Tomorrow I plan to plunge into the copy editor's edits for my upcoming novel, Mother of My Son, and a reader just informed me (thanks Sherri!) that she was not getting emails for my blog.  I have a new website and my blog is attached to that so even if you signed up to get blog updates via email at harperleesushiandme, you need to sign up at the new site rachelallord.com to continue to receive blog updates via email.
And I might have left some of you hanging since I wrote "It Only Took a Decade part I" on the old site and "Part II" on the new site. So here's a direct link:
 http://rachelallord.com/2012/09/07/it-only-took-a-decade-part-2/
Thanks so much for taking a few minutes out of your busy life to connect with me! I don't have a firm release date for my book yet... but will keep you posted at rachelallord.com!
Joy to you,
Rachel

It Only Took a Decade

* This blog has moved to www.rachelallord.com

(or…Why it took me ten years to write, and find a publisher for, my novel)

Signing the Contract!

            When my son was born almost thirteen years ago, I loved being a stay at home mom. Truly I did. And yet at the same time, something inside of me felt restless, like my creativity was slowly drying up.          I read a lot of novels the first year of Elijah’s life; I figured out how to nurse him with one hand, and hold a book in the other. Fifteen minutes times six times a day (or whatever it was depending on his age and mood) equals over an hour of reading time, all while bonding with my sweet baby. To this day I equate certain novels (Jewel, Someone Else’s Child) with nursing. Weird? Probably. But it worked for me.
One evening I caught a news story on TV about a high school girl who gave birth in the bathroom during prom, put the baby somewhere (I don’t remember where) and went out to dance again. The birth experience was still pretty fresh in my mind and I thought how in the world does someone do such a thing? What kind of home life does she come from? What was her mindset? What would become of her? For some reason this sad story haunted me and prompted a lot of What If questions—a great place to start for a writer.

Sometime later, I told my husband, “If I were ever going to write a novel this is what it’d be about” and after a few weeks he grew weary of me talking about it and said, “Great. Write it.”
So I did. During naptime I clicked away on our gigantic computer by our bay window in our trailer house. I’ll admit, writing a novel began on somewhat of a whim. I had a fabulous beginning… and that was about it. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend this method, because in the end it takes longer and you create problems you later must fix, but the plus side is since I had no idea how hard it would be, how many conferences I needed to attend or writing books I needed to read, how many rejections I’d endure. I wrote under the blissful spell of ignorance. If I had known, (and I’m really not trying to write a sob story here) I might not have begun in the first place.
So while my baby napped—and, in time, stared at Blues Clues—while I could have been (should have been?) scrubbing my floors, I wrote and wrote and wrote and it was so fun, so satisfying, just to pour out a story, and at the end of about six months I had a…. skeleton. The beginnings of what could be a great story.
My characters were as flat as Popsicle sticks. My dialogue was didactic. I had no rhythm. It’s not that I couldn’t write, I could. I had a degree in English and had even made the Dean’s List several semesters. But knowing how to write an A paper and knowing how to write a book—particularly a novel— are two very different things.
I sent my manuscript out to a few publishers, and actually got some encouraging feedback, but ultimately rejections. Two years later I finally bit the bullet and paid to go to a writer’s conference, to “find out what those experts know” and learned that I really had no idea what I was doing. The professional who looked over my manuscript both encouraged me and shot me down in a single sentence: “You are on to something and I see that you can write, but boy you have a lot of work ahead of you.”
I went home, reworked scenes, fleshed out characters, asked for honest feedback, prayed for wisdom, got a few articles published, read a ton on the craft, and seriously considered quitting before I was in too deep.
But the story had already gripped me and I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t just leave my characters half-baked. They needed me and, in a weird way, I needed them. So I’d write, shelve it, read it over weeks or months later, groan, re-work parts, and life carried on.
We moved into a different house. We encountered secondary infertility. We considered adoption. I put my story away and didn’t look at it for at least two years.
And, ironically, providentially, it was during this time I journeyed through some experiences that would prove to be crucial for my story….
I’ll save the rest for next time. Back to editing. And the puppy needs to be let out. Again.

Home Again Home Again, Jiggety Jig

We just got back from vacation. This means that the contents of the van are now smattered around the house like some kind of hastily set up obstacle course. Ten days ago we set off in a van that was clean and organized (relatively speaking) with plenty of gum and napkins and a yet to be broken in Mad Libs pad and a purple folder with a lovely typed agenda and all of our hotel reservation print-offs courtesy of Hotwire.

Off we flew! Barreling down the interstate, headed for D.C. We defied the heat and the storms (we were never without electricity, thank you Lord) and walked everywhere and saw the sights, did the museums, literally dragged our kids through the National Art Gallery (“This is culture, this is good for you, this is a Renoir for crying out loud!”) Then camped for two days, tasted the salty Atlantic Ocean and blissfully gave ourselves to its waves (particularly me and Elijah), found a candy store, ate seafood, fell in love with colonial Williamsburg (“we” referring to we the parents) and watched Maylie jump in the pool no less than 40 times per hotel.

And now we’re back home and the van is empty and smells like chlorine, beef jerky, and feet. 

It’s almost as hot here as it was in D.C. but we won’t be walking for miles anytime soon. So we’re all a little tired and cranky and bug bitten and sunburned but happy we went, happy we experienced one corner of the world, and happy to be home.

A few memorable quotes:

On the way to the National Art Gallery: “There will be no more arm farts once we get in the art museum.”  (Me)

Once in the art gallery among the marble sculptures: “But mom, they’re all naked!” (Maylie)

Still in the art museum after I asked him which was his favorite painting: “The last one I see before we leave.” (Elijah)

Somewhere in the Pennsylvania foothills: “I don’t want to hear another word about bodily functions.” (Doug)

May your summer be filled with an abundance of sweet memories!

One Thousand Miles, One Can of Soda

            When I was four, my parents took my sister and me to Walt Disney World’s Fort Wilderness Camp. Chip and Dale and Winnie the Pooh showed up at our evening campfire. My sister and I played at the beach in matching Minnie Mouse swimsuits. We spent days wandering around the Magic Kingdom. A classic family vacation if there ever was one.

            What do I remember best about that trip? Getting my own can of grape soda in a hotel lobby.

            The memory is vivid: sitting in a sun-lit room surrounded by green plants and soft music (the Polynesian Resort, perhaps?) clutching my VERY OWN can of grape soda, next to my sister who had her VERY OWN can of orange soda. Dreams really do come true.

            We are starting to plan a family trip to D.C. While my twelve year old has been burning to go for some time, we are working on boosting my seven year old’s enthusiasm. “I want to go back to South Dakota,” she said a few weeks ago, referring to last summer’s excursion.

            “Why?” I asked, expecting her to reminisce about the herd of buffalo right outside our campsite, or Jewel Cave, or the presidential heads.

            “So we can go back to that candy store.”

            Candy store? I don’t even remember a candy store. It might have been some grubby little gas station we stopped in along the way. That’s what she loved best?

            So why take a family vacation at all? We could save a whole lot of money staying home sipping grape soda and buying gas station M&M’s. Why bother loading up the van and the kids and heading across the country when you know- know- there will be at least one blowout fight?

            Because there’s so much to see! Traveling gives our kids (and their parents) a point a reference; that thing we read about or heard about or saw on TV, is suddenly real. Venturing beyond our backyard proves that our little corner of the world is just that- a little corner of the world. And let's not underestimate the lessons family vacations impart, often against our will. Lessons like:

            things-will-never-go-exactly-as-you-plan (our flat tire in South Dakota) or

            right-now-we-all-need-to-quit-whining-and-pull-together (trying to set up camp in the rain) or

            this-is-a-map-so-don’t-ask-me-again-when-we’re-going-to-get-there-look-for-yourself (just about every trip)

            I love to travel. I didn’t always. My parents like to tell me about the fits I used to pitch in the back seat. But somewhere between toddler and teen, I developed a love for traveling and I attest this to my parents’ commitment to take my sister, my brother, and me to see places like Yellowstone and The Grand Canyon and the giant sequoia trees in California. Traveling is addictive; it builds on itself like a snowball. You see a little of the world, you want to see more. You see the west coast, you have to see the east coast.

             And at the same time, as a parent, I need to consider that my most vivid childhood memories are simple, tethered to home: going to the city pool. Taking family bike rides. Playing in the back yard. Maybe because these were not one time memories and sheer repetition has made them stick. These types of memories will be engraved in my own children’s minds. Oh, they’ll remember the big trips too, but I don't want to underestimate the everyday, either. Pausing to help my daughter cut out windows in her cardboard box house may seem like nothing to me, but it’s a big deal to her.

            I have assured my daughter there are candy stores in D.C. But not only that, one of the museums has Dorothy’s ruby shoes. (Now there’s a dangling carrot.)

           So she’s ready now. Ready to see the world. And all the candy stores she can find.

Pushing Peas

            At one time or another, every parent has held up a spoon holding some good-for-you, green, mashed-up food, zoomed it in the air complete with sound effects, all in hopes of charming their baby to open his mouth.

            “Here comes the airplane!”

            Right or wrong, bribery can continue to be an invaluable tactic throughout parenthood. At least it has been for me.

            My sixth grader recently had to take a break from his usual fantasy obsession and choose a book from the “realistic fiction” category. I suggested “To Kill a Mockingbird”. Big surprise.

            Truth be told, I wondered if he was old enough to process the adult themes of racism, family abuse, rape, but then again, when is anyone “old enough” to grapple with the darker things of life, things we wish didn’t even exist? It came down to the recognition that we, as parents, should be the ones to help him navigate such turbulent themes, to help him frame such issues in context. Besides, he’s twelve, the exact age of Jem when the story unfolds.

            He was less than thrilled with the suggestion. And the fact that he knew it was my favorite book didn’t help. I told him it was about a boy his age who had pesky little sister, and contained an edge of your seat courtroom scene, and a creepy recluse of a neighbor who just might, might, end up doing something heroic. But in the end, I resorted to bribery. “If you read it, I’ll take you to your favorite restaurant for a book discussion.”

            He took the bait.

            We ended up reading most of it out loud. (music to my ears) And although he’s an excellent reader/thinker much of the wit and humor proved to be not as forthright as, oh let’s say… Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

            His final assessment: “I didn’t like it that much.”

            Oh well. At least he didn’t hate it.

            He didn’t like peas the first time he tried them either. But I kept feeding them to him anyway. Kept scooping out spoonfuls and pressing it to his pursed lips and saying things like Mmmmmm and Yummy and Mamma loves peas. For his own good. Just like I didn’t let either of my kids survive solely on crackers and fruit snacks even though they at times wanted to, I don’t want them only to read easy to digest but non-nutritional fun stuff and miss out on some of the savory but chewy meat of great literature.

            I mean, even Curious George loses his charm after awhile. After a very short while, actually.

            Sometimes we gotta force the peas. Broaden our children’s tastes. Make them try things they don’t want to because the story will implant itself somewhere deep and hidden inside of them and sprout and grow and provide fodder for their very character.

            At least I hope so. 

Shadow Children

            Each year at about this time, for the past five years, a little shadow person sweeps through my house. Shadow might be too strong of a word. It’s almost like a shadow of a shadow, a fleeting presence of what could have been. Here, then gone.

            Miscarriages may be “common” but that doesn’t make them easy.

            After having Elijah, after years of secondary infertility, after adopting the most precious, perfect little Chinese girl in the world, I found, to my delight and shock, that I was pregnant. The timing seemed perfect. “Really Lord?” I whispered in the bathroom as the second line materialized. "Now you're giving me this gift?"

            Yet in the days and weeks to follow, I felt like something was “wrong”. A few weeks after paying a visit to the ER for bleeding, I found myself there again, this time for hemorrhaging. Hours later, the doctor sent me and my husband home to “let nature take it’s course”, but I passed out in the corridor, steps away from the exit door. I came to, surrounded by a flurry of activity. My hemoglobin had dropped to a seven. They couldn’t send me home so they wheeled me up to the- you guessed it- maternity ward and gave me two bags of blood via transfusion. Every now and then I heard a baby cry while I waited for my baby’s heart to stop beating. I had five ultrasounds throughout the night, the heartbeat slower with each one.

            Then the next morning, there was no heartbeat.

            After a “standard procedure surgery” I came home. Home to my husband and precious children, then seven and two. I went to bed depleted but grateful. I had survived an ordeal that was, for me, more gory than labor and delivery.

            The next morning, it hit.

            Oh God, what have I lost?

            I sobbed. I couldn’t fathom ever being happy again. Part of my brain, the left, logical side, told me Yes. You will. Be thankful for the two wonderful kids you already have. The right side of my brain told the left side to shut it. How, how, how could I push past this sadness?

            I was thankful for my two children. I was thankful for life itself. But a loss is a loss and life isn’t one giant math equation; two blessings do not negate a loss. I wondered if I’d said anything dumb but well intentioned to the several women I knew who’d experiences miscarriages. Now, of course, I understood. I understood that it didn’t matter if it’s just the first trimester, or if it was for the best because there might have been something wrong with the baby. None of that helps. None of that erases the sadness, the throbbing emptiness. Because there is nothing tangible of which to cling. No funeral. No tiny footprint. No hand crocheted blanket. No picture. Nothing.

            The heart cry of women who miscarry is my baby existed.  My baby mattered. Maybe not to you, maybe you don’t fully understand it, but that baby, as tiny and hidden as he/she was, mattered to me. I was blessed to be surrounded by supportive family and friends and nurses and people who got it, who not only let me grieve, but expected me to grieve. But I still wanted something. To nail a stake in the timeline of life. To declare here was a life.

            I do not consider myself a poet. Yet the couple I have written were born from grief, when constructing complete sentences just seemed too daunting and excessive. So a few days after we lost what would have been our third child, I sat propped up in bed and wrote these lines. My husband printed them off on a sheet of pretty paper, and we framed it. It doesn’t hang anywhere in our house anymore because I don’t want to see it everyday. I don’t want live in grief. It just helps to know it exists. I want to know he existed.

            We all have shadows of some kind, hurts that revisit us from time to time that perhaps no one else ever sees. This particular shadow of mine now would be four. This shadow typically flashes before my mind as a boy with blonde, blonde hair. This shadow was, and I believe is, a real person and waits for me in a place where there are no shadows at all.

No Words

You left in the midst of a blizzard, slipped away silently as the snow fell. 

Small, white, intricate, beautiful 

So fragile

Too fragile to last

No words please

Words don’t mean enough

Just see him as I did- say that she was here

No answers

Don’t feed me answers- I already know

Just see what I did: a dream, a hope, a miracle

A life

Now lost, now gone

Too hidden to name, too fragile to keep.

And the snow keeps falling and buries the earth.

No words. No words. No words.

R.L.A.

03/03/07

Aiming Low

It’s the time of year for those pesky New Year's resolution lists. The time of year when we hear a lot of talk about the dangers of aiming too low, or at nothing at all. But right now just the word resolution feels too daunting. 

So, instead I present my…

Ten Pretty Good Ideas for 2012

1. To make the bed. Since I make the kids do it, (every now and then) maybe I should too. Not every day mind you, that’s just OCD. Maybe weekly. Or at least when we’re having company so I won’t have to shut the door.

2. To learn the shortcuts on my computer. I still drag my mouse to edit, cut, and paste while my husband stands behind me pulling out his hair and muttering things like command v, command v! Next time, instead of shouting back, “Whatever! Leave me alone!” I’ll ask him to pull up a chair and teach me these time-saving moves, and I’ll actually listen.

3. To let the kids pick out a candy bar in the checkout line. I’ve never, ever let them do this. And they ask all the time. I never gave in because I didn’t want them to keep asking. But shucks, they’re good kids. So the next time they ask I’ll say, “Sure honey, pick out whatever one you want” and they’ll wonder who’s dying.

4. To throw away some of the junk lurking in the basement. This is purely fear based. I’m actually afraid of the boxes in the basement that have been sitting there since we’ve moved into this house, three and a half years ago. Some items have mysteriously made it out of the boxes and are scattered around the floor. Like the plastic silverware basket from our old dishwasher from our last house- what in the world possessed me to keep that thing? I must have experienced a burst of ingenuity when we replaced the dishwasher (back in 2003) and thought it’d make a great art caddy. My son never touched it and it now sits in the basement, stuffed with broken crayons and a few tarnished spoons. Creepy. But not as creepy as the plastic head that the previous owners left on a small shelf over our washing machine. No doubt an old doll head, but not a baby doll head. A man’s head. Like an oversized Ken head. Now that’s creepy. And yet fascinating. What’s the story behind this relic of intrigue? My morbid curiosity has saved it from the trash,  that and I’m terrified to touch it.

5. To beat my husband at Bananagrams. This is a word game. Kind of like Scrabble minus the bells and whistles. He kicks my butt. Every time. Maybe becuz speling is my downfal.

6. To not use the phrase, “I know, right?” Not even in a mocking way. In fact, let’s all agree that it’s time to move on.

7. To understand football. I know, I know I’m a detriment to my gender and many of you are truly miffed right now and are thinking “thanks so much for perpetuating that stereotype, Miss Prissy-priss”. But the shameful truth is there’s much about football I don’t understand. I get the game in general, touchdowns, interceptions, all of that. But I couldn’t explain the definition of past interference or holding or even the whole bit about the downs. I go to Packer parties mainly for the dip.

8. To clean out the cereal boxes shoved way back in the cupboard. Why am I saving those bags with a quarter cup of dust at the bottom? Who’d want to pour milk over that?

9. To watch an entire episode of Dr. Who. Mainly because the men in my life have always been fans. First my dad, (back when the sets looked like they were constructed out of cardboard) now my husband, (who just received the coolest Dr. Who scarf from a co-worker who, before Christmas, asked me if I thought he’d like her to knit him one to which I ignorantly replied, “I’m sure he’d love a scarf with Dr. Who’s face on it.” It’s a super cool scarf but I don’t think I’m allowed to like it until I actually sit down and watch an episode it its entirety.) and more recently, my pre-teen son (Okay, fine. I’m just grasping for ways to stay connected to him).

10. To put a flashlight in the car. Where I learned this was a good ideas, I don’t know. From my dad? A Triple A article? A Twenty-Twenty special? The point is, we don’t have one in either vehicle and when I see our stash of flashlights I invariably think, “Huh. Maybe I should put one in the car, just in case.” Just in case what? I lose an earring? In years past, having a flashlight in the car seemed to be equivalent to driving with a cell phone now days. Who needs a cell phone when you have a flashlight?

And there you go. Don’t let me deter you from dreaming big and shooting for the moon. By all means, shoot for it. I’ll enjoy the sprinkle of moon-dust and rejoice with you when you hit it. As for me, I may just make a dent in my list this year. I’ve already thrown out the creepy doll head when I got up to refill my coffee. Only nine and a half left to go...

The Shelf Life of Words

       Every year we extract it from the recesses of our mind, blow off the dust and, like our grandmother’s good china, rediscover the joy in using it. If we were to take it out on the fourth of July we’d be dubbed a screwball but after Thanksgiving, it’s fair game. 

          

You, reader, are smart so forgive me for spelling it out:  M E R R Y.

           

          Why is merry such a transitory, season-specific word? Why can’t we wish someone a merry birthday, or a merry anniversary? Why don’t teachers ever use it to describe our children? (“Johnny is such a merry child, all the children like him.”)

            The very word conjures up certain images, at least for me: girls in twirly dresses. Boys with flushed cheeks and cowlicks, running barefoot. Men laughing long and hard in mahogany lined pubs. Peppermint sticks. Gingham curtains. Row, row, rowing a boat. (give it a minute… it’ll come) Little old ladies kitting red woolen mittens. Don’t mind me if I jump on my feather bed and burst into song Julie Andrews style.

Mer-ry  adj

1. Full of or showing lively cheerfulness or enjoyment

            Even though the word stirs my craving for Dickens or Shakespeare, Brits, ironically, are more inclined to bid you a “Happy Christmas”. At any rate, the word exudes charm. And I suppose such charm could fade if we used merry daily. Like the Gingerbread Latte at Starbucks I adore. Love it, but since I want it to retain its I’m-treating-myself-today status, I don’t frequently indulge.

            After the New Year we’ll carefully wrap up our sweet little word merry and tuck her away with our blown-glass ornaments and garlands of ivy. We’ll save her for next year, so she doesn’t become commonplace.

            So, so easy for things to become commonplace.

            Even the story about Mary (the other one) and the star and shepherds and the baby in the manger. So easy for our wonder to fade, for the story to slip into ordinary, to dwindle in its significance. But the baby we’re celebrating grew up, grew up and uttered some pretty revolutionary words:

I am the bread of life

I am the living water

I am the light of the world

I am the good shepherd

I am the gate

I am the resurrection

I am the life

I am the way

I am the truth

I am the life

I am the beginning

I am the end

I am the first

I am the last

         No shelf life there. Words to ponder, words to chew on. If my neighbor spoke these words, I’d probably move.

         What child is this?

         Who is this baby who grew up to claim such things? 

         Celebrate the baby. Celebrate the wonder. Celebrate the Word that became flesh.

         And I’ll write it with a smile… Merry Christmas!

Getting It

            The other week I took my kids to The Dollar Store for the sole purpose of filling their shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child. During the past few months, they had saved up a few dollars in a mason jar labeled “Christmas Giving”. As we strolled up and down the store aisles this is what I heard:

             “Ooooh… I want this!”

            “Mom, can you get me this for Christmas?”

            “Can I buy this? I have enough money!”

            My jaw tensed and then I heard my own, disarmingly shrill voice overpower theirs. “This is not about you. I do not want to hear one. more. word. about. you. Get it?”

            And then I think I saw someone from church look away and duck down the next aisle. I’m not sure. I hope I didn’t. But I think I did.

            Here’s the thing. The sad, raw truth: I am exactly the same way. I’m just a little more quiet about my desires, a little more grown up about the relentless, internal struggle between what I want because I want it and what I know my money could accomplish in the bigger, grander picture. I want to fund a well in Africa, I really do, but I also want a new rug for our family room.

           

            God has been good this year. He’s good every year but this year we saw specific “goodness” in specific tangible ways. As a result we were thrilled to be able to give the families of the Compassion children we sponsor in India a more substantial gift than we have in the past. As I write this, the verse about not letting our right hand know what our left hand is doing in regards to giving is battling it out against the verses that encourage us to spur each other on to good deeds. Can we share the joy we get from giving in a humble, non self-exalting way? I hope so. I suppose it’d take a whole sermon to reconcile these two principles but let me just say that we felt a rush of joy in the giving. We stood in the kitchen and whispered about what it would be like for these families to receive their gifts. Would they be surprised? What would they buy? What would they do with the money?

            “I hope they don’t think we’re just some rich Americans who think we’re better than everyone,” my husband said.

            We fell silent. I hoped they didn’t either. I hope, somehow, they know the pure joy we felt in being able to give. I hope they know what an honor it is to partner with them in this thing called life and that we, too, have been on the receiving end many, many times.

            I hope they have some inkling of the gift they’ve given us. That, truth be told, if we didn’t give our hearts may shrivel up into useless balls of self-absorption. You've heard it, I've heard it- 'tis better to give than receive... and "better" sure can can encompass a lot.

            When we came home from the Dollar Store the kids arranged the toys, stickers, school supplies and toiletries in their shoeboxes. Before we sealed the boxes for good, I handed one to each of my kids and told them to open them as if they were the recipients.

            My daughter effortlessly fell into the role. She gasped in delight as she opened her box. “Just what I’ve always wanted!”

            I hope so.

            I pray so. 

Unexpected Miracles

(I'm pulling from the archives. "Unexpected Miracles" appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat, 2009)

            I have failed as a cat parent.  

My little cat Maisey, when she was just a smidgen over a year old, was going to be a mother. At first we weren’t sure.  Perhaps we were leaving a bit too much milk in her saucer and too many scraps of deli meat in her food dish, perhaps that was the reason for her suddenly ballooning mid-section. 

But my husband and I soon noticed that it wasn’t just her size that was changing, it was her attitude.  She no longer wanted to bat at the shoelace my four-year-old son Elijah dangled at her.  It seemed as if she hardly wanted to move at all.  Once a playful, romping, kitten, Maisey now took four or five lethargic steps and then flopped down like a beached whale and went to sleep.  When I picked her up to nuzzle her under my chin like she always loved, she would let out the faintest most pitiful, human-like groan.  I remembered similar groans escaping my lips when I was nine months pregnant. And it became painfully clear that sooner or later, she was going to lactate. 

But the most incriminating fact remained- I had let her out. More than once. Without a supervisor. Without a leash. Without being spayed.  I can hear Bob Barker’s chastisement now.

Yes, I have failed as a cat parent. And people let me know it, too.

“Didn’t you know that she had been in heat?” a friend of mine who volunteered at the humane society questioned.

“Well yes, but…”

“She was bound to get pregnant, with all the cats in the neighborhood.”

I called the humane society to check on their policy of accepting kittens.

“You didn’t get her spayed, huh?”

“No, I know I should have but I never got around to it…”

“Well, I guess it’s too late now.”

There was no mistaking the tsk tsk in her voice. 

And there was no stopping the inevitable. I did some research on the Internet and learned that cats liked privacy when their time came.  So we prepared a box for Maisey, lined with soft towels and old blankets on which she could labor and placed it in our basement bathroom.  I even plugged in a nightlight so the atmosphere would be soft and soothing instead of glaringly bright or pitch black. 

And then we began to watch her like a time bomb.

My Internet research had also informed me that many cats, right before they go into labor, become ultra affectionate. They purr, they cuddle, they want to be held.  It was a Sunday afternoon when suddenly our cat who had wanted nothing to do with us for the last four weeks thank-you-very-much appeared and sprang on my lap and purred with such vivacity that I knew it was time. 

My husband and I lead her to the basement and reminded her of her homey towel clad birthing box.  When the panting began we knew she meant business.  We walked with her down to the basement, turned the lights off, made sure the night-light was on and prepared to leave her alone.  We had no sooner put a foot on the basement steps when she began to meow, long and mournful.  She was right at our heels.  We led her back to her box but she refused.

“She wants to be with us,” my husband said.

“But that’s not what the Internet said.”

He gave me a look. During labor I hadn’t wanted any of the back rubs my pregnancy books promised I'd want.

I carried her labor box upstairs to our kitchen and set it in the corner.  She crawled inside.  I walked to the living room to tell Elijah what was happening.  She followed me.  I returned to the kitchen and knelt down beside the box.  She went back inside. 

“I think I’ll stay in her for awhile,” I called to my husband as I eased myself down to the tile floor. Throughout that night, the minute I stuck a toenail beyond the kitchen Maisey left her box and yowled.  She didn’t want to labor alone. Not that I could blame her.

She did not labor for long.  Her panting changed and I knew it would be soon.  My husband knelt down beside me.  My son crawled in my lap as I sat on the kitchen floor. We spotted the first little head, and then the body, and her first-born was out.

“It looks like a rat,” my son said as we watched Maisey instinctively clean her offspring.  The bath was cut short by the emergence of kitten number two.

“Isn’t that amazing,” I said to my son. 

It was impossible not to get caught up in the moment. To realize that’s how creatures come into the world, to ponder the design of it all, to marvel at the God-given instincts with which animals are equipped.  Planned or unplanned, the birth of anything is amazing.

“Is that what it was like when I was born?” my son asked.

“Sort of.  Except you weren’t quite as hairy.  And I didn’t lick you clean, the nurse gave you a bath.”

We witnessed number three emerge, then four and then five.  I began to get nervous.  But it was clear from Maisey’s expression that she was done as her scrawny, sightless offspring began to nurse. I reached my hand into the box and scratched her behind her ears.  Her purring grew louder and she only gazed at me when I touched each of her kittens with my index finger.  “Good job, Maisey,” I cooed.  “Good job.”

We hadn’t planned on having five, furry kittens that all needed good homes, but sharing the miracle of new life with my son is a memory I’ll never forget. 

Heroes in Black and White

A few years ago my husband and I spent a crazy 48 hours in Paris. We crammed as much cheese, bread, espresso and Parisian sights in as we could. A couple of those precious hours were devoted to searching for a dead man’s house. Why? Because the house belonged to one of my heroes, Victor Hugo.

Actually, the house belonged to the man who created one of my Heroes, Jean Valjean.

I was a junior in high school the first time I met Jean Valjean in Hugo’s masterpiece Les Miserable. While the musical adaptation swept across Broadway, I was swept away in the French to English translation, rooting for, crying for, and living in the shadow of Hugo’s larger than life protagonist Jean Valjean. (Years later, I did get a chance to see the musical and yes, it’s stunning, but the book is…well… stunning-er.) Hugo stirred my affections for Valjean much like Harper Lee did for Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird.

And now I have a new hero: Josip Lasta. He resides in the pages of Michael O’Brien’s Island of the World.

I promise not to be a plot spoiler. The story follows the life of Josip Lasta, a boy living in the mountains of Croatia during World War II, and delves into subjects that, to my shame, wouldn’t ordinarily capture my attention. But put them in a story and I’m yours. I even goggled fascist ustashe, Tito, and Goli Otok, a communist “camp”.

Don’t let all this history deter you for the story is poetically, even at times mystically, written. It’s a tale of heartbreak and healing, pain and love, bitterness and forgiveness, possessing great truth without being preachy. A rare gem indeed.

Maybe O’Brien’s himself says it best...

“This novel cuts to the core question: how does a person retain his identity, indeed his humanity, in any absolutely dehumanizing situation? ….this novel is about the crucifixion of a soul - and resurrection.”

A word of warning. And an embarrassing one at that. I almost gave up on this novel. It took a good 100 pages for me to fully commit. (Did I mention it’s over 800 pages? I swear my biceps are bigger from lugging the thing around all summer.)

But since a dear friend highly recommended it, I pressed on. And man oh man, am I glad that I did. Because something huge happens, (the inciting incident in literary terms), and then you realize the details O’Brien so masterfully paints in the beginning of the story matter throughout.

Some books are easy to breeze through. Some are meant to muddle through, to digest slowly, to expose events and truths we’d rather leave hidden. But these are the stories that transform and shape our very thoughts.

Enough talk. Go read. And give your biceps a workout at the same time.

Ah, the Good 'ol Days

My daughter asked me yesterday, “When you were a little girl did you read from scrolls?” In other words, are you so old that books hadn’t been invented yet when you were my age?

Huh?

Excuse me for a minute while I find my dentures. Things have changed from my generation to theirs, but not that much. Have they?

I love having my kids home for the summer. I truly do. But these past few months have caused me to wonder: who was the first kid to utter the words I’m bored. I know I said them as a kid. A lot. I’m pretty sure my parents did, too. Not quite as certain about my grandparents. Did pioneer kids grumble I’m bored? Probably not. They were probably too busy splitting firewood and warding off wolves. Does the phrase go back as far as Cain and Abel, or is I’m bored a sign of our modern times?

And I wonder if parents throughout time respond like I do: “How can you be bored with all of this stuff?”

My kids own plenty of things to keep them entertained, including DVD’s. I know I’ve told my kids that back in my day, I was only able to watch my favorite movie, “The Wizard of Oz” once a year on a low definition, black and white rabbit ear set, which kind of puts a damper on the whole spectacular-ness of munchkin land. (Until I was around eight and we got a color TV. I sure could relate to Dorothy’s delighted surprise then.)

I’ve also told my kids that counting cows from the car window is entertainment.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not anti-gadget or anti-technology. During our long drive to South Dakota this summer I thanked my lucky stars when the kids sat glaze-eyed in front of Tangled. And I love the ease and accessibility of the Internet. Just this morning I was able to find over a hundred hits for “Vietnamese Chicken”. So in no way am I advocating the halt of technology or that we live in caves. But striking a balance between the curses and blesses of modern day and “the good old days” (which I realize is a bit relative) can be tricky.

The words “Do something creative!” have passed my lips a few times this summer. TV and video games are fine, even fun, but I also want my kids to understand that we were, in part, created to create, not just consume.

Instead of watching a video, make a video. Or draw a comic strip. Or paint a piece of wood. Of play store. Or school. Or play with Star Wars figures/Polly Pockets. Or make cupcakes. Or play a song. Or go outside and look for treasures, ie rocks and feathers and pinecones.

If I’m honest, these activities are harder to do because not only do they require more from my kids, they require more from me as a mom. And creative activities will most likely lead to some level of frustration- both for child and parent- and undoubtedly lead to a big, giant mess. Hands down, it’s much easier on me when my kids are in front of the TV (Which they are plenty. Right at this moment, actually. Trust me, I have not “conquered” anything.)

And as my son nears adolescence, it’s getting harder and harder to veer him into anything that doesn’t require electricity. Even my six year old pulled out her Sponge Bob toy from her happy meal the other day, set it on the table, and asked, “But what does it do?”

Whatever you want him to do, Darling. You play with it. You get to be a creator.

So you think you want to write...

A few people have recently asked me about writing/publishing. By no means do I consider myself an expert, but I have learned a few things along the way that I’m happy to pass on.

I have a great idea for an article/book. Where do I start?

This may sound ridiculously simple but start by writing. Don’t worry that your first draft will be appalling; it will be. The purpose of the first draft is to get the idea out of your head and onto paper and ultimately the paper into the scrap paper drawer so your kids can make paper airplanes with all of those words you sweated over. (Anne Lamott has a whole chapter in her book Bird by Bird that talks about crappy first drafts. Although she’s a bit more crass.) You can’t fix and polish what doesn’t exist so write your idea into existence and don’t worry if it’s dreadful.

How do I become a better writer and/or learn about publishing?

• Read, read, read what you hope to publish. If you want to publish scholarly articles, read scholarly articles. And read books on writing and publishing. Three of my favs are Stein on Writing by Sol Stein, Novel Idea by various authors, and Bird by Bird by Ann Lamott.

• Go to writer’s conferences and/or get a critique partner. Like any other industry, the publishing industry has a jargon and protocol all of its own. Yes, conferences are an investment. But in my experience, they’ve been worth it.

• Be teachable. Be an eager little sponge. If you do go to a conference soak up as much wisdom as you can from those who are doing what you aspire to do. Don’t worry so much about “selling yourself and your book”. Listen and learn.

• Most importantly: Get your rump in the chair and write. No one picks up a violin and expects to play Vivaldi spotlessly without a whole lot of practice. Same with writing. Since we all grew up learning to write in school we tend to think we already “know how to write”. But writing for an audience is different than pouring out your heart in a journal (a valuable pursuit nonetheless) and pursuing publication takes skill- a learned skill. And practice. Lots and lots of practice. Did I already mention that? Jon Hersey says it best: “To be a writer is to throw away a great deal, not to be satisfied, to type again, and then again and once more, and over and over.”

• Don’t be afraid to start small. I bristled when someone at a writer’s conference said to focus on articles and short stories before attempting a whole book but in the end she was right. Not only will your writing improve, but you’ll build your credentials and platform, bolster your confidence with “smaller successes”, and learn how to handle rejection. Which brings me to the next question:

What if I get rejected?

Um… it’s not if, it’s when. You will be rejected. Many, many times. It will hurt. A lot at first and then you’ll get used to it and then you’ll begin to value it (sort of) because if you’re smart and serious about writing, it will push you to do better. 

How do I go about pursuing publication?

First browse bookstores, libraries and the Internet. If you’re interested in writing for children, read lots of children’s books. Not only does this rouse your creative juices but agents and editors will expect a market analysis of already published works similar to yours when you get ready to send out a proposal.

If you are at the point where you want to submit work to a editor, give them exactly what they want. Usually you can find writer’s guidelines on a publisher’s website. (Type in “Writer’s Guidelines” in the search box. Brilliant, eh?) If they want an article under 600 words, don’t give them 601 words. If they only want a query letter, only send them a query letter. If they want you to sing Lady of Spain while standing on your head after submitting then… well… good luck with that.

Writers’ Market Guides are invaluable resources. You can purchase them online or in the reference section of the library. They’ll tell you what specific publishers are looking for and how to submit.

I want to write but I don’t know what.

Write in your hot spot. Write about what makes your blood boil or your heart beat faster or you eyes well up with tears. Write because you love to write. If you don’t love to write, don’t write. It won’t be worth it for you. I would have made way more money working at McDonalds this past year than I did with my writing so only write if you must write. And if you find that you simply have to write, write in your passion zone.

Have a comment or question I didn’t address? Post it on this blog and I’d love to chat about it! 

Goodbye Tilly

We had to put our dog to sleep today which, as my son pointed out, is just a nice way of saying she died. She was old and sick and quickly losing control over bodily functions, and it was time.

As I write this, Tilly is not sitting at my feet under my desk. Taking a walk seems pretty pointless. And I don’t know who will be my silent sounding board for my writing ideas. She never interrupted. Never criticized my ideas. Just listened patiently, occasionally offering a sigh of contemplation.

We are very sad. I am sad about Tilly, our sweet, old dog, and I’m sad as I watch my children carry their sadness. I cannot shield them from such sadness, and I cannot make it better, for death, even when it’s “just an animal” is just… plain… sad.

Today our family gathered by Tilly’s gravesite behind our house. We placed stones of remembrance, sprinkled the earth with flowers, and I read a very simple poem I penned:

For Tilly:

Death is a hollow void,

Where something used to be.

A heavy stone of emptiness that yearns to be set free.

Death is an earthly thing,

Falls on anything with breath.

People, plants, and seasons, and our beloved pets.

Death is not what was meant to be,

When God created life.

But time on earth is but a moment, a step toward paradise.

Death has been defeated,

Someday it will be no more.

For when our Lord died in our place, he rose- the veil was torn.

Life is what is eternal,

Our souls were made to thrive.

Heaven is our tearless home, when what is dead will rise.

We will miss you Tilly, our sweet, smiling, always-underfoot dog. Thank you for being so good with our kids. We are grateful you were a part of our lives.