Dear Eden

Dear Eden,

It finally snowed today. You and your brothers were delighted. The boys put on coats and gloves and hats, ran outside and started throwing snowballs at the door where you watched them. You stood with your nose pressed to the glass, silently begging to join them.

Joseph helped you put on your snowsuit and boots, and then held you by the hand down the icy steps. He and Elijah ran out into the snow, heaping it into their arms and playing, but you hesitated. You stood on the edge of the concrete, your small feet slipping around on the ice, unsure about all that white stuff. You turned around, reached out to me and I said Go ahead, Try the snow. Don't be afraid.

You turned around, stood at the edge again and held your arms out to Elijah. He gripped your hand in his and helped you onto the snow.

This is not the first time you have been carried into new experiences by your brothers and I pray it won't be the last. You were the missing puzzle piece in our family. Your brothers need you as much as you need them.

You are loved.

Mom

..but I got a flu shot.

Well, that's one way to do a colon cleanse. Ugh.

The Writer's Dilemma

Okay, folks, I'm going to tell you exactly why you never want to be an unpublished writer. It's long and boring, so I decided to use my amazing technological and artistic skills to spice it up a bit.

At the most basic level, written communication is a message sent from one person to another person.

Or maybe from one person to a group...

Or from a group to an individual...

But this is what productive communication does NOT look like:

Without getting into a philosophical debate about trees and forests, we'll just say that if there is no recipient, deliberate communication is, by definition, a failure. (And you may disagree on some theoretical level, but just stick with me here, okay?)

So here I am, someone who likes to write. I'm also very sociable and I love it when my writing is received well. That's validation that my communication is productive and valuable. On the blog, the social interaction is easy. I always post a link to my blog entries on Facebook and people leave comments on that link. Sometimes people even go to the extraordinary effort to leave a comment on my actual blog. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside when people do that. Either way, I can gauge immediately if my communication was successful or not.

However, I'm also trying to become a fiction writer, which is fabulous if you're published:

But it's really crappy if you're unpublished:

That's me, right there. The lonely, unpublished author, creating messages that will probably never be read. And the worst thing about this is that I can only get feedback about my writing from other unpublished authors. So we're really the blind leading the blind, trying to figure out where the dang light switch is. I can go to writing conferences, which are something like this:

I actually love writing conferences, workshops, classes, etc. They're very motivational. I'm even organizing one for next March. But do they help me become a better writer? No. I already know, theoretically, how to write a story. I need somebody to read my stories and tell me exactly what things I'm implementing properly and which things need more work. It's called feedback.

My frustration with this simple concept--feedback--is killing me right now. I have a writer's group, but we are all in different genres and we're all unpublished. Blind, meet the blind. We can certainly help each other improve, but none of us can guess with any confidence what it would take to actually get published. There are critique groups out there with published authors, but I have yet to meet a group of bestselling authors that want to invite a newbie to their exclusive club. Still holding my breath.

I'm so frustrated with the blindness of the whole process that I want to just kill my ambitions and take the easy route: stick with goals that I know I can smash every time. Like baking a good batch of brownies. I make pretty decent brownies. I could just throw 100% of my effort into the world of Mom-ness. I'm not an awesome stay-at-home Mom, but at least I get plenty of feedback.

And being a dedicated stay-at-home Mom is a very worthy purpose. I'm proud of my efforts with the little monsters. But sometimes I want to use my brain a bit. And I've been told I have some talent for writing. And I enjoy it ... for the most part. But I've hit a brick wall and I have to step back sometimes and ask, is this worth it? I want to say "yes" because that's the mature and responsible thing to do. It shows a character of resiliency and determination. But is that a good enough reason to keep bloodying myself against a brick wall as I stumble around blindly in the dark? I don't know.

Some people have said, "If you're a true writer, you HAVE TO WRITE." I say: BS. Because that's ambiguous. I am composing sentences, ideas, and stories in my mind CONSTANTLY. There is this constant play-by-play in my brain that is analyzing the world around it. I am constantly "writing" in my mind, but do I have to put it on paper? Even if nobody is going to read it? How is that different from just forming the ideas in my mind? It's not.

So will I keep composing ideas and stories? Yes. I absolutely couldn't stop if I tried. But do I have to put them on paper? If a tree falls in the forest and nobody was around, who cares if it made a sound?

This isn't meant to be an announcement that I'm forfeiting all my writing dreams--just an expression of the frustrations that every writer faces. Because I think it's important to understand that raw writing talent is never enough to be a successful published author. It takes a lot of something--I'm not sure what--that I'm still trying to find.

Aspy-ism

Endearing thing #29 about my boy with Asperger's: inherent honesty.

"Aaauuggghh! But I didn't know you'd catch me doing that!"

A Gift from a 6-yr-old

Tommy: "I need to throw something away."
Me: "That candy wrapper?"
Tommy: "Yeah."
Me: "Hand it to me and I'll throw it away for you."
Tommy, after handing me the garbage: "Thanks ...... I also used it as a kleenex."

Ewww... thanks, kid.

Cupcake War

Battle Cupcake is heating up in my home right now. The competition is fierce: my lack of skill vs. my overabundance of ambition.

A Place of My Own

I was a landlord for about eleven years--until last Saturday evening, about 9:00 P.M. mountain time. We rented out a 1200-sq-ft, two bedroom basement apartment.

That's in the past. Way, way, way in the past. Days ago.

The benefits of having my entire home to myself are still sinking in.

Like being able to look at the plants along the back of my house without making my tenants feel like they're being watched.

Or like being able to scream at my kids, "If I am on the toilet, then LEAVE ME ALONE!" without anybody downstairs hearing me.

Life is good.

Leap!

I just entered a prestigious writing contest.

It took three days of emotional blood, sweat and tears to write this story. I gave it 100% and, even though I know it has some flaws, I'm proud of it. I wrote about family and friendship ... and an ominous intergalactic agency whose mission may or may not be evil.

I may have said this before, but bear with me since my memory is about as long as my fingernails (and I keep them cut short for piano, guitar and handling small children):

I've invested years of my life training my singing voice. Not because I wanted to improve upon a talent but because I had no musical talent to begin with. And I love music. And singing makes me happy. So I wanted to be able to do it better. So I invested a lot of money and time and effort into learning how to sing. I consider myself somewhat capable now, but I lack things that can't be taught.

On the other hand, I have always had a natural aptitude for writing. I wrote poetry through elementary school, took AP English classes, acted as editor-in-chief for my high school yearbook, attended young writer's conferences, devoured literature voraciously, and majored in Communications in college. (I've also been blogging since 2003, folks! I had no idea it had been that long!) It's the one natural talent I think God gave to me. And I have completely neglected it.

I put it up on a shelf, scared to death of what would happen if I ever took it down and dusted it off. Why? Because if I put my heart and soul into the one thing I do the best, and it's still not very good, where does that leave me? Feeling pathetic, that's where.

So when I wrote stories in the last few years, I said proudly, "This is just therapeutic. It's for me, because I love to write." Kind of like, "See? I don't care if you don't like it, because it's not for you anyway."

At some point in the last year, though, that wasn't good enough anymore. I am ready to put myself out there, open to criticism and rejection, because I believe in myself. And I am sick of burying a talent in the sand. Yeah, it might not be much of a talent, but it's all I got so I should make the most of it.

So today marks the first day when I open myself up to real, legitimate rejection. And I fully expect to get that rejection letter in the email box a couple months from now. It'll sting a bit, but it's better than never trying. The real triumph here is me choosing to take the leap.

Am I Magic?

I put Eden in her crib with a cup of milk, closed the blinds, turned on the lamp, twisted up the music box to play its broken melody and then prostrated myself to find a pacifier under the crib. After pushing aside two (probably moldy) bottles and a torn canvas toy cover, I found the prayed-for pacifiers against the far wall. Wriggling under the crib and reaching as far as my T-Rex/5'4"-personage arms could, I barely reached them.

Success was, literally, within my grasp and I was backing out from under the crib when something happened. I had no idea what it was; the unexpected rarely announces itself in comprehensible bullet points. My nervous system informed me that there was sudden and severe pain on the side of my head. Just like that: pain. It's interesting to me that the pain registered first and then I became aware that I was being pummeled by some unseen object. Wouldn't you expect yourself to mentally register the impact and then subsequent pain?

I screeched out in high-pitched girlie mode, grasping the side of my head where I had been attacked. After bravely yelling, "Owie! Owie! Owie! Owie!" so loudly that my son upstairs came running down in a panic, I looked around for the aggressor. There it was, lying on the floor: a tattered unicorn. Yes, the same one that I blogged about last week. The unicorn of youthful sentiment. It attacked me harshly from its precarious perch up above.

"What happened?" asked my husband, running in from the other room.

With eyes pinched shut in pain and hands pressed to my bleeding ear, I said, "The unicorn fell on me. It hit me on the head." I pointed at the fallen unicorn.

Apparently the whole pity-me-because-I-just-got-attacked-by-a-unicorn bit was unimpressive to my husband because he immediately replied, "Oh, are you magical now?"

"No," I replied. "This is my blood, not the unicorn's. The unicorn is fine."

I'm not really sure of my logic with that last bit, so I'm secretly hoping that I actually am magical now. If so, I hope I have some really cool ability like being able to finally grow taller than 5'4" so I can reach behind the crib without hurting myself.

The Music Box

Years ago, or so I am told, my father gave my mother a small bronze music box. A unicorn atop the box twirled to the strains of Fur Elise. As a child, I was completely entranced by the music box. I sat with knees hugged to my chest, staring at the unicorn's dance. More often, though, I would take the unicorn from its throne and stare at the mechanical inner workings. Simple technology creating art. Wind, wind, wind, play, play, play.


Though my parents divorced and the music box lost its shine, it never lost any of the enchantment. Over the years, the inner workings have broken. A broken melody, at best. A piece of the base is chipped away forever. It is half an object, but I still keep it for sentiment.

As I put my daughter to sleep just now, I wound up the tired music box and let the unicorn dance to half a melody. My daughter stared at it, lost in the beauty of such a thing, as she drifted off to sleep.

My life is abundantly blessed.

Girls vs. Boys

Disclaimer: I don't really hate women. Women aren't horrible ... but we can certainly act that way at times ...

~ ~ ~

I found it funny when my shrink accused me of being a man-hater. Okay, he didn't use those exact words. He said he thought I had a "deficit view" of men in general.

I was like, wait, excuse me?

"I have always been more of a man EATER," I corrected him. "Of course, that was years ago." (Two of my boyfriends dedicated a couple choice songs to me--I'm sure I've blogged about how I've always loved Duran Duran's Femme Fatale since then.)

I am not a man hater. I have always gotten along better with men than women, ever since I was a child. Why? Because women are horrible.

Horrible. Mean. Malicious. Gossip-mongering terrible creatures*.

I mean, we're awesome, too. Don't get me wrong. But days like TODAY, I am ashamed to have that feminine side deep inside of me.

So here's what happened. My little Thomas, the one who was recently diagnosed with Asperger's (Autism Spectrum Disorder), has been asking to have a play date with a little girl at school for a few weeks. I thought they got along great and was relieved that Tommy found a friend. She even wrote down her phone number for him to call her, but we never got a chance.

Then today. He came home and said, "Me and ---- are going to have a play date today!" Then he said something about her not knowing her house number, but something-or-other. I told him I'd have to call her Mom, and then a couple minutes later I found a piece of paper on the table that said in little kindergarten handwriting, "I hat you Thomas."

I stared at it, trying to take it in. I held the paper up and said, "Thomas, what is this?"

"That's ----'s house number," he replied.

"But it doesn't have an address on it. No numbers."

"That's her address."

So apparently Tommy wanted to get together to play and asked for her address. She wrote down, "I hat you Thomas" on a paper and gave it to him. It's one thing to write down a fake phone number to get rid of a creepy guy in a nightclub, but this is different.

Who could hate my little boy? He is the brightest ray of sunshine in the whole world. What kind of person would pull a prank like that on a sweet little six-year-old, telling him that they'll get together to play and instead telling him she hates him? I am just glad he never looked carefully at the paper. I am trying to restrain my Mama Bear instinct--that little Mean Girl inside of me that wants to say vicious things in return.

Shame on you, mean little girl. Shame on all mean girls everywhere.

Man hater? No. No man would pull a trick like that on a sweet little boy like Thomas.

* Okay, women are awesome. But we are also passionate creatures, and I am passionately sad right now about the way this little girl treated my son.

Bigger Problems

Why, yes, those are my children wearing flip flops on a snowy day. With socks. Flip flops and squished-up, pinch-toed socks. Cold toes are clearly not an issue here. We have bigger problems to solve. Problems like...

(1) Soaring levels of geekiness, accompanied by plummeting levels of social awareness
(2) A Mom who is wondering how much she should encourage her children to abide by societal norms, and how much she should encourage them to embrace their own personalities
(3) A Person who is wondering how everything turns into an internal philosophical debate, even her children's daily shoe selection (or her deliberate choice to refer to herself as a "Mom" in #2 and a "Person" in #3, thereby exerting her right to define herself as something more than just a caretaker of young children; or her deliberate choice to continue referring to herself in the third person)

Yep. Just another typical day at home.

Fears Resolved

I learned as a teenage not to overdose on my favorite music. I'd listen to the same song overandoverandoverandover until I couldn't stand it anymore--my relentless affection was ruining all the good stuff. I've learned since then to always listen to a variety of music so that I don't get sick of it too quickly.

The same principle, I was afraid, might apply to books. When I finished reading The Book Thief, I was head-over-heels in love with it. So much so that I have never been able to open it up again. I was afraid that it would somehow be different, less than I remembered it, or that it would become soiled by being over-read. I bought several copies and eventually gave them all away as gifts because I wanted to share this beautiful thing with other people.

The author, Markus Zusak, is coming into town this week, so I ordered a new copy of the book to get signed. I cracked it open, hesitantly, just to read the first page, and let me tell you something: it was pure love again. It was even more gripping, like coming home to the most magical and transporting words I've ever read.

Twenty-three minutes later, when the train stopped, I climbed out with them.


A small soul was in my arms.


I stood a little to the right.

The tone of this novel is brilliant. Serious, poignant, and humorous all at the same time. It's narrated by Death.

Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

I've been thinking about my own writing, how incredibly shallow it is in comparison. And that's fine, for now, because I have a specific project I'm working on for a young audience. But reading these words stirs something in me--a fear, a courage, a longing to be more true to myself as an author. I love this discomfort, because I know it will push me to further introspection and, hopefully, more self-understanding.

So again, Mr. Zusak, thank you for this 550-page gift. And thank you for reminding me how beautiful words can be.

Sensing Darkness

An invisible darkness suffocates
Blinds
Nauseates
Burns
Deafens

Too much to be ignored

Rookie mistake, Wormwood

I see you for what you are.

The darkness lifts as a lightness fills me up.

Staying Up

I was starting to worry a bit about Baby Girl when she hit the eight-month-old mark and still wasn't crawling. I was worrying, oh yes, but not complaining. I cherished that calm before the storm. Mobility blew in just a little later and it was a full hurricane.

She mastered crawling (awwww) and then took an appraising look at the world around her, wondering what to conquer next. Within days, she realized that UP was the direction everybody else was taking, so she crawled over to the couch and clawed her way to a standing position. Yipes. And crawled to the edge of the crib to stand up. Yipes. And crawled to the edge of every precariously top-heavy item in the house and tried to stand up. Yipes.

There is nothing more wonderful in her world than standing. Yes, just standing. It is a glorious accomplishment and she does not tire of it. There is only one downside to this new "up" side of life: She has no idea how to get down. She will usually accomplish the "down" portion by simple falling to the side, legs straight, and hitting the floor. She cries, I comfort her, and she crawls back over to the couch to stand up again.

I have spent much of January feeling like I am falling down a lot in my life and trying to find the strength to stand up. I'm stuck feeling down, Eden is stuck standing up. Together, we make things work. She lifts and comforts me when I'm feeling down and I break the fall when she's been up for too long.

The lessons she teaches me are endless. Her inborn wisdom is immense. Parenting is an honor that I cherish.

Twice Exceptional

I never comprehended the depth of the phrase "Parenting is Hard."

It is hard. Exceptionally hard.

Especially exceptionally hard when you have exceptional children. And boy howdy are mine exceptional. Between two of them--just two--we have ADHD, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, anxiety, depression, and ... we are taking one of them in for an autism assessment today. He is not autistic in the Rainman sense, but his social awareness is perpetually low. We're talking about the "Aspergers" end of the Autism spectrum.

Don't you wish you had exceptional children, too? Maybe you do.

My children, though, are "twice exceptional," which is a buzzword, or buzz-phrase, to mean they are dealing with the issues above and are also intellectually "gifted." I think many gifted children are dealing with other issues because of the nature of higher perception. The world is more complex through the eyes of a higher-intensity, higher-sensitivity child. It is more dangerous, more frightening, and definitely more lonely.

I have steered away from discussing "giftedness" on this blog. This was deliberate because people become uncomfortable with this idea. "Are you saying you're smarter than me? Better than me? You better not be saying your kids are better than my kids..." No. I'm not comparing my children or myself to anybody else. I'm just looking at the whole picture of what makes these kids tick.

I went to a conference for parents of gifted children yesterday and this is what I learned: they are average... but with gifts. They may develop asynchronously, meaning their intellectual and analytical capacity may be that of a 12-year-old while their emotional capacity may be that of a five-year-old while they are living in a seven-year-old's body. They are complicated and intense. So, so intense. So wearyingly intense and so difficult to parent effectively.

Parenting these kids makes me feel as smart as the concrete foundation on my house. I always feel that I'm not doing enough (I'm not!) and there is always so much more to do. It's hard. It's tiring. And now we're throwing the possibility of autism into the mix. I hate labels, but I want to understand my kids better. If that means we have to slap a label of "autistic" on one of them to comprehend how his mind works, fine.

And you know what else it means? If this is what Asperger's looks like, I wouldn't trade it away. This child of mine is full of sunshine and joy and tells me, "Mom, I love you" about two dozen times a day. He is a delight and I love him exactly as he is, even when he's driving me around the bend. If this is what autism looks like, other parents would be lucky to have a child like mine.

Love Love Love

I've been waiting for that moment to come--that moment when I realize I've started taking my baby daughter for granted. That moment when she has simply been assimilated into the madness that is my family. That moment when I have had it Up. To. Here. with Yet. Another. Poopie. Diaper.

Still waiting.

I still cry when I look at her. I still can't believe any person could be this sweet and this loving. I still tiptoe into her room when she's asleep to just make sure she's still breathing. She is still the most beautiful thing in the world. She still makes her brothers smile, even when I've made them frown.

She is magical.

And I love her.

~ ~ ~

Speaking of love love love, I went to the store today and bought some adorable little Valentine's Day items. A rug for our entryway, heart-shaped erasers, stickers, an owl-shaped Valentine's Day apron that Eden will adore when she's a bit older, and little $1 mailboxes that are irresistible! I'm going to decorate the mailboxes, fill them up with treats and a love letter from Mom and surprise the kids with them on February 14th. Kind of like an Easter basket or Christmas stocking ... for Valentine's Day. I can't wait!

Last year, we did homemade valentines for the kids to give their classmates and it was lots of fun! Err, well the design process was fun--cranking out 80 handcrafted valentines during the week my Obstetrician told me I better "take it easy" because my blood pressure was going up was ... not really very fun at all. But I've mostly forgotten the details of how not-fun it was. There is just a vague sense of, "Hmm ... Wasn't that stressful? I'm sure it wasn't THAT bad!"

So I'm going to do it again. Designing valentines can be so creative. Last year we did little bags of candy with a paper topper stapled to it:

This year, I found some cute little heart-shaped boxes at Target that are 8/$1. I bought one package (8) and will try to talk one of the kids into that idea after school. We can put a little customized sticker on top and treats inside. Voila! Easy and unique! Still mulling other ideas over and I'll definitely let the kids make the final choice. It should be fun! (By which I mean the design process will be fun...)

I'm feeling a bit addicted to Valentine's Day right now. I love that it is about the whole family when you have kids. It's always been overlooked in our family because it's the week before all three of my boys' birthdays. This year, though, we're doing things right so I need more ideas. What are your family traditions for the big day?

Three Things

1. Grr. Insurance companies. Grr. That is all.

2. I told my kids they could have screen time ALLLLL DAAAAAY (!!!!!) for this special holiday day ... as long as they get their work done first. Clean their bedroom floors. Put away their laundry. Tidy the toy room. 20 minutes of homework.

So, basically, they probably won't have any screen time all day. But they are very upbeat about the whole thing, because I've made such a generous offer.

Yes, I am an awesome mother.

3. I traveled down the main road in town at about seven miles per hour yesterday and felt like a totally reckless driver. The roads were pure ice. Is it March yet?

I'm Dreaming of a Painfree Endodontic Surgical Pre-Christmas

... or, if the title doesn't express my feelings perfectly, I'm dreaming of all the things that could potentially go wrong during my endodontic surgery today. Elijah said to me, "Mom, it sure would be sad if you died after your surgery was done."

Yes, Elijah, it would be very sad. We will try to avoid accidental death caused by unanticipated side-effects of an oral surgery gone wrong. At all costs.

I'm pretty sure people don't die at the endodontist's office nearly as often as they feel like they're dying. If you follow me on Facebook, you already know that I actually screamed in the endodontist's chair last Saturday, and here is a hint for you: if you are at an endodontist ... on a SATURDAY ... you will probably scream in pain before you leave. I'm just sayin'.

And if you are then scheduled to go back and see him two days later for a surgery, you might just dream of how you'll probably die before the day is done, too. If you have a good imagination, which, unfortunately, I do.

At this point in the confusing narrative, I'm thinking this blog has become Downersville, USA. My last blog entry was titled "BLOOD" and talked about how I see my son's silent screaming face of pain every time I close my eyes.

I know, I know. Merry *#%& Christmas from my family to yours.

It isn't all that bad. Other than the overwhelming anxiety of whether my choice to do oral sedation was brilliant or just one more complication that will probably lead to my early demise, I'm feeling pretty good! Lots of little Christmas blessings:

(1) My new dentist, whom I have never even met face-to-face, is a really decent guy and talked me through two days of trying the conservative approach before we gave up and had to do an emergency endodontist visit. He was a real life-saver.

(2) After two days of pure agony, the pain medications and steroids and antibiotics and oral rinses and ice packs and prayers and the endodontic visit-from-heck to drain my face really got me feeling like myself again. Just in time to sing with the church Christmas choir, which is important to me. Six Christmases ago, I was so set on singing with the church choir at Christmas time that I pushed my pregnant-with-twins body too far and ended up on bed rest. It would have happened sooner or later anyway, so it was worth it.

(3) I'm inclined to think this is God's way of forcing me to take care of my dental problems because this is the perfect time to do this. We haven't used any of our dental benefits much this year, so they should pay close to their full portion on this. We have a $2500 max that they will pay, and in two weeks that will reset so I can address any other dental issues. Yea, hooray? Also, I've already hit my out-of-pocket maximum on our health insurance so they are covering my multitude of prescriptions 100%. So this little emergency might end up costing me less than $1,000. Maybe. Better than the alternative. Also, because of Christmas break, there are lots of people available to help me with child care and driving the drugged lady around.

So there you have it, lots of little silver linings. I'm going to be feeling grateful for these things while trying to tame the anxiety beast and while sucking a liquid diet through a straw for the holidays.

I still have my sense of humor intact, so life must be okay.

Blood

Blessed with as much "creative genius" (aka anxiety disorder) as I am, I can never guess what my nightmares will be made of.

Until today.

Now, every time I close my eyes, I see the same thing: blood.

And a hole in the side of my oldest son's face. And a look of horror on the rest of it.

Blood. Hole. Pain.

This is not how I wanted my week to start: my son running downstairs in hysterics, blood streaming down his face, covering his hands. I tell myself I'm exaggerating, that it wasn't that bad. After all, there isn't any blood on the carpet--just a few wide swashes on the staircase where he steadied himself as he ran down to me.

I am trying not to lose my cool over the fact that I had repeatedly told him to stop what he was doing, get his socks and shoes on, and come down to breakfast. I am trying to forget the way his teeth chattered and his eyes screamed out to me when he was getting pricked over and over with a needle to get numbed up. I am trying to forget the look on his younger brother's face when the emergency room nurse uncovered the wound so we could all see it.

I am trying to block all of it out, but there it is every time I close my eyes.

One game of "tag." One sharp table corner. Five stitches (or seven, depending on who you ask). One Mom who hates blood and is still feeling faint. One impulsive little boy who may have, but probably didn't, learn some constructive life lesson from all of this.