Fond of Blond

Hooked on Hooks

2011-09-30T11:38:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, I am still alive. I got really busy there for a while, and then by the time I had time to post again, I was so far behind in Bloggy Land that it was overwhelming to even think about getting back into it. So instead, lately I've been using my free time to get through my huge and hopefully final (and pretty treacherous) revisions, for both my books.

I'm finally done with one (hallelujah!), and now I'm into my second. And it's been really grueling actually (rewriting them in third person, among many other things). But it's been worth it. I'm so glad I've stuck with it, because it's made my Work In Progress(s) so much stronger.

So speaking of WIPs, I'm participating in Kimberly Zook's prompt, Hooked on Hooks, where we are to post the hook of our WIP (the first 3-4 sentences of the work itself) in order to get feedback. So here's the hook of my most recent WIP (The Exception). Please comment and leave your thoughts/criticism!

My Hook:

Samuel Tercy froze at theshrill scream, the aged walls of the house doing nothing to mute it. It didn’t matter how many times he’d heardit; nothing could ever prepare him for the way it ripped him apart inside. From his place in the oak tree’s underbrush,his muscles tensed and the never-ending battle waged inside him: run inside andsave the girl, or listen from the shadows undetected? Technically, he didn’t exist, so up untilnow, listening from the shadows had always triumphed over being her hero.

All Dialogue

2011-09-05T16:56:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the Lightning-bug's Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "Talk It Out."

"For this week's prompt, we'd like you to tell us a storyusing only dialogue. That's right. There can be no 'he said/shesaid,' no modifiers at all in fact. Just conversation, plain and simple,between quotes. Not that you necessarily have to use quotation marks... Tell atale through conversation and dialogue between your "characters."This can be fiction or non-fiction...and can even be poetry. Take it anywhereyou like, just talk it out and come back here next Sunday to share."

This prompt was very difficult. But, I love the way the Lightning-bug always throws us a good writing challenge! It made me realize just how important dialogue is in a piece and how equally important modifiers are to illustrate the simple things, like emotion. So even though zero modifiers or lead-ins went against everything I've learned to do as a writer, and everything I'm used to, here you go. Hopefully it's not too confusing.

This is the fourth installment in the Red Wheelbarrow (for the previous installments, visit the page above). It's a conversation between the main character, Charlene (who opens the dialogue), and a new character I'm now introducing. Because using quotes seemed pointless (and tedious), each double hard return signifies a character switch. Constructive criticism is always welcome!

You go any further and the tip of my blade emerging fromyour gut will be the last thing you see.

Farther.

What?

You said if I go any further.It’s farther.

You really wanna correct me with a knife to your back?

I just figured you’d want to know. You know, just so youdon’t make a fool of yourself the next time you’re threatening someone’s life.

Son of a—

Be careful withthat thing, sweetheart! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actuallywanted to use it.

What makes you think you know better, Mr. EnglishProfessor?

Not an English professor. Just got an education is all. Youknow, from a real school. And I know better because your voice is trembling.You won’t do anything.

My voice is nottrembling.

That was a little better.

Shut up. Don’t talk.

What, this isn’t going how you rehearsed?

I said Shut. Up.

Well, you did rehearse it, didn’t you, sweetheart? Yousound too young to be a pro. That’s also probably why you think someone who's grammatically correct is some brilliant professor.

Gramma—what?

Exactly.

You laugh one more time and I’ll actually use this knife.And I never said brilliant. You’re pretty stupid if you think sittinghere in the bare bushes like this is discreet.

Oh, discreet. Good. Sounds like you know a little.

I know a lot for someone like me, idiot. Back when thingswere still normal, before she had me, my mother was a school teacher. She’staught me everything.

Not everything, I’d say.

Who the hell do you think you are?

Oh, look. She’s getting upset…

Why are youspying on us? Who sent you to look for us?

No one sent me. I’m alone. Just trying to find a safeplace is all.

Liar. No one’s alone anymore.

I am.

You probably have some squad somewhere, waiting for your command.

I wouldn’t serve a minute for our piece-of-shitgovernment. Not anymore. Do I look like I belong in the military?

I’ve seen them use disguises.

So, how old are you, sweetheart? Twelve, thirteen?

Fifteen.

Shit! I said becareful with that thing. You even know how to use it?

I could have you gutted in a matter of seconds.

So why haven’t you?

Stop talking and let me think…

Well, if you’re all this camp has for protection I’d sayI’m coming out on top.

You know nothing. You don’t know what we’ve been through,what I’ve seen. Or what I’m capableof.

Sweetheart, I’m sure it’s the same things any soul stillliving has seen.

Don’t call methat anymore. Keep your mouth shut, put up your hands, and walk.

If you’re so hardcore, why not just gut me from behind,right here?

Stop tempting me.

I mean it. Why not?

We might need you. If you know where this meadow is,others might, too. We’ll need to know who.

I already told you, I’m alone.

Then I guess I cankill you…

Whoa, whoa. No need for that. My guts happen to be veryprecious to me, so why don’t you just lower that knife and we can talk?

Oh, now you think I’m serious?

Your voice isn’t so shaky anymore.

Turn around.

Why, so you can gut me the right way?

So I can look into your eyes.

Romantic. But you’re nearly ten years younger than me,sweet—

So I can read you. I happen to be good at that. If you’retelling the truth, I might let youlive. But no funny business.

Well, I’ll be. You’re kinda pretty for a little murderer.

What makes you think you can lower your hands? I said—

No funny business, I know. But really, sweetheart—you thinkyou could take me?

Stop. Don’t come any closer.

Look at you. You’re just a little thing. What are you,maybe a buck-five? And you gotta be crazy, being out here by yourself likethis.

I’m warning you…

John. Name’s John. And I’m the last person you need toworry about out here. Now give me the knife, sweetheart, and maybe we can makesome arrangement.

Everything's In Working Order

2011-09-03T16:58:00.000-07:00

Thanks, everyone, for the warm wishes and thoughts on Luke's surgery. I was away from the blogging world yesterday, as nearly every second was spent with Luke in my arms, so I'll have to spill my "confession" next Friday. :)

The surgery went great (as well as getting your genitals sliced can get, I suppose) and he is home healing. He's tender and has some major redness (more like purpleness), puffiness, and bruising in the area of the two stitched up incisions (I'm not posting pictures, don't worry), but he seems to be himself again, for the most part, as of this morning.

I have to be careful what positions I put him into, and I have to double-diaper him for a week. Also, no straddling anything for a while (whether it's the walker, saucer, or my hip), and hopefully, after a week or two's time, he'll be better than new.

Getting up at 2:45 a.m. and driving to Phoenix was difficult, but I really couldn't have asked for it to go smoother than it did. The surgeon also found a hernia while in the process, and fixed it up. Apparently, that's pretty common for an undescended testicle.

I'm just so grateful for the convenience and blessing of modern medicine. And I owe the smoothness of the whole process to the many prayers that were offered. I am one blessed mama.

This is the most precious picture to me. This was before they took him back, oblivious to it all.

Back view. So cute in that tiny hospital gown.

Me and the babe, right after meeting with the anesthesiologist, and right before they took him from me.

Recovering, and slowly coming out of the anesthesia.

Later that night, laying in bed with me. I was surprised to get such a big, beautiful smile.

In closing, and in honor of Sam--who is sick in bed with the flu right now--here are his most recent Samisms:

Watching me dump three scoops of formula in Luke's bottle last week, he asked, "Mom, is that baby seasoning?"
While at a stop light in Prescott, my eyes were wistfully glued to a vintage Karmann Ghia across the way (which I love, by the way, for reasons I might delve into another time), and Sam says, "Mom, why is that car so cheap?"
He calls space ships "space shits." And I don't correct him. I even bring his toy one to church with us because there's something hilarious about him yelling, "Josh, give me my space shit!" in the middle of sacrament meeting.
While wearing an old, favorite t-shirt of mine I hadn't worn in years the other day (actually, the same one I'm wearing in the above pictures), Sam said, "Whoa, Mom! Your shirt is stylish!" Yeah...Savers-chic.
I couldn't find Zeus a couple days ago and Sam matter-of-factly said, "He's probably out taking a dump." Thanks, Dave.
When asking him what snack he wanted, he replied, "I want crackers, the moldy ones."
This morning I caught him and Josh hugging (they do this frequently and it makes my heart skip a beat EVERY time), and when Josh reached up to give Sam a kiss, Sam scolded, "Josh! We don't kiss on the lips! We are boys, and boys can only kiss on the cheeks."
Yesterday morning, while wearing just a t-shirt and his underwear, he got off the couch--where he'd been playing with his doggy (his favorite stuffed animal who frequently gets the blame for naughty things and loud, annoying noises)--and told me, "I need to get some pants on so Doggy doesn't see me in my underwear."
This isn't really a Samism as much as it's just an example of his personality. I was changing Josh the other night (no, he is not potty-trained yet) at the end of a very long, stressful day, and I wasn't just on the edge; I was hanging off, by my pinkie. And because kids feed off the stress of their parents, Josh was tormenting me, making it as difficult as he could. And Sam stood by watching. Josh threw his disgusting, bursting-at-the-seams-with-urine diaper on my head and I thought Sam was going to bust a gut from laughing so hard. I barked, "It's not funny, Sam!" The tone in my voice would have scared me as a kid, but instead Sam sobered and said, "Actually, Mom. It is funny. Really funny." And he was right. It was kinda funny. I ended up laughing.

Way Too Tiny For Surgery

2011-08-31T21:13:00.000-07:00

I will be leaving for Phoenix at 3 a.m. Friday morning, just me and my little Luke. Off to the surgical center. So my tiny guy can get both his testicles where they need to be.

It's not supposed to be invasive, they say. They just make an incision, go in, find the testicle that's hiding in the abdomen, bring it down into the scrotum, close up the scrotum from the inside so it doesn't leave the sack, and sew him up in the outside. Piece of cake, right?

The surgeon/urologist says he does more than many of these, and that it's pretty standard. In and out.

But that doesn't mean I'm not stressing over having my smaller-than-average, almost-eight-month-old knocked out with anesthesia and cut open on an operating table.

In fact, I'm pretty sick about it. I can't even let myself think about it for too long or I feel my eyes start to burn. To say the least.

I wish my husband could go with me for support. Or that I had some form of support there at all.

But the kids need him here, and I don't want them there.

So it's just me and Luke.

I've done it before. After all, when Sam had his 2nd surgery at 13 months, it was the same thing. Drive down to Phoenix, just me and him. Be there when he comes to, thrashing and disoriented. Comfort him, hold him. Drive three hours home with him, praying he would sleep on the way, since I could do nothing to comfort him in the car.

They say it's pretty standard.

But I'm freaking out inside. Worried sick. Praying it's as standard as they say, that it goes smoothly, and that God will bless him with quick healing and good health, as well as steady hands on the surgeon.

I pray I'll be able to keep it together and that my baby won't be scared.

I pray it will go well and be over before we both know it.

That's all.

Wordful Wednesday: Some Days

2011-08-31T00:05:00.000-07:00

Some days are like a much-labored-over, fresh pan of lasagna falling face-first on the bottom of the oven...

Or like pencil, crayon, paint, and stickers on a freshly-cleaned counter top...

Or like bites taken out of school work...

Anyone know how to get an almost-three-year-old to stop eating paper? I'm desperate.

But then other days are like Nutella mustaches...

And cute, new baby teeth finally coming through...

And sunny, blue-eyed smiles.

I Don't Wanna Marry You

2011-08-28T16:03:00.001-07:00

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "I Wanna Marry You."

For our next prompt, I'd like you to write about a wedding. The wedding can be fictional or real; the only requirement? That a wedding appears at some point during your piece.

This is another segment from my novel, November Rain. For more, and to see where this fits in with the other segments I've posted, visit the page above.

The strangest scene played before Justice, and a faint, deadly tune was its soundtrack. A funeral?

No, there was no casket. But is sounded like a funeral. It felt like one. There was a congregation, but she wasn’t a part of it, and every person sobbed. She stood before them, at the front of a chapel, and a priest was there, too. And so was Lily, Russell’s sister that Justice had only met a few times. She and Justice were matching in dark purple gowns, the material stiff and constricting.

A wedding? The preacher started to speak, the deadly, funeral-like song still lingering in the background, and she looked around in order to find where it was coming from.

That was when she saw Raegan. Justice couldn’t see her face, since Raegan was shrouded in a black veil, but there was no question in her mind that it was her best friend. Justice sensed her, sensed her familiar dismal energy that had a long time ago killed her sunny soul. Her dress was heavy and black, unfitting for the matrimony she was clearly a part of, but fitting for the person who wore it.

Even stranger was the man, Lucas, standing with her, his large dog loyally at his side. Lucas’s hands grasped Raegan’s tightly, and he looked desperate. Happy, but desperate.

Just as the preacher was about to ask Lucas if he took Raegan as his wife, Raegan shuddered with a sob and ran from him, down the aisle and through the large church doors. Justice wanted to go after her, but she couldn’t move. And that music…

That damn tune still played in the background, and none of it made sense. Then her surroundings appeared hazy, the picture slipping away and leaving blackness in its place.

Still, the tune played.

She lay in her bed now, slowly coming to, and forced herself awake. Her phone was on her nightstand, coming to life with Raegan’s personalized ringtone. A few months ago, Raegan had stolen Justice’s phone and set it in an attempt to be morbidly funny: Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2 in B flat minor—or better known as the Funeral March.

Dare to Share: Loss

2011-08-27T07:53:00.001-07:00

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Dare to Share prompt, "Loss." One of the themes throughout one of my novels, November Rain, is Loss, so I thought it appropriate to share some of that. In fact, I'm posting the prologue to it--the introduction to the main character and her story, that sets the tone for the rest of the novel (though it's not all dark). It was a bit longer than this, so for the sake of too many words, I cut some out. As always, critique is welcome!

For more of November Rain, visit the page above.

Alone for the first time in days, Raegan Fairbanks dug her nails into the palm of her hand, staring into the blackened storm. Through a thunderous crack of white, she hardly flinched. She placed her hands on the frigid windowpane, absorbing the house’s vibration. The lightning was close, just overhead, but her vision stayed loyal to the white bench, its luster holding her eyes. It had been his, and hers, and now it was the storm’s.

Her mother was asleep upstairs, and Justice was on the couch. It was the first time Raegan hadn’t been watched like a fragile infant since Russell died. They hadn’t left her side the past three days, even laid next to her when she sobbed herself into a nightly coma. But tonight was different. Tonight they sensed her desire for solitude, and though their leash still choked her, she reveled in the temporary abandonment. In that moment with the bench.

The thought of her mother in her own bed—their bed—brought some of her fury to life, and a piece of numbness flaked to the ground. But she’d do anything to keep her mother at a distance, even if it meant tarnishing the place where her late husband once warmed her. Besides, now it was empty, cold. More fitting for the bitter woman atop it.

Her late husband. A woman in her twenties shouldn’t have to think that profane term. It aged her, pulled her to the ground. It gave gravity a win as it had its way with her. Three days and she went from twenty-eight to eighty-two.

Rain pelted the glass pane in a sideways fury as it had the last three days. It was unusual, but fitting. The universe seemed to mourn with her, letting her know Russell’s undue absence was known to the heavens. It seemed to threaten her fondest memory, consume the bench as though it was its own.

Three days. It didn’t matter how short the time was; there was no way she could go back and change it. He’d been there, in that very kitchen, and now he was…where?

…

His things haunted her, the memories tearing through her. She looked back to the sinister yard, puddles swallowing the browning lawn. The white bench at the base of the cottonwood tree replaced the sting of trivial reminders with the throb of a precious memory. It’d been her birthday surprise last year, handmade. He’d apologized for its crooked panels when lifting the sheet, revealing the thoughtful token of his love.

She wanted to keep it forever, wanted to take it back from the storm.

Riveted by the bright, crooked panels, she unlatched the back door and walked outside, shivering as the almost frozen November rain beat against her. Russell had always said rain smelled of a cleansing shower, of a new start. But tonight it reeked of loss.

Surrounded by darkness, she warily made her way to the bench, her bare feet sloshing through the muddy puddles. Water cascaded relentlessly down her face and blurred her vision, the bench appearing as a smear of white.

She mindlessly sat, saturating her clothes—his clothes. She ran her hands over the sopping panels, feeling the rough, splintery spots as affectionately as the pieces still glazed in glossy finish. Her fingers took in every touch, extra sensitive to embrace the feel she once took for granted.

Her tears poured to match the vibrancy of the rain as she imagined his solid, sturdy figure, hunched to carve her gift. She imagined white paint stains in his hair, speckling his arms and callused hands. As if able to connect her to him, she laid against the uneven panels, planting her cheek against the sodden wood. Creaking, it spoke of the many memories. Sunny afternoons, late nights, and even an early morning.

In the fetal position she sobbed, trying to press every inch of her aching body against it in the hope its touch could heal her, in the hope that the material reminder would feed his void. Like a roaring freight train, the rainfall intensified and buckets poured over her, attempting to take it back. Attempting to revive a lost cause.

Lightning flashed and thunder cracked—temporarily lighting her surroundings. Strings of hair hindered her view, but she was sure a figure was beside her. Unable to force movement of her limbs, unable to turn to see more clearly, she let herself believe it was him.

“I’m sorry,” she hoarsely cried at the apparition, her teeth chattering. She hardly noticed her fingers and toes numbing in the icy rainfall, hardly noticed as her swollen eyes closed and her body deadened in drowsiness.

She heard a murmur above her, maybe even her name. And before blacking out, she dreamed the added pressure of a warm hand on her shuddering back was Russell—there to wake from her nightmare.

To Walmart Elderlies Everywhere:

2011-08-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

I did a post similar to this already, but because unsolicited advice is thrown at me in a continual stream--and because just the other day I wanted to explode with some more "Eff Offs," and Just Jennifer created a new meme at just the perfect time--I'm going to vent. Again.

So here is my first installment of Fantasy Eff Off Friday. Got something you need to vent about, someone you want to lash out? Go link up!

If you're an avid follower of my blog, you probably know I hate Walmart. With a passion. I'm grateful for the convenience, but there's just something about being there that makes me agitated and on-edge. Beyond the vast spaciousness or the confusion that comes because they've moved something to a different aisle yet again, or even beyond the fact that the items I need always seem to be out of stock or off the shelves.

Or even beyond the fact that I ask Sam if he needs to go potty when we first get there, and every time he says no. And--every time--thirty minutes into it, he decides he does have to go...soooo bad. Now that I have my cart full of merchandise. And no merchandise is allowed in the restrooms. And I can't send him in alone. Or leave my cart with the other kids outside the restroom alone.

Even beyond that.

I turn into Momzilla as I'm pushing that cart down the aisle, trying with all my willpower not to ram into old women in motorized carts, slow people, or just those people who love to block the aisle in general. I. Just. Want. To. Get. Out of there. I'm alone with all three kids. And that says it all. Josh opening the shampoo and squirting it all over himself, the cart, and inside my diaper bag when I'm not looking: that says it all.

Oh, great. Another trip to the bathroom. Where I ask the lady employee giving me the evil eye to watch my cart, since I can't take it into the bathroom with me. She looks overwhelmed just from looking at my kids, and can hardly nod. I take that as a yes and leave her alone with my stuff. Trusting she's not some thief, since my wallet is in there, too.

So, if you see me at Walmart, with a red face, a sweat-gleamed brow, and steam coming from my ears, it's probably best just to keep walking. Keep your mouth shut, try to ignore my bad parenting, and whatever you do, do not make eye contact.

I ask myself, why does it seem like the unsolicited advice always occurs at Walmart? And why do I keep going to such a monopolized mall when I hate it so much?

Oh yeah. The convenience. They're cheap, and usually have everything. The less stops I have to make and the less times I have to drag my kids out of the car, the better. So you win, Walmart. Again. As always.

And Wednesday was particularly bad. We'd just gotten done spending an hour at the ER so they could followup on Josh's stitches--an hour of waiting, just so they could take a gander and tell me everything looked fine. It was just me and my kids, and when it's just me and my kids in settings such as doctors or hospitals, they love to make me miserable.

Even beyond the way they do at Walmart.

This time, they all decided to cry at the same time. Sam kept pulling back the curtain to the space next to us, where some sickly woman waited. He also had to yell and run around, since he knew it was a place he shouldn't.

Then there was Josh. When he wasn't crying from being back in that place, he was also pulling back the curtain, swinging on it, and dancing in it. And I tried to control them, people, I really did. But when I have the joyous background noise of Luke's screams, I have to weigh my priorities. Preserve everyone's hearing, or hold down my kids?

I picked preserve everyone's hearing. Especially because I heard the woman next to me tell the doctor she had a migraine. And when I decide to feed Luke, my kids know my hands are tied. And they become even more out-of-control.

Sometimes I just wish I had six arms. And that's what I wanted to say to all the silent watchers. That and, "No, I'm not a single parent. I just feel like it sometimes."

And, "Yes, I did have to bring them all."

Needless to say, all I got were either looks of pity or looks of chastisement.

Ugh.

And then to top it off, I had to lug all three kids to the car afterward during a massive monsoon. Massive.

Oh, and we were parked as far away from the entrance as we could be. By the time we got to the car, we were completely soaked through, Josh was crying (he hates water), and Luke was screaming. I guess there was one good thing though. Sam was laughing, since he loves getting wet.

That was when we ventured to Walmart. Stupid, you might say? Why not wait until someone is with you, you ask?

In our situation, it doesn't matter if all the kids are crying, it's raining, or I'm tired. If we are in town, we have to take advantage of Walmart. We have to knock down the shopping list, since we don't have the convenience of living close to civilization. We take advantage while we are there, before we venture 1.5 hours home.

We waited in the car for a bit, until the rain slowed, and when we finally got out, I put the baby, in the car seat, at the top of the cart, Josh in the main part of the cart, and Sam walking next to us (thought I wish he wasn't, since he runs up and down the aisles and gets into everything). Oh, and the diaper bag is in there with Josh, too, getting ransacked.

So, where do I fit the hoards of groceries I have to get?

My only option--unless I let Josh walk, too, which I try to avoid, since he wreaks more havoc than Sam, and I wouldn't be able to accomplish a single thing in that store--is to have Josh stand by the diaper bag in the cart and hold on tight.

And now that I'm typing this, I'm thinking that maybe I should get a leash. Hmm...good idea. Kinda wish I would have thought of it sooner.

Anyway, when the groceries start piling up, I did just that: made him stand. And that's when the looks of judgment come. And the comments. All from old people who haven't had kids in probably fifty years.

"Sit down, young man!" an old man told him, as though he was his guardian and I wasn't standing right there. As though I'm some dense breeding machine who isn't fit for parenting. "That is dangerous! There are hundreds of deaths each year by kids who've fallen out of shopping carts!"

And even more irritating was how stern his voice was, like Josh was being horribly naughty.

I. Swear. To. Hell. I will punch you.

Instead I glared, fuming inside. I stayed silent as he sent me his reproaching eyes and I sent him the eyes of a defiant daughter in return, and then he eventually passed.

Seriously, where does he come off?

Next, another old man, glaring at my rowdy kids in passing, jeers, "How many more are you gonna pop out?"

I laugh politely, not trying to hide the edge coming through, and move my feet faster, desiring to be outside those Walmart doors even more desperately now. Especially because I noticed Josh was tearing holes in all the boxes of pasta I just put in the basket.

Next, I'm standing there, comparing two products and trying to determine the best value with the coupons I spent too much time searching for, and the kids are taking advantage of my loss of attention. Because if I had my attention on them 100% of the time, there's no way I'd be able to shop. And they know that.

By this point, Josh is out of the cart because there is simply no room for him, and both he and Sam are racing down the aisle and knocking things down. I stop what I'm doing and sternly snap, "STOP running. NOW!"

An older couple passes, and the woman says under her breath to her Marlon-Brando-in-his-older-years-looking husband, "You hear that? You hear her?"

Really, woman? I will chuck this carton of eggs at your head.

Lastly, not even a minute later, I have the kids herded at the basket, my eyes still comparing products, and the kids decide to start crying, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!..."

"Kids!" I yell. "Stop! For just one second!" I feel like Chris Farley as the bus driver on Billy Madison.

"Aw," the old lady next to me says, sending her mushy grandmother-like stare at my boys, "They just want your attention, Mommy. They're not misbehaving, they're just telling you they love you. Nothing wrong with that."

And there you have it: the WORST comment of that day. I felt my eyes twitching as my heart raced, and I clenched my fist in an attempt to keep myself in check. Before I could kick her in the throat, I stormed off, forgetting the eggs I needed in the process.

Because apparently I'm a self-absorbed mom who pays no attention to my attention-starving children.

Lady, you had NO idea what my kids were putting me through that day. In fact, you do not know my kids at all, or the way they misbehave vs. the way they show affection.

To all of you who felt it was your place to judge me on yet another stressful, hair-pulling trip into town on Wednesday, I say....

Eff Off!

Sigh. There. I said it.

Maybe next time I will actually get the guts to say it to their faces.

Probably not. Which means I will continue to use my blog as my venting platform.

Friday's Confession Booth: Satanic Dentists

2011-08-26T09:24:00.000-07:00

First of all, I want to say I'm excited to be participating in Kristen's (at A Little Something For Me) new blog meme: Friday's Confession Booth. Got a juicy confession you want to unload? Or even a less-juicy one? Anything goes, so go on over and link up!

Confession #1: I haven't been to the dentist since (oh my gosh, I can't believe I am about to admit this ~~out loud~~)...before I got married.

Gulp.

That's right. Eight years. Gasp, judge, cringe, think me white trash. I don't care.

~~I hate the dentist.~~ I LOATHE the dentist. Not them, personally. I'm sure they're great guys. And you cute dental hygienist chics? Love you.

But get your hands away from my mouth. You ever think that just maybe I like my bacteria-infested mouth the way it is?

Okay, we both know I don't, or I wouldn't be there. But I want to throw a tantrum when I think about going--two-year-old style. And I know these are big words, but ~~I think~~ I mean it when say I'd rather give birth than go to the dentist.

And that's coming from someone who's given natural childbirth twice, and prefers it that way.

There's just something about my teeth, and people's hands, and sharp instruments that makes me want to run screaming. It's so unbelievably uncomfortable, sitting there with your mouth pried open and instruments scraping at your gums/teeth. So today I sat there, knuckles white, as I grasped my shirt in my fists and closed my eyes, willing it to be over...

...And made unflattering grunting sounds in response to the stories Mrs. RDH was telling about her son. They don't really expect you to answer, do they--with their claws, blades, vacuums, and hoses down your mouth?

But I ~~don't~~ have an excuse for not ever going the past eight years. I know, blaming it on the kids is a poor one, but I'm still going to use it. That, and I've always been told by every dentist that I had amazing teeth, so....if I have amazing teeth, why go?

Well, I learned a couple lessons today, and I'll get to those.

I went to the dentist every year before I got married, got the routine cleanings, etc. And in all that time, I've never needed braces and have only had one tiny cavity. Dentists have told me I'm lucky.

And then I got married and my parents could no longer force me to go. So I stopped. I thought, I never have cavities. My teeth are strong.

And then we come to confession #2: I never floss either. Like, hardly ever.

And confession #3? I usually never brush my teeth more than once a day.

And you thought I was disgusting in the beginning?

At least I learned my lesson, though. I'm telling you, people, no matter how satanic the dentist is, if you ever plan on going back again some day, do not skip your yearly/twice-yearly checkups! You. Will. Regret. It. It makes all the torture that much worse.

Torture at its finest. Pure, pure Hell.

Blood-squirting. I'm not making this up. It actually squirted, and by the end her latex gloves were covered in it. She says it might be because I'm still nursing and the hormones make your gums more sensitive. But I just think she needed to be more sensitive.

Gagging. I chocked on a mix of water, my own blood, and my own tooth crap, and ended up spewing it all over the front of me. Drenching my shirt, my hands, my legs, and my arms in pinkish, watery goo. Gosh, aren't you loving this post? I know, this could have happened to any regularly-going patient, but maybe if I had more practice going, I would know how to NOT breath the crap in that's running down the back of my throat. Little vacuum, you sucked. Or....rather, you didn't suck.

Scraping. Oh, the scraping. I swear, she was trying to sculpt the statue of David in my teeth with that little hooked dagger.

And the watermelon-flavored gel stuff? Do they think giving it a melon flavor is going to make it appealing? Well, it doesn't. I still gagged.

And seriously, lady? Again...my gums have feeling. Stop man handling and be a little gentle with the weapon in your hand. When I cringe and you see blood, that's my body's way of saying BE GENTLE!

So after eight years of dentist-free teeth, and an almost two-hour-long ~~torture~~ cleaning, here are the results: Aside from the massive tooth-aches from all the "work," I have four cavities. Dis. Gust. Ing. I know. It grosses me out, too. And one of those cavities will most likely be a root canal. Ugh, FML.

And on top of that? My wisdom teeth--the ones my old dentist (he's probably dead by now) told me I'd never have to worry about since they were coming in straight up? Well, they didn't. One of them is coming in straight to the side, gunning right for my molar. Who knew?

Not me. I've never had pain from it or anything. But regardless, I have to get it removed. And while I'm getting it removed, why not get all of them out? (Dentist's words, not mine)

Seriously. I'm almost twenty-nine and I'll be getting my wisdom teeth out. Ugh. Again, FML.

Did I mention I hate dental work?

But it's my fault. No more missing my daily flossing, or even my nighttime brushing. No more treating the dentist like the plague.

It's often those who have healthy teeth that think they're in the clear and don't care for them like they should.

Ah, thanks, Dentist. I should make that into a cute vinyl saying and put it on my living room wall.

I guess I should have just listened to my husband when he got on my ass about flossing every night. I bet you can't guess what his words were when I got home?

See, I told you so.

A Night at the ER

2011-08-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

We had an eventful night on Sunday. I was making dinner, our dinner guests had just arrived, and out the window I hear Josh crying. He falls a lot outside, so I didn't think anything of it at first. After all, I was busy. But after about thirty seconds, he didn't stop, so I looked out the window and my heart twisted inside my stomach.

Blood was pouring down his face and onto the ground (though Zeus did a good job of cleaning it up), and I immediately called for Dave. He's so much better at handling stuff like that. I kind of freak out inside and get queasy and wonder if my baby is going to live. But Dave is calm and knows what to look for and how to handle blood and injuries.

Turns out Josh had face-planted on the cement and cut his lip wide open on a rock.

Long story short, I ended up driving him to Prescott to get stitches, while Dave stayed to entertain our other kids and the dinner guests. As you can imagine, I panicked inside a little, seeing how Prescott is an hour and a half away.

But I held it together, for Josh. And geez, I didn't even need to. If anyone was holding together anything for anyone, it was him being strong for me. He was so good and brave. Of course we had to wait in the ER for 2+ hours, and that whole time he was his chatty, normal self, though his talking was impaired from his swollen lip (yes became "yesh").

The stitching process was a bit harsh, though. They had to wrap him in a sheet and while I held down his feet, one nurse held down his upper half, and the PA stitched him up.

And he screamed the whole time. Screamed and cried. And I soothed. While tilting my head in the other direction.

But as soon as it was over and they unwrapped him, he stood on the hospital bed--still sweaty, still semi-crying, and exhausted--and while doing the hand sign, said, "All done!"

And I have to say that other than the stitching-it-up part, me and Josh actually enjoyed our time together that night. Kind of like a little six-hour date to the ER, topping it off with an-almost-midnight run to Walgreen's.

A few minutes after it happened. The blood is covering it, but he had a deep slice at the bottom of his top lip, from the inside of his mouth to the outside.

Waiting in the ER for someone to look at it. But the three old women smokers in wheelchairs with oxygen got first priority.

That night when we got home, cuddling with Daddy. With a swollen, stitched up lip. Still, he was as happy as ever.

The next day, on the way to the park. And wearing Daddy's hat.

Today, day 4. When he woke up from his nap, the scab was gone! Stitches are still in tact and everything is looking good!
Except that scab I found in his bed. Ew. I still get the chills just thinking about it.

The injuries seem to keep piling up with my kids, and while each of them have had their fair shares (Sam: two surgeries before the age of 1, stitches on his ear at age two. Josh: the scorpion sting, other minor injuries, and this. Luke: upcoming surgery September 2), I feel like Josh is the most accident-prone. That kid is always having bad things happen to him.

And maybe it's because he's more daring than Sam and takes more risks, but he gets the brunt of it all. Last summer it seemed to be at its worst. The day after his scorpion sting, he'd gotten bit by a friend's hamster, then two nights later, he'd almost suffocated while sleeping, and three weeks later, he'd gotten his whole big toenail knocked off by a heavy door.

That was gruesome.

But still, no stitches.

And I thought we were safe this summer.

Lesson: Never think you're safe.

Yes, I do get overwhelmed sometimes from all the things that happen to my kids, but really, I feel like this is normal stuff every little kid goes through.

Then I have moms tell me they can't believe all I go through with my kids--moms with two kids, and even some moms with five kids, who've never had a bad thing happen to them. So, what's normal? That, or stitches, accidents, and surgeries?

Or is there even a normal?

Oh, and how do those parents with piece-of-cake kids not have things like that happen to them? What are they doing? Or is it just luck?

Anyway, regardless, I feel extremely blessed. While it's hard being a mommy and having to hold down your child in the hospital as they stitch up his lip/ear, while ~~trying not to vomit from the queasy feeling in your stomach~~ trying not to look, yet speak soothing words at the same time, and your heart's breaking for what they have to go through...I think I have it pretty dang good.

My kids are healthy. They have all their fingers, toes, and other limbs, and everything is fully functional (as far as I know). So I have no right to complain. I feel like the luckiest gal in the world.

And I'm sure I will have to endure many more stitches in the coming years. Maybe even some broken bones.

In fact, for sure some broken bones. Because they are boys.

Worst Memory

2011-08-23T15:55:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt, "Your Worst Memory."

I had to copy and paste from an old RemembeRED post for this, one about affection, because by far, this experience is the worst memory of my life: when Josh got stung by a scorpion last summer. And rather than rewrite the same story, I'll just paste my same words here:

Never had physical touch meant more to me. What if I never got the chance to touch my baby again, while life still flowed through his veins and his soul still resided in his new, perfect, cherub-like body?

The last hour had been Hell. The worst Hell I'd ever experienced as a mom, and I could only pray I'd never experience worse. We do all in our power to protect our children from the millions of threats in this scary, uncertain world, and all it took was five minutes without my attention. Five minutes for that little intruder to make its way into our kitchen and attack my baby as though he was the one trespassing.

They call them "bark" scorpions, and they are everywhere in Bagdad, Arizona. We usually spray on a monthly basis, but sometimes we go longer. Sometimes we miss a month because, really, what could go wrong?

Well, everything went wrong. And I will never miss a month again.

It stung my child on his finger, and when he first started screaming, I knew what it was, even though I couldn't see it. And there it was, hiding under his toys. I was worried, but because I'd heard scorpion stings weren't much worse than a wasp sting, I let him cry. And cry.

But he wouldn't stop, and I grew extremely worried.

Especially when he started trembling. He started seizing as soon as we got him to the Bagdad clinic--the last place equipped for this. His tiny, eighteen-month-old body jolted around in my arms, and I didn't understand how it could be so bad. But I later learned that the poison attacks the nervous system in bodies so small, and would attack it for over twenty-four hours if we let it.

I held him tight, my tears wetting his white-blond hair, while he moaned and his limbs moved about uncontrollably. They told me to hold his arms down, keep him tight, and I was in shock. In shock that I had to do such a preposterous thing.

Please, God, I prayed. Please heal my baby. I passed my love--strong enough to move a mountain--into him, telling the universe to make him better.

But it didn't.

An hour later the helicopter finally came to fly him to Phoenix Children's, because they were the best equipped for the situation. His seizing was worse, his eyes in the back of his head, and they took him from my arms. They burned, and so did my chest, and my round, pregnant belly felt more sick than it ever had. They told me his daddy should ride in the helicopter with him because it wasn't safe for a pregnant mother.

So I sobbed again, my soul in anguish and my heart throbbing.

And the 2.5 hour drive to Phoenix was the most painful 2.5 hours in all my life.

Please, I cried out loud, I will never complain about having to hold him again, I swear. I will never complain that he needs me too much. My arms were empty and I craved--more than I'd ever craved anything--his affection. His arms snug around my neck, his laugh in my ear.

Please, give me at least one more opportunity to see him again. Please, please, please. Please don't take him from me.

His song--the song I sing to all my children--came on the radio, track eleven's turn, and my trembling hands turned it off. Prematurely mourning, yet fighting with all of me to will him to live. But in the silence I heard the helicopter overhead, reminding me my baby was way too far away, in the sky with his father...too close to living with his other Father.

And, many tears later, his Father heard my prayers, knew I simply could not survive without my Joshua. The Children's hospital was the only hospital in the state that had any vials of scorpion anti-venom--four, to be precise.

And four just happened to be the exact amount he needed.

Coincidence?

I think not. A miracle, in its fullest.

And within two hours, his muscles relaxed, and I held that lethargic, perfect baby as long as I could. And even all night wasn't enough.

Red Writing Hood: Home

2011-08-19T15:27:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the Write on Edge (formerly the Red Dress Club) Red Writing Hood prompt, "Home."

Your assignment: You must begin your story with the words “We had to leave immediately” and end it with “And then we realized we were already home.”

The middle part is up to you.

This is the third installment of the Red Wheelbarrow. For the first two "chapters," visit the Red Wheelbarrow page at the top. Comments and critique are welcome!

We had to leave immediately. I was five then, and Mama was pregnant with Rose. I didn’t want to go, even though the place smelled bad. I was used to the smell, used to playmates and packed cots.

Now, years later, I realize the scent that permeated our “home” was burnt flesh. And body odor, too. And I’m ill from the thought that the smell had once been comfortable to me.

There were too many of us crammed inside, hiding from the soldiers. Most were sick or injured.

But then we got word that the virus was there, the one that had started on the East Coast, and Mama wouldn’t stay another night. She took me away in the night, when the only thing lighting our escape was the full moon and the smoke-lit sky to the east. Where a place called Denver used to be.

We hid from the soldiers for days, squeezing into small, tight places, until we found a dirt road—one Mama said was in the middle of nowhere. She said she wanted me and the unborn baby as far away from civilization as possible. Or at least what remained of it.

I didn’t understand then. I was only aware of my fear and Mama’s hand, and the fact that I hadn’t seen Daddy since the day the soldiers ripped him from Mama’s arms one month before.

Mama had cried for days when he’d left, and so had I, even though I hadn’t understood that he was gone forever.

And now all I have of him is the sound of his jaunty laugh when he’d spin me until I was dizzy. I had liked feeling dizzy then, but after he’d left, and when Mama and I were on the run, it made me homesick. For the man I hardly remember. And sometimes even for that old warehouse we and so many others called home my first five years of life.

Mama and I traveled for days. She had to stop a lot to rest, sometimes to throw up. And sometimes nothing would come out and she would gag until I felt sick, too. She said it was the baby, and I hated the baby.

But then Mama had her, and I didn’t know how to hate something so tiny. I loved her then, especially because Mama let me name her. I named her Rose, because to this day, I’ve still never seen one. Mama used to talk about them all the time, about their beauty and their perfume smell.

A few days after Mama had Rose, she bundled her up in her jacket and we continued to travel. I whined a lot, but Mama told me there was nowhere safe.

Then we saw the abandoned house. It was the only one we’d seen without broken windows and doors. The only one that hadn’t been ransacked. The mountains on the evening we found it were majestic, and not so far from the house. And in that moment, I imagined I was a normal little girl, with a normal house in a normal world.

The cupboards weren’t bare, and there were some clothes and supplies. There were even chickens and farming equipment outback, a shiny red wheelbarrow catching my eye. And it wasn’t until our second day there that Mama found the body. The man was white and covered in wrinkles, and Mama said he’d died from old age. She buried him out back, behind the chicken coup, and I helped cover him in dirt.

And she shed tears. When I asked her why she was crying, she said it was because she wished I knew the value of a life, wished that seeing a dead body wasn’t something so normal for me. And again, I didn’t understand.

For the first few weeks at the house, I missed the company and stability of the warehouse. And so did Mama, I think, because she cried a lot, almost every time Rose did. When I asked her if she thought they were all still alive, she cried harder. And that told me she thought not.

Then eventually tears turned into smiles, and smiles into laughter. I wasn’t so homesick for Daddy anymore, or even the warehouse. We were happy, and Mama even swung me around until I was dizzy.

And then we realized we were already home.

"Not Me!"

2011-08-19T08:56:00.000-07:00

Ah, the "Not Me!" Ghost.

I always love when it comes to visit.

I grew up on Family Circus comics. And the "Not Me!" ghost was always one of my favs, even as a little kid. And until I was a mom, I never realized just how true to life it was.

And you think the "Not Me!" ghost is sneaky with just one kid? Well, it's even more cunning with two.

When I was cooking dinner last night, the three kids were in the family room watching a Brainy Baby video, being quiet and wonderful in the process. Then, all the sudden, Luke started crying out of nowhere. He's teething and, well...he's Luke, so I thought nothing of it. He cries like that quite often if I'm not holding him.

So, with my hands all slicked up in raw hamburger, I continued to ~~labor away~~ stuff the manicotti shells, quickening my pace so I could ~~silence the piercing, damaging-to-your-eardrum screaming~~ come to his rescue.

Fifteen minutes went by, and he was still crying. Of course. I felt bad, but it's Luke. And I had to make dinner. I have to earn my way around here somehow.

When I finally had dinner in the oven, the counter washed off, and my hands washed, I rushed into the family room.

And I felt horrible.

Luke was covered in water, from head to toes, drenching everything and even running down his back. And he'd been sitting that way in his bouncer seat for the past fifteen minutes.

Immediately, I looked to Sam and Josh with narrow eyes, the both of them standing back with arms behind their backs and pleasant looks on their faces. That was when I noticed empty sippy cups. Then water all over the couch, and floor, too.

Luke was still screaming during my assessment, so I picked up my soaking baby, dried him off a little, and snuggled him (feeling bad for not coming to his rescue sooner), and then the questioning started.

Me: Who did this?
Sam: Josh. Josh did it!
Me: Josh, did you do it?
Josh (shaking his head): No!
Me: Did you pour water on your baby brother, and all over the family room?
Josh (shaking his head): No.
Me: Sam, no lying. Tell me the truth. Did you do this?
Sam: No, Mom, it wasn't me. It was Josh. He did it.
Me: So am I to believe it was some mysterious ghost? I'm not stupid. There's water everywhere and you two are the only ones in here. One of you did it. I'm giving you both one last chance to tell the truth. One. Last. Chance. Sam, did you do it?
Sam: No.
Me: Josh, did you do it?
Josh: No, Mommy. No pour water, baby.
Me (looking around for the "Not Me!" ghost, shrugging his shoulders and running from the room): Fine. Then you will BOTH go to time out.

Damn that "Not Me!" ghost. He got me again. And those poor kids had to suffer for it.

Defy Gravity

2011-08-18T13:51:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "Write a short story prompted by your favorite song."

Though I have way too many favorite songs, all for different reasons, my all-time favorite is Defying Gravity, from the Broadway musical, Wicked.

Do it: call me a theater geek. I dare you.
Click here to listen to the song.

I've heard it my whole life. I've heard it from everyone.

And now, I've heard it enough.

The same words resounded inside me, thrown from my mind and into my heart at every turn. Every wrong choice, every action that only expressed my individuality. But individuality is wrong, they told me.

I believed them. I had to be like the rest, be perfect. I had to love the boy who pretended to be perfect, too, but on the inside was deteriorating. Being worn to nothing because his mistakes had made him worthless. His mistakes that he vowed to forever hide.

But that boy would marry someday. Not me, since I didn't measure up. Instead he would marry a girl who is naive and perfect, just as they push me to be.

And that boy will be a man, a man who no longer can hide his mistakes.

And that girl will be a woman, crushed by the opening of her eyes, by the reality that this man was never in fact perfect like she, and so many others, were lead to believe. The reality that no man ever was.

And he will become "not good enough."

No righteousness, no straight behavior, no obedience could ever make him that way.

And that woman will sob. She will cry every night, wondering how she was fooled. Wondering if she could find someone better. A better man, with a cleaner past.

But I know she will be wrong. And that their marriage will fail.

So I consider myself lucky. I consider myself saved from such repression. I see it now, see the way they are. See them for what they are: the imperfect people, quite beautiful in their self-acceptance, and the facade of those who think they are perfect.

And no longer do I feel the guilt that destroys so many others. No longer do I let their standards repress me. No longer do I think I'm unworthy and ugly, because of past mistakes, or even things I love.

Because those things make me me. Those things make me the beautiful individual I was always told to avoid. The one everyone shunned. The one I was told would never truly be happy.

And to them I say you're wrong. Away from them I fly, high and far away, where judgmental eyes no longer penetrate and self-righteous words no longer scar.

I am free.

I am me.

Defying Gravity

Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game
Too late for second guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes...and leap!

It's time to try
Defying gravity
I think I'll try
Defying gravity
And you can't pull me down!

I'm through accepting limits
'Cause someone says there're so
Some things I cannot change
But 'til I try, I'll never know
Too long I've been afraid of
Losing love I guess I've lost
Well, if that's love
It comes at much too high a cost!

I'd sooner buy
Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye
I'm defying gravity
And you can't pull me down!

...

So if you care to find me
Look to western sky!
As someone told me lately:
"Everyone deserves the chance to fly!"
And if I'm flying solo
At least I'm flying free
To those who'd ground me
Take a message back from me
Tell them how I am
Defying gravity
I'm flying high
Defying gravity
And soon I'll match them in renown
And nobody in all of Oz
No wizard that there is or was
Is ever gonna bring me down!

(Glinda)
I hope you're happy!

(Citizens of Oz)
Look at her, she's wicked!
Get her!

What a powerful message about rising above the people who bring us down--the people who judge us and try to steer us in a certain direction. What a powerful message about being yourself and staying true, no matter what it brands you as!

I've always gotten the chills from the power of this song, but as I watched it for the first time last summer, it brought tears to my eyes. What a moving experience to watch Elphaba literally rise in the air, cape nearly covering the entire stage, and sing those final notes of the song with such a power that even her enemies could no longer pull her down.

It was moving in more ways than just great theatrics. It was moving because of the message it portrayed.

Though the above "story" I wrote comes from a fictional place (mostly), I think we've all experienced some kind of "rising above the pressure." Maybe some more than others. But in one way or another, we can all relate.

In fact, I could have dedicated this post to a certain loved one of mine, because she has experienced this to the fullest. Finally, as a full-grown adult, she came into her own. And she's happy. And I love her for that.

That's why this song is my favorite. Not just because it's beautiful, that Elphaba's story is inspiring, or even that it's fun to sing to, but because of the message. Defy gravity.

A New Tooth!

2011-08-17T11:34:00.000-07:00

Here's what we've been up to the past couple weeks:

Lots of playing outside...

And watching from the inside...

"Building campfires" (in Sam's words)...

Growing...

My Zeusers is getting bigger every day.

Revising...

At least I had some pretty flowers to look at while doing it last night, thanks to the hubs. :)

Being beautiful and cute...

And lastly: getting teeth!

Or, tooth, I should say. Yesterday I finally noticed Luke's first tooth coming through. I was surprised because he's getting them much sooner than Sam and Josh did, but I'm not surprised because that explains his grumpy behavior and why he hasn't been sleeping.

I know it's really hard to see, but it's coming up on his left side.

Hooray! I will miss those baby gums though. There's something about toothless baby gums that just makes me grind my teeth (because they're so cute, of course).

Link up with Amanda and Angie for your Wordful Wednesday!

"Paging Doctor House"

2011-08-17T10:59:00.001-07:00

I've lost faith in doctors over the years. The more I watch dramatized doctor or hospital TV shows, and the more I experience the doctors in real life, the more I realize how most of them actually couldn't care less about their patients. They make their money the moment we walk in the door, so why try? Move along so I can get to my next ~~number~~ patient who'll fork out the dough.

I'm not discounting anyone who's had great experiences with doctors, or who've been saved by a doctor. My husband was one of them. Nor am I trying to offend anyone who is a doctor or knows one personally. I just hope, for their patients' sake, they're good at it. That they care.

I'm just saying there needs to be more of the caring. A LOT more. The way it works is messed up. But it's always been this way. And it works for them because as mortal human beings, we need doctors. And we will always come back. Even though we are paying them.

I hear amazing stories from people who've had doctors find things wrong with them, or cure them, and it makes me grateful for modern medicine. I really am. And I'm glad for those miracles in people's lives. Like I said, my hubby was one of those people. Thanks to a doctor's "hunch"--a doctor who wasn't just mindlessly going along with the motions and actually cared--my husband's cancer as a teenager was caught early enough to eliminate it. I will forever be grateful for that.

So why does it seems near impossible to find a doctor that still goes by "hunches"? Is it too much to ask that a doctor actually take careful consideration of his patients' problems, instead of viewing them as just another number?

Again, we are paying them. So why does it feel like ~~they are robbing us~~ we are wasting their precious time?

It's absolutely maddening, and quite effed up.

Did they really go through the hell of medical school, just to blow off a patient's issues? Just to forget about them and their problem the moment that patient walks out the door, not even giving them another thought until the next time they walk in that door? And then, when they know the patient is miserable and desperate for an answer, not even call with certain test results?

"Hey, receptionist, let's mail the results instead, make him/her wait a little longer, and then when he/she calls to get more information, tell him/her I won't talk to him/her unless he/she makes an appointment to see me and pays me another $100...just so I can tell him/her I don't have a clue what's wrong!" Evil, evil laugh.

As exaggerated as that seems, I don't think it's too far from the truth.

Are there any doctors out there that still care about the patient, and that when the patient says he/she is going through hell, they actually believe them--even though it's a problem they've never heard of?

After so much evidence to the contrary, I say no. If there are ones who do, we've yet to find them. Just because they've "never seen that issue" in all their thirty years of experience doesn't mean it's not legit. Figure it out. Diagnose. Care, just a little.

Hell, I'd take Dr. House's horrible bedside manner any day if it meant having a doctor who would ~~obsess over the problem until he figured it out~~ actually try to solve the medical problem instead of forgetting about it just because it was something he didn't normally deal with.

YOU'RE A DOCTOR. DO YOUR EFFING JOB.

Happy Eight Years

2011-08-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again, where I'm nearly thrown on my back by just how fast time has gone by. Our anniversary. It seems like just yesterday we met at the church, went through a rocky, but cherished, relationship, got married, spent precious time together, just me and him, and realized we were expecting our first child. After three years of late nights, late mornings, and only worrying about ourselves.

Now, all the sudden, we have three kids and eight years have flown by. It's CRAZY, I tell you. We aren't even the same people we were back then.

We are better now, more seasoned (ha! I'll be saying to myself ten or twenty years in the future as I read this). Our marriage doesn't go without its hiccups, and things definitely aren't easy anymore.

But I love Dave more everyday, and I am so grateful for the man, husband, and father that he is. I mean it when I say that I really, truly could not picture anyone better for me than him. I am the luckiest gal alive. I'm so grateful for the eight years of marriage we've had to grow as individuals, a couple, and as parents, and that we could build such a perfect little family.

Eight down, the rest of eternity to go. I love you, babe. MORE.

What I Miss Most

2011-08-15T14:47:00.000-07:00

1. My family. On both sides: mine, in Utah (my parents soon-to-be), and Dave's in Colorado. And no, I'm not just saying that to avoid offense. I actually happen to love my in-laws, for realsies.

The Coltharp Clan (my fam) last summer. Dave, Me, Josh, Sam, Cindi, Braxton, Aaron, Heather, Mike, Reagan, Jonah, Jordan, Mom, Dad, John (his wife and kids were missing that day), Brian, Leslie, Alexa, Ayla, and Brigham.

The Meyers girls: Jen, Mary, Mom, and Jess (Dave's sisters and mom), and us.

2. My bestie. Am I allowed to use that word even though I'm not a teenager? Doesn't matter, because I just did. I haven't seen her in four years, minus the one hour I got to spend with her last month--an hour of chasing after and disciplining our kids instead of deep, meaningful conversation.

My brother, John, and Chloe, when she lived with us our senior year of high school. No, it's wasn't Halloween. That's just another example of the craziness that is my family. And I love it.

3. Colorado.

Castlewood Canyon, one of Dave and I's favorite spots when we were dating. We even carved our name at the base of a rock under the little waterfall. It's hard to see the waterfall, but it's there. And I know it looks tiny here, but it's really not. We had to repel down the canyon side to get to it, and the waterfall itself is actually about fifteen feet tall.

4. My body. Oh, gosh, how I miss my pre-baby body. Before my boobs deflated, my stomach stretched, and my hips widened.

That's a climbing wall harness around my waist.

5. When Friday night actually meant something. Like a date, a late night, and a late morning of sleeping in the next day. Sometimes naked. Yes, I said it.
6. Living close to civilization. Like doctors or a mall or normal restaurants or fast-food, or even Walmart.
7. My pre-baby hair. When it didn't fall out just from running my hand through it. When I wasn't worried I might go bald. When it wasn't horrid.

From blond and pretty, to dingy and flabby (I'm talking about me, by the way, not Dave). Man, we were young.

8. Bauer. My cat and Jack.

Back in the day, during season five of 24, when the Holidays and us would have "24 night." And I'm comfortable showing a picture of me stuffing my face with popcorn here, because I know I'm not the only one who loves to stuff her face.

Bauer, on Easter.

9. Me time. Having time to myself that isn't at eleven o'clock at night.
10. This. I know I already said my family, but this is separate than that. I miss the crazy, wacky, silliness that is me and my siblings.

Cindi, John, Me, Brian, and Heather.

Flicker of Inspiration: Sea of Yellow

2011-08-15T10:23:00.001-07:00

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "Sea of Yellow."

I had this post written yesterday morning, but I'm late on getting it up because all of yesterday I thought a hacker ruined my blog forever and I was too scared to get on. Every time I did, it told me my site was infected by malware by some third party site. I was PISSED. And sad. But then I realized it didn't say this if I went to it from Internet Explorer or Firefox--just Google Chrome. And a friend of mine said Chrome does that sometimes and I shouldn't worry. So to any of you with Chrome who had to get through a warning message to get here, I'm sorry. And I don't know how to get rid of it.

Anyway...

Last week, I wrote the Red Wheelbarrow for my Flicker of Inspiration post, which was a short fiction piece told from Charlene's POV--a story I made up on a whim. But I recently decided I wanted to keep Charlene and her family's story going, so this segment takes place after that, and I'm hoping to write more continuations in the future. This week was a picture prompt, where we had to write a piece based on this:

And I just now realized, as I went to post it, that we were supposed to stick to 500 words or less. Crap. My bad. But I'm too lazy to change it now. Sorry about the length. :/

The sun is heavy, and so are my eyelids. But I walk anyway, stumbling really, since my feet are heavy, too. My boots absorb the heat like an iron skillet, and I feel the dirt inside them turn moist between my toes. It's been three days since we left, three says since the strangers forced us from the only place we've ever called home. It was the first time I ever made eye contact with a gun, me and the double barrel in a stare down, and Mama went hysterical.

She fell to her knees in that moment I thought was the end, between me and the shotgun, and cried until the woman with ratty hair and crazy eyes shoved her aside. That was when they found our white chickens, and Mama says those white chickens saved my life. And because Mama wouldn't put up a fight, they let us go. Made us leave everything behind.

Just like that.

Mama might be too passive to put up a fight, but in that moment I was desperate. It was the only place Hank and Rose ever knew, and the only place with walls that I ever knew. It was small and lacking, but it was ours. And so were the chickens.

I grasped the barrel of the shotgun with both hands when the woman-beast was distracted, but she kicked me in the stomach, knocking the wind from me. I fell into Mama, and Mama's arms imprisoned me as I screamed at the beasts.

The rabid woman just laughed, as though I was a joke. In two years, maybe one, I wouldn't be. Maybe I'll even be stronger than Mama by then.

We carried nothing with us through the mountains, since the beasts took everything from us. Mama and I took turns carrying Hank, and sometimes my arms tingled until I felt nothing at all. Rose cried a lot, and so did Mama. She tried hiding it, but I know the sound well.

I'm better at hiding it. I don't sniffle like her, or blubber like Rose.

"We're almost there," Mama says, and I almost jump, even though her voice is soft. Hank was asleep at her shoulder, but now he stirs. It's the first any of us have spoken in hours. She's talked about the Sea of Yellow ever since I was little, about the place she and Grandpa fled to many years before, when all Hell broke loose on the civilized world--a world I know nothing about.

I manage to harrumph between breaths, my feet still trudging over rocky terrain. The sun burns my neck and my moist shirt clings to my ribs and back.

"We're almost there?" Hank groggily asks, and I imagine him rubbing his eyes in the way he sometimes does. But I don't turn to look. I'm ahead of them, still giving Mama the silent treatment.

"It'll take your breath away, Char," she says, trying to soften me up. Nothing has ever taken my breath away. I've read stories, Mama's old books, where women's breath gets taken away all the time, mostly by men. But it doesn't make sense.

The brush gets thick then, and as I shove it aside and make a way for Rose, it scratches at my forearms. I push through and my hair gets caught, but I ignore it. Rose grasps the back of my shirt in her fists, whimpering. Probably over the bugs. They were small and non-threatening, but they were everywhere.

Then I see it. A clearing ahead.

Is that...yellow?

I shove through faster, telling Rose to keep up, and once in the clear, I freeze. A meadow, hidden away. Just for us.

Mama's Sea of Yellow.

And something strange happens inside my chest. Almost like a thud, and my breath seems to catch deep in my throat. I understand now, about Mama's claim that it would take my breath away. And the feeling elates me in a way I never experienced.

I close my eyes, and before I can help it, I'm smiling. At the breeze against my face, at the feeling inside me, at the image inside my closed lids. I open them again, just to make sure it wasn't my imagination.

I feel Mama behind me now. She's sniffling again, and Hank is cheering. There's a cabin at the other end of the clearing, probably the very one Grandpa built, but that's not what catches my eye. It's the openness, the freedom, the new start.

The Sea of Yellow.

My eyes follow the dancing wings of a butterfly. It seems drawn to Rose, for it lands right at her feet. She giggles, extending her finger to it, and I shake my head, my mouth still turned in a smile. One minute the insects are her adversary and the next, her kindred spirit.

The flowers are everywhere, coming to my knees. As I remove my boots, Hank jumps from Mama's arms, and my eyes burn. And when I run my swollen, sweaty feet over the grass, I sigh. Refreshing, green blades between my toes, promising reprieve.

I fall to the ground and let them envelop me, and so do Mama, Rose, and Hank, and we all laugh.

We have nothing, except the cabin and each other.

And Mama's Sea of Yellow.

The Battle of POV...along with some music.

2011-08-13T08:00:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Dare to Share prompt, "Music."

We’d like you to share a post, new or old, that focuses on music in some way. You can post a poem, fiction, memory, or essay. Dare to Share is anything goes link up…as long as you stick to theme.

This is the first installment I'm posting to my second novel, November Rain. No, I didn't steal that title from Guns N' Roses.

The reason I'm posting this is not only because it fits with the music theme, but November Rain needs more work than any of my other manuscripts. I'm struggling with a POV issue and I could really really use some help.

I keep going back and forth on the issue. I originally wrote this novel in omniscient POV--back when I was even more of a rookie than I am now and I thought omni was actually an accepted POV in modern fiction. Turns out it's not, except for very rarely, or if it's done very well.

And though sometimes, when reading through the novel, it feels choppy, sometimes it feels to flow pretty well, so I think if I can work out the parts that don't flow, it just might work.

And this piece below is one of those scenes that feels a little choppy to me. So having some outside eyes looking it over would help a lot. The opinions I've gotten from others, who've read the piece as a whole, are that it works, and they feel, as I do, that it would take away some of the depth if changed to third person.

And that's my dilemma. The subject matter of this novel is grave (not so much here, however), and both main characters have equal part in the emotion and story. So, unlike my other novels, this one feels impossible to convert to third person without losing some of that emotion. So I struggle.

Okay, enough rambling. I need some feedback. I know this is only a small segment, and a very raw one at that, but I'm not sure my omniscient POV works, and I need you to tell me if this small bit feels disconnected or choppy, because that might give me an idea for the rest of it.

And be ~~nice and tell me it's perfect~~ truthful. I wouldn't be asking if I couldn't take it.

Just a little background: Lucas and Raegan have both experienced some harsh losses in their lives and, through the deaths of certain loved ones, have built a strong friendship, to say the least. But certain complications prevent them from exploring beyond that.

Raegan stood at the bar with a Grey Goose martini as her friends danced to the slow rhythm of the band. She tried ignoring the man from her peripheral vision that had been steeling glances at her all night, his eyes mysterious over the rim of his glass. She tried ignoring Lucas and Hannah. She tried ignoring the ping of disappointment that betrayed her once firm desire to remain single the rest of her life.

Instead, she lingered on the moment, her atmosphere. She lingered on the overwhelming excitement that she would be published. She lingered on Russell, how extremely unfitting, but attractive, he’d look in this club as they bore it together. She let her mind imagine him there.

The end of the song easily segued into the next, the band barely pausing to change the tempo. Only a short second passed before Raegan recognized the tune and she immediately looked to Lucas, her heart sinking.

As if connected once again, he stopped dancing with Hannah and turned to meet Raegan’s gaze. The vocalist started the evocative lyrics to Come Rain or Come Shine, her voice oddly similar to Billie Holiday’s, and a whirlwind of emotions hit the both of them. Raegan smiled feebly, trying to read the intensity of the storm in his sapphire eyes.

Lucas looked down in thought, hardly aware of Hannah inquiring of his sudden concern. He brought his eyes back to Raegan at the same time that a man removed himself from the bar and offered his hand to her, smoothly speaking unheard words. Raegan shook her head ruefully and turned away from the stranger, her back now facing Lucas.

There was no question in his mind, no doubts or reservations as he approached her. Sensing him, she turned. “Rae?” he asked, raising his hand. “Dance with me?”

“Of course,” she murmured, somewhat reluctantly. As she took it, his heat thawed her.

Neither of them noticed her admirer gritting his teeth as he turned away in disappointment, or Hannah standing on the sidelines with cross moisture in her eyes. Lucas softly pulled her into him, only aware of the spell she put him in, the power of his parents’ song as it became theirs, and the memory of them dancing to it with the same level of adoration his eyes now held.

It didn’t matter how much he tried to bury his love, or that he used his desire for her to fuel his moments with Hannah. Raegan was the first and only woman that, since Adele, would hold his heart, and she was here in his arms—a vision in canary satin. …

He could almost taste her as he brushed his lips against her cheek and buried his face in her hair, the locks falling onto her bare shoulders in a wave. He consumed himself in her energy as he held her close, let it flow through her back and into his palm, then through his other hand and into hers—a cycle of renewal. In response, he tightened his fingers through hers and held her hand close to his heart.

Closing her eyes, Raegan slightly angled her head, willing the warmth of his breath against her neck as it weakened her knees. Fused together, she melted into him, forgetting in that much too brief a moment that he was merely her best friend friend. He was Lucas, the man that held her heart in a way she didn’t understand.

Both were speechless, communicating through the lyrics of the music and the simultaneous rhythm of their hearts.

As the amazing writers you all are, what is your opinion on omniscient POV? And to those of you who are just readers, do you notice the head-hopping enough to break you away from the story? If this isn't working, what might make it better? Thanks everyone for the feedback!

Wanting the Forbidden

2011-08-12T21:31:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt, "Sex."

Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex. But you know us. There's a twist. You can't write about the act... There are so many other possibilities. And I hope you have fun finding them. Limit is 600 words.

For the first time, I am going to post an excerpt from the very first novel I've written, In the Family. It's one I would probably never try to publish (one reason being that it's long), but it's one I love nonetheless.

There isn't much explaining to do, since you can kinda get the gist of the character's conflict from this segment. Enjoy (I hope), and remember, criticism is welcome!

Michael woke to a glaring ray of sunlight. He squinted, moving his head away from the window, and realized that all that had happened in the dark hours of the morning hadn’t been a dream. It was very real, and the fact that Anna still slept in his arms confirmed that. He still had his arms around her, but now her arms were wrapped snuggly around him as well, instead of at his chest, gripping his shirt.

The sensation caught his heart ablaze, hotter than it’d ever been, and he instinctively constricted his arms around her. He could tell by her steady, slow breathing that she was still sleeping, and deeply. He didn’t know what time it was, but didn’t care. Hell, he’d stay this way forever if he could.

Yes, he felt guilty. Perhaps more shameful than he’d ever felt in his entire life.

Yet here he was, on cloud nine with his brother’s fiancé in his arms. And the worst thing about it was that the guilt only seemed to add meaning to this new life of his. He’d never felt so alive, and though the shame was disheartening, it woke a part of him he didn’t know existed. A part he thought was dead. His emotions were raw, stripped, and he felt more vulnerable than ever before. And the negative emotions seemed to infuse him as strongly as the positive.

But there was nothing he could do, nothing he would do. If ever there was a time to make a play for his brother’s future wife, now would be the time. But everything inside him, all that made up who he was, would never allow it. So, instead, he soaked this moment in, along with the guilt at wondering how Mitch would feel if he knew what Michael was doing at this very moment…what he was thinking.

Placing his lips delicately against her hair, he inhaled, becoming swallowed in her intoxicating scent. He closed his eyes as he was thrown deeper down the spiral that had the potential of destroying his brother’s life, and his own.

But since the concept of releasing her was impossible, he continued to breathe her in, a tinge of lilac and citrus, and as the deepest pit in his stomach quivered and his chest caught fire, he again tightened his arms around her. And at the same time that he was grateful for the clothing between them, he cursed it.

She stirred, murmuring in satisfaction, and moved her mouth to his neck, where his eyes closed in torment. She lightly stretched against him, arching her back and constricting her arms around his torso as she breathed into his neck, and he realized if he didn’t pull himself away soon, he might do something he would always regret.

And as though his heart wasn’t speeding fast enough, she sighed his name, in a way that told him she wasn’t quite awake. It was the best sound he’d ever heard. Damn his brother and their situation. Damn the fact that he couldn’t throw everything away and lose himself in that moment like he knew he could.

He used all his focus to control himself.

Then she murmured his name again, louder, and he swore under his breath. “Anna…”

“Michael?” she replied, and he knew she was coming to.

Then she stiffened and he was sure she’d just realized the predicament they were in. She pulled her face away from the crook of his neck, where they met each other’s eyes, and hers were wide. His lips were close to hers now, and with the heat of their bodies together, tangled beneath the warm blankets, he knew if he was any weaker a man, his open mouth would have found hers.

Not an easy thing, nursing.

2011-08-10T23:05:00.000-07:00

Today I don't want to pour my heart out about the economy falling apart, even though I fear for the future of my family. I don't even want to pour my heart out about Luke's upcoming surgery that we just scheduled for September 2, and how I'm dreading it every day that it gets closer.

Today I want to pour my heart out about something dear to me, that probably won't be to others. I want to rant about how my baby is becoming less and less of my baby. Every day.

Any avid followers of my blog probably know of the difficulties I have had with nursing my children (overactive letdown, etc.), but that I stick with it because I'm a huge breastfeeding supporter. However, I'm not the one who will stop you in the grocery store if you're giving your baby formula and try to give you a lesson on why that's so bad for your little one (yes, that actually happened to me with my first). I have been on both ends and don't judge anyone for how they decide to feed their baby, but for me, personally, nursing is all I wanted.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was determined, but I had no idea that anything could go wrong or that it would be such Hell. But it was. And I started making all the wrong decisions from hour one of his life, and it snowballed. I tried everything to make it happen. Everything. Everything that I knew, anyway. But I was naive, and even the experts I had helping me seemed to be, too. No one--not even the six lactation consultants--could figure out my problem. They said it was him, that he was just too stubborn. They said he had colic. They said nursing just wasn't for some babies.

I found out years later that they were wrong, about everything. But, in that time, I trusted them. After all, they were the experts. And I was just a first time mom. So we continued to try, trying every little gadget and technique in "the book," and the process was torturous.

By the age of six weeks, Sam gave up completely. No more staying up hours in the night trying to get him to suck while he screamed bloody murder. Because he just. wouldn't. do. it. Because he was too miserable--and so was I.

And because I didn't know I was the one with the problem, I didn't know how to help him. I felt helpless. I felt like a failure as a mother. And there was nothing (that I knew of at the time) I could do to change it. And when I knew I wouldn't get to nurse my baby like I'd always dreamed, I cried. For days, I sobbed. So I did the next best thing: pumped until he was six months old, so that even though we couldn't have the bonding that comes along with nursing, he could get the nutrients. (And, man, that was a pain in the ass.)

Then I was pregnant with Josh, and the whole subject of nursing scared me because I was worried the same thing would happen with him that happened with Sam. I wanted to nurse him so badly, and I wanted it to actually be a good experience. Then a very dear friend of mine was an answer to my prayers. She revealed to me that she used to be a La Leche League leader, and when I told her the problems I'd had, I actually saw the light-bulb above her head turn on. Because she had had the same problem with both her kids. And so do thousands of other women, come to find out. Finally, I didn't feel alone! Finally, I knew it hadn't been colic that made Sam cry all the time.

She gave me information and a website so I could arm myself with knowledge and learn how to work around the issue. (If anyone wants it, let me know. It's literally a lifesaver. Whether you have nursing problems or just want to know more about nursing in general.)

And I spent hours and countless hours on that website, finding answers to every single question I ever had about nursing and why, no matter what I'd tried, it hadn't worked for me.

And I became an "expert" of sorts (quiz me, I dare you). And when I had Josh it was difficult, as I knew it would be (a woman with overactive letdown will have it with every child), but I was actually able to manage it. I worked around it, and it was a miracle. And I was able to live the dream I had of nursing my baby and sharing that special bond. He was a five-minute nurser, which made having a life difficult, especially since he ate that way until the time he was 13 months, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything. Because I was a mom, and my baby was my priority. Nursing him was my life.

Then I had Luke, and again I spent hours on the website, re-arming myself with knowledge. And just like with Josh, it was extremely difficult those first three months. He was miserable all the time, and just like Josh, he was a five-minute eater. Five minutes, with only an hour and a half between each feeding. Because that's all his poor, tiny tummy could handle.

But then he grew up and his tummy could handle more. And unlike Josh, it began to be insufficient. Five minutes wasn't enough. But because that's what my body was used to, that's all I would produce. I tried letting him eat on both sides then (usually, I'd only nurse on one side at a time, with both Luke and Josh), and that worked for a few months. He'd eat for five minutes on one side and five on the other.

Then by six months, that wasn't enough. And he would struggle and fight, and cry, cry, cry. But not in the same way he did as a newborn. This time there wasn't enough. And last month, the first time I realized this was a problem, I cried. I stayed up late at night in the rocker and cried with him--him because of hunger and me because of my failure to again provide for my baby.

I didn't want to give up. I kept offering him the breast, but he didn't want to work for it. He didn't want to wait for that letdown that wasn't coming, even after five minutes of sucking--that same letdown that only four months ago came too forcefully and too frequently. I don't know how it happened, and why it didn't happen this way with Josh, but for some reason, I was losing my supply. Probably because he didn't want to keep working so hard for something that was so lacking.

So I gave in and gave him his first bottle of formula. (Because regardless of the opinion of some people, babies will not eventually get hungry enough to give in and nurse. Instead they will give up. Instead they will cry themselves to sleep and starve. I know this because this is what I experienced with my first, and what a good friend of mine (who is a nurse at a NICU) experiences at work on a regular basis. And my baby's health is more important than hanging onto the hope of nursing.)

And Luke loved it. He loved that it flowed so easily and never stopped coming unless he stopped sucking. And for the first time in weeks, he was actually satisfied, actually happy.

So over the last month I have had to supplement, mostly before bed at night (as well as give him solid food 3 times a day, because he loves to eat). And it's been hard for me, but I've dealt with it.

And then over the last week, it's become an every-feeding thing. I nurse him first, let him get all the breast milk he can, and then, since he'll only nurse for about 3 minutes before he gets too upset to finish, I'll give him formula. And it's been this way at every feeding for the last week, with the exception of the feeding in the middle of the night, every night. At least I still have that.

But now he is drinking way more formula than he is breast milk, and I know it won't be long before he won't be nursing at all. And I'll lose my milk completely.

He is only seven months, and I'm so not ready for this to be over. I feel like he is pulling away from his baby-hood. Way sooner than I'd like.

But this time is different than my first. Even though I mourn that connection to him, I'm also knowledgeable and experienced enough now to know I'm not a failure as a mother. That I can still have just as good a bond with him if I cradle him as he sucks on that bottle and his little blue eyes are looking into mine. I'm not going to go into a depression over it, or cry for days over it. I know that formula isn't evil (I never thought it was). I know that just because I don't breastfeed doesn't mean I'm a horrible mother. At all. I don't think anyone who decides not to nurse is a bad mother. At all.

I'm just saying that for me, it's all I wanted to do. And it's hard that I can't.

But I have tried my best, and either way, I know Luke's still my baby, and I'm still his mother. And even though the only thing that makes my bond with him different than the one with his daddy, or anyone else, will be taken from me, no one can take my place as his mother.

And I'll remember that at least I was blessed enough to have that special, precious bond with him for these first seven months, and with Josh for thirteen.

So for now, I'll hold onto those middle-of-the-night feedings with all my heart. And I will never complain about waking up to feed him in the night again.

Summer Fun Show-off!

2011-08-09T08:57:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, we didn't get to a beach this summer. Instead we went to Idaho and hung out around here: in the desert. We might not have done anything summery, like the beach, but we still had fun and it's been going by so fast!

Josh, Sam, and cousin Aaron at the riverbed in the beginning of the summer.

At the ranch in Idaho. And me being hot and tired after walking five miles uphill through the wheat. Maybe it wasn't five miles.

Dad and Sam on the lake.

Me and the hubs at Davis Creek.

Grandma Julie and Josh, tuckered out after a long, hot day at Cherry Hills water park (family reunion).

Dad, Grandma, and the kiddos at the ranch.

Me, Luke, the clown-lady, and the pony at the fourth of July carnival. There's a long-standing inside joke about me and ponies between my hubs and his uncle. It's cruel and unfair. And they thought it'd be funny to take a picture of me with a pony. Neither I nor the pony thought it was funny.

Have some awesome summer memories you want to show off? Link up with Shell at Things I Can't Say and show off your summer pics! Also, if you link up, you have a chance to win some cool prizes from Ubisoft!

Top Ten Food

2011-08-08T09:22:00.000-07:00

I decided to start participating in a new, hot trend. I'm a list person and everything I do is in list form. Because I have the worst memory ever and can't remember a single thing unless I write it down. Plus, being able to cross something off a list is ~~almost better than sex~~ a great feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment.

I plot out my novels in list form, I plot out my blog post topics in list form, I plot out my daily to-dos in list form, and I shop in list form.

I know, who doesn't? But I'm anal about it. I have to rewrite the list before I go to shopping and arrange the items on my list in order of where they are in the store. And then if I remember something else I have to get while I'm at the store, and I have a pen with me (sometimes I forget one, probably because it wasn't on the list), I will add it to the list.

Okay, enough with my list fetish. Here's my first Monday Listicles post (stop by Stasha's blog). And the fact that it's based around food is even better. Here are ten foods I'd rather die than live without (okay, maybe not die, but it sounded good):

Cake. Anyone who knows me well knows that cake is my all-time favorite food. I could eat a whole cake alone. Seriously. I can't even watch Cake Boss or any other cake show because it makes me crave it all day (though I watch them anyway). One time I even ran to the store after an episode of Cake Boss and bought a cake ~~all for me~~ to share with my family.
Chocolate. Because I'm a stereotypical woman. And I need chocolate.
Caramel. Because it makes everything better. Chocolate, ice-cream, apples, salty snacks, vegetables. Just kidding on the vegetables.
Bread/rolls. I'm addicted to bread almost worse than I am to chocolate and cake. Almost. I could eat a whole pan of rolls in one night if I let myself. I'd be suffering all night because of it, but I'd do it. I've done it before.
Cheese. Oh, cheese. I love cheese. Cheese is another thing that makes everything better.
Fruit. I know, something healthy. It's a surprise. But I do love fruit. It's refreshing, sweet...mmm. Makes my mouth water just thinking about it. In fact, when I'm pregnant, it's all I usually want.
Meat. All kinds (except liver and other gross body parts that should never be eaten). Chicken, Beef, Pork, Fish. Love it all. I could never be a vegetarian for that reason. Never. Move aside salad. Give me a juicy burger or a big fat steak and I'm good.
Other carbs. Pasta and potatoes go great with everything.
Oreos. Because...well...they're oreos.
Mexican Food. I love me some good Mexican food. In fact, it's one of the perks of living in Arizona (and to me there aren't many). There are some great Mexican restaurants here. An enchilada smothered in cheese...mmm.

Notice how most of these are junk? Yeah. I guess you could say I'm like a kid in the way I always want sweets. I crave them. And it's not like these are the only foods I eat, ~~but I stuff my face with junk all day~~ and I really don't eat them a lot. But I'm working on limiting them from my diet even more.

Though so far, to no avail.

Flicker of Inspiration: Red Wheelbarrow

2011-08-07T23:14:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "Red Wheelbarrow." And thanks, L&LB, for having me as the Writer of the Week!
For this week's prompt, I'd like you to be inspired by the poem below by William Carlos Williams. "The Red Wheelbarrow" has long been a poem that holds an air of mystery and intrigue for me. For it to be so few words, I feel it tells a complex tale with a lot hidden just below the surface. Take any word, image, or feeling evoked from "The Red Wheelbarrow" and turn it into your masterpiece. Oh, and like Williams, let's do things short and sweet. Write your piece in 300 or fewer words.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Yahoo Images

So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed in rainwater beside the white chickens. Everything does, since water’s worth more than gold these days. But Mama told me it wasn't always like that, that water used to flow at the flip of a switch.

Two inches of rain rest within the wheelbarrow's walls, and Hank takes the first handful to his mouth, his fingers trembling with excitement and fatigue. Hank’s always first, since he’s the smallest.

Rose rolls her eyes as she stands back, but I know she understands. He’s weak, even weaker than yesterday.

We haven’t seen rain in too many months, and my mouth is dry. Sometimes it bleeds, but Mama’s is worse.

She stands back and watches the three of us, and her tongue grazes over her cracked lips. But she’ll let us drink first, let us wet our dry tongues and fill our bellies, and I tell myself to save her some when my turn comes.

Hank is laughing now, and water dribbles down his dirty chin, leaving tracks. We can’t help our laughter, too, even Rose. Even the three chickens cluck.

And I imagine what they would taste like, though Mama refuses to kill them because the chickens give us eggs.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t imagine.

We have to hide them when other stragglers come by. Most men, and even women, would kill for a live animal. Sometimes even a dead one.

After Rose gulps four handfuls, it’s my turn. I see rust flakes floating in the remains, but it doesn’t stop me, and after one handful, I back up so Mama can take her turn. My hands are still wet, so when she isn’t looking I’ll lick them.

But she scolds me with her eyes, narrow and fierce and loving. Charlene.

I ignore her at first, but her eyes continue to dig and her feet seem fastened to the ground. And as I bow my head and eagerly cup more, I know that even though everything depends on that red wheelbarrow glazed in rainwater for Hank, Rose, and I, it doesn’t for Mama.

For Mama everything depends on the life of her children.

The Liebster

2011-08-07T00:28:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Becky (the Hummingbird Hollow), for nominating me for the Liebster award!

Blushing.

I always love getting nominated for awards, especially since that last award I won before I started blogging was for singing in a talent show my freshman year of high school, and before that, an Albertson's coloring contest when I was ten (I believe the picture was Aladdin and Princess Jasmine on the magic carpet, and my prize was the greatest movie of all time: the Return of Jafar. Haven't seen it? Check it out. The compelling film will move you, I guarantee; a true masterpiece in cinema.).

"The Liebster Blog Award is designed to bring additional recognition to those bloggers with less than 200 followers. If you receive the award, you should link back to the blogger that nominated you and nominate five more blogs. Also, don’t forget to let them know that you nominated them."

How fun. In a way, it reminds me of those chain letters in high school, only a lot different.

Okay, so maybe they're not alike at all, but that's what I thought of. You know, back in the day when kids actually used real paper and pens to write notes. None of this texting hooey.

I admit, I'm actually quite find of the texting hooey, since I absolutely loathe phone conversations.

Plus, in ~~staying up until one o'clock in the morning and ruining my chance at a good day tomorrow~~ participating in something fun, I get to showcase some really awesome chics with some really awesome blogs. Here we go:

Becky, at the Hummingbird Hollow. Of course I had to start with Becky. Because she is amazing. If ever there was someone who cared about every soul and considered and respected every person's viewpoints and beliefs, it would be Becky. She is amazing in that way. Becky is a great friend, and though our beliefs on some things don't align, we have a mutual love and respect for each other. Because she makes it easy. She is an excellent photographer, and shows her work on her blog, as well as book reviews (she loves literature and reading and learning about everything there is to know) and fun, easy craft ideas. Go check her out!
Jen, at Runner Mom. Jen and I were made from the same mold. Seriously. When we first came across each other's blogs, it was like we were reading about ourselves (except for the fact that she's actually in shape and I'm sure has killer-smokin legs). She's my bloggy-sister (is that even a word?) and an amazingly great blogger--as in, she will always comment and always reply to your comments on her blog. She is a mom of four cutie-pie kids, a running addict, and so creative with words. If you like me, then you'll love her (I hope you like me. You're reading my blog, so you better.), so stop on by!
The Sarcasm Goddess, at For the Love of Writing. Because holy CRAP, can that girl make me laugh. Every single post. She's hilarious, says it like it is, and isn't sarcastic at all, ever. Her topics mostly consist of bacon, sausage, and other things I don't have the guts to blog about, like "bajingos" (They're cute, furry animals, Mom, that's all). But I'm sure she doesn't need this nomination, because she's quickly working her way up to 200 followers. So go make her even more popular.
Lori, at Immersion Blog-apy. Lori is a Christian woman and one of the greatest writers I've "known." I started reading her blog through a writing linky and became hooked on her fiction voice. So vivid and palpable. I was a follower right away. And then, as if her beautiful prose weren't enough, come to find out, Lori can write some killer poems (I'm jealous). She's so talented and works so well with words, that the lines just flow and you can feel the rhythm. Check out her work on her blog.
Mel, at Less Than Perfect. Mel is a wife, mommy, and pet-mommy, and is one of the most supportive bloggers I've "met." She mostly shares stories about her mommy-hood and day-to-day life, which always pull me in and always seem to relate. She's an excellent post writer, and can always infuse authenticity, humor, and even gravity, in all the right places. I've loved getting connected to her, so you should, too!

I do love pets. I think.

2011-08-05T23:12:00.000-07:00

It's been a while, I know. I'm sure after four days you're all ~~realizing you forgot I even existed~~ wondering if I've fallen off the face of the earth. But I assure you I am alive and ~~a bit insane~~ well. I'd like you to meet Zeus, a German Shepherd/Lab mix, and the newest addition to our family:

But watch your feet and legs and clothing and anything else that moves or dangles. Because he will bite it, I promise you. Unless he's sleeping. Which he actually does a lot of.

Zeus has been taking a lot of my time lately. Basically, anytime I'm not taking care of my kids, I'm taking care of him. And then some.* Turns out having a puppy is a lot of work. A LOT. Who knew?

*I may have exaggerated. I've also been busy with other stuff, too. And I have actually had some free time (obviously, because I'm typing this right now), but I've been consumed in revisions.

But it's okay that he's a lot of work, because I would have gotten him anyway. He's so snuggly and sweet (when he's not biting). So even though I welcome the passing of this potty-training, nip-at-everything puppy stage, he's a great addition to our family.

And it couldn't have come at a better time. Our cat, Bauer (yes, she is named after the best CTU agent this country has ever seen), left a week and a half ago and never came back. And it was really hard for me. Like, I cried and everything. I know, I sound like ~~one of those annoying people whose lives revolve around their pets~~ an animal lover. And maybe I am now.

It took a long time for Bauer to grow on me. I used to loathe her, and I don't use that term lightly. Just ask my sisters how many times I texted them to vent about my annoying cat who used to get under my skin just by looking at me the wrong way.

Believe me when I say I was not fond of pets. Ever since I had kids, I never wanted a pet. Why would I? I already have to take care of and pick up after four people besides myself, so why would I want something else to watch after, clean up after, and who leaves hair and bad smells on everything?

But months and a litter of kittens later, she grew on me. Like, really grew on me. I actually fell in love with her, and her kittens. But mostly her.

I loved it when she was around. When I wanted to be alone, she was the only being I actually wanted in on my personal space. And she cheered me up, every time I needed it. She was so sweet and such a people-lover. She wanted to be with me all the time, even after all the evil eyes and hatred I spewed her way when she was young. She loved us, even the kids. Even Josh, when he'd pull her tail and lay on her. She'd let him. Because she loved us. And we loved her.

And then we got rid of her kittens. Three days later, she left, probably to go look for them. She always left, but the longest she'd ever been gone was twenty-four hours (no, that's not another 24 reference). But two days went by, then three. Then a week. And me--the self-proclaimed pet-hater--was sick over it.

Literally. I couldn't eat. It occupied every thought. I always thought I heard her, and even ran to the door a few times like a fool, picturing her running through the hole in the fence and right into my ex-animal-hating arms.

I was so depressed and didn't want to do anything. I wanted to go out and find her, but didn't know where to look. And I was scared what I'd find if I did. I sobbed, for a whole day, and my heart literally hurt. (And still does)

Ridiculous, right? She's just a cat.

Well, that's what I would have said before. But now I don't care. I admit it:

My name is Jennie Davenport, and I'm a Bauer-lover. No, scratch that. I'm an animal lover. Deep breath.

(Hi, Jennie.)

I just miss her. And one day, Dave told me straight up that I needed to get over it. I needed to stop holding to the hope that she'd come back. Because, realistically, she wasn't. She was gone, probably lost to a coyote or a mountain lion, or maybe even a havalina.

And that just made me sicker.

But then we found the ad on Craigslist for a puppy. And Dave's been begging me for one for forever. And I was broken and needed something to take her place, even though I knew nothing would. But, I thought, maybe in losing myself in this new puppy, I'd get over Bauer's loss quicker.

And it has.

And I admit this puppy was hard for me. Because even in the good ol' days of teenage-hood, when I was a ~~cat~~ animal-lover, I never was a dog person. I've never owned a dog, didn't really get their appeal, honestly.

And I'm still not quite there yet. When someone would say, "Look at that cute puppy!" all I'd see is a chore. And an attention whore.

But I'm coming around. And I have a feeling that I'll get so hooked to this dog, even more than I did to Bauer. And that worries me. Because if I was that distraught over a cat we had for a year, how will I be if we have Zeus into my kids' teenage years and then we lose him?

Oh well. I can't run from loving him for that reason.

So, here's to our future, Zeusalicious. You are pretty darn cute and impossible not to love. I really liked walking you yesterday and I love that my kids will have a companion as they get older, one that will most likely be five times their size. Just please get through your annoying stage fast.

And Bauer, I miss you like crazy still. Your food bowl is still waiting in the garage, still stinging my heart every time I see it. So, if you are out there, we're always here waiting.

She used to get between me and the computer when I'd write, because she wanted all my attention. Either that or she thought she was human and wanted to type.

If you made it this long in this ~~sickening, mushy animal love-fest~~ post, then you're probably an animal-lover. Because if you're not, you probably rolled your eyes at the beginning and stopped reading: the very thing I did when reading ~~crap~~ stuff like this a year ago~~, and still do~~.

Joining the BlogHop!

2011-08-01T20:08:00.000-07:00

This post is on behalf of the FIRST annual Boy Mom BlogHop, hosted by the M.O.B. Society (A blog community for moms of boys, BY moms of boys). So here's a little about me, my boys, and this blog.

I'm Jennie, and I'm a mom to three very blond boys: Sam, who is 4.5 (that .5 is very important to him), Josh, who is 2.5 (and that .5 is very important to me), and Luke, who is seven months old. So between them, my hubby, and our new puppy, Zeus, I'm pretty outnumbered in our house. And one day, when the boys' testosterone levels skyrocket, I'll need some serious help. Seriously.

I post about everything under the sun on this blog, including funny things my kids do/say, updates on our little family, my own rants (that's a big one, and my bad temper is a common trend), and many writing prompts to fill in the in-betweens.

Along with being a SAHM, I'm a writer and aspiring author. I love to write, and that's what occupies most of my free time late at night, when the house is asleep and my mind can finally breathe. I've written three novels, two of which are still in the extensive editing process. I hope to get published someday, but I'm not sure where the road is going to take me. And there's a lot about that journey I also share on this blog.

My kids like any books with letters and numbers, and my oldest loves learning and "writing" on my computer (opens MS Word and types random letters, etc.), as well as any computer game. Even if he doesn't have the slightest clue what it is or how to play. He would be on the computer all day if he could, where as Josh would be at a park all day if he could.

I love a good book, a great movie, or a well-written TV show, I love the outdoors and spending time with my family, I love chocolate and carbs (or eating general), I love some good, dry humor, I call my kiddos "children of the corn" on a regular basis, and I absolutely LOVE being a M.O.B.

And I'm always happy to meet other bloggers!

Dear Future Me

2011-07-31T15:44:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "A Letter to You, Part 2." A month ago, the prompt was to write a letter to your sixteen-year-old self, and this time it's a letter to yourself ten years in the future.

What can I say? I'm sure you're much wiser than me, so I'll steer clear of the advice route. We both know how you hate preachy advice, especially when it's given by people younger and more naive than you.

But I do hope all your dreams have come true, Older Me. I hope you can proudly say you have a few more novels under your belt, maybe some even published. Maybe by now you've actually gotten recognized for the talents you have.

And hopefully you're confident enough that you can actually call it a talent now.

As you know, it's taken us a while to come into our own and really figure out who we are. And I hope, Older Me, that you're even more sound in that. I hope you don't let the little things get you down and make you feel bad about yourself.

And I really hope you can confidently stand in a place that fits all your beliefs and viewpoints--in a place your past self is still struggling to find. You're voice should be sharpened by now, more in tune in your head. And that means you won't be afraid to say what you think or feel what you feel.

And even though we swore off children after Luke, I'm willing to bet money that you have more. A girl, maybe? I hope so. Because with three boys who are going through puberty, you'll need some extra estrogen to balance that out.

I'm scared for you, having to deal with three teenage boys and all the yucky that comes along with it. So, good luck with that, Older Me. I snicker, only because I'm a procrastinator and I don't have to worry about yet.

But I bet your boys are really cool, and I bet you and Dave love hanging out with them. I bet Sam is either in choir or theater or something. And Josh has gotta be in football. Luke? Maybe the best of both worlds. I'm sure they're so great, and I can only imagine just how much you love them.

Don't stop loving your husband. Ever. Don't let the spark fizzle. The kids are older now and that means you have no excuses. No newborn babies (hopefully). So you better be going on dates (even if you have to be the one to initiate them), and maybe even getting away for a weekend or two every now and then.

Please don't lose your faith. Life and people suck sometimes, and I'm sure it's even worse now. I don't want to imagine what you've had to endure. But there is good out there, and the gospel is true, no matter what the people in the church, or the organization, have done.

Continue to raise good boys and enjoy life. And please...work on that temper. Because I know you still have it.

Oh...and remember, you're only thirty-eight. You're not old and decrepit...yet. So keep working out and keeping that body looking tip-top (HA!).

Love,
Twenty-eight-year-old You

P.S. I bet you're laughing at how horribly written this is, aren't you? Either that or cringing. Because I'm sure you're the most fabulous writer on the planet by now.

Dare to Share: When I Grow Up

2011-07-30T10:29:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Dare to Share prompt, "When I grow up."

This week for the Dare to Share Link Up I'd like you to link to a post about your dream job, what you wanted to be when you grew up as a child...what you want to be now. Tell us about your dreams and how you're going to make them come true. This post can be old or new, fiction or nonfiction, poetry or prose.

The lights are blinding, but I know what's before me. So many voices, all screaming my name; a sea of adoring, shouting fans. All chanting. For me.

I try not to squint into the spotlight and instead smile, widely. I even take a little bow; not too overdone, but tasteful. Elegant.

As I bring the microphone to my mouth and a hush washes over the crowd, I feel my quickened heartbeat. I raise my hands in anticipation for the first note of the song I just wrote and recorded last month.

And I sing my heart out, the feel of the microphone in my hand and the stage beneath my feet the best sensations I ever experienced. My voice carries, to everyone and everything, and it frees me. And I hope it frees them, too.

And that microphone is the best gift the universe has ever given me.

That used to be my dream. As a child, a teenager, and even as a young adult. I loved the rush that singing on a stage provided and whenever I was presented with the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" a singer/songwriter was all I could fathom. Nothing else fit. It was unrealistic, I knew. And so did everyone else, telling me it was impossible to make it in that industry. And they were right. But it was all I wanted.

And then I got married, had kids. I realized that my new responsibilities could never allow for that, not with the amount of attention I wanted to devote to my family. Besides, I wasn't that good anyway.

So I took my love for words, prose, literature, and reading, and turned it into a hobby. I decided to start writing, just for fun. I was a SAHM and drowning in a lack of hobbies. And writing was a perfect solution.

But then I became hooked. I realized just how much I actually loved it. Who knew I could write?

I couldn't stop, even though I did it all in secret. I told no one of my new passion, not even my husband. And I'd quickly hide my work whenever he'd enter the room, in a oh-no-I'm-looking-at-porn sorta way. I was too much of a rookie and had way too much to learn. Really, I was a joke. And people would laugh at me if they knew I was writing.

Or worse, they'd ask to see my work.

But then ~~my husband got suspicious I was looking at gorgeous hunks on the internet~~ it came out. And surprisingly (though it shouldn't have been surprising), my family was more supportive than ever. My husband even allowed me time away from the kid to feed my passion, because he ~~wanted to be married to a famous author who'd rake in the dough so he could quit his job~~ cared about my interests and wanted me to feel like me again.

And I did feel like me. More me than I'd ever felt, actually. Finally, I had found MY passion. THE thing that made me me and allowed me to express myself. I'd thought it was in singing (don't get me wrong, singing and music is still a huge love of mine), but I was wrong. And it only took me until I was twenty-four to find it.

Eventually, I finished my first novel. Then I wrote another. And another. And though the road from start to now (I don't say "finish" because I know I'm still at the beginning of this journey) has been eye-opening, painful, and a huge learning experience, it has been so rewarding.

Because with writing, I've found out who I really am and what I'm capable of. Because of writing, I feel I have purpose, aside from being the mom of three boys and the wife to another boy.

I fell in love, and even though we argue and have cold spells, I continue to fall in love every moment I spend with it.

So, instead of doing the career that's nearly impossible to make a living in, I chose a career dream that's even more impossible to make a living in: novel writing. This is a difficult time to be heard as a fiction writer, more difficult than it ever has been. Renowned editor and author, Pat Walsh, said that out of everyone trying to publish with a traditional publisher, only 2% will succeed. Yes, that's right. TWO PERCENT.

And that was a few years ago. It's even harder now.

So, though the odds may not be in my favor, I will continue to write, revise, submit, revise, and revise (did I say revise?). Because if I don't, I'm not so sure I'd survive.

Okay, I would. It just wouldn't be pretty.

And who knows, maybe I'll even go the new and more recently accepted route of self-publishing. Or even self-epublishing (seems to be the new trend). We'll see where the road takes me.

So until then, I go back to revising.

So that, just maybe, one day my dream of seeing my novel on a ~~Borders~~ Barnes & Noble shelf can come true.

Red Writing Hood: Rewrite

2011-07-29T15:40:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt, "Rewrite."

Go back in the archives and pick a fiction or nonfiction piece. Perhaps something you posted on your blog, or an old Red Dress Club prompt? Find something that you're proud of, but something you haven't read for awhile. Do a complete overhaul.

My archives don't go that far back as far as my fiction and writing prompts go, so I went back to my first Red Writing Hood post (original post here), which was only 2.5 months ago. But the fiction piece itself is "old," since it's an excerpt from my novel, The Exception.

I rewrote it in Elanor's first person, present tense, and changed it up a bit (and cut some, of course, since we have to bring it down to 400 words). Feel free to comment/critique!

For the other segments of The Exception, visit the The Exception label at the bottom of this post.

Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold key, and I shouldn’t be surprised he still has it. But for some reason it stirs me, makes me forget the last twenty years even happened. I’m still whirled by this when he unlocks the door, so I don’t move, keep my back against it. He’s close, his eyes piercing, and I feel his body heat. And I know I’d do anything those blue eyes ask of me.

He opens the door and I feel the open air against my back, the unnerving energy saturated in memories. Lurking. He motions behind me, raising a brow. And as I swallow hard, his eyes give me the courage to step backward. And then again. My back is still turned on the interior of the house, but I’m inside. And my skin crawls. My palms sweat and my chest feels tight, and I know Sam senses my fear because he smiles. In the way he always did.

He leaves me then, but not before touching me on the shoulder. I hear him opening drapes behind me, allowing light to infiltrate the house. “This is yours now, Elanor. Take it in. Accept it.”

I sigh as I turn, and my brow is tense. Dust dances in the sunlight, but everything isn’t caked in it as I expected. My shoulders relax and my chest feels lighter. It’s clean, immaculate even. It almost looks lived-in, but not by me and my father. It’s easier to take in like this, so unlike the way I remember.

I’m pulled by an intruding memory. I step past Sam and kneel on the dulled hardwood floor by the stairs, running my hand over its smooth surface as I search for any trace of blood. And even though there is none, that night is fresh in my mind. I’m eleven now, and I hear my father standing above me, snaring me with his honey-sweet lies. I see his face and hate that no trace of life remains behind his eyes. I feel myself hit the wall, smash the mirror and table; I feel him crushing me. I hear my eleven-year-old screams.

I feel Sam’s warm blood on my hands and the shuddering of his chest as his life is sucked away. And I can’t remove myself from the past.

But Sam kneels before me, and his touch on my shoulder brings me back, reminds me that twenty years have passed. “I’m still here,” he softly reminds me.

Tony Danza and Corporate America

2011-07-28T10:59:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "Write a post where the first and last sentence contain any form of the word 'boss.'”
...Though not much inspiration was involved in this post, unfortunately. I think I'm all out for today. So here's a not-very-thoughtful play on words:

Boss

Tony Danza

Washed-up

Beach

Message in a Bottle

Depressing

Death

Life

Cereal

Milk

Cows

Steak

Mmm

Alex O'Loughlin

Hawaii Five-O

Remake

Old TV Shows

Nanny

Housekeeper

Wishes

Wishing well

Money

Mr. Krabs

Red Lobster

Delicious

Alex O'Loughlin (wait...how did I get on this again?)

TV night with hubby

Dates

What's a date?

Kiddos

Love

Husband

Father

Hard worker

Corporate America

Office politics

Unfair Bosses

As you can see, I was totally stumped for this week's prompts. All of them. I blame little sleep.
And I usually have Mama Kat's button right here, but for some reason it's telling me the tag is broken. The link to her blog is up top.

Pour Your Heart Out, "Bad" Mommy

2011-07-27T10:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'm not a good mom. The secret's out. Actually, it's no secret. Unfortunately, I think anyone who watches me parent for longer than an hour can see it.

And I'm not talking about the little things. Like the fact that I sometimes act like I don't know they're getting into trouble just because I don't want to deal with it. Again. Because I've already wasted so much of my breath telling them that day NOT to do what they're doing.

Or that I sometimes give them stickers after they've begged for them, just because I want something to occupy their time. Even though I HATE that they put them on EVERYTHING.

Or that I call them by the wrong name ALL the time, sometimes going through all of their names before I figure out who it is I'm actually talking to. Yes, Mom, I've turned into you in that way. I'm sorry for giving you crap about that when I was younger.

Or that I don't give them baths every single day. And some days I even forget to brush their teeth. And make them wash their hands.

Sometimes I even go weeks without trimming their nails. Horrific, I know.

It's not even those things that brand me a "bad parent," in my mind. If you've read my blog, you've heard me mention more than a few times that I have the worst patience in the world.

In fact, I'm sure I don't have any left at all. Just ask my children and my husband. And the handful of customers at the gas station that heard/saw me blow up at Sam in the car while Dave was filling up. I yelled. Loudly. Even maybe screamed a little but.

And people stared. And Dave was embarrassed. He told me he'd never been so embarrassed as an adult.

Yep. Ouch. Talk about being put in your place.

But I deserve that, I really do. I've been working on it, hard. I've been trying really hard not to yell at my kids when they frustrate me and talk over me and try telling me what to do. Or scream in my face, "No!" repeatedly while I'm trying to instruct them.

Breathe, I tell myself, even now, because just thinking about it speeds my heart and heats my core.

And if I don't gain some measure of control over it, I fear I'll have a heart attack by the time I'm 35. Either that or a whole head of gray hair (IF I have any left by then). Sometimes I just don't feel cut out for the parenting thing.

Because I know it's not my kids who need to change. It's me, 100%. They're just being kids. It's the name of the game. I'm the one who's acting up.

And I know, I know. Every mom feels that way at some point. And I know everyone's kids drive them crazy, and every mom loses it. But I do feel a little more out of control than most, a little less tolerant.

Okay, a lot less tolerant.

And I don't get it. I don't get why I can't handle things in the same way other people can, or how I can be filled with so much rage or frustration, when at the same time I'm filled with so much love for the little people that drive me to insanity. Because really, my favorite thing in this entire world, no matter my mood, is hugs and kisses from my kids.

So how do I calm myself, how do I feel normal inside, so I can actually feel like a decent mom? I know I've made posts similar to this before, but it is PYHO Wednesday. So I'm taking advantage. Again.

I don't like being this way. I don't like that every little thing gets under my skin and I react before I can stop it. I hate it, and I want to change. And I'm trying. But some days, I just don't feel I can measure up.

Some days, I just want to cry.

Wordful Wednesday: Water and Bums

2011-07-27T09:36:00.000-07:00

I was writing in my room the other day, enjoying the quiet since both my older kids were playing outside and my baby was napping, but then I was startled back to life by my two-year-old, Josh's, cries. It sounded as though he was being tortured.

I jumped to the window (my bedroom window faces the backyard) and I see my four-year-old, Sam, holding Josh down and pouring water on his head.

Laughing. Hard. While Josh cried his poor little blond head off.

Josh hates water. I mean, HATES. It doesn't matter how hot it is outside, he HATES getting wet. And Sam knows this. And even though my defenses for Josh kicked in as I ran to the backyard to save him, a sliver of me was proud that, for once, it was Sam torturing Josh. Usually it's the other way around.

As I ran out, about to open my ever-yelling mouth, my husband stopped me. He likes to think outside the box, try different parenting techniques. So I let him take over. And what did he do?

He took the big bucket (BIG) that was filled to the brim with water and chased Sam around the backyard, Sam screaming and laughing the whole way. When Dave dumped it on him, Sam stood there in shock. And Dave said, "How do you like it?"

Meantime, I was sitting at the sliding glass door, laughing. And Sam laughed eventually, too. And he didn't pour water on Josh's head again.

This is Sam sitting in the bucket of water after refilling it. We heard him crying because he couldn't get out. So instead of getting him out, we grabbed the camera.

This was Josh after we stripped him of his wet clothes, watching from the door as Sam continued to have fun in the water. Yes, I blurred his cute bum, because this is the internet and creeps exist out there. And no, we don't usually let our kids run around the house naked. Only sometimes.

After everyone was dry and clothed, we had some snuggle time on Mama's bed and took some silly pictures. Most of which I won't put on here due to hideous shots of me.

My snuggle bug.

Afterward, Josh decided to give himself an arm tattoo. And was mad when I wanted to take a picture.

Lesson Learned: Going to Bed Hungry

2011-07-26T14:27:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the TRDC RemembeRED prompt, "Lesson Learned."

Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned."

Written from my son, Sam's, POV.

"This'll be the last time I tell you to eat." Mom's eyes are on fire, her voice stern. It cracks, and spit even sprays from her mouth. She acts like she means it, but she can be a pushover sometimes. I know how to work her.

"But Moooom, pee's coming out!" I say, crossing my legs and doing a little dance in my booster seat. Mom hates when I pee in my underwear, even a little.

"Nice try." Her voice is hoarse now. Probably from all the yelling. She says it's not yelling, that she's just talking firm, but the vein bulging in her neck says it's yelling. She even cussed once. Surprise, surprise.

"You only have two options," she continues, hand on her recently chubby hip. "You can either go to bed hungry, or eat and stay up for ten extra minutes." She doesn't mean it. Mom would never let me go to bed hungry. She loves me too much.

"But, Mom...the pee..." I continue to dance, adding a whimper to the plea.

"You can pee your pants, for all I care. Sit in your own pee. But you're not getting up from that table until you're done. Not unless you want to go to bed." Her eyes bore into mine, telling me she's no joke. But on the inside I still laugh.

On the outside, I groan.

She glances at the clock, and so do I. The position of the long and short hand tell me it's after seven o'clock. And I know that means it's after bedtime. Mom's time. She sighs, her face turning red, and looks back to me. I'm starting to wonder if she's getting serious now, after eight threats.

Now she stomps over, huffing, and yanks my chair away from the table. I scream and cry because I'm four, and what else am I gonna do? "No, Mom! I'm hungry! I'm really hungry!"

"If you were hungry, you would've eaten your dinner. You had the last hour and a half to eat, so don't try that on me! It's bed time. You can go to bed hungry." Oh. My. Gosh. She actually means it.

"Mom!" Tears stream down my cheeks, and so does slobber. I like to make a good show.

She's dragging me down the hallway, heading for that darkened doorway. My room. She wouldn't dare.

I scream louder, cry harder, pleading. "I'm soooo hungry! I want to eat!"

But when she puts me in bed, turns off the light, and closes the door, I stop screaming. I cry silently, stunned she actually put her starving child to bed.

Through the door, I hear, "Maybe next time I tell you to eat, you'll listen."

My tummy grumbles and I can still smell the taco casserole, untouched on my plate.

Lesson learned.

Flicker of Inspiration: The House

2011-07-25T13:48:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by Lightning and the Lightning Bug's Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "House."

...For this week's prompt, we'd like you to write about a specific kind of setting, a setting that can be ominous or comforting, a setting that can easily take on a life of its own. Your fiction, poetry, or memory this week should involve a house. Be sure this house plays a pivotal role in your piece...

I know I usually save segments of The Exception for my Red Writing Hood posts, but I'm bending the rules this time.

Aside from the fact that I haven't had much time to write anything new for the wonderful writing prompts I've been missing out on, I had to share this because the "house" is such a key ingredient in this story, almost a character itself.

For the other excerpts I've shared, visit here, here, here (this particular excerpt fits before this one), and here (listed in the order they appear in the novel itself). And for a segment I wrote separate of the book, but still involves the main character, visit here.

This segment takes place when Elanor arrives to her childhood home, seeing it for the first time in nearly twenty years--a home that holds painful and precious memories alike. She realizes it was more than just inheriting the deed that pulled her there.

Elanor’s breath caught as she turned onto Graham Road and caught a glimpse of the old country-style house at the top of the hill, nearly bringing the car to a standstill. The wooden roof shingles looked even more dilapidated than before. Taking a deep breath, not knowing what putting herself in that place would do to her state of mind, she pressed harder on the pedal and forced herself to move forward.

She hadn’t known what to expect when preparing for her trip. She hadn’t known what she would feel. But as she stood before the house, every emotion was foreign. Maybe it was because the house was different, looking nothing like the way she remembered. In her memory it’d always been aged, but now negligence masked any trace of her childhood home: peeling paint, one green shudder hanging by a single bolt, a crack in the windowpane of her old bedroom, weeds growing above the bay window, the dirt drive nowhere to be seen.

But what threw her even more was the size. It used to feel huge and threatening. Now it seemed small. And sad.

It broke her heart to see the home that had once housed her grandfather and his grandfather before him in a shambles, unused and empty. No longer a dirty remnant of her childhood, it suddenly became a disappointing remnant of her ancestors. Where their sweat and blood had produced something once beautiful, now it was indeed an eyesore, as Gerard had said. What did they think from the afterlife as they looked on the remains of their posterity—on a drunken waste of life, rotting in prison, and a hardly sane, hardly normal woman who would probably end up alone the rest of her life? Would the Noble line stop with her?

Scanning her eyes over every spec around her, even the heavens above, she whispered a simple “sorry” as though they could hear.

It was fall, which usually brought sharp, brisk days in Idaho, but today the atmosphere was clear, and she stepped forward, leaving her jacket in the car. When she reached the overgrown path, she stopped and closed her eyes, letting the breeze move through her hair like cool, energizing fingers. Feeling moved upon by a great force, a force beyond this world, the spirit of the home and all it represented overwhelmed her. She swore the energy of her ancestors was in the wind that blew through the trees and rustled the leaves, swelling with the newfound emotions in her heart.

Somehow, they wanted her there.

This is still a work in progress, but as always, helpful criticism is welcome!

Davenport 411

2011-07-23T10:05:00.000-07:00

Lately, my blog has been full of fun posts, gripe sessions, writing exercises, and pictures, so I thought, in the midst of all that, it was time for an update. Especially with the news we got yesterday.

Luke
Luke had his six-month checkup last week and is in the tenth percentile for weight and height, so even though he's small, he's proportionate. He loves rolling around on the floor and is just itching to get up and go. He'll be figuring out the scooting/crawling thing any day now. He started on solids a few weeks ago and absolutely loves to eat. Loves it.

He loves to mimic sounds and we have some pretty lengthy "conversations" together. His new favorite thing to do, besides smacking his lips together, is spitting and blowing bubbles. Which I love, because that means Sam has to out-do him in the "spit" area. And spitting isn't a pet peeve of mine at all.

We had Luke's follow-up urology appointment in Phoenix yesterday, and I had high hopes. Especially after the last appointment a few months ago, when the doctor said the chances of surgery were slim and he was feeling hopeful. He'd said that if the testicle continued to drop at the rate it had been, chances were, we'd be able to leave it be.

That's what I was expecting. But, to my surprise, the testicle is still pretty high in his lower abdomen and it hasn't budged since he was four months old. So, now my little guy needs surgery.

They can't get it scheduled until about two months from now, so in the meantime I will keep an eye on it and if it miraculously comes down on its own, we can cancel the surgery. But it's very unlikely that that will happen. So, until then, I'm trying not to get too concerned, like the overly emotional mom I am in situations like that. I'm putting off the stressful worry until the time comes. Trying not to dwell on the way it feels to have a baby under a year old getting surgery, even though I've been through it twice with Sam.

And it's not like I have anything to worry about. The risks are very low (if any at all), it's a standard surgery, and on top of that, it's out-patient. No staying at a horrid hospital. They're just going to make a small incision where it's at, bring it down and "tack" it in place (in a nutshell).

And that way, even though his risk of testicular cancer is now 10-14% higher because of this, it will now be more available to monitor throughout his life, and will allow it to continue developing as it should (to say the least).

Josh
Josh is my cuddle-bug, and I hope he always will be. He is doing SO great with his speech and talking all the time now. Even when I don't understand what he's saying. He's started putting two, and sometimes three, words together and even says a couple sentences. His speech therapist is so proud of him, and so are we. The first time I heard him say, "Mommy, what's this?" I about peed my pants.

He loves to copy everything his older brother does, but still has a stubborn mind of his own. He still loves giving hugs, and I'm not so sure I want him growing up. Ever.

He calls every letter of the alphabet E, O, and I, can count to five, calls every color yellow or blue, calls pie (and any sugary treat) cake, loves to sing his heart out (one of his favorites is Tonight, Tonight), and calls himself Spongebob when he wears his yellow shirt.

Oh, and he still loves to eat paper. And I'm still stumped on why that is and how to get him to stop. It drives me nuts.

I just had to add this silly picture of him from when he was about 9 months old, because it shows his lovable cheesiness perfectly.

Sam
Where do I start on Sam? Between all his Samisms, laughs, hugs, "I love yous," and smiles, Sam drives me up a wall. Like, I really think I might go bonkers most days. And I feel guilty that he gets on my every last nerve, because our kids aren't supposed to annoy us like that, right?

Well, whether or not he's supposed to, he does. And it makes me remember just why I've never really liked kids. Because four-year-olds are the worse.

But they're also the best. The most forgiving, and the most loving. Even though you yell at them all the time, to the point where you aren't even sure when the last time was you spoke at a normal level. He's super super stubborn, doesn't listen when we tell him no, bites back at every turn, and screams in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I do love him, though. So much. He's my intelligent old soul. We were talking about old souls the other day and Sam came to mind. From the first moment I looked into his eyes at the hospital, I've known he was an old soul. And who am I to raise such a strong, intelligent, wise spirit in this world? Me, who has the worse temper known to man, who falls short all the time as a mother and wife.

It's humbling, and I feel put in my place every time I look into his eyes. Like even though he doesn't realize it, he knows so much more than I do.

Anyway, here's his latest Samism (I couldn't resist):

Calls Josh "Dude" sometimes.
Then follows up with calling him a "Loser." Not so happy about that one.
When I told him not to step on a certain piece of paper on the floor, he replied, "I'm stepping on your mom." Guess we should stop the "yer mom" jokes around him.
Has always drank his sippy-cup in a "Sam" way, from the side so he can see all that's going on around him.
Found Dave's padlock and asked if it was a timer for robots.
Told me when I was talking in an Australian accent that I needed to "stop talking like an old man."
When seeing the Bush's Baked Beans at the store, he says, "Can we get some secret family recipe?"
When I tell him to stop whining, he says, "I'm not whining, I'm complaining!"
Says "Aw, tarter sauce!" when something bothers him.
Made an imaginary world on the other side of the elliptical called "Ketzwell," and escapes there frequently.
When looking at his sandwich I made him, he pointed to it and said, "See this mustard?" I said, "Yes..." Then he whispered, "It's made of puzzles."
Watched us playing Phase 10 one night and said, "I used to play this card game all the time, when I was a grandpa."

Precious, lovable, quirky four-year-old.

Me
I made it a goal to get back into my exercise routine every day, because in seeing recent pictures of me, I realized just how "wide" I've become. And it's hard for me to swallow. Plus, I have to get in shape for the cruise we're going on September 2012. It's a must. So no more eating a sleeve of oreos at a time, or eating junk at 10pm. And no more eating until I'm full, and then some. I will change my eating habits, and I will get in shape.

I just finished completely rewriting my first novel, which was unexpected, since, really, it was hopeless. And since I have tunnel vision and can't focus on more than one project at a time, that's the only thing that made up the minutes of my free time, after the kids went to bed or while the boys were napping (on the days I actually could). I started it just for fun, but then, in falling in love with the characters all over again, I realized I couldn't stop and I wanted to re-create their world. So even though the story still has no hope, in the sense of this dog-eat-dog publishing world, it's still so much better than it was and I fell in love with the story all over again.

Next, I'm going to start re-editing my other novels, the ones with more promise in the publishing world. And since my kids and my writing are really the only thing of merit about me, there's nothing else to really report on. I'd report on Dave, but aside from the point that there's nothing really to report on other than the every-day grind of his job, he doesn't like me getting into the personal stuff. I still haven't converted him to my blogging ways.

So, until I do, that's about all.

The Simple Things...

2011-07-21T22:25:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "The Simple Things..."

I like the simple things. The simple things are what move my day forward, give me the boost to last through the not-so-simple things. And today my day was full of the simple things. The kind that remind me just how blessed I am and just how happy (and on some days, how happy I should be).

Like the fact that the baby let me sleep eight straight hours without interruption both last night and the night before, which is a miracle. Knock on wood.

Like the fact that I was able to pump some breast milk this morning after feeling down in the dumps all week about losing my milk. (Turns out I'm not. Turns out kids go through growth spurts, or something like that.)

Like the fact that the boys both wanted the same breakfast this morning, which makes my life that much easier.

Like the fact that Dave took over disciplining a very strong-willed four-year-old on his lunch hour, just to give me a break from it. (I think slamming the child's door and saying the naughtiest of naughty words under my breath is a cue that it's his turn.)

Like the swelling emotion all throughout me, emerging in the form of chills and goosebumps, just from watching a moving, heartfelt dance routine. (Thank you, So You Think You Can Dance.)

Like blond curls and blue eyes, that remind me children are beautiful angels and not demons.

Like the thirty minutes I got to myself to write today.

Like freshly cut grass, done by none other than my husband.

Like phrases from my two-year-old, such as, "Mommy, you get spanking," because they show me just how far he's come in his speech.

Like the precious swatting of a tiny hand on your behind after said phrase.

Like the fact that my four-year-old can still hug me and tell me he loves me after I've just punished him in the worst way I could punish him (taking away his computer privileges).

Like my two-year-old saying, "I you, too," because that's how he says he loves me.

Like cold cereal for dinner.

Like the visit of a good friend, because it reminds me I'm an adult and can still have adult conversation.

Like my husband retelling the story of how we met, even though I've heard it a million times (after all, I was there), because the part about how he felt when he first looked at me makes my heart skip a beat and makes me feel, in some small way, a part of some romantic movie.

But mostly, it reminds me that aside from the frumpy sweats, the greasy ponytail, the stretchy tummy skin, the PB&J sandwiches, and the ~~yelling~~ mommy voice, I was once--and maybe even still am--a beautiful, strong woman, who has the love of a caring, amazing man.

The simple things.

Rockin' the Babies!

2011-07-18T16:37:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by TICS's Rockin' the Baby prompt. (Side-note: happy birthday, Shell!)

I love my babies more than anything. They are my life, and they grow WAY too quickly!

This was my Luke at almost 2 months, and now he is 6 months. (He also had his 6-month checkup today and is in the tenth percentile for weight and height. And he loves to eat, eat, eat.)

This is my Josh at 9 months, and now he is 2.5 years! He was my most precious Gerber-looking baby.

And lastly, this is my Sammy, at 3 months old. And now he is one of the most ~~bratty~~ difficult, smart, loving 4.5-year-olds in the world!

Red Writing Hood: Sparkly Shoes

2011-07-15T10:38:00.001-07:00

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt, "Shoes."

Those shoes can be real or symbolic, they can hurt or be super comfy but I want to see what they say about the life of the person wearing them...

And because I am a giver, this prompt's word limit is 625.Come back and link up here Friday to show us your "sole".

I've shared a few excerpts from my novel in previous RWH posts with hints to who Elanor, Sam, and even Paul and Jamie are. But this time, since there are no passages about shoes in the book, or that would relate at all, I'm writing this one independent of the novel, about a pair of Elanor's shoes as a little girl.

And I admit, I'm a little glad I had nothing to go with, because I always love to write something new.

Elanor was in a hurry, fishing through the clutter in her closet. She threw aside shoe after shoe, though she didn’t have many, and they thumped loudly on the hardwood floor, threatening to wake her father. Most didn’t fit her, but still she kept them, collecting them like memories—every pair that she’d accumulated over her eleven years of life.

Her last encounter with her gym shoes was almost a year ago. She’d been upset at her teacher for forcing her to play dodgeball and had hid them away, vowing to never put them on again. And every day Mr. Hansen had marked her down for wearing the only pair of shoes that now fit her: her warn, black boots, bought from the thrift store. He didn’t understand kids like her, comfortable in his large house and three cars. He probably had a pair of shoes for every occasion.

But yesterday he’d threatened a visit to her father, and she’d sworn she’d never come to gym class unprepared again. Even though she knew those old shoes would squeeze her feet until she could feel them no more.

She’d grown fast over the last few months, out and up, even growing womanly things. One day, while Sam was inspecting the hem of her suddenly too-short pants, he’d called it a growth spurt.

She glanced at her pink watch and sighed, grumbling under her breath as she continued to search. She was already running late for school, and the knowledge that Sam was at the bus stop, waiting, motivated her. She pictured him, leaning against the Whitmans’ mailbox with an apple in hand, ready to add it to her measly lunch.

Then her heart stopped. Red sparkled from the bottom of the box, beneath every meaningless shoe. She reached for it, hesitantly. She felt over the coarse, glittered surface, where some collected to her fingertips. She’d forgotten about them over the last year, the only pretty, sparkly things she’d ever owned.

She pulled out the pair of ruby red shoes, the straps flaccid and the soles worn to nearly nothing, and she was surprised that they sparkled just as brightly as they once had. She was eight when she’d first watched The Wizard of Oz, and she hadn’t been able to forget it, for a whole week daydreaming of Dorothy and the yellow brick road and the ruby red slippers that had brought her back home, where everyone she loved was waiting.

A few days later, Elanor had froze when entering her bedroom, Dorothy’s very shoes sitting on the foot of her bed. Waiting. As though they’d miraculously appeared from nowhere. Her heart had sped, and the exhilaration had swelled inside her until she could no longer contain it. She’d squealed while putting them on, a perfect fit, and had even been foolish enough to tap them together a few times.

She’d practically jumped up and down when showing Sam that afternoon, and his look had been aloof. And that was when she’d known it was him who’d gotten them for her, probably placed them on her bed when her father was at the shop. She didn’t know how he’d come across such a treasure, but like most things with Sam, she never questioned.

And to this day, he denied it. But she knew.

She’d worn them every day during that next year, rain or shine, and even some the year after, when her growing toes were curled uncomfortably inside. She’d played with Sam in the barn in them, walked the railroad ties in them, pretended she was a princess in them.

And now she would take them in her backpack, since they were far too small for her ever-growing feet. Still wishing for home.

Again forgetting about her old gym shoes.

Good Riddance, Bad TV

2011-07-14T09:54:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "List of 10 shows you're glad have seen their last day."

This one was easy.

However, it was even easier to come up with the shows that I wish had never been cancelled (I know that was one of the prompts for last week's writer's workshop, but I missed that one), like Friends, Heroes, 24, Lie to Me (just found this one out...WHAT?!), Breaking In, Better Off Ted, Chase, Trauma, Off the Map, Outsourced, or Perfect Couples...just to name a few. What's with the new trend of cancelling shows after one season, even if they don't suck?

But here are the ones that couldn't have been cancelled at a better time...or with some, never should have started in the first place (in no particular order):

1. The Cape. If you've seen even one episode, you know why. Actually, if you can see this picture, you know why. Sorry, NBC, but you can't pull of another Heroes.

2. Knight Rider. The new one, from a few years ago. Gag, gag, gag.

3. Prison Break. Don't get me wrong; I was the biggest Prison Break fan there ever was (and Wentworth Miller...come on, ladies). Nothing will ever beat the first season. But after the second season, it went downhill. Bad. And we found ourselves watching it only because we fell in love with the characters and had to know how it ended. It definitely saw it's end, long before the end of the fourth season.

4. Alias. I may get harsh words for this, but as a devote Alias and Sydney Bristow lover, I say this out of respect. Because any Alias fan has to admit that after the third season, it started to drop in appeal. Everything about it was different (and that's in part because it got a different director): worse actors, cheesier storylines, and did I say worse acting? I will always love this show, but it definitely should have ended in its prime, not two seasons later.

5. Scrubs. Here's another I loved. I had the first four seasons on DVD. I even have a website of Coxisms bookmarked in my web browser. But the last three seasons, and especially the very last, was like a different show entirely. It just got...dumb.

6. Hannah Montana. Not because I've ever even watched a whole episode all the way through, but from the bits and pieces I've seen while my sister-in-laws devoured it (in their younger years of course), it had to go. Sorry Disney and Miley fans. Gag.

7. Mr. Sunshine. Sorry, Matthew Perry, but your glory days were over after Friends. Don't try to relive them. Because I think you were only good as one character and one character only: Chandler Bing. I know you produced, wrote, and acted in Mr. Sunshine, but it...sucked.

8. Sarah Palin's Alaska. I'm proud to say I've never watched the show. And I'm proud for TLC for not giving it another go.

9. Smallville. I used to love it...until I realized after a few seasons that nothing new or exciting was happening. It lasted for ten seasons. And they got absolutely NOWHERE during that time. Enough said.

10. The Oprah Winfrey Show. Because I like to go against the grain.

Idaho Love

2011-07-13T21:56:00.000-07:00

Though I missed the blogging community while we were on vacation for a week (and then some), I have to say that the break, from life in general, was like a breath of fresh air.

And though my kids and I missed lots of sleep and woke up with back aches most mornings, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

And though ~~I hurt my back and bruised my ribs from leaning over the car seat while trying to nurse Luke on the drive so we didn't have to stop~~ countless hours in the car with small children was unnerving, the time with family was priceless.

It was a busy nine days, every day packed full of fun things, people to visit, and family to love on, and I wouldn't have had it any other way!

So I decided, in keeping with the Wordful Wednesday tradition, I'd post some pictures of my favorite highlights of the vacation to beautiful Idaho.

It's too bad we can't capture the real highlights on camera, though: the feelings and the love for the people most important to us. Because that was the best part of the trip. Seeing family and friends we hadn't seen in what felt like ages, and swathing ourselves in family love--something we so frequently miss out on here in Arizona, so far away from everyone we call family.

So I guess you can also consider this, in part, a Pour Your Heart Out post, too. I miss family so much. I miss that feeling of sense and belonging. I miss the feeling of fulfillment, that gets so abruptly interrupted when we have to journey back to Arizona.

Dave and I were talking about "home," and we realized that Arizona has never felt like home, and it's because, no matter the place, home is where the ones you love reside. And the ones we love reside in Colorado, Idaho, and Utah.

Besides, the desert stinks. Sorry to all you desert-lovers out there. The pines, the mountains, the cooler summer air, the green...that's my scene. And being around that again was such a refreshing break from life.

So to all you family who put up with us last week...we love and miss you so much, and valued every minute we got to spend with you!

Our trip started in Rexburg and Rigby, where we stayed with Grandma Mary (our permanent residence while Dave was in college the first four years of our marriage) and visited The Barton Family. There was a baptism (which was also the day Josh had the flu and threw up four times), a Fourth of July festival, fireworks (which Sam and Josh were both deathly afraid of), a movie night in the Barton "theater" (Country Strong: sad movie with a strong message), and many other great things between.

Dave and Mom on the 4th. And no, they didn't plan this!

Luke strapped to me at the 4th of July festival. Gotta love the "moby" wrap...even if he does get crooked after a while.

I also got to spend an hour with my best friend, Chloe, though I wish so badly we had longer. We hadn't seen each other in almost four years, but as it goes with us, we were able to pick up where we left off and it felt as natural as though I'd just seen her the day before. I love Chloe so much, and I love that God brought me to her as a freshmen in high school--my only kindred spirit on this earth.

Plus, it was ~~a wicked wake-up call to how old we're getting~~ so much fun to watch our kids play together for the first time.

Then we spent almost three days up in Salmon. Actually, it was in Carmen, at the base of the mountains around Salmon. Dave's aunt and uncle own a ranch up there that has been in the family for years, and is usually the gathering place for reunions, escape, etc.

And that's exactly what it was for me. There's something about that place: the remoteness, the beauty, the stillness. It's just the peaceful break needed from a busy, monotonous life. The scenery lets you breathe, lets your mind actually open up and think. And it's refreshing to know that places like that still exist in this world.

The green in the distance, at the base of the mountains, are the ranch fields.

Sunset!

Part of the view

We played, some worked (the child-less cousins changed pipe daily), visited, went to William's Lake, went to the hot springs, had a camp fire and roasted marshmallows, and even watched a movie on the trampoline under the stars one night, with a projector and a white sheet (Beastly: cute, alluring idea, but horrible execution and even more horrible acting).

Luke at William's Lake, protected from the sun in Grandma Julie's (Mom) t-shirt

Campfire songs, all accompanied by Jenni's guitar (and most sung by her, too)

And thanks to Mom and Jenni at William's Lake (they watched Luke, Josh, and Sam), I got to swim out to the little island with Dave and some other cousins, and cliff jump.

The dreaded cliff. It looks a lot less threatening from this angle.

And by cliff jump, I mean twenty minutes of mental preparation to jump off of a ten-foot drop. I'm just not as cool as my husband and his cousins, who can jump from 20+ feet, multiple times. A ten-foot drop, twice, is enough for me, thank-you-very-much.

And because of my deathly fear of heights, by the end I was weak and shaky from all that the fear took out of me.

Pathetic, I know.

And then to top it off, Dave and I thought we would take the short cut and save our energy (it was a good swim back to the dock) by instead swimming to the shore closest to us and hiking our way around back to the dock. After all, it was a straight shot.

Wrong. Instead we ended up hiking up and around the long way, through trees, bushes, dirt, and rocks...barefoot.

I sorta felt cool for a minute, like Cody from Dual Survival...

Even with the gashes on the bottom of my big toe. And the fact that I had no sense of balance from my earlier adrenaline rush.

One of my favorite parts of the trip was when Dave took me on the dirt bike up Davis Creek (in the mountains that the ranch backs into), and it was just us and the pines.

On our way up to Davis. The bike stalled...a couple of times.

Me and the hubs

The trip ended in Utah, where we stayed at the Bartons' (a different Barton family) in Ogden so we could attend the Sessions family reunion at Cherry Hills the next day. It was a long, hot, tiring day, but it was a blast. The kids were cranky (and so was I for a bit), but the water park helped, even if the storm cut it short.

Sam even went on the rapids ride and because he's so light, his tube flipped and Dave had to catch him. He didn't like that too much. Actually, he hated it.

But we got in some playing before a storm rolled in, and Josh even fell asleep snuggling Grandma Julie afterwards.

We also visited Sam's grave at the cemetery in Utah (Dave's older brother, and our little Sammy's namesake), and every time someone said something like, "I love you, Sam," as they placed a dime on the headstone, our little Sam thought they were speaking to him and he'd always reply, "I love you, too." Too cute.

The trip was long and tiring, but as usual, went way too fast and ended way too quickly. And we look forward to the next one!

Family pictures Jessica took for us in Rexburg. Yes, I know Sam's making a funny face. Unfortunately, I didn't realize this until looking at them after. And yes...I know my belly is hanging over my waistband. Ugh.

The best boys ever

Jess and the boys

Me and my Jess

This was on the first day at the ranch. We walked up the fields in search of two baby deer that were spotted earlier in the day, and instead of finding them, we took some pretty great pictures. Well, I should say Dave took them.

This was our last morning there. Goodbye ranch. We miss you.

Red Writing Hood: The Letter

2011-07-02T19:10:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt about a forgotten letter. "You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life--whether good or bad. What does it say? How does it affect you or your character? What is done with it?"

I know this is late coming, but this is the fourth installment I've posted from my Novel, The Exception. I'm hoping to reveal a little more each week. Oh, and I cheated this time. It's actually closer to 700 words. Sorry, I tried. I had to cut a lot, add some things, and move things around so it would make a little more sense.

That aside, constructive criticism is welcome!

Here are the other excerpts, in chronological order (this one fits somewhere between "The Guardian" and "The House"):

The Guardian

The House

The Encounter

“I picked up your mail,” Paul called from Elanor’s kitchen. “It’s on the table.”

She sighed. Paul might have been an Adonis by every definition, and every woman might label her lucky to call him her fiancé, but there was still something missing, something not right. He was still fuming from the argument that had transpired on the bed, of that she knew. But it was her birthday, so tonight he acted like he’d moved past it.

She sat on the couch, where he’d demanded she stay, and heard cupboards opening and closing from the kitchen. She hated surprises. Especially birthday surprises. She stood and walked to the dining room table, blowing out a scented candle on the way, and started thumbing through the stack of mail.

Most of it was junk, but she froze, just as she did every time she saw the envelopes. Another letter from Hugh, her former name still scrawled in his handwriting…haunting her. Sighing, her face heating, she crumpled it. Before she could toss it in the waste basket, Paul appeared and took it from her hands.

“Whoa, what’s this?”

“Paul, don’t,” she begged, trying to take it from him.

They stared each other down a moment, his eyes narrowing. “What are you hiding from me?”

“I’m not hiding anything. It’s just a letter from an old foster parent.”

He straightened the envelope, reading the addresses. “A foster parent with your last name?”

“Graham is not my last name.”

He rolled his eyes. “A foster parent with your old last name? Who’s Hugh, Elanor? What aren’t you telling me?”

Just when she was about to reply with another false excuse, she saw behind his shoulder, into the kitchen. It was a birthday cake, elaborate and detailed, and just small enough for the two of them. Her eyes immediately burned. “What’s that?” she unevenly asked, pointing to it.

He twisted, then sighed. “What does it look like?”

“I thought I told you before: no cakes. You knew that.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s a cake, El. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me!”

He studied her a moment, her eyes glistening. “It’s one thing to change the subject, but I’ve worked hard to make this night special for you. Where’s the appreciation?” He threw the crumpled envelope on the table. “I don’t know what’s with you. I’ve tried to get past your weird quirks, El, but I just don’t know…”

Inhaling unevenly, she withdrew. “What are you saying, Paul? Am I too nuts for you? Is it too crazy that I don’t like birthdays, or even birthday cakes?”

“Oh, let’s not forget all the other hang-ups. The house I wanted to buy was vintage, Elanor, and a steal. And I had to pass it up because it had hardwood floors?”

“I’m sorry if those things remind me.”

“Remind you of what?” He sighed, calming himself. “All you have to do is open up to me, El. We could work through whatever shit’s in your past.”

“We can’t work through anything. I just want to move on, I want to forget certain things. Is that too much to ask?”

His eyes turned somber. “How can you marry someone you can’t even share yourself with?”

She tightened her jaw, her eyes rewetting. “You know me, Paul,” she lied.

Glancing at the letter, his upper lip curled over his bleached teeth. “No. I don’t.” He walked toward the door, grabbing his jacket.

And he was gone.

Later, Elanor’s eyes found the blasted letter on the dining room table, suitably crinkled. She picked it up, the course wrinkles satisfying against her fingertips, and noticed something different than usual. On the front, in Hugh’s sloppy handwriting, it read, “Please don’t throw me away.”

With heating skin she huffed, revisiting her determination from nineteen years before, when she’d vowed to never play the fool again.

When she’d disowned Hugh as her father.

Hoping he could feel it, with both her fists she balled it into the tightest wad she could crumple—putting all her hatred into it—and threw it into the trash, her eyes burning from ancient betrayal.

She would never read his words, never know what lies filled his many letters.

I just might lose it.

2011-06-29T14:32:00.000-07:00

I've never taken part in Shell's PYHO (Pour Your Heart Out) Wednesdays, but I figured I should today. Before I explode. And this will be my last post for a short time, since we are leaving for Idaho tomorrow! Woo-hoo! If I get the chance, I might blog from there, but I'm not counting on it.

It's just been one of those days. You know, the kind where you've procrastinated things all week and decide that you'd do it all in one day--one day before you leave on a ten-day vacation? Or the kind where your kids are unbearably cranky, extra whiny, extra bratty, and cry at the drop of a hat? Those kinds of days suck on their own, but to have them both on the same day is just downright annoying.

I admit that the procrastinating is my fault. I've always been really good at that. I always think I'll have plenty of time in the future to get certain things done, and I'm wrong. Every. Time.

So instead of getting things ready for our trip this week, I've been using my few minutes of free time here and there to rewrite my first manuscript (the one I don't really consider a manuscript at all because of how absolutely horrible it is). I've always loved the characters, but felt a little ashamed of the story, and even more ashamed of the writing. So, I thought, why not rewrite it all, start from scratch?

It's something I just started doing for fun, because of the fact that I'd written it off a long time ago, but now that I'm back into it, and I'm seeing that it actually has some promise with the way I'm rewriting it, it's been hard to step away. It's been hard to find that balance, as it usually is when I'm into something I'm writing.

So that little thing I decided to do for fun has now turned into a passion that fills nearly every moment of my free time, which isn't much. And between that and a screaming baby (which I explain below), I have been a procrastinating whore.

It's a problem. And the first step is admitting it, right?

Anyway, I'm suffering from the consequence today. Here I am, with a massive to-do list and three kids that are driving me BONKERS.

It took me an hour just to fold laundry. Yes, an hour. Because my two-year-old's favorite thing to do is ~~laugh when I pull my hair out and scream~~ destroy a good ol' pile of freshly folded laundry. Twice.

And cleaning up the toys in the family room and their bedroom? Well, that was a two-hour job. After gathering all the puzzle pieces and having the kids put them together again, Josh also decided it would be fun to ~~act like the spawn on Satan~~ throw them all in random directions when I wasn't looking, including, but not limited to, behind the couch, behind the TV, on the shelf, and in the laundry (which was still destroyed at this point).

He also got a kick out of the fact that when I finally got their room clean an hour later (it was absolutely horrific, I tell you) and I put him in timeout, he locked himself in and destroyed everything I just cleaned while I begged from the other side of the door for him to unlock it. (After that episode, I ~~messed around so much with the lock that I accidentally broke it~~ disabled the lock on their door to prevent future episodes.)

And perhaps the most horrifying of all is that I have an almost-six-month-old who is the most high-maintenance individual I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. And people, I promise I'm not over-exaggerating this one. I am literally at my wit's end. If there is anyone out there who has a baby like this, any pointers will be helpful!

The constant soundtrack to my day (unless I am holding him) is a high-pitched scream that makes my head hurt. He cries ALL. THE. TIME. And I don't know why. I love the baby to death--really. He is so cute and fun and when I'm holding him, he is pleasant and happy and oh-so-kissable.

But I put him down and it's like I'm dealing with a starving, neglected, raging demon. (Those of you who are judging me for my word choice, come to my house for an hour and you will share the same opinion, I promise you.)

There is something about that screaming that not only hurts my head, but makes me grumpy, on edge, and triples the stress in the air. It makes me not want to do anything during the day (which is why I procrastinate in the first place) because listening to that in the background is torture. It's in the background to everything I do. EVERYTHING.

Doing the dishes: screaming. Sweeping/mopping the floor: screaming. Bathing the two older boys: screaming (and of course the crying from my older kids because they hate water). Giving my older kids lunch: screaming. Disciplining my older kids: screaming. Dealing with an unruly, whiny child: screaming. Trying to unlock the children's door while pleading and nearly crying myself on the other end: screaming.

And it's not just the screaming that's getting to me, but the nursing, too. I've never enjoyed nursing with Luke. Never. And that is really sad to me. He's a miserable nurser. He squirms and fidgets the whole time, not to mention claws. I have scratches and abrasions all over my boobs, ribs, and chest because he doesn't know how to lay calmly when he eats. I have to use one hand to hold the boob in place (it comes out if I don't, thanks to the pulling, the squirming, etc.) and the other to try and keep his hands down.

And part of his behavior is out of habit, I think, since in the first few months of his life he suffered with my over-active letdown problem. But now it's just irritating. And it saddens me to say that I can't wait until he's older, when I'm ready to wean him.

So, you may be asking to yourself, why is she blogging if she has so much to get done?

And the answer is because I want to. Simple as that. I needed a break, the baby is asleep, and it's quiet.

Ah, that quiet.

And I'm tired. I'm tired of a fussy, needy baby, and I just want him to be happy. So there's my venting for the week.

And I just want to add that as I type, I can hear Josh throwing all the toys out of the drawers in his room again. For the third time. After the two hours his mom has spent cleaning it. He is supposed to be asleep.

And I'm just too tired to care now. It's why I don't clean on a usual basis.

Did I mention I'm tired?

Dear awkward, naive, sixteen-year-old self...

2011-06-26T15:27:00.001-07:00

You know how you've always liked to write long, meaningful letters? Well, here's what one from the future looks like:

It's been quite a crazy and rewarding twelve years. You actually ended up where you hoped you would be: the wife to a wonderful, supportive, and faithful husband, and the mother to three fantastic children. It was all you ever wanted, really, since you could never put your finger on what you actually wanted to do with your life.

But even though you got what you wanted, be aware that you veered pretty far off the course to get there.

And you know what, past self? Though those certain obstacles and "bad" decisions in our life delayed the rewarding outcome, don't regret them. Because all our mistakes and life experiences--difficult and joyous--have made us who we are today. And we are pretty proud of that.

So, live life. Make the mistakes you will at one point regret. Because without them, you won't have a full understanding or appreciation for the Savior and His atonement. You won't have the life experience and character you now have. And you might not even have the open-minded view you now own.

One thing to look forward to: You realize you're pretty healthy after all, even after the Epstein Bar and depression episodes. You have a great immune system and can actually handle sleepless nights with a tinge of grace.

You love to run (imagine that), and you actually have your own sense of style. I know, that's hard to believe, isn't it? But you now know how to match, what styles do and don't fit your body type, and you only wear what makes you comfortable--not what you think you should wear.

Plus, there's a great show called What Not to Wear, from which you've learned a few helpful lessons.

Though you'll still have a hard time with it, you will learn how to say "no" to people and be slightly less of a pushover. Only slightly though. Maybe in twelve more years from now, forty-year old us will say it's not a problem at all.

You're not a singer, like you always wished you could be. In fact, your singing glory days were in high school, unfortunately. You haven't even sang in church in years, though you wish to. But you do still have that embedded passion for music. It still moves you in a way that nothing else can. Be proud of the fact that that's always been inside of you. In fact, don't feel embarrassed about any of the things that move you.

Despite your fears of what kind of a mother you'll be, especially because of your distaste for children, know that you will actually be a pretty great mom. There will be times when you won't feel like it, but you are. And you will love them without even trying. You'll love your kids, you'll actually know how to wear the mommy pants, and you'll be proud of it.

And you're proud to wear the wife pants, too. Sometimes they're old, dirty sweats (more times than we care to admit), and sometimes they're a little more appealing. Sexy even. I know, it's not a word in your vocabulary yet because you can't comprehend such an idea, but you will learn it's just one more thing that makes you, you.

Don't be afraid of intimacy, in any light.

And don't be afraid of sex. I know, you will blush when reading this because you aren't very open-minded about the idea, but that will change. There's nothing to fear. And it's actually pretty great.

Your husband loves you a great deal, and believe it or not, he finds you pretty desirable. He even claims he is the luckiest man in the world. And though you will not understand or believe him, take in his compliments.

Oh, and enjoy your smooth stomach while you have it. Because one day, after children, there will be nothing there but saggy, stretch-marked skin. But you will also be grateful because of what those scars have earned you. Your children are your life. And though they take on some of the traits you hate in yourself, you love it in them.

You will learn how to cook. Don't be so afraid of it. Your husband will give you all the pointers for a good foundation when you get married, and from there, you'll teach yourself. And half the time, you'll actually be quite decent at it.

Now, here's something you might not want to hear: you are still strangely proportioned, physically awkward, and uncoordinated. I know you hoped and daydreamed of one day growing into your long arms and legs, and maybe even getting better hair and a longer neck. But it doesn't happen.

In fact, sometimes you will feel even more uncoordinated than you once were. And you'll blame that on the beautiful children. You will hear this a lot in life, but it's true: pregnancy and raising children makes you scatter-brained.

Did I mention you have amazing, beautiful, strong-spirited children? Three boys, who will drive you nuts but make you feel like the most important, blessed girl on the planet. And that list you made with all the qualities you want in a future husband? You got them.

Well, all of them except the height. You don't marry someone tall. Sorry.

But his strengths will more than make up for it. He will see in you what you will still be struggling to see in yourself years down the road. And you are still very in love three children and eight years of marriage later.

So don't fret so much over the boy who broke your heart. No, he is not your future husband. No, you don't really love him. Yes, you will be happily married one day. And no, the cares and stresses you are experiencing now are not the most dire problems you will ever experience.

Don't worry so much about what other people think, please. The girls with Abercrombie & Fitch plastered to their perfect bodies don't know crap about what makes a girl special.

But you do. You know your divine heritage, and that you are a special, beautiful daughter of God. You know this. So please remember it, and let it fill you with confidence. Enjoy yourself and stop worry about the little things!

Oh...and pay better attention in math. We both know it's not our strong suit, but that doesn't mean you don't have to try.

And, confused, self-conscious girl: you will find your passion someday. You might not find it until later in life, after you've had your first child, but be aware of it. Recognize that your love for literature, English, poetry, and art stems from your destined purpose to write.

Yes, you are a writer. And it will be hard for you to call yourself that sometimes, because feeling inadequate is what you're best at, but you are a writer. Even without a degree, awards, or published work. Finally, you will find something you're good at, something that makes you feel special and passionate.

And thanks in partial to something called "blogging," you will be able to let your voice be heard. You will be able to pour your heart out and say what you really mean. You will find just who you are.

You have a lot to look forward to. Soak up every memorable moment in your life. Soak up the love that comes your way, and learn what you can from the hatred. You will be proud of who you become. You will realize one day that you wouldn't trade a thing in your life. And you will find yourself thanking God everyday for the path He's put you on and the people He's blessed you with in your life.

The things your future self is most proud of:

The beautiful creations that are your children
A happy, healthy family life
You've written three novels
You gave childbirth naturally (with no pain medication) to two of your children and now feel like you can accomplish anything as a woman

Lastly, love yourself. I can't say it enough. Love yourself even when all you can do is hate yourself, because you will need all the practice you can get for later in life, when you realize you never really did. So throw me a bone, sixteen-year-old me, and just love yourself.

Love,
Slightly-less-self-conscious, twenty-eight-year-old me

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning Bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "A Letter to You."

Write a letter to yourself at age sixteen. What might you tell your sixteen year-old self? Would you warn yourself not to make a certain mistake? Would you ask yourself to treasure being young? Would you tell yourself how much you've changed?

Gratitude

2011-06-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

Thanks, for the idea, Allison! Check out what she's grateful for at Mama Wants This.

I figured I needed a little gratitude on this blog. Especially since my last post generated comments like, "Someone's having a bad day..." and "Are you serious?" My mom even asked me if I really drank margaritas. I laughed. No, I don't really drink margaritas, or read romance novels.

I just write them.

(Again, a joke. Kind of.)

So, besides the givens, like my family, here's what I am especially grateful for this week. It's the little victories, right?

Matt Nathanson's song, Little Victories. Pun intended.
Josh saying more words and making communication that much easier. He's even started putting two words together!
Reassuring comments from his speech therapist on just how great he's going. Plus, she says we are her favorite.
New recipes.
Air conditioning.
The news that we will be going to Idaho next week, therefore getting me out of Bagdad.
Ashley sending William home. Seriously, grow up, little boy. (Bachelorette is my guilty pleasure. No matter how irritating Ashley is.)
The accumulated seven hours of sleep I had last night--almost double what I usually get.
The sprinkler, because it gets Sam outside for hours each day. And I ~~loooove the break~~ love that he can get time in the sunshine.
That Josh is even thicker in the chest than he was last week. It makes snuggling and hugging him SO much fun! He's my little football player.
My Mag07 came in the mail. Maybe I will actually get to enjoy eating again!
One of my manuscripts was returned by mail, meticulously edited by a friend.
Chubby, rolly baby thighs.
Master Chef, because it has inspired my husband to want to learn to cook something really well. And that means I might get a night off cooking.
Oreos.
Finding cute matching shirts for all three boys at Target...ON SALE!
That the bug man sprayed our attic. One more obstacle for scorpions.
Luke's screechy velociraptor laugh.
A husband who is understanding when he gets home from work and it looks like nothing has gotten done.
The mom and writing blog communities, and all the wonderful posts I get to read every day, from wonderful, funny, talented people that make me feel not so alone!
Baby feet.

Red Writing Hood: Life...in a flash.

2011-06-24T00:07:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by this week's TRDC Red Writing Hood: "Flash Fiction can be fun and a real challenge. This week focus on the words and the strength of each to contribute to your story. Write a 300 word piece using the following word for inspiration: LIFE."

Flash Fiction. Eek. Not sure if this fits all the plot elements that are supposed to be creatively fit into flash fiction, but here's a pretty good short story within my story (The Exception) using "Life" as the inspiration (in 292 words, to be exact).

In past posts from this novel, Elanor was an adult, but as you'll see from this excerpt, Sam was with her as a child as well.

For the other two posts about Elanor, Sam, and even the protagonist, Jamie, click here (Happy Non-end) and here (Beauty Downfall).

Elanor’s seven-year-old stare was intent. “I know you’re him, Sam—our guardian.”

Sam paused, stunned she knew so much. With her hand still in his, they stopped walking and he looked down on her, into the eyes he’d do anything for—even if it meant living a miserable eternity as an immortal. He’d never thought of himself as a guardian, only someone put in place to oversee. But the gnawing reminder of how he’d veered off that course once before made the title seem fitting, even in his failures. And now he was doing it again.

“Are you an angel, Sam?”

He chuckled. “I don’t think so. Not the last time I checked, anyway.”

“What are you then?” Her freckled brow pulled together and her pink, full lips nearly pouted. It was her traditional display of frustration and he tried not smile.

“I know you trust me, Lanor, so do you think you can keep trusting me, even though I can’t tell you everything? Just know that I will always be around to make sure you’re safe, because that’s why I’m here.”

She lowered her eyes, and her shoulders.

He put his finger under her chin and raised it toward him. “And it’s not because I don’t think you’ll understand. It’s because I don’t know how much I’m allowed to tell you. But I know that because you are so grown-up, you will understand that. You will know that sometimes, that’s the way life works.”

Her eyes softened, his words lifting her shoulders.

“Besides,” he lightheartedly continued as he started forward again, “don’t you think the secret makes our friendship extra special?”

She smiled again, the beginnings of another tooth slowly filling the gap from a month ago. “Yeah,” she dreamily replied.

Keep your unsolicited advice to yourself.

2011-06-23T22:34:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "List 10 things you wish you could say to strangers who share unsolicited advice about your parenting skills."

Beware, all. Remember, this post is things I wish I could say. So they might be mean. But that's why I don't say them. I also thought it was funny that after I made this list, I realized that a lot of this stuff is centered around Walmart. I guess that's when I get the most unsolicited advice.

"What are you looking at?" Yes, I notice your daggers when I'm walking through the store with a baby, toddler, or child (or all three at once) throwing a temper tantrum. You don't have to say anything, because your old, judgmental eyes say it all. What do you want me to do--beat them? I would, trust me. I'd spank those little bums in public if I knew I wouldn't get reported to child services. So instead, my threats of spanking them "when we get home" will have to do.
"Yes, high fructose corn syrup is bad!" I know you think that because we had it when we were little and we're all still alive that it's okay, but they didn't have the research they did back then. It really is one of the worst things we can ingest into our bodies (and I know because we have done research and know the effects). And I want my kids to be healthy. I know, I'm horrible for letting him miss out on pop-drinking at age two. He just might have to go to a support group for it someday.
"Wait...where's your kids? Oh yeah...YOU DON'T HAVE ANY!" So until you do, please stop acting like you know anything about what it's really like to have and raise a child. I promise you, they're not that easy to control.
"My kids watch TV. So kill me." You say they might end up mindless, ADD children, but I say that my son learned his ABC's from Brainy Baby videos when he was fourteen months old and learned how to count to ten in Spanish from Dora when he was eighteen months old (Though I do loathe Dora). So, no, I don't feel guilty for using the TV as a babysitter when I'm in desperate need to get something done. Like dishes, or showering, or laundry. Or sitting on my back porch with a margarita and a romance novel. Ha!
"No, ma'am, my baby isn't hungry. No, ma'am, I'm not neglecting my child." So maybe only the first sentence applies, but when my baby is crying hysterically and you ask me if he is hungry, isn't that what your saying anyway--that I need your helpful prompt to remember that I have a baby in need of me? Lay. Off. He's tired, sick of being in his car seat all day (because to go anywhere we have about three hours of driving time), and basically cries every time I'm not holding him. So if one more old maid in Walmart asks me if my baby is hungry, I'm going to punch you. Okay, maybe not. I'll probably just smile and shake my head, but know that inside, I want to punch you.
"Don't talk to me until you do your research." Because I promise you, I have. And I know I'm doing what's best for my children. Even if that's different than what's best for yours. Even if that means you think they're disease-infested, germ spreading children because they're on an alternate vaccine schedule.
"Yes, dummy, breast is best." I don't judge anyone for their decision not to breastfeed, and I understand not everyone can--heck, I couldn't breastfeed my first child. So don't tell me I'm not doing what's best by nursing my child. Because, really...your argument sucks. Other than your claim that I need to put myself first and take care of me, and get more sleep at night so I can enjoy my children more during the day, you have nothing to back it up. And I'm sorry I put my baby before me. I'm a mom. I nurture. I nurse. That's what me and my boobs were made for, and that's how I love it. So, lost sleep, sore nipples, and all, I won't stop. And going off of that...
"Since when did you become a lactation consultant?" Yes, I have tried everything, and I mean everything, to nurse my baby (speaking of my first). That includes countless nurses, grandmas, aunts, and three real lactation consultants. And everyone was stumped. I spent hours and countless hours up in the night and meeting with people to try to get my baby to nurse. He hated it, no matter how many tears I spilled and how many prayers I prayed--so I could be the mom I wanted to be. So I didn't feel like a failure. In fact, after six weeks of constant refusal from him, I pumped all day, every day, until he was six months old, just so I could feel like I was doing what was best. So do not tell me that you have the magical solution. Because I guarantee I've heard it and tried it. And no, they will not just give in when they get hungry enough. I promise you. And I will not let my child suffer from malnutrition. Just because your babies were good nursers doesn't mean everyone's baby can be.
"Talk to me when you have a fussy, high-needs baby." Until then, don't even pretend to know what it's like. It's great your children are angels, sleep when, where, and how you want them to, and are happy laying by themselves, but letting my baby "cry it out" isn't going to change a damn thing. No, I did not make him this way by "loving him too much." My kids have been high maintenance since the second they came out of my lady parts. Baby, they were born this way.
"You're right...I am too stupid to realize my child is danger!" Thank you so much for telling me he might fall out of the grocery cart. I don't know what I would do without your eyes. After all, I'm just a mindless breeding machine with a baby wrapped to her chest, a child sitting in the front of the cart, another child in the back, and every other inch of space occupied with groceries.

Oh wait...I just realized my child is standing because I told him to.

Because I don't have four arms and can't push two carts to carry all the millions of groceries I buy, and because of those millions of groceries there just isn't enough room for him to sit, and because I live an hour and a half from the nearest Walmart and have to stock up on groceries on the rare occasion I get to go, and because I have to make these long, obnoxious trips to town by myself, and because I don't want my kids to run away from me in the grocery store (I swear, if I did let him out of the cart, he'd be gone in a second)... And because, because, because...

I do what I can. Even if that means one of my children will stand in the back and hold on.

But what do I know? I'm just a mindless breeding machine.

Whew. Felt good to get that out.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-06-22T15:19:00.000-07:00

So maybe it's not exactly wordless, but because I don't have a long, gushing story this time, I'm not calling it Wordful Wednesday. There's not really much I have to say about this picture. The caption says it all.

And my heart swells when I look at it.

This is my most favorite picture I have ever taken, of Sam and Dave about two years ago.

Love, love love.

"Lead me, guide me, walk beside me; help me find the way..."

I eat my words. With Sweet & Salty Chex Mix.

2011-06-21T09:13:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the TRDC RemembeRED prompt, "It's a fill-in-the-blank-for-your-own-prompt Prompt: The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing."

The first time I drove my minivan....after swearing I would never own one.

And I mean swore. It actually made me a little queasy to see a young mom hauling around her kiddos in a minivan. It reminded me of my mom (nothing against Mom). It reminded me of the times in high school I got made fun of for driving hers. So I said that no matter how many kids I had, I would never drive one. I'd get an SUV first, no matter the higher cost.

Well, the cost is higher. And I didn't have kids then, who cost an arm and a leg to raise. Literally, I payed for diapers in legs last time.

Okay, maybe not literally.

And when baby number three was on his way and we finally accepted the harsh reality that three car seats just would not fit in our tiny, gas-efficient Saturn, we put our logic goggles on and I realized it was that time. That time to fit into the soccer mom stereotype (even though my kids don't play soccer). It was unavoidable now, especially if we didn't want to pay a fortune for the extra gas and insurance that would come with an SUV.

And after hours of research, test drives, annoying, pushy ~~spawns of Satan~~ car salesmen, we finally found her.

I say her because she truly is a part of our family.

Four hours, fourteen signatures, and two new sets of keys later, I pulled her off of that lot, blasting her beautiful, refreshing "Max AC" in the armpit we call Phoenix and something flipped inside me. The rear AC for the kiddos, the smooth ride, the horse power (hey, it was like a Viper after the put-put Saturn we had), the satellite radio, the little mirror that lets me see all my kiddos and what they're doing, all the extra space, the comfortable seats, the leg room, the middle console I could conveniently keep my Sweet & Salty Chex Mix on...

I was a believer.

And I realized I had never enjoyed driving any of my previous vehicles more than her.

And that was when that shiny, maroon 2009 Kia Sedona became my baby.

(Okay, not really my baby. More like an adopted pet or something.)

And I am proud to say I am a minivan mom.

He never fails to please.

2011-06-20T13:03:00.000-07:00

See that little cut on Sam's chin? That's what happens when a four-year-old thinks they need to shave just like Daddy does. It doesn't matter how many times you tell him not to get into Daddy's raiser because of how dangerous it is, or that if he does ~~he might die~~ we might need to rush him to the hospital.

Oh, and he's also convinced he needs to wear deodorant now, too. Old Spice. On his forearms no less.

And you want to see what happens when I leave him alone with Luke for five minutes?

Yes, those are stickers. I should have known he was up to something when I heard his jaunty laughter from the other room. Poor Luke had no idea he was being made a mockery.

Even though I want to ring his neck sometimes (like when I look out the window and see him with his pants around his ankles, peeing in the backyard for the fifth time, even though I told him NOT to pee outside), I really do love the entertainment Sam provides. So here are some more Samisms:

The other day we had a babysitter watching the kids for an hour while I tried to have my hairdresser fix ~~the hopeless mess of crap on my head~~ my hair, and she asked him just how smart he was:

Sam: I'm smarter than my dad.
Katie: What about your mom? Are you smarter than your mom?
Sam (enthusiastically shaking his head): No!

Ah, I've taught him well. (Happy Father's Day, honey.)

A few days later, he and Josh were going all throughout the house, getting in trouble wherever they could, and I noticed that Sam was the one persuading Josh to do all the "bad" things. I don't know if you've seen that show on Discovery called Dual Survival, but this is on quite a bit in our house since it is Dave's favorite. And Sam is always saying how "awesome" those guys are. So when I got after him, Sam's exasperated reply was, "Mooooom! Me and Josh are playing Discover guys!"

He also likes to play Dave's X-Box 360 game, Black Ops (Don't judge), and we get a kick out of watching him intentionally try to kill himself. Jumping off cliffs and roofs, running into a pack of dogs. Or my favorite, facing a wall and then throwing a bomb at the wall so he is killed in the blast. He laughs almost harder than I have ever seen him laugh.

A bit deranged you say? Well, we find it absolutely endearing.

He loves to exercise on the "Beliptical" (elliptical), too--even though his tiny string bean legs can barely reach the pedals all the way around--and gets mad if we try taking the remote and interfering.

Hmm. Maybe he gets that from someone.

And when he cut himself on the leg the other day and I asked if he was okay, he soberly assured, "It's okay, Mom. I'm not dead."

Phew.

I love my son and all his little quirks, and that he eats Oreos slowly by pulling them apart, licking off the frosting, and then eating the "bread part." And how he does "letters" on my laptop. We spy on him when he does, laughing so hard at the way he tries to type like Mommy and sings Rolling in the Deep as he does.

I can't wait until Josh talks more so that I can start posting "Joshisms" as well. For now it's still just the cute tone of his voice when saying certain things, like "Thank you" and "Yeah."

Rockin' The Baby Bumps

2011-06-20T09:54:00.001-07:00

*Post linked to Shell's "Rockin' the Bump" post at Things I Can't Say.

I was always the pregnant one who would get told things like, "It looks like you swallowed a basketball!" or "Man, you're huge!" or "You're about to pop!" and my favorite (especially on my third)...

"Are you SURE you're not having twins?!"

This was especially uplifting when I'd get this comment in my second trimester.

And just like how all my labors were completely different with each child, I carried them all differently, too. But mostly, having practically no torso, the only way the baby had to go was straight out.

Here's me in labor with Sam, my first. This was right before we left for the hospital.

Here's me at about six months with my second, Josh. I know, I was huge for six months. And no, I don't have any other pictures of me later in the pregnancy. I wasn't as keen on taking baby bump pictures with my second and third.

And this is at about 8 months with my third, Luke. I wish it was a little more sideways so you could see just how much I actually stuck out, but I was huge. I promise.

And just so that everyone knows, you do get bigger quicker with each pregnancy. Just an example, this is me at 8 weeks with my third...YES, EIGHT WEEKS!

Did I mention how much I loved the twin comments?

Downfall

2011-06-17T08:53:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt, "Physical Beauty." (Write a scene in which a physically beautiful character is somehow impacted by that trait.)

This one is difficult, only because of the content of the scene I am posting. It's another excerpt from my unpublished novel, The Exception. I thought that since both my main characters are physically beautiful, I would have oodles of scenes to choose from, but after scanning over it, it turns out there's really only one scene that displays how she is actually impacted by it.

Not only may it be an uncomfortable scene for some to read, but you will be confused by some things going on and left wondering why this villain is after her, who his uncles are, etc. So apologies for any confusion. One thing you may gather from this, and my last Red Writing Hood post, is that Sam is, in a way, Elanor's guardian. There isn't much more I can explain without giving away more of the plot than I'd like. So here it is, in just under 600 words.

(For another post about Sam and Elanor, visit my last Red Writing Hood post here.)

And feel free to critique!

Elanor backed up as Jamie approached, his hands mysteriously behind his back. He gave her the once-over, a glimmer of male instincts getting the best of him. Flicking his tongue, he said, “They never told me how stunning you are. Killing you might be difficult.” He paused, his smile growing mischievous. “Then again, it might make it that much more enjoyable.”

She swallowed hard, unable to remove her eyes from his. “They? You mean your puppet masters?”

Briefly faltering, anger flashed across his face. “What do you know of my uncles?”

“Uncles? Is that what they told you?”

Jamie paused before smiling in enlightenment. “What they told me is that Sam may have gotten to you.”

Elanor stopped when the edge of Sam’s bed was against her calves. “Did they also tell you what they are? Or that Sam will stop at nothing to see your death?”

Jamie chuckled condescendingly. “You’ll both be dead before he even knows I’m here.”

She stayed frozen as he slowly approached, her voice wavering as she warned, “He’ll be back any minute.”

“Not if our boy Matt does his job.” Jamie looked thoughtfully to the side as he removed a large machete from behind his back, inspecting the blade dramatically. “I will have to thank your sorry excuse of a bodyguard for his impeccable weapon choice, though.”

Elanor’s heart skipped into a panic as a flash of her nightmare played in her mind, the only difference to now being the location.

“Get on your knees,” he calmly commanded.

She barely shook her head, still immobile from his strange, captivating draw.

“Get on your knees!” he shouted, losing every ounce of his poise.

Startled, Elanor slowly did as he commanded, kneeling before him. His figure blurred as she looked up at him in a begging manner. “Please, Jamie,” she shakily whispered. “You don’t have to do this.”

A corner of his heart twitched when gazing into her wide hazel eyes, her beauty strangely magnified by the moisture that glazed them. Surely, this woman couldn’t be a threat to his family, as his uncles had told him. He ran his fingers into her chestnut hair in a moment of hesitation, her beauty nearly hypnotizing him. He couldn’t remember wanting someone so badly in years.

Elanor shivered as Jamie’s hand cradled her head and pushed it into his thigh. His warn jeans smelled of gasoline and cigarette smoke. Closing her eyes, she let the tears drop freely. “You can walk away,” she gently cried. “You can leave.”

He clenched his jaw, remembering another warning from his uncles. Her beauty is a ruse, her existence an abomination. They knew his weaknesses, knew him better than he knew himself. They’d known the path his mind would wander. He’d dropped his guard by letting her get to him, and now he would get to her. “Take off your shirt,” he quietly ordered.

She stiffened, pushing away from him.

“Now.”

She shook her head in haste, her eyes pleading with him yet again.

He gripped her hair tightly, yanking her head back as he bent to her level. “That shit isn’t going to work on me. This plan has been in place for generations. You think I’m going to let you throw me off?!”

“You already have,” she warily countered, closing her eyes through the burning in her scalp. Wincing, she opened them again when his grasp tightened. “Why prolong it? Just kill me. That’s what they wanted you to do, isn’t it?”

Ode to Camping

2011-06-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "Share a summer camp memory."

My chic camping look. "No pictures, please."

This writer's workshop was more difficult for me. I hard a hard time coming up with anything, for all five prompts, so this is the one I picked. And I'm not really sharing a specific camp memory because I have way too many to choose from, and one of my most memorable wasn't even from the summer. It was a winter camping trip I took with my husband (then my fiancé), my brother, and a friend. It was memorable because it was quite possibly the most scared I have ever been in all my life.

And when I say scared, I mean I was actually fearing for my life.

Because thanks to my brother and fiancé, I was lead to believe I was being hunted by a dangerous predator. Just as I was praying my final repentances before meeting my maker, I learned the predator was actually John and Dave...hiding behind the tent and making the most real-sounding growls and purrs I'd ever heard.

Let's just say I didn't speak a word to either of them the rest of the miserable (yes, it was miserable. I don't recommend winter camping) camping trip, minus the few words I couldn't avoid here and there, like ~~"bastard," "son-of-a-bitch," and "the marriage is over"~~ simple yeses and nos.

This is me sulking in my sleeping bag (I was also freezing) instead of posing with Dave for a picture. He was probably thinking "What am I getting myself into?"

So, instead of delving into the nail-biting details of that story, I'm taking on a different tactic. And though I have many many summer camp memories--some from actual church summer camp when I was a teenager and some from summer camping trips with family, and some from the winter (see the snow in the background of the first picture above?)--I decided to just share one picture per memorable camping trip I've taken as an adult, most taking place when we lived in Idaho.

At Yellowstone National Park the first year of our marriage

This was the camping trip Dave got 42 mosquito bites...just on his back. This was the 2nd year of our marriage. And isn't the backwoods version of my hubby cute?

This is one of the camping experiences I contemplated blogging on. It was our 3rd year of marriage (I was pregnant with Sam) and our old buddies, Steve and Jillian Holiday (Steve is my amazingly talented friend who is graciously editing my MS), and us decided to go huckleberry picking, but ended up spending half the day picking the wrong berries. This picture shows our bliss before we realized that. I have another blog post about it here, but beware: the post was written two years ago and my writing skills were absolutely horrific.

Camping with our old friends and quite possibly our favorite camping buddies, John and Jess Vrabec! Yes, that plaid woodsman on the left is Dave. He likes to look the part when we camp.

This was our only Arizona camping trip, with Brand and Tiffany Stewart and Nick and Destiny Bolinger. It was also Dave's first paintball experience. Tiff, Brand, Nick, and Dave. How we miss these guys.

This was from the same camping trip. Sam was tiny and oh-so cute. And this was the last camping trip I've ever taken. It's been three years, people...three YEARS! I am desperate to go again. But the little ~~brats I've popped out~~ kiddos are 100% worth the wait.

These next 3 photos are from the camping trip with the most amazing landscape I've ever taken. It was another winter/spring camp-out taken when Dave and I were dating (Yes, just dating, since it was between our two engagements. Yes, two engagements). We went with my brother, John, again, and our friend, Andy, to the sand dunes in Southern Colorado. Pretty darn amazing, if you ask me. It was cold, but oh-so fun.

We were mere children.

They were competing for me. Just kidding.

Another camp-out in Idaho, the first year in our marriage. This was in the fall. And the fall in Idaho may as well be the winter.

In front of Mesa Falls (believe it or not, it's not in Arizona), the 2nd year of our marriage.

Wordful Wednesday: Davenport Zoo

2011-06-15T16:08:00.000-07:00

*Linked to Angie and Amanda's Wordful Wednesday.

This is another VERY wordful Wednesday. I have a lot going on, and a lot of pictures. So sue me. First up is our trip to the Phoenix Zoo we took two weekends ago while Dave's sister, Jenni, was staying with us. Unfortunately, she isn't in any of these pictures.

More pictures--that include her--will be in next week's Wordful Wednesday post (due to the fact that they are on my other computer)!

It was a fun day, but extremely hot and sweaty. Extremely. Not only were the animals all hiding, but my kids were agitated, too. Even Sam, who started out excited, just wanted to get out of there by the end. That is, until we got to the water park.

I wish I got more pictures of Sam in the water park, but I was too busy ~~sitting in a pool of my sweat~~ nursing the baby.

I don't know who this kid came from, but Josh absolutely HATES water. He was roasting hot, yet still screamed bloody murder when we made him get wet.

The next event I will limit to one picture. Sam had his T-Ball closing ceremonies about two weeks ago, and he was pretty proud of his trophy. And I'm pretty proud of ~~the unknown butt in the background~~ my mad photographer skills.

Random Cuteness...

Watching Team Umizoomie--my best friend when I need to get something done. And don't even ask what Josh was doing, because I don't know.

Lastly, I had to capture this beautiful enigma growing in our ~~crab grass~~ lawn.