Mother-Daughter Battles

The Prickly Barnacle


You prickly, tickly barnacle
Clinging to me as you push away
Tearing my flesh as you flail about
Sending me on a windswept wave
Of confusion and frustration


You prickly, tickly barnacle
Let's rest here in this cove
You can hide in your crusty cave
And I'll protect your softness


You prickly, tickly barnacle
Scrape me all you want
We both know you couldn't live 
Without me


Relax, you little barnacle
Nature's strongest adhesive
A mother's love
Will never let you go

The Road to Publication

     For years,  I was that person at the cocktail party (or in my case, backyard barbecue), saying "I'm going to write a book someday."  I let that dream percolate on the back burner so long, it almost got lost among the diapers and therapy reports and tax documents of life.  It sat and sat and sat, patiently waiting.
    How ironic, then, that as soon as I turned my attention to my dream in full, I expected it to come true pretty much immediately.   Actually, I thought I had a fairly good idea of the hard work it would take.  I wasn't completely naive, but in hindsight my thought process was as simple as:  Poof!  Book written.  Poof! Book published. 
     After an initial period of discouragement, I began to embrace the process of educating myself.   The more I learn, the more I realize how unrealistic my expectations were.  However, far from being a "dead end,"  the journey of finding my way has become a very fun and pleasant walk down "Hope Lane."  
     One of the best things I've done, and encourage all others who aspire to write books for children to do, is join the Society of Children's Books Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI).  This is a group of people, led by industry professionals, that exists to help educate, encourage, and celebrate children's authors.  Through my membership, I was able to connect with a local critique group.  Once a month, I make a happy stop on "Hope Ln." and get together with other children's writers and enjoy getting and giving feedback on our work. 
     The SCBWI also runs fantastic conferences.  In two days, I'll be heading to the NE (New England) SCBWI Spring conference in Springfield, MA.  Being together in one place with like-minded people can be inspiring.  It also reminds me how much I have to learn.  The encouragement/discouragement roller coaster is at it's most dramatic when I prepare for a conference.  Reading the "faculty" bios is like reading  a "who's who" in children's literature.  Doubt:  I will never have a list of book titles and publication dates after my name!  Hope:  Going to this conference is a positive step towards my goal.  
     I don't know how long Hope Lane is.  However, as long as I don't fall off the roller coaster, and I keep putting one word in front of the other,  I know it won't be a Dead End.
     
     

Doing It All Wrong

 
     I've been noticing a lot of parallels between being a mom and being a writer.  First, you create these characters.  You get to pick out their names.  You have high hopes for them,  and you know pretty much the path you want them to go down.  You think they are perfect!  Then, kids (and characters) start having their own opinions.  Wait, what are you doing?  I often want to say, to both sets - my real 'characters', and the ones on the page.
    Before I gave myself permission to sit down and begin writing in earnest, I read over and over about authors who commented that their characters were 'in charge'.  Honestly, that never made sense to me.  Aren't you the one writing the words? I'd wonder.  However, as I spend increasingly more time in the land of character development, I realize that this generalization exists for a reason.  When I'm writing, I like to stare out the window while I think.  Sure enough, in those thoughtful moments, characters will change on me.  For example, it will occur to me that the guy who I thought was going to detest the new kid has a lot in common with her and might even kind of like her.  A lot of these ideas actually do "surprise" me.
     So, I'm sort of in control, but not really.  I find it's startlingly the same with my kids.  I set up parameters for food choices, amount of TV watching, and bedtimes.  I encourage (or discourage) friendships.  I think I'm doing most of the things I should be doing, then BAM! they lead themselves, and me, down a different path.
     I make a lot of mistakes in both writing and parenting.  Both jobs are fraught with the potential for error.  In the past three weeks I've gotten another rejection from an editor, and have (on separate occasions) made both of my kids cry.  The rejection was totally warranted; I had sent out a manuscript that was several revisions away from having any right to see the light of day.  With the kids, it was painful to know that something I said had hurt their little feelings.   Sometimes I feel so discouraged and wonder, am I doing any of this right?  
     Obviously, I'm not doing all of it right, but I do know I'm trying.  I model for my kids what it is to give a sincere apology.  I help them learn that no one is perfect (this lesson seems to be on auto repeat) and that everyone has room for growth.  On the writing side, I read, I talk to other writers, I go to conferences, and I work and work and work to shape the best stories I can. 
     I hope that once they leave my care, I'll have given my kids and my characters enough.  I want all of my "babies" to go out into the world and make it just a little bit better, on whatever level they can.  I want them to be 'good stories', ones that encourage others, or somehow lighten their loads.  I hope that all who meet them will accept their flaws.  Most of all, I hope they never forget that while it wasn't always perfect, they were born from a place of love and hope.


~~~~


P.S.  It helps to have a life partner who lifts you up when you're feeling that all you are doing is making mistakes. Here is an excerpt from my currently-being-revised memoir, S.O.S.:  Help! My Significant Other is a Surgeon!


     "I was such a bad mom today," I tell Raj later that night.
     "Why?" he asks, not believing me.
     "Well, for one thing, I left my sick kid with a sitter, then I fed her fast food for dinner, and I also let her watch way too much TV."  All three seemed like major transgressions to me, so far from where I thought I would be when I had previously imagined myself as a parent.
     "Look," Raj says to me, "did you smoke crack today?"
     "No! Of course not!"
     "Did you get drunk and pass out so that when your baby fell off the bed and hit the baseboard heater, you never woke up, and only realized hours later that the baby was screaming and had third degree burns?" he says, describing a scenario he had dealt with at work just that day.
     "No...."
     "Honey, you are not a bad mother."


~~~~






     

Mom, is the Easter Bunny Real?

      As a mom, I am faced with numerous questions every day.  Many are innocuous, such as the kind that start with "do you know where my...?"
     Then there is the easy to answer variety:


 "Can I have an air rifle?"
"No." 
"Can I watch Terminator?"
"No."
"Are you ever going to be normal like the other moms?" 
"No.  Wait - what do you mean by that?"
"You know, let us say words that only you think are bad, like stupid?"
"Oh, okay.  NO."


    Every once in awhile you get the big questions; the ones you wish you had a better answer to, or the ones you wish you would never have to answer at all:


"What's so good about Good Friday?"
"Why is that man smoking when you told us smoking can kill you?"
"When I'm a dad, will Grampy be able to play with my kids?"


     Even harder than these tough questions, for many parents, is the ultimate, unavoidable, inevitable line of questioning that sparks the beginning of the end of the wonder years:


     "Mom, are you the tooth fairy?"
     "Is the Easter Bunny real?"
     (and, panic rising in voice):  "Is Santa real?"


     My friend Holly recently dodged the tooth fairy bullet and wrote about it for Mamalode.com: A Fairy Weak Link. I wish, wish, wish I had read her article before I got the same question from my daughter, Kate.  About a month ago, I made the classic mistake of falling asleep before switching tooth for coin under Kate's pillow.  In the morning, Kate came into my room and said with indignation, "The tooth fairy never came last night!"
    In that dazed state of partial wakefulness, I took a full 30 seconds of plead-the-fifth silence, grasping at any plausible answer. I found none.  "Ummmm...." was all I could muster before Kate pressed on.  
     "I've been wondering for awhile now.  I mean, how come all the spoiled kids get $10 and $20 when all I ever get is a dollar coin? So, are the parents doing that?  It seems like it's you..." she let her voice fade off. 
     In that moment, she seemed so mature, so ready for what I was about to say.  The morning sun was glinting off her long hair, and the curve of her face just looked so, well, grown up, that I forgot the golden rule of parenting in the wonder years (DENY!) and said, "Okay.  Yes. It's me.  I fell asleep and forgot to do it last night. I'm sorry."
     The reaction wasn't pretty.
     "MOM!" Kate said, horrified, "I said I was WONDERING!" Then came the tears.  "Why did you tell me that??"
     So, for at least the 12th time this year, I rescinded my application for Mom of the Year.  I was able to do some backpedalling, based on notes the tooth fairy had written her that were not (NOT) in my handwriting, "Well...I don't know about those....maybe that part of her is real?" It was weak, but she seemed to buy it, and I realized she wanted to buy it. She wanted to still believe. I owed her these last days (months? years?) of believing.
      That is why I was primed and ready when Kate sat down with me on the couch a few days ago with a serious look on her face, and questions at the ready.  
     "Mom, I need to talk to you.   Do Jewish people celebrate Easter and Christmas?"
     "No, they have other holidays," I started, ready to make this into a mini lesson on world religions.
     "I know, I know, Passover, Hannukah," she said.  "What I need to know is, well, Haley (name changed to protect the not-so-innocent) just told me there is no Easter Bunny and no Santa Claus.  But Haley is Jewish, right?"
     I feel the knot in my stomach. Will this end in tears, like our last conversation, where I had dashed her beliefs and squashed her fairy wonder?  
    "Yes," I answered, carefully answering only what I was asked, "Haley is Jewish."
    "Well, good. Because how would she know the truth about the Easter Bunny and Santa?  She's never had them visit.  She doesn't know, but I know, they are real.  Santa and the Easter Bunny are real.  They're real, aren't they, mom?"
     The air hung between us for a split second, the wonder, the joy, the desire to believe practically visible as colors swirling around her like a thought bubble.
     I was not about to kill those two beautiful creatures, as I had the tooth fairy, so I said the thing I knew she wanted, and needed, to hear.
    "Yes," I said, without any doubt in my mind, "they are."  








   

Judge Dread

                              Judge me by my size, do you?


     Judging others.  We all know we're not supposed to do it.  I try, with varying degrees of success, not to judge other people; but have you ever gone a week without passing a judgement?  It's tricky!  So, imagine my delight when twice in the past year I have been asked to judge other people, on purpose, and in public!  Woo-hoo, I thought - this is going to be FUN!
     My first foray into the world of judging was delicious, literally.  I was at a church-sponsored blueberry festival in Blue Hill, ME.  This setting was as quaint as you are picturing.  Kids frolicking in a bounce house, blueberry crafts, blueberry smoothies, blueberry muffins, music, sunshine...and of course, a contest for "Best Blueberry Pie."  But there was a big problem.  The committee was short a person to judge the pies.  They had already asked several people, all of whom had politely declined. This is a very small town.  People are serious about their alliances, and about their blueberry pie.  No one wanted to get caught up in that kind of trouble.  However, being "from away," I was targeted and eagerly agreed to participate.
     I sat down with my co-judge and winked conspiratorially.  This was just for fun, right?  How hard could it be?  We eat some pie, and pick the one we like the best. Not quite. My co-judge leaned in and said, "this is how I do it," and he pulled out a spreadsheet of sorts.  It was a small scrap of paper with a numeric rubric, and I got a quick lesson in how to dissect and judge the proper pie:  Crust - dense or flaky?  Filling - runny or firm?  Taste - nutmeg or citrus?  I started to shift in my seat.  Oh, we're taking this seriously?  You betcha.  A small crowd formed as we took careful, small bites of several pieces of pie.  We ate, we rated, we revised, we re-tasted.  Since each one was delicious, how could I ever choose?  But slowly, with the rubric to guide us, a winner rose to the top.  I took several more bites, (you know, just to be fair. I wanted to be completely sure of my vote, after all).
      I came away unscathed from that experience, and was even thanked for taking my time and  judging so thoroughly. To that, I flashed a blue smile and piped, "anytime!"
     The winner of that pie contest walked away with bragging rights and a small ribbon, I recall.  But what about when there is money involved?  My second experience with being a judge is happening right now.  In the small(ish) town of Windsor, CT, there is a long-standing tradition called the Shad Derby.  What started as a fishing derby has grown into a months-long celebration, culminating in a parade and festival, and a coronation ball, where the "Shad Derby Queen" is named.  (I'm not making this up).
    Girls age 18-21 can compete for the coveted title, and accompanying scholarship money.  When a good friend asked if I would participate as a judge, I willingly agreed.  I knew there wouldn't be pie, but I'm always up for something new.  Why not? I thought.
     The first event was a very nice gala, with a cocktail hour followed by a program where each young woman competing gave a one minute introductory speech.  The other three judges and myself sat at a panel-style table facing them. "Like American Idol?" asked my daughter the next morning.  Yes, like that, but without the singing.  I was in awe of the poise of these young women as they took turns at the microphone, and realized with dread that judging people is nothing like judging pie.  This was going to be really hard.
     Things only got worse for me during the "interview night" where the young women again faced the panel of four judges, one at a time, to answer questions.  The more I got to know each person, the harder it was for me to judge them.  They are all darling, all active in their community, all stars in their respective school sports and activities.  All have good hearts and big, bright smiles.  I'm sure to some of them, the accompanying scholarship money would make a big impact on their plans for college.  Judge them?  How??
     Luckily, as with the blueberry pie, there is a scoring rubric.  As judges, at each event, we've entered numbers relating to various aspects of the candidate's performances as diligently as we could.  I'm told that somehow, when all the scores are tallied, it will all work out.  The right person will be named Shad Derby Queen, and her court of Princess Royale, First Princess, and Second Princess will be rightly named in turn.  I do not know who will "rise to the top", but two things I do know for sure:

1) She will be deserving, because in my mind, I think all of these bright young women are.
2) I am so glad my 18-year-old self isn't competing against them!

     What is amazing to me is how hard it has been to be an official judge, when it is equally difficult for me to not judge people in my everyday life.  This experience has taught me a valuable lesson:  even when you look down under the bottom crust, most pies, and people, are good and deserving of love.

   

Book Review: The Astro Outlaw

          Baseball fans, rejoice!  For anyone who says, "There are no good books out there for boys!" author David A. Kelly has an answer.   The Ballpark Mysteries is an intriguing book series based on two cousins, Kate and Mike, who travel to different baseball stadiums around the country, and solve curious dilemmas at each stop.  In Book Four of the series, The Astro Outlaw, the cousins travel to Houston, TX where they meet astronaut Nicholas Rice and help him find a missing moon rock.
     This book has all the elements a teacher or parent is looking for to interest a "reluctant reader."  Although not necessarily just for boys, The Astro Outlaw plays on both astronauts and baseball, a nice brew for the 6-8 year old set.  The Houston Space Center and the Houston Astro's ballpark are both richly described, giving young readers some juicy vocabulary to chew on.  By the end of the book, I was ready to go check out the stadium, and I'm merely a lukewarm baseball fan.  David A. Kelly's obvious love for the sport and the arenas it is played in comes sparkling through.  Part travelogue, the book has a unique glossary that gives further details about the baseball stadium and helps the book (and it's readers) dip into the non-fiction genre.
     One other unique aspect of the book is that the main character, Mike, actually has a website you can follow, called The Dugout Scoop.  This is a nice extension activity, and yet another way author David A. Kelly shows us that he understands his young audience and seeks to engage them right where their interests lie.
     Mystery series have a long history of entertaining children.  Most of us can recall curling up with Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys, and being glad as you finished one story that another was waiting in the wings: more clues to be followed, more adventure to come!  The Ballpark Mysteries is geared toward new chapter book readers, and kids will likely want to start with book one and keep on reading.
     Click here to purchase or to read the latest info on the Ballpark Mysteries.
   

Manners of the Uber-Rich

     "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous"... remember that show?  From the balcony of my suite at a fancy-schmancy resort hotel in Miami Beach, I keep hearing Robin Leach's voice saying things like, "He drives a Lamborghini, but that's not all...." as the camera sweeps to a shot of a 50-foot immaculately appointed yacht.
     No, I haven't won the lottery.  I just stowed away in my husband's luggage as he packed for a conference in Southern Florida.  (Stuck the kids in his carry on bag).  When we got here we were upgraded to a suite in some gracious cosmic nod to how difficult it can be to spend prolonged time with your family when stuffed into 300 square feet.  So here we sit, surveying the hotel's ridiculous spread of pools and glittering beachfront.
     We are interlopers in this world, and God forgive me, it's fun!  It's fun to play at being the person who sips ice cold watermelon-flavored water poolside. It's fun to "call down for the car," and be greeted by a phalanx of men in crisp white uniforms upon your return.  When I pick up the phone, a voice answers, "How may I help you, Tandon party?"  How lovely.  How nice to step outside of reality for a moment and peek at the 1%.
     But would I want to stay here?  As my little neighbor buddy would say, "No fanks."  That's not just because I know I can't, so therefore am pretending I don't want to.  I just know that jockeying for the "best spot" by the pool, or tripping over beach chairs lined up like automatons on my way to dip my toes in the water is not the life for me.  There is a lovely rocky cove in Maine that is never crowded that beats this jumble of people any day.  (At this point in my logic my husband points out that that cove is never crowded because the water is always ass cold.  I know.  But still.)
   What really makes me glad that I'm just a visitor in this world, however, is best illustrated by an encounter at the hotel coffee shop yesterday.  I stopped in for an $8 latte (like a drug addict, I would have paid any price at the time...) and a treat for the kids.  The man behind me ordered thusly:

     Barrista:  How may I help you?
     Man:  Give me an Americano.
     Me (thinking):  Say please!
     Man:  What's in these cookies?
     Barrista:  Chocolate chips and macadamia nuts.
     Man:  Give me one of those, too.
     Me (thinking):  Seriously? You're not going to say please?

     Moments later:

     Second Barrista:  Here is your Americano, sir.
     Man:  Silence.
     Me (thinking, and biting tongue):  Thank you!!  Hello?  Can't even say thank you?


     Moments later, alone with kids:

     Me:  I'd better never see or hear about you guys ordering a coffee when you are a grown up and not saying please and thank you!
     Kids:  eye rolls


     I'm not saying all rich people are rude.  I'm just saying at this particular resort, on this particular getaway, it was more often the norm to see people behaving in ways that made me cringe.  I'd never want my kids to think it's okay to treat anyone with disdain, no matter how many dollars are in their pockets.  Think of the character Celia in The Help - she was incredibly rich but innately kind.
     I may never be incredibly rich, but I strive to be kind in all circumstances, and will continue to teach my kids to be that way as well, no matter how many eye rolls.  Be kind to someone today!  Give an extra hearty "please" and "thank you" to the next person who serves you.  We're all in this together.