".)
There is a picture I have of me holding Nathan in my hospital room within a day after he was born. Just looking at the picture conjures up the detailed memories: the soft weight of him draped against my shoulder, the heart-full knowledge of being able to cradle my son as closely as I wanted to after nine months of being kept at a distance, and the expression on my face... I can't think of a way to describe it except as feeling like I finally came home. All of me, every cell and fiber, was fully present in that moment, not wanting to be anywhere but where I was.
I know that there are future moments like that ahead of me with our baby girl; I know that the nine months' discomfort fades into acceptable memory.
It's just the present that's hard.
The last trimester of pregnancy is one of those times of life when most (if not all) women will fail to feel attractive--enough so that being complimented on how cute I look causes me to look closely at the person to see if they're in possession of their mental faculties. Elephants are not "cute". Whales ought never be described as "cute". I consider it a measure of my parents' training that I'm usually able to stretch a smile on my lips and bite my tongue from saying strongly negative things about the complimenter's eyesight. Despite being pregnant, I have retained my civility--most of the time. : )
There's something about a small child shoving all internal organs out of the way that kinda' hampers any and all other body systems from functioning normally. I know my gallbladder is crammed up into my rib cage with my lungs, so who knows where my poor diaphragm is these days.
I remember dissecting frogs in 8th grade science lab. My group happened to have a male frog, but other groups had females. At least a couple of those female frogs were pregnant--ovaries extremely pronounced, abdominal cavities packed full of eggs, all other organs crammed into any available space... It made it difficult to find, let alone identify, which formaldehyde-soaked bit was a stomach, which were kidneys, etc. There are days of late that have me feeling like one of those pregnant frogs--without the formaldehyde, I hasten to add.
Abdominal discomfort sliding into pain is pretty standard these days. The uncertainty comes in trying to pin down the what or why of the discomfort. Have I not eaten recently enough? Did I not eat enough? Did I eat the wrong thing? (Greasy foods are guaranteed to make the next day a miserable one.) Did I eat too much? Am I lacking sleep? (This answer is almost always "yes".) Would a different position of sitting/standing/lying down help at all? (This answer is often "no".)
There is a picture I have of me holding Nathan in my hospital room within a day after he was born. Just looking at the picture conjures up the detailed memories: the soft weight of him draped against my shoulder, the heart-full knowledge of being able to cradle my son as closely as I wanted to after nine months of being kept at a distance, and the expression on my face... I can't think of a way to describe it except as feeling like I finally came home. All of me, every cell and fiber, was fully present in that moment, not wanting to be anywhere but where I was.
I know that there are future moments like that ahead of me with our baby girl; I know that the nine months' discomfort fades into acceptable memory.
It's just the present that's hard.
The last trimester of pregnancy is one of those times of life when most (if not all) women will fail to feel attractive--enough so that being complimented on how cute I look causes me to look closely at the person to see if they're in possession of their mental faculties. Elephants are not "cute". Whales ought never be described as "cute". I consider it a measure of my parents' training that I'm usually able to stretch a smile on my lips and bite my tongue from saying strongly negative things about the complimenter's eyesight. Despite being pregnant, I have retained my civility--most of the time. : )
August 28, 2008
IV Adventures
Not a whole lot of time to post--I just prevented Nathan from unloading the entire bin of plastic food here at Grandma's because "I'm almost done, and then we'll need to clean up so we can go bye-bye."
I think the crash I just heard from the vicinity of the living room had the unmistakable sound of lots of toys (be it food or toy kitchen pans, etc.) cascading onto the floor... It amazes me how finely-tuned one's hearing can become as a result of motherhood.
Anyway... I wanted to share this weekend's frustration. Sunday morning began with abdominal pain when I woke up, and it only increased over the next several hours. The three of us traipsed into the urgent care clinic so I could be poked and prodded. The gallstones I have were giving me problems. Since the pain continued and I didn't have the energy to care for Nathan on my own, I was admitted to the hospital and stayed overnight Sunday night in order to talk with the surgeon the following day. Silly me: I took only one book with me, which I (of course) finished Sunday night. All day Monday I felt extremely bored. TV... sleep... wander the halls (because of course I didn't sleep well on Sunday night due to restless legs syndrome kicking in)... feel frustrated with the hassles of having an IV in my left arm. By the time I talked with the surgeon around 4, I either wanted to head into surgery to have my gallbladder taken out or just go home. Argh.
On the humor front, I managed to create some problems for myself, even alone in the hospital. I went to get ready for bed Sunday night, casually assured the nurse that I would be fine and didn't need help, and started to undress.
Only after I started removing my top did it occur to me: the IV in my left arm would effectively prevent me from removing anything on top.
I ran down my list of options:
1- Sleep in the clothes I'd worn all day
2- Remove clothing as best I could and just let it hang on the IV line for the night
3- Try to detach the IV line from the machine myself so I could get undressed
If you know me, you can guess which option I chose! I examined the machine first, to see if it would be easier to detach the line there, but quickly decided just to unscrew the port from the line in my arm. No problem; it came off without any problem. I removed the necessary clothing, got ready for bed, went to reattach the IV line... and ran into my brick wall.
Trying to attach a bracelet one-handed is simplistic compared to trying to screw an IV line back onto a port inserted in your arm with just one hand. My shoulders slumped as I realized I would have to call a nurse in to "confess" what I had done.
Anna, the nurse, was gracious enough to laugh with me about my predicament once she came in and I explained what I'd done. She asked me what I do for a living; I told her I had a degree in biomed engineering, and she said, "Oh, so you must know how these machines work."
"Um, no..." I said, "I just lack all appropriate sense of fear when it comes to trying something new."
"Apparently you do; most patients are hesitant to do anything involving an IV machine!"
Well, I don't fall into that category. I'm more the sort whose husband tells her before leaving for the night that she isn't allowed to take a screwdriver and remove the back of the IV machine (which, I must say, is exactly what Trent did that night before leaving for home).
So... the moral of the story is that one should not attempt to attach (or insert, for that matter) IVs one-handed. Got it?
The really sad part in all of this is that I don't know if I'd choose differently if presented with the same choice today! God certainly does protect the stupid--I'm living proof!
I think the crash I just heard from the vicinity of the living room had the unmistakable sound of lots of toys (be it food or toy kitchen pans, etc.) cascading onto the floor...
Anyway... I wanted to share this weekend's frustration. Sunday morning began with abdominal pain when I woke up, and it only increased over the next several hours. The three of us traipsed into the urgent care clinic so I could be poked and prodded. The gallstones I have were giving me problems. Since the pain continued and I didn't have the energy to care for Nathan on my own, I was admitted to the hospital and stayed overnight Sunday night in order to talk with the surgeon the following day. Silly me: I took only one book with me, which I (of course) finished Sunday night. All day Monday I felt extremely bored. TV... sleep... wander the halls (because of course I didn't sleep well on Sunday night due to restless legs syndrome kicking in)... feel frustrated with the hassles of having an IV in my left arm. By the time I talked with the surgeon around 4, I either wanted to head into surgery to have my gallbladder taken out or just go home. Argh.
On the humor front, I managed to create some problems for myself, even alone in the hospital. I went to get ready for bed Sunday night, casually assured the nurse that I would be fine and didn't need help, and started to undress.
Only after I started removing my top did it occur to me: the IV in my left arm would effectively prevent me from removing anything on top.
I ran down my list of options:
1- Sleep in the clothes I'd worn all day
2- Remove clothing as best I could and just let it hang on the IV line for the night
3- Try to detach the IV line from the machine myself so I could get undressed
If you know me, you can guess which option I chose! I examined the machine first, to see if it would be easier to detach the line there, but quickly decided just to unscrew the port from the line in my arm. No problem; it came off without any problem. I removed the necessary clothing, got ready for bed, went to reattach the IV line... and ran into my brick wall.
Trying to attach a bracelet one-handed is simplistic compared to trying to screw an IV line back onto a port inserted in your arm with just one hand. My shoulders slumped as I realized I would have to call a nurse in to "confess" what I had done.
Anna, the nurse, was gracious enough to laugh with me about my predicament once she came in and I explained what I'd done. She asked me what I do for a living; I told her I had a degree in biomed engineering, and she said, "Oh, so you must know how these machines work."
"Um, no..." I said, "I just lack all appropriate sense of fear when it comes to trying something new."
"Apparently you do; most patients are hesitant to do anything involving an IV machine!"
Well, I don't fall into that category. I'm more the sort whose husband tells her before leaving for the night that she isn't allowed to take a screwdriver and remove the back of the IV machine (which, I must say, is exactly what Trent did that night before leaving for home).
So... the moral of the story is that one should not attempt to attach (or insert, for that matter) IVs one-handed. Got it?
The really sad part in all of this is that I don't know if I'd choose differently if presented with the same choice today! God certainly does protect the stupid--I'm living proof!
August 18, 2008
Coming to Life
I finally have a reason for the nausea and general malaise that has plagued me throughout this pregnancy: an ultrasound revealed I have gallstones. How odd that such news would provide some relief... it's nice to have a reason for feeling so cruddy--even though there's nothing they'll do about it now. Usually they would remove the gallbladder, but they're understandably hesitant to perform any surgery that isn't absolutely necessary during pregnancy! I'll probably go in six weeks or so after our baby girl is delivered via c-section so they can remove my gallbladder using a laparoscopic procedure. The relief of at least knowing what's wrong means I can focus on other things, like dragging myself through the personal struggles of writing again! I received notice of another devotional collection that's soliciting manuscripts. My bargain with God is that I'll submit at least one piece for every solicitation that comes my way. There have been times I regret promising that. What is it about writing--about doing anything that is a true offering--that brings all negative internal criticism, every self-doubt you've ever had, and every negative memory of things not working out to the surface? I wrote one piece that fell short of the minimum length, then procrastinated for a month. Through force of will, I made myself finish the first piece and write a second one yesterday. I did some final polishing and sent them off just now--with a dreary voice in my head saying it's just a pointless exercise and I'm sure I'll receive a "thanks, but it didn't quite fit with what we wanted" in response. Argh. Why is it that something you're passionate about (language, writing, expressing thought and emotion) can become something you face with intense dread?
If you'll permit me some shameless self-promotion, at least I know I've been published twice already! Yay... Maybe there's more somewhere in the future.
If you'll permit me some shameless self-promotion, at least I know I've been published twice already! Yay... Maybe there's more somewhere in the future.August 13, 2008
More Surrender
My internet access is now sporadic at best (witness the near year between posts), but reading a friend's blog lit the desire to write a bit again.
Baby #2 is on the way--I'm 27 weeks, due November 12th. This pregnancy was difficult verging on impossible in the first trimester, but things were helped a couple weeks ago by learning that I apparently have gallstones. I no longer feel bad about feeling bad. Even people who aren't pregnant would agree that gallstones can leave you feeling miserable.
For now, I'm in the stage of, "I just want to feel like me again." I know my body will continue to resemble a stranger's and show me (yet again) that I cannot predict what it will do; I'd settle for feeling like myself a bit internally--energy-wise, attitude-wise, something me-wise.
It's easy as a stay-at-home mom to feel like you exist as nothing more than a response to the lives around you: take care of laundry, meals, daily discipline, cleaning, pet care and a motley host of other tasks. Somewhere in the midst of the melee, it's harder to care for yourself. I accept that, but what's harder is sometimes not even knowing what my dreams or fears are anymore. Dreams and fears for your family edge their way in until it's easy to discount yourself as a valued person with a unique worth in God's eyes--just as valued as any of your family members.
I guess it's another opportunity to think of the verse that talks about Christ "entrusting himself to the one who judges justly"--I need to trust that even when I forget who I am, God has not. He'll remind me when the time is right. Surrendering means confronting the fear that you'll never get back what was surrendered, after all.
Baby #2 is on the way--I'm 27 weeks, due November 12th. This pregnancy was difficult verging on impossible in the first trimester, but things were helped a couple weeks ago by learning that I apparently have gallstones. I no longer feel bad about feeling bad. Even people who aren't pregnant would agree that gallstones can leave you feeling miserable.
For now, I'm in the stage of, "I just want to feel like me again." I know my body will continue to resemble a stranger's and show me (yet again) that I cannot predict what it will do; I'd settle for feeling like myself a bit internally--energy-wise, attitude-wise, something me-wise.
It's easy as a stay-at-home mom to feel like you exist as nothing more than a response to the lives around you: take care of laundry, meals, daily discipline, cleaning, pet care and a motley host of other tasks. Somewhere in the midst of the melee, it's harder to care for yourself. I accept that, but what's harder is sometimes not even knowing what my dreams or fears are anymore. Dreams and fears for your family edge their way in until it's easy to discount yourself as a valued person with a unique worth in God's eyes--just as valued as any of your family members.
I guess it's another opportunity to think of the verse that talks about Christ "entrusting himself to the one who judges justly"--I need to trust that even when I forget who I am, God has not. He'll remind me when the time is right. Surrendering means confronting the fear that you'll never get back what was surrendered, after all.
November 10, 2007
John MacDonald on Writing
I am indebted to John MacDonald for his following introduction to Stephen King's collection of short stories entitled, Night Shift. As MacDonald himself writes of Stephen King, "I am entitled to hate him a little bit for this"; I wish I had written these words myself. Bless the man for finding words to many of writers' struggles and insecurities and frustrations when those battles are brushed off as being an easy way to make a living. Grrr.
"I am often given the big smiling handshake at parties (which I avoid attending whever possible) by someone who then, with an air of gleeful conspiracy, will say, 'You know, I've always wanted to write.'
I used to try to be polite.
These days I reply with the same jubilant excitement, 'You know, I've always wanted to be a brain surgeon.'
They look puzzled. It doesn't matter. There are a lot of puzzled people wandering around lately.
If you want to write, you write.
The only way to learn to write is by writing. And that would not be a useful approach to brain surgery.
Stephen King always wanted to write and he writes.
So he wrote Carrie and 'Salem's Lot and The Shining, and the good short stories you can read in this book, and a stupendous number of other stories and books and fragments and poems and essays and other unclassifiable things, most of them too wrteched to ever publish.
Because that is the way it is done.
Because there is no other way to do it. Not one other way.
Compulsive diligence is almost enough. But not quite. You have to have a taste for words. Gluttony. You have to want to roll in them. You have to read millions of them written by other people.
You read everything with grinding envy or a weary contempt.
You save the most contempt for the people who conceal ineptitude with long words, Germanic sentence structure, obtrusive symbols, and no sense of story, pace, or character.
Then you have to start knowing yourself so well that you begin to know other people. A piece of us is in every person we can ever meet.
Okay, then. Stupendous diligence, plus word-love, plus empathy, and out of that can come, painfully, some objectivity.
Never total objectivity.
At this frangible moment in time I am typing these words on my blue machine, seven lines down from the top of my page two of this introduction, knowing clearly the flavor and meaning I am hunting for, but not at all certain I am getting it.
Having been around twice as long as Stephen King, I have a little more objectivity about my work than he has about his.
It comes so painfully and so slowly.
You send books out into the world and it is very hard to shuck them out of the spirit. They are tangled children, trying to make their way in spite of the handicaps you have imposed on them. I would give a pretty to get them all back home and take one last good swing at every one of them. Page by page. Digging and cleaning, brushing and furbishing. Tidying up.
Stephen King is a far, far better writer at thirty than I was at thirty, or at forty.
I am entitled to hate him a little bit for this.
And I think I know of a dozen demons hiding in the bushes where his path leads, and even if I had a way to warn him, it would do no good. He whips them or they whip him.
It is exactly that simple.
Are we all together so far?
Diligence, word-lust, empathy equal growing objectivity and then what?
Story. Story. Dammit, story!
Story is something happening to someone you have been led to care about. It can happen in any dimension--physical, mental, spiritual--and in combinations of those dimensions.
Without author intrusion.
Author intrusion is: 'My God, Mama, look how nice I'm writing!'
Another kind of intrusion is grotesquerie. Here is one of my favorite, culled from a Big Best Seller of yesteryear: 'His eyes slid down the front of her dress.'
Author intrusion is a phrase so inept the reader suddenly realizes he is reading, and he back out of the story. He is shocked back out of the story.
Another author intrusion is a mini-lecture embedded in the story. This is one of my most grievous failing.
An image can be neatly done, be unexpected, and not break the spell. In a story in this book called 'Trucks,' Stephen King is writing about a tense scene of waiting in a truck stop, describing the people: 'He was a salesman and he kept his display bag close to him, like a pet dog that had gone to sleep.
I find that neat.
In another story he demonstrates his good ear, the ring of exactness and truth he can give dialogue. A man and his wife are on a long trip. They are traveling a back road. She says: 'Yes, Burt, I know we're in Nebraska, Burt. But where the hell are we?' He says: 'You've got the road atlas. Look it up. Or can't you read?'
Nice. It looks so simple. Just like brain surgery. The knife has an edge. You hold it so. And cut.
Now at risk of being an iconoclast I will say that I do not give a diddly-whoop what Stephen King chooses as an area in which to write. The fact that he presently enjoys writing in the field of spooks and spells and slitherings in the cellar is to me the least important and useful fact about the man anyone can relate.
There are a lot of slitherings in here, and there is a maddened pressing machine that haunts me, as it will you, and there are enough persuasively evil children to fill Disney World on any Sunday in February, but the main thing is story.
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