38 (or so) Reasons Why I NEED To Be A Professional Writer

1. I have to do something productive with the voices in my head.
2. Or go insane.
3. I like to observe human nature.
4. I’d rather not be a creepy eavesdropper.
5. I like to work in my pajamas.
6. And drink lots of coffee.
7. Nobody wants to hear the things I think.
8. The things in my head translate way better on paper (well, sometimes).
9. I’m too practical to be an amateur daydreamer.
10. I’m too impractical for 9 to 5 work.
11. I can’t be bothered with keeping track of insignificant things like what time it is.
12. It’s a more pleasant alternative to housework.
13. My kids already think I am a writer.
14. And want to read the things I have written.
15. I want them to know that if you work hard enough, dreams can come true.
16. And nothing is impossible.
17. I am tired of making apologies and excuses for wanting to be a writer.
18. I have stories to tell.
19. I want my name on published stories, not half written computer files or bunched up papers in a drawer.
20. I want someone to read something I’ve written and say “Wow!” 
21. I want something I’ve written to resonate in someone’s head somewhere.
22. I don’t want to do anything else ever again.
23. Otherwise, I will have failed.
24. Failure is not an option.
25. The only place I am good at lying, is on paper.
26. I enjoy being completely honest about something that is 100% fabricated.
27. Writing is fun (most of the time).
28. I like to entertain people.
29. It’s fulfilling and rewarding when I hit a difficult patch and push through it.
30. Sometimes I can be quite good at it.
31. Most of the time I suck, but proud for doing it anyway.
32. It takes way longer to perfect one sentence than I ever imagined possible, but the after-glow of finally writing the perfect sentence can last days (and maybe longer if that sentence were to echo in someone else’s head -- see numbers 20 & 21).
33. As a writer, I am always learning, growing, evolving.
34. I can’t possibly DO all the things I dream, but my characters can.
35. I am sick of being the person that talks about being a writer but has nothing to show for it.
36. Actually, I don’t talk about it much (just blog about it) – but would like to.
37. Unless someone pays me, I’ll feel like a fraud.
38. I need validation.

I'd rather sit at my computer all day wrestling with one sentence while wearing my PJs, coffee cup in hand, than do anything else (like do something with that bucket that's been sitting back there for a couple of days now).

Yay! I found 38 reasons why I need to be a writer, that trumps the 36 reasons why I won't be a writer. You can read those reasons here.

Oh, wait, it doesn't end there! I just thought of bonus reason number 39 -- I would like the excuse "She's a writer" to cover every weird/antisocial/ditsy thing I do. 

Did I Really Just Say That? #Thingsmomssay

As a mom, words come out of my mouth that I never imagined myself saying. Almost daily. And in many cases whom I am saying it to can be surprising (and disturbing). Here are some examples. Feel free to throw in some guesses as to whom I am speaking to – the dog, my son(s), my daughter, or my husband. The answer may surprise (or disturb) you.

1. Please do not pee on the toilet seat.
2. Please do not go to the bathroom in the basement.
3. Please do not go to the bathroom in the trash can.
4. Please do not go to the bathroom in the heating vent.
5. Please do not pee on me.
6. Please do not throw up on the living room carpet.
7. Please throw up outside.
8. Please go to the bathroom outside.
9. Please stop chewing on your toe nails.
10. Please get your finger out of your nose.
11. Please get your finger out of the dog’s ear.
12. Please do not rub your boogers on me.
13. Please do not flick boogers in my car.
14. Please stop licking your plate.
15. Please stop burping at the kitchen table.
16. Please stop farting at the kitchen table.
17. Please stop drooling all over my house.
18. Please do not spit on the floor.
19. Please do not drool on my pillow.
20. Please get your butt off my pillow.
21. Please do not rub your naked butt on my bed.
22. Please wear underwear (preferably clean).
23. Please do not re-wear your dirty socks.
24. Please use your own toothbrush.
25. Please do not kiss me so passionately.
26. Please do not touch my boobs.
27. Please do not rub my butt.
28. Please stop snoring in my face.
29. Please do not lick the car.
30. Please do not lick your sibling.
31. Please do not lick the dog’s tongue.
32. Please do not eat off the floor.
33. Please do not eat random food found in random places.
34. Please do not drink that, it’s been sitting out all day.
35. Please do not eat that onion like an apple.

These adorable kids couldn't possibly be responsible for any of the above grossness, could they?

Lice PTSD For The Holidays

Ahhh. It’s the New Year. The Holidays are over and the kids are back in school. It’s time to sit back and reflect on the previous year, and make plans for the new one. As I reflect on this past Holiday season I realize that I may be suffering from a mental illness I will name “Lice Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

Are you worried you may have suffered from Lice PTSD this past holiday season too? The first step is to recognize the signs, then seek treatment (although what the treatment is, I’m not sure. Maybe a Xanax? A stiff drink?).
 

Signs you suffered from Lice PTSD over the Holidays:

• All holiday guests were given a wet comb through before entering your house (because you know that the best way to find those fast little buggers is by dousing them with conditioner and combing the hair with a nit-pick).
• Your new found head lice knowledge was the go-to conversation starter at all holiday functions. For instance, did you know… Head lice will not infest your home the way fleas or bed bugs can (they only live about 24-48 off of a host); lice is generally spread from head-to-head contact; lice reproduce sexually with mating lasting an hour; a female louse will lay around 6 to 10 eggs per day after mating once; a louse can hold its breath for up to 8 hours.
• You correctly identified this picture as a male head louse:
  
  

  

  "Male human head louse" by Gilles San Martin - originally posted to Flickr. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:
  Male_human_head_louse.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Male_human_head_louse.jpg

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• You treated, nit-picked, and checked your head daily for lice but it would not stop itching. Finally, during a Google search you found a condition that you were convinced you had. Upon further investigation, you discovered that it is a psychosomatic condition. You regret including the diagnosis on your year-end newsletter.
• When making your Christmas cards, you note the family pictures before lice (heads touching) and after lice (heads as far away as possible).
• Family members began to avoid sitting near you because you were known to shriek “no touching heads!” every time you saw two young cousins with their heads close together. On one occasion you were seen elbowing grandma and pole-vaulting over Aunt Ethel to separate your daughter and her cousin quietly playing Barbies in the corner.
• You replaced all brushes in your house with nit combs which you store in individual zip-lock bags in the freezer even at your mother’s house next to the turkey.
• You sported the Sinead O’Connor in all holiday pictures.
• When reading 'Twas Night Before Christmas to the children you recited: “not a creature was stirring, not even a louse” as a little prayer.
• Before leaving your in-laws, you quietly put all pillows and cushions in trash bags on the back porch and told them to keep them there for a few days just in case.
• You have decided to homeschool instead of sending your kids back to school after the holiday break.

And, the number one sign you may have suffered from lice PTSD this holiday season:

• You composed a blog about it.

I wish you a lice-free 2015! Please share if you or someone you love may be suffering from Lice PTSD…

I Am Not Meant For This!

     After I put my youngest on the bus, I surveyed the disaster that my children left in their wake, got down on my knees and cried out “I am not meant for this sh$t!” Then my dog put his stinky muzzle in my face, licked the lone tear, and hacked something on my cheek.

    Hopefully, it was the lack of sleep that made me question the 10 years I have spent doing exactly this shit. See, the night before my husband and I were sleeping in our usual positions – on opposite edges of the mattress with our five year old sprawled perpendicular between us – when our son wakes us with the declaration, “I peed myself.” We dutifully sent him off to change and wash his hands while we inched further away from the middle lest the pee touch us whispering blame: Did you make sure he peed before bed? Did you let him have something to drink before bed? You have to actually watch him pee because he lies. Maybe you shouldn't have given him that fourth juice box. The boy returned, crawled into my arms and fell back asleep cradled over the edge of the bed. Me, watching the clock until it was time to go downstairs and make breakfast and lunches, dreading the choices: cereal is processed and has too much sugar; oatmeal but not the instant because that too is processed and has too much sugar; or eggs but only the free range ones from a local farm otherwise the chickens most likely were caged up cannibals injected with antibiotics and hormones. And, for lunch: do I use whole wheat bread or does that have too much gluten? Am I allowed to use peanut butter or is the kid sitting next to my daughter going to go into anaphylactic shock? How about hazelnut, is that actually a nut? 

     Sleep deprivation aside, if I am not meant to do this shit, what am I meant to do? And, why is it that I can’t seem to manage to do the same shit that women were doing for centuries before me? What is my excuse? 

     Logically, I can blame my mother. Maybe she, in the post-feminist world, didn't feel it necessary to prepare me for this shit so logically when I am faced with the conundrums: how do I make this from scratch; how do I iron that; how do I sew this; how do I clean that? The answer is: I don’t f'ing know. And neither does she! So maybe that means I blame her mother or her mother’s mother. Maybe for generations women have been whispering into their baby girls' ears: “You are not meant for this shit.” 

     Now what? Who’s going to do this shit? Are we turning into a generation of stay at home moms that send their two year olds to school because we don’t know what to do with them; send the laundry and the mending out; hire cleaning ladies; cook all our meals with a box, 2 cups of water and a microwave? And, if we absolve ourselves from all activities that were once meant for women, do we then absolve our husbands – are they no longer obligated to fix our cars; mow our lawns; pay our bills? And, if so, what are we all going to do – sit around watching Netflix? Piddling around with novels while really just reading articles posted to Facebook?

     Maybe we just have too much shit to do. Do our kids really have to wear something cute and unique every single day? Does that cute outfit then have to immediately be stain-treated, washed, and folded neatly in the drawer with 20 other cute and unique outfits? Do they have to be in every sport offered per season plus piano lessons, art classes, and Sunday school? Do we have to seek out BFFs for them and make sure to jam-pack free time with playdates so they never feel unpopular at school? 

     Or, maybe, I really am just tired. Maybe I’ll change the pee sheets, take a nap, take a shower, bake those homemade sugar-free, gluten-free, peanut-free muffins I found on Pinterest and feel like supermom by the time the kindergarten bus rolls in... (Or, search for the recipe, get distracted by an article about the Kardashian's until my son's school bus is sitting out front honking at me.).

On The Back-To-School Emotional Rollercoaster

Ahhh… Back-to-school time… the time of year when even the most even-tempered mother can feel like an undiagnosed manic depressive. As I prepare to send all three of my children on the school bus for the first time, I vacillate between wanting to run around the house and complete all items on my to-do list in a single child-free day to wanting to spend the day crying on the corner anxiously wringing my hands until the bus returns my baby-turned-kindergartner safely into my arms.  

For the last ten years I have some form of baby, toddler, or small child in my arms for the better part of the day. I have spent a large portion of my adult life pregnant, nursing, and changing diapers. And now that is over. I now hand my children over to be educated by strangers. Part of me wants to sing “I’m Free!!” in operatic falsetto while the other part of me wants to grab a hold of my uterus and beg “Just one more, give me just one more!”

How did the years slip by so fast? How did this summer pass by so fast? How is vacation already over?

I’ll survive back-to-school. And they will thrive. After the first few days, those child-free hours will go by oh-too-quickly. Before I know it, another summer will come and go and there will be another back-to-school to prepare for. I will have three children in school full day then. That time will come when I will be told that producing live children from my womb and keeping them alive is no longer a sufficient contribution to society. I will need to do something. Tick.

I will be putting my three biggest excuses on the bus… Tick.

Now is the time to make something of my writing or find anything else to do. Boom.

Yipes. Maybe I should go have that talk with my uterus (Just kidding, uterus. You've done good work but it is time for you to retire).

A Daily Tribute Through Reading

My family is big on reading. Take a trip with any member of my family, and you'd better bring several books because that is what we will be doing: Reading. I think my grandmother was the driving force behind our love of books. She was the one who gave us many of the books that we cherish today. She was the one who introduced me to so many books -- books like the Secret Garden or Jane Eyre I read because of her energetic descriptions of them. As I grew up, I loved to discuss books with her even though we didn't always agree (she being conservative and me being, well, not). And try as she might I never got into Wind in the Willows or Little House on the Prairie but did pass these books along to my children.

When I was pregnant with my first child, my grandmom gave me the book, The Read Aloud Handbook by Jim Trelease -- lauding this book as essential to my child's upbringing. I read this book and refereed to it often while my daughter was little -- reading many of the recommended titles including Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little to her when she was just three years old. Reading aloud to our children continues to be a cherished part of our daily routines. We have read The Little House on the Prairie; The Wind in the Willows; The Secret Garden; Heidi; Anne of Green Gables; numerous Beverly Cleary books; Roald Dahl; almost the entire Magic Tree House Series; The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe; and recently we've begun the Harry Potter series.

My grandmother passed away a year ago but when I see the love of reading that my 9 year-old daughter has, I feel my grandmom. That spark was started by her and lives on in my family every day. It lives on when I can't get my daughter to do anything because she can't/won't put her book down. It lives on when the last thing my daughter sees at night are the words in a book and the first thing she does in the morning is pick up her book. My daughter makes a little tribute to my grandmother everyday through her love of reading.

Thanks GGMom for being a wonderful example to your children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. We miss you and think of you daily when we pick up a book!

(If you haven't read The Read Aloud Handbook I highly recommend it, link below:)



The Read-Aloud Handbook: Seventh Edition

It Is Back-To-YOU Time

It has happened once again. Just yesterday we were making New Year's Resolutions (like mine here AND here). Then we blinked and started planning summer activities (whoops, did I forget to do that?). And now we've sent the kids back to school.

Take a deep breath.

It's time to get back into the routine (or find one). It's time to get back to you. Yes, I'm talking to YOU. Ok, fine, I'm talking to ME.

Here's some of my back-to-school resolutions:

     * Do a load of laundry and a household chore at least three times a week.    
     * Exercise after big kids get on bus at least four times a week.
     * Run errands with little kid in tow once or twice a week.
     * Go to the library to write while said little kid is in school three times a week.
     * Write from home the other 2 days (and catch up on any household chores).

But, of course, I am giving myself the first week off so that I can simply catch up on everything I didn't do over the summer like put away end-of-school stuff and tackle the mounds of summer laundry.

Got any back-to-school resolutions (or excuses to avoid them)?

I Used To Be The Best Mom

I used to be the best mom. I used to do everything right. It was so effortless -- I followed my instinct or, when that failed, I followed the advice of an expert which would work perfectly because they were the experts and I was nothing but a mom in the trenches.

I look back on those days of my perfection fondly...

When everything was sterile, controlled, mess-free.

The days when my children napped in their beds according to the schedule I put them on. They nursed every two hours, exactly 20 minutes per side.

At night, they would stir to nurse at the same regularity  I would lift them gently out of their beautiful bassinet, nurse, then gently place them back in -- never falling asleep with them in bed because that could be dangerous. My children never co-slept with us -- for the dangers as well as the boundary issues.  

I used only cloth diapers. My babies never drank cows milk. I made my own baby food.

They certainly never had candy, junk food, juice boxes, or happy meals. It was all organic whole foods for us.

None of my children spent time in front of the TV or other electronics. We spent our time doing educational activities and crafts. My children embraced puzzles, games, crafts, writing. Their toys, always gender neutral, never included weapons.

I never yelled at my children because they respected my authority and listened when first requested. Failing that, I had a system of positive and negative reinforcement. I never needed to resort to punishment. I remember those days fondly. I remember when I was the best mom. Then, of course, I had children.

And now I am just a mom doing my best like all the rest. Hope you had a wonderful mother's day.

You Don’t Really Want a Gift, Do You?

I appreciate you all. I really do. I appreciate all you good people in the world that strive to make this world a better place. I appreciate you under-appreciated – you teachers, you bus drivers, moms, dads, all service professionals. I do. But do we have to have a day to show our appreciation? Does it make us feel more appreciated? Do you really want a flower pot with my child’s finger print on it? Do you want a cute picture of my kid in a homemade picture frame? Do you want that spread of food you shouldn't eat two weeks before the start of summer?

We should do better at showing appreciation every day. It’s a shame that as a society we need to have appreciation days and awareness months to celebrate the often ignored.

I shouldn't need Teacher Appreciation Day/Week to make my child’s teacher feel appreciated. I should send my kid to school prepared. I should raise my child to value education and respect authority. I should take my family vacations in the summer. I should respect her experience and opinion in conferences. Does he really want my handmade gift to show my appreciation? At Christmas, in May, then again in June – how many coffee mugs does one teacher need?

Are these gifts even out of appreciation or are they just another example of over consumerism? Are we just trying to pin the best picture on our social media walls? Are we just trying to throw a band-aid on a broken limb? I know it sucks to be a teacher in a society that doesn't value education, here’s a doughnut. I know it sucks to be an ignored minority, here’s a month. I know it sucks to have cancer, here’s a pink pin.

You don’t really want a gift, do you? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just an uninspired gift-giver and an unappreciative gift receiver – focusing too much on the stress both cause instead of the joy. After all, nothing is more priceless than the look on a kid’s face when he gives a gift made out of love. Maybe that’s the idea for next year – skip the made-in-China soon-to-be-trash trinket and make a video diary of kids telling the teacher why they love him and appreciate her. I’m gonna pin that! (I mean, I would if I knew how.)

I Wasn't Prepared For THIS!

I thought I was prepared for children, back when I was a stupid 27 year-old. I was a big sister, a babysitter; some of my friends had kids. I managed to squeak out a degree in Psychology with a minor in Human Development and Family Studies. I read mommy-manuals. Besides, I liked kids. I understood kids. I knew they’d be messy. I knew they’d be loud. I knew they’d be unruly at times. But I knew how to handle it all, I was prepared.

Insert a big-fat mommy-guffaw here: HA!! Hahahaha!

This morning I awoke to my third consecutive morning of snotty, hacking kids which means following children around with tissues, hand sanitizer  and Lysol, trying to sound motherly and soothing while I have kid-snot on my hands and spittle on my face.

Ha! Snotty Lottie seemed like a joke! Joke's on me!

Why was I not prepared for this amount of bodily fluids? Where were the warnings on how to handle the volumes of bodily fluid I alone would be responsible for cleaning?

So here you are, mommies-to-be. Here you are, all those contemplating procreation. Here are the warnings you will not get anywhere else:

Become one with pee, because it will be everywhere.
You will hold your beautiful newborn daughter in your arms. Reveling in how angelic she is, your heart will expand in ways you never thought possible. You will start to feel warm all over. Oh, wait, it’s wet and warm. It’s pee! Because somehow those little infant diapers are unable able to hold your daughter’s pee! Every single time she pees she will very likely pee straight through the diaper! Every single time your sweet newborn son wakes wailing in the middle of the night (and it will be often), he will be wet. The little wisps of hair on his head will be matted down with piss. The tips of the booties that his feet are swimming in will be soaked with urine. His bassinet, soaked through the waterproof pads straight to the mattress.

It won’t stop at potty training, either, just so you are aware. Your son will RARELY make the toilet even if you have him sit, his little KINDERGARTEN voice will come from the bathroom, “Mom, I accidentally peed on my pants again!” as the bus pulls up in front of the house. And girls! It is actually possible for a girl to miss. No lie. You’ll sit there in front of your little 2 or 3 year old excited for her as she pee-pees in the potty and it’ll shoot out and hit you in the face. WHAT?

Oh, there is an end in sight. My doctor told us that boys can stop wetting the bed at 8, even as old as 12!

So, you've got a handle on pee. You tell yourself that pee really isn't all that bad, it’s supposedly sterile anyways…. But be prepared for poo:

You will see, analyze, and discuss poo more than you ever imagined.
Do you remember having real discussions with your spouse? How you discussed the universe and your place in it? You discussed the meaning of life and religion. You discussed politics. Well, no more. Now you will discuss poop. From the very first black-tar meconium poop that you have to scrap off your infant’s tiny tushie to the green and mustardy breast-milk poo. You’ll hold the poo up to your computer screen and compare it. You’ll sniff it. Discussing the smell, “It’s kinda sweet, isn't it?”

You’ll be amazed at how sometimes the poo manages to blast right out, missing the diaper and heading straight for the baby’s back. You will name the poo-types, laying claim to them – “This one is a rock, I’ll take this one.” Or “Oh, this one is a blow-out, you handle it.”

You’ll change your baby’s diaper, prepared for the pee to shoot out because you've already made one with the pee, when your baby makes a cute little bunched up face and a big fat fart-poo will shoot right out at you.

Again, it will only get worse with potty-training. You’ll be getting your little three year old daughter ready for bed, pull down her pants and out will roll a big fat turd. And she’ll just smile at you. Your three year old son will hold his poop for a week rather than poo on the potty but one day while he is in the bathtub it’ll slip out in a fury. And continue slipping as you lift him out. Plop onto the floor before your foot has time to react and squish, you've stepped in human feces.

But it won’t stop there, you’ll sort your 8 year-old's laundry and put your hands in something and throw up a little in your mouth because you know no matter how many times you wash and sanitize your hand the rest of the day it will still smell like shit!

Speaking of throwing up in your mouth, those with a weak-stomach need not apply to this job of parenthood because, you guessed it:

Get used to vomit!
You’re slightly prepared for spit-up – you were given all those spit rags and bibs at your shower, even that cute little pink bib that says “Spit Happens.” Where’s the mommy version? The one that covers your shoulders arms and back – because that’s what you will very likely need! Spit happens alright and rarely does it happen on the cute embroidered spit-up rag. It happens down your back, in your hair, or straight over everything onto a pile on your floor. Sweet.

You’ll get used to the spit-up; regardless, it’ll stop at about the age of one. But one day while your child is just a toddler you will be awakened in the middle of the night and find her covered in an implausible amount of thick, chunky, vomit – in her hair, in between her fingers, down her jammies, puddled in her crib, and oozing out the slats onto the carpet. She’ll be utterly distraught at what just happened to her, you’ll want to scoop her up and comfort her but you have absolutely no idea where to begin. As the stomach bug goes racing through every member of the household you will find yourself hunched over the toilet wishing for the days when all you had to clean up was some projectile milk spit up.

Should I stop there? Or should I relay some more snot-stories? I haven’t even touched on pet messes! How about you? You got some good turd-tales? Any vomit sonnets? Any poo-parables?

I suppose it doesn't really matter, my warnings, because I know the truth: You, expectant parent, will not believe me. You will think me silly. You will think I am exaggerating. You will think that it will never happen to you. You will think that you are prepared. Furthermore, I will soon forget myself. One day my daughter, with her belly bulging, will look to me for advice. I will tell her about the wonders of holding her newborn infant in her arms. The milk-drunk face with tiny drops of spit on his lips, falling asleep in her arms still making sucking noises. I won’t talk of projectile vomit or poopy blow-outs. Even if I did, she will look up at me with those same big innocent brown eyes she had as a toddler and say, “Not my baby.”

I Was Too Desensitized.

On Friday I wrote a silly blog about Elf on the Shelf and subsequently spent the next few hours stalking Facebook to see if anyone commented on my little blog. In one of my Facebook-stalks I saw a headline something to the effect of “Shooter 20 year old with ties…” I did not click the link. I thought briefly about the headline and thought that it had something to do with some shooting from earlier in the week. Some shooting I can’t even remember the details of. 

It wasn't until I saw the deluge of posts about children that I thought of clicking that news article. But even as I moused-over the headline, I didn't think much of it. The word “shooter” didn't even register an emotional response from me. I am that desensitized to the news of violence that the words didn't even bother me. 

It makes me sick. It is a shame that we live in such a media-hyped-up violent world that it takes the brutal death of 20 small children to register on our hearts and in our minds. But how soon before we forget? How soon before I am again desensitized?

I put my kids on the bus this morning, turned around and looked at the path of destruction they left and thanked God for it all because if I didn't have them making the same messes every single day then I would have nothing. 

If I didn't have them and their messes, I would have nothing. 

I can’t imagine what those mothers are going through today as they realize, through their unimaginable fog of grief, that it is Monday and their children should be going to school leaving behind unmade beds, piles of dirty clothes and every light on in the house.

As I walk around my house today turning off the lights, I will remember the children whose lights will never be left on again.

Let us never forget. Every time we turn off lights behind our children let’s not forget those children whose lights are off permanently. Let’s not forget those children that witnessed this horrible violence; those children who won’t let their mothers turn off the lights for dread of the dark.

Let us never be desensitized to this violence.