Thirty-Seven

One thing that I have not talked about much on this blog is my third career -- after parenting and the M-F day job.  My career as a writer.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer.  It's amazing to me how Toad, who is in second grade, is like me at that age.  He's copying books into a notebook -- right now it's Diary of a Wimpy Kid - The Ugly Truth.  I did something very similar when I was his age, only it was writing "books" very similar to whatever I was reading at the time.  B is for Betsy by Carolyn Haywood.  Betsy-Tacy by Maud Hart Lovelace.

In third grade, our first Writer-in-Residence visited my elementary school.  I will never forgot those writers -- Patricia Weaver Francisco, Michael Dennis Browne, Richard Solly.  I was published for the first time when I was twelve.  I wrote a narrative poem called "Tigers Were My Friends" and it was published in the annual COMPAS Writers-in-the-School anthology.

I was on my way to being a writer.

I went to camps and workshops and wrote constantly all through junior high and high school.  I was co-editor of my high school newspaper.  I wrote -- rather briefly -- an editorial column for the UMD Statesman.  I worked as a writing tutor for three years.  There was no question what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I never even considered any other career.

Other careers considered me, however.  No one came beating down my door after graduation to offer me a job writing novels.  That's not how it works.  My first job out of college was writing travel proposals for an incentive marketing firm.  Then I fell in love with my part-time job at Best Buy and made it my full-time job, which became a total time-suck and left little time for writing (although I did find the time to meet the love of my life, Hammer Guy, at Best Buy 281).  In 1999, four years after I graduated from college, I decided to go back to school for my Masters of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing.  Four years later, I had a thesis of short stories and a brand new baby, and if I thought it was hard to find time to write with a full-time job, I was in for a very rude awakening as a parent.

It's been 11 years since I decided to go back to school and become the writer I always wanted to be.  I was published in 1999 and 2000.  I didn't submit my work again until 2006, when I was published in a small literary magazine out of Massachusetts.  That was the same year I tried writing for young adults and found it to be a natural fit.  I haven't been actively submitting any short stories since then, thanks in part to the addition of another baby in 2007.

Last year in November I decided to do something crazy.  I had a broken foot and wasn't getting around much.  I heard about this thing called National Novel Writing Month.  Every November, people around the world start a novel on November 1st and are challenged to finish it -- with a beginning, middle, and end -- with at least 50,000 words by November 30th.  Thirty days of wild literary abandon.  It doesn't have to be fantastic.  It just has to be finished.  I thought, why not.

It was one of the best experiences of my writing career.  It forced me to write.  It forced me to be disciplined and meet a daily word count goal.  The prose was sloppy and wordy and all-around crappy, but I pushed myself and I finished in 25 days -- a young adult novel titled, at the time, Look How They Shine.  The months following were dedicated to revising that beast.  A handful of trusted readers offered critiques.  In June the novel, then titled Shine, was polished and possibly ready for an agent.  I began to query agents, who, by the way, take a lot of time off in the summer.

The rejections started coming.  Rejections are good, you know, because it means that you can move forward, that you are one step closer to finding the right agent to represent you and your work.  I kept two queries out at a time, and when one rejection came in, I would send it to another.

As of last week, I'd been rejected six times for what is now titled Cloud 9.  I was still waiting to hear from the seventh agent, and if I got a no from that one, I was planning to submit the manuscript to a contest from a publishing house.

Back to high school for a minute.  The summer before my senior year I spent a week at my last COMPAS summer writing workshop.  There I met a Minnesota author named Sandra Benitez.  She is an amazing writer, an amazing woman, an incredible storyteller.  She told us that she had not started writing until she was thirty-seven years old.  Thirty-seven!  I was seventeen and I thought to myself, I would die if I couldn't write.  How could she wait until she was thirty-seven to become a writer?  I was young and certain that I had a brilliant career as a writer ahead of me -- and I wasn't going to wait until I was thirty-seven to make it happen.

This past March, I turned thirty-seven.

I am still certain that I have a brilliant career as a writer ahead of me.

Friday I received an email from my seventh queried agent:  "Hi Sara, I enjoyed your query.  Can you send me the full manuscript?"

An agent requested a full.  An agent request MY full.

It is a tiny step toward publication.  I have worked hard on my novel.  I care about my characters and what happens to them and I want the world to know them, too.  Maybe this agent won't be able to put the manuscript down and call next week offering representation.  Maybe she won't.  Maybe I'll get a politely worded rejection.  That's okay -- I'll just start the process again.

I know that it will happen someday.  If I'm thirty-seven, thirty-eight, forty-eight, it doesn't matter. 

What matters is that I keep writing.

A New Year

It's Labor Day, and my to-do list is long.  Tomorrow is a big day, and the preparations to make sure the morning goes smoothly are many.

Tomorrow is Toad's first day of second grade, and the first time he will ride the bus.  He's nervous -- and so am I.  My memories of all those years on the school bus aren't very pleasant.  I've heard rumors that bus riding has changed, that kids are better behaved and the bus drivers don't allow for much.  I certainly hope so.  At first he was only going to ride home in the afternoons, but he decided he wanted to ride in the morning as well.  We'll give it a shot.  Open House went very well last week -- he likes his teacher and there are three kids from last year's class in his new class.  His classroom is HUGE and they have a Smart Board!

Tomorrow is Birdy's first day at a brand new Montessori.  She will have to get up very early to drive in with Hammer Guy, who will be dropping off and picking up most days.  She still misses her old school, friends, and teachers, but she's ready to get back into a routine.  She's already picked out her outfit for the first day, and today we bought her new tennis shoes. 

Tomorrow my work schedule changes slightly.  Rather than working from home two days a week, I will go into the office every morning and leave every afternoon in time to meet the bus.  I am so grateful for that flexibility.

Left on my to-do list: more laundry; dinner; get backpacks ready; iron name tags onto Birdy's school blankie and sweatshirts; make lunches (stay tuned for details about Project Lunch Box); iron clothes for work; finish the week's meal plan and grocery list.  Plus I promised two chapters of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban tonight, as well as baths and bedtime.  It's time for another cup of coffee.

Fingers are crossed for a smooth morning -- with no tears (especially from Mom).

This One Time, I Ate a Whole Piece of Broccoli!

You know how Phineas and Ferb built that rollercoaster in their backyard in the pilot episode?  Yeah, that's my summer.  That's parenting -- a rollercoaster.  Highs and lows (sometimes all in one day), and then Doofenschmirtz comes along (usually with the help of Agent P) and destroys the evidence before anyone even knows the rollercoaster was there.

Let me tell you about one of those Mondays.

I got up at 5 to put a roast in the crock pot, got ready for work and headed in early.  Hammer Guy and Toad met me at the clinic later in the morning for Toad's 7 year health exam with our beloved pediatrician, Dr. Fishie (as Birdy recently has taken to calling him).  Usually it's just one or the other parent at these things, but our little Toad is growing up and struggling with some things and we're finding that it's much less stressful to work as a team -- what one parent misses, the other might see.  What one parent forgets, the other remembers.  And we had a few things to remember on Monday.

Okay, none of these things are too serious, I'll admit.  Toad's nutrition can be summed up by saying that he basically lives at the bottom of the food pyramid.  He's a carb guy.  We had a conversation about vegetables.

Dr. Fishie:  "What vegetables do you like to eat?"
(Mom bites tongue.)
Toad: "Carrots."
Dr. F: "Okay, that's good."
Mom: "Tell him how many vegetables you've tried this summer." (This is a topic for another day.)
T: "Twenty-five."
Mom: "Tell him how many of those vegetables you like."
T: "Zero."
Dr. F: "But what's important is that you're trying them."
M: "Dr. Fishie (not what I really called him), how many bites do you think someone should take before they decide they don't like something?"
Dr. F: (trying not to laugh) "Well, you should probably try more than one bite."
T: "This one time, I ate a whole piece of broccoli."

Right.

Other topics of conversation that morning included fears, concentration (or lack thereof), inability to sit still for more than two seconds, becoming easily frustrated and giving up, not participating, quitting (soccer, Wii games, etc, etc.).  Pretty typical stuff for a seven-year-old, apparently.  It's hard to sit in the exam room and talk about these things, especially in front of the child who is afraid of stairs and spiders and dunking his head in the pool and previews at the movies.  But Dr. Fishie has been taking care of Toad (and his parents) since he was five days old, and that provides a lot of comfort.

The big news from the visit, though, is that it's time for Toad to undergo skin testing for possible food allergies.  And anyone who has been through allergy testing knows that it's not very fun.  He had a milk protein allergy until he was three, but a blood test at that age was negative.  For a couple of years he was pretty much symptom-free and we introduced dairy into his diet.  The last 18 months or so, he's broken out in hives a few times, once even ending up in the ER.  So we're taking him in this month and finding out if the milk allergy is back and if he has other allergies as well.

That same day I received a phone call from Birdy's teacher.  She has decided to close the Montessori and move out of state.  Ms. K. has been a part of our lives for many years, since Toad first moved into the preschool room at the big Montessori.  When Ms. K. started her own school, we followed.  She's been wonderful and has taught all of us so much.  The last two weeks have been so stressful as Ms. K. considered hiring another teacher and running the school from a distance, and then changed her mind, and changed her mind back.  Through it all, I wanted to be loyal and supportive, but the writing was on the wall.  We began the search to find Birdy a new Montessori.

So while I cried in my office over the loss of our lovely little school, I received another phone call late in the afternoon.  Brad Madson, Director of Community Relations for the Minnesota Vikings, was calling to set up a time for Ethan and his family to go to training camp practice and meet some of the players.  I'd written him a letter earlier in the month, telling him about their wonderful family and asking if the Vikings could do something for him while they are in Mankato this summer.

And once again, I was grounded and offered much-needed perspective.

Food allergies?  A kid who won't eat his vegetables?  Big deal.

Looking for a new preschool?  No sweat.

We can handle all of this. 

Life is good.

The Heart of the Matter

Cross my heart. From the bottom of my heart. I'm heartbroken. My heart aches. My heart is filled with joy. My heart is overflowing with love. Wearing my heart on my sleeve. My heart goes out to you. My heart belongs to you. I love you with all my heart. Let's get down to the heart of the matter.

Phrases that so easily slip into everyday conversation.

I've been thinking about this post for a while. Thinking about what I might say. Thinking that I don't really want to write it, because putting it in words, putting it out into the universe, makes it real. And it has taken me two months to finally post it.

But it is real, no matter what. Whether I write about it or not.

So I will, to honor a brave little boy, his fight, and his amazing family.

In March, I received an email from a good friend from college with news that made my heart ache.  She is one of my "UMD Gang," a group of women who, with one exception, worked together as apartment RAs at UMD and have stayed close over the years. She was my rock when I lived in Mankato for two years for graduate school -- she and her husband were always there for me, whether it was for dinner at their house, a movie, a walk around the neighborhood, a space in their garage to store my furniture in-between apartments, or extra patrols through my drug-infested neighborhood.

One icy winter day, their first son was born at the hospital in Mankato, the third baby of this group of friends, but the first one I'd been able to visit just after his birth. He was just a few hours old. And his parents were blissful.

Fast forward nine years. There have been a lot of other babies born to this strong group of friends, including two of my own. Every one of them is special. Some of those babies are growing up as close friends; some see one another once or twice a year to splash around at the water park. Every single one of them holds a space of honor on my cluttered refrigerator photo gallery and a special place in my heart.

The parents of these babies have had their share of challenges, and the babies have had their share of mishaps -- broken bones, illnesses, fevers just before getting on airplanes for the vacation of a lifetime. But nothing so serious, so heart-wrenching, as the fact that Ethan needs a new heart.

Weeks have passed since that first email from Ethan's mom.  Many tears have fallen from so many people, many prayers have been offered up for that little boy.  He endured days of testing at Children's and Mayo.  He's been tired and ill and his little heart is doing an awful lot of work while they wait for the call to come.  Ethan's family normally spends the summer touring the midwest in their RV, camping and exploring the wilderness.  Not this year.  This year they're staying close to home.  Ethan and his little brother Sam are enjoying the new backyard clubhouse that was built for them from the Make-A-Wish Foundation.  Ethan's uncle and friends of the family are putting together fundraisers and events.  I've contacted the Minnesota Vikings to see if they'll do something special for him.  We're wearing green ribbons for transplant awareness.

Ethan is a strong little guy.  His is a strong, faithful family.  The support and encouragement they've received from their community, their family, and their friends near and far is heartwarming.  Toad and I talk about Ethan a lot, and always, always, my sensitive, compassionate little boy ends the conversation with, "I'm so sorry this is happening to him."

Imagine the sorrow, the helplessness, the pure sadness Ethan's parents must feel when they think about all they've been through and all that lies ahead.  I look at my own children and think -- what if?  What if something like this were to happen to Toad and Birdy?  And again, my heart aches for my dear friends.

And it offers perspective.  A reminder that the little things aren't such a big deal.  Writing this today, weeks after hearing the news, I'm reminded that I shouldn't make such a big deal out of the fact that Toad quit soccer or that he won't dunk his head at swimming lessons and will have to take that level over again.  Does it really matter that he's watched five hours of TV over the course of this day?  I shouldn't have gotten so upset this morning when Birdy spilled her milk -- no, not just spilled -- propelled the glass off the counter and milk splashed all over the floor, the stools, the dog, me.  She's been potty-trained for more than a year -- was it worth getting upset this weekend when she had two accidents in one day?  My children are healthy.  Their hearts and lungs and legs and minds are strong. 

Love your children.  Hug them.  Take a deep breath.

Take heart and tell yourself it's not so bad.

Ethan's Website 

Ethan and Toad

Jellystone Park, August 2009

Meal Makeover Moms Test Kitchen

This weekend the kids and I tested a recipe for a new cookbook from Meal Makover Moms.  I like their website -- it's attractive and easy to navigate, for one.  The two moms are registered dietitians so they're aiming for more healthful recipes -- but they seem to be pretty realistic, too.  Liz and Janice provide tools to help busy moms, including a shopping list and the 7-Day Meal Planner.

I love that their recipes are "mom tested, kid approved" -- and this weekend, the kids and I had the opportunity to test a recipe for their next cookbook!

Fruity Chicken Kebabs - A Lunchbox Recipe

Ingredients
8 ounces roasted deli chicken or turkey, sliced 3/4-inch thick
Eight 8-inch wooden skewers
16 green grapes
12 strawberries, cut in half lengthwise

Directions

1. Cut the chicken into 3/4-inch cubes. To make the kebabs, thread 3 pieces of cubed chicken, 2 grapes, and 3 strawberry halves on to each skewer in any order that you and your children choose. Be sure to leave enough space at the bottom so the kids can hold the skewers comfortably.
2. To wrap, lay 2 skewers on a sheet of aluminum foil and fold the foil loosely over the kebabs.

Tip: Pack with an all-natural fruit smoothie and a mini whole wheat bagel with light cream cheese to round out the lunch.

I purchased deli turkey, although I would prefer to cube chicken and saute in a light, sweet sauce to use instead -- deli meat is loaded with sodium and preservatives.  When I make this again, I might also use cubed cheese in the mix.  I've purchased some thin cocktail straws that will be more lunchbox friendly and will call my creations Lunch on a Lightsaber.  Eat it, you will.

Both kids loved making these -- I would have to agree, threading food onto sharp sticks is pretty fun!  Birdy ate more grapes than she skewered.  Here are some photos of our test:

Birdy ate the turkey and grapes, but chose not to eat strawberries for some reason.  Toad, of course, was hesitant about the whole process.  Eventually he ate a few pieces of meat and both grapes and strawberries and proclaimed that he liked it!  His favorite part was the whole-wheat mini-bagel on the side.  He agreed to taking two kebabs to school for lunch on Monday, and promised he would eat them.  Success?  I saved my celebration, knowing that Monday would be the true test.

Monday morning Toad protested.  He did not want to take the kebabs for lunch, but I stood my ground, snipped off the sharp tips of the skewers, and packed them in his lunchbox.  I told him that he needed to bring home what he didn't eat.

I was not surprised to learn that he had only eaten two pieces of turkey and one grape.  And the entire bagel, of course.

I wonder if the dude from Green Eggs and Ham lied to Sam-I-Am to get him off his back and, in the future, refused to eat them with a mouse, in a house, here or there, everywhere, et cetera.

Blueberry Bumplings!

Food is a big deal around our house right now as we try to give the kids the tools they need to make good choices.  Yesterday we looked through a few of our cookbooks and Toad requested Blueberry Bumplings from the Green Eggs and Ham Cookbook, which we've made in the past.  I made a few modifications and the kids and I whipped them up this morning.  Here's the recipe, with modifications:

Blueberry Bumplings
The Cat's bumplings are plump things surprisingly like blueberry scones, just right for breakfast or snacking.

Ingredients
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour (I substituted half whole wheat flour)
1/3 cup sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
4 oz. butter, softened and cut into small pieces (I used Earth's Balance Buttery Sticks)
1/2 fresh blueberries
1 large egg
3/4 cup half-and-half (I used skim milk)

Directions
1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.  In a large bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.
2. Add the butter and mix well with your fingertips until crumbly, then add the fresh blueberries.
3. In a small bowl, mix together the egg and the half-and-half, then quickly beat into the flour mixture.  Do not overwork.
4. Pat the dough out between sheets of wax paper until about 1/2 inch thick.  Cut into 2-inch squares, circles, or triangles.  *I just used the large Pampered Chef scoop and put them in drops onto the baking sheet, then flattened them slightly.
5.Place the cutouts on a baking sheet, non-stick or lined with parchment paper, and bake until golden on top, about 10 minutes.  Serve hot.
Makes about 12 bumplings.

I'm not crazy about the whole stick of butter, but they're a big hit with the whole family.  Super tasty!

Three

Three used to be one of my favorite numbers.  Three -- it's the magic number.  Good things come in threes.   Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.  Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!  Hat tricks.  I even dated a hockey player in high school whose jersey number was three.

Three is an adorable age.  Three is monumental.  Birdy, at age three, is smart and expressive and makes up songs and wants to discover everything about the world around her.  Everything is a miracle, a surprise.  She knows the months of the year, the days of the week, and she's working on learning the fifty states in order alphabetically.  She mispronounces words: forget becomes fromget.  She hugs me tightly around the neck and holds on.

This morning, as my darling three-year-old daughter asserted herself by crying, kicking, screaming, pushing her brother, yelling "No!" and throwing herself on the floor, I realized I no longer favor that innocent little number three.  The intense bout of grumpiness lasted from the moment I got her out of bed to the first soothing notes of "Love Me Do" as we backed out of the driveway -- one solid hour.

Her brother was the same way.  The twos weren't so terrible, although we had our moments, and so when we hit three with Toad, we breathed a sigh of relief.  We had no idea what we were in for.

Birdy seems to be traveling down the very same path.  It started a few weeks before her birthday, when she discovered her ability to shriek.  Anytime she doesn't get her own way, anytime she hears the word "No" or a variation thereof (and I believe in telling my children no, although I'm not going to lie, sometimes it's easier to say yes), she lets out a long, high-pitched shriek, sometimes accompanied by hitting or grunting or the aforementioned throwing herself on the floor.  At our recent Easter celebration, after one of Birdy's now-famous (or infamous) shrieks, one of her cousins questioned if he'd really heard it or if it was something only a dog could hear.

Here's an example of a common exchange:

Mama: Would you like to pour your oatmeal into the bowl?
Birdy (shakes head): No, you do it.
Mama: OK, I'm going to pour it.  Are you sure you don't want to do it yourself?
Birdy: No, you do it.
(Mama pours the oatmeal into the bowl).
Birdy: WAHHHHHH! I WANTED TO DO IT!

I try to to remain calm.  Sometimes I yell, I'll admit that.  I tell her that I've had enough.  And that doesn't work -- she just yells back, "Why are you being so loud?"  Most times I tell her that she is welcome to pitch a fit and when she's finished, I will be available to help her.  I tell her over and over that I love her but I don't love the way she's acting right now.  I try to be empathetic to her situation.  Firm but kind. Yes, it's hard to be three, just like it was hard to be two.  She's learning and developing at a rapid rate.  She's expressing herself, she's asserting herself.

I just wish she wouldn't assert herself so loudly.

No: Why Kids -- Of All Ages -- Need to Hear It and Ways Parents Can Say It by David Walsh