Let My People Go

Between animated movies and reality television shows, separation anxieties are here to stay.

Toy Story 3 brought children and adults to tears, as college-bound Andy was forced to part with his playthings, while Hoarders: Buried Alive follows the obsessive behaviors of people who “house” excessive quantities of items to which they have unnatural connections.  If holding onto the past isn’t crippling enough, deciding what to keep and what to toss brings girls and boys (of all ages) to the edge of mental collapse, fueled by the crushing weight of guilt and Beanie Babies.

If producers from A&E and Disney want to join forces to create a new show, such as “Toddler Hoarders (Part One of Three)”,  I think I have the perfect child to star in their first episode.

My 4-year-old daughter, Maryn, is one of the most loving children you will ever meet,  to the point that she saves everything.  Stringy cheese wrapper? Better save it…there’s a smiling cow in the logo.  Half-eaten peanut butter sandwich? Better hang on to that…Woody and Buzz Lightyear are watching from the Sara Lee bread bag.  Broken Ken doll?  Better hide him under the couch so he can rest his shattered hip.

With all due respect to Disney and Arts & Entertainment (and TLC and Nick Jr., and…), the children’s literature world is just as guilty.  After reading The Velveteen Rabbit, my older daughter, Ava, cried for two days.  Why is the rabbit in a trash bag? The parents are going to burn all of  the little boy’s toys because they’re covered in germs that could kill him!

Corduroy the bear walked and talked after the toy store closed each evening, and what was his problem? No one wanted to buy him because he had a button missing from his overalls.   Alexander and the Wind Up Mouse was equally distressing, as a furry gray rodent wished his mechanical counterpart real so it could scurry out of a box of toys sentenced to the trash can.   Commercials are getting into the act, too.  A pediatric cough syrup advertisement features stuffed animals and dolls sitting around a table, fretting that “she’s not coming today because she has a fever”.

While ibuprofen and acetaminophen tend to wipe out a pesky temperature, what’s the remedy for eliminating an alarming number of toys?

If you’ve tried to smuggle them out of the house lately, you’ve probably had to smuggle them back in after being turned away from thrift stores and preschools.   Hard toys may be painted with harmful chemicals or contain parts that pose choking hazards, and plush toys can’t be cleaned effectively to kill dust mites or… lice.

The short answer is to stop buying toys and dolls altogether, but that’s not what manufacturers want to see or hear.  As the consumer, we’re supposed to keep accumulating, keep ordering, keep collecting, keep spending.   As the child, we’re supposed to learn to let go.  Have you ever noticed that Disney usually kills a parent in the first few minutes of a movie?  Even Huey, Duey, and Louie were raised by Uncle Scrooge!  It seems as though the creative goal is to make children face up to their fears of being left alone or left behind, and to muster the superhuman strength to overcome the odds through a 60 minute bout of courage.

And after the movie ends, we’ll feel compelled to shop for a plastic action figure or fluffy stuffed version of our new hero, which will help keep the memory alive (and with us) forever.

Going Home

I have been a mother for seven years now, but today felt like I became a parent for the first time.  You see, my daughter overheard a very serious conversation that affected her in ways that I didn’t think she could process at her age. 

While sitting at the pool waiting for a storm to pass, a few of us were sitting under a shelter talking about summertime things…camps and vacation plans, back to school sales and volleyball try-outs.  When our chit-chat dwindled, I asked what happened to a particular lifeguard, whom I had not seen much of since summer began.  “He’s in prison,” my friend replied. “DUI.  Didn’t you see the story?”  No…I missed it.  I missed that two high school graduates were driving home one evening, one behind the wheel while intoxicated, and the other in the passenger side not wearing a seatbelt.  The driver lost control of the vehicle, crashed, and his friend was killed.  Both had promising futures — the driver on his way to WVU as an incoming freshman, and the other headed to the Air Force Academy as the number one tennis player in the state.  One is in a cell, the other is in a coffin.

As I asked for details, I didn’t realize that Ava was sitting behind me, hanging on every single word.  Later this evening, as I went through the house turning off lights and locking doors, she stood at the top of the stairs clutching her doll. Startled, I asked what was wrong.

“Do they turn the lights out on people in jail?”

My heart sank. I knew then that she had heard too much, and I had said too little.  She gripped her doll and started picking at her fingernails — a sign that she was deeply worried and very scared.

“Well….yes…they do turn out the lights in jail.  When it’s time to go to sleep, a man or woman turns out the lights like we do here.”

“Do people in jail eat food? Does someone feed them?” she asked.

Inside, my heart was breaking for her as she tried to understand something so serious.  A kid, 19 years old, still a teenager, is sitting in a cell at this moment, alone and in the dark. So is the person he killed as a result of drunken, reckless driving.  Yet I had to somehow explain that bad things happen to good people, and good people make bad choices.  I wasn’t prepared to talk about alcohol and drunkenness, and I wasn’t prepared to talk about crime and punishment.  I wasn’t prepared to talk about death and loss.  I wasn’t prepared to be the one to shake her faith and trust in others.

“I remember the lifeguard,” she began. “Last summer, when I took swimming lessons at the pool, he taught kids next to me.” 

I tried to explain that prison is a type of adult time-out; a place where people go to learn right from wrong.  A large building that is a type of school for people who need to think about their bad behaviors.  I tried to explain that time-out is especially long if a law or rule is broken – months or years are spent trying to change the way some people act or think.  If people are good or well behaved, then they can leave the jail or prison to return home to their families. 

“Are they allowed to see their mother or father?” she asked.

Yes, there are visiting days where they can be together. “Can they call their mother or father?” Yes, at certain times they can make calls. “Why do they tie their hands together? Why do they not wear normal clothes?”

After giving second-grade level answers to a child who seemed twice her age at that moment, I noticed that her eyes had filled with tears. I asked her what was wrong, or if I had scared her trying to explain all of this to her.

“Do people in jail have addresses?” Yes, I think so.  “Can I send him a card?”

The breadth and depth of a child’s soul never ceases to amaze me.  From empathy to sympathy, a new heart is full of so much forgiveness.  So much love.

“Yes, of course…if you want to send him a card to tell him you are thinking of him, then we will find out how to mail it.”

Finally, after peeled fingernails and the twisting of her shiny, blond hair, she wore herself out asking questions and filtering my carefully crafted answers.  I was exhausted trying to protect her feelings while being honest about choices and consequences. 

When she fell asleep, I walked to her bookshelf to put a few thing away, when I noticed the title of a book, “Mama Always Comes Home”.  I bought it for the girls when I started working again, trying to ease the separation anxiety that we all seemed to feel.  After reading it for the first time, I resented its title and its guarantee.  “Mama ALWAYS comes home….to you.”  I felt guilty promising them something that I had so little control over.  Yes, when I get into the car, I’m stone-cold sober.  Yes, when I sit down in the driver’s seat, I fasten my seatbelt.  Yes, when I pull out of the driveway, I stay within the speed limit and remain in my own lane.  However, I can’t control the other driver on the road who might be drunk, might be speeding, or might be negligent in some other way.  At this point, I have to pray that as their Mama, God’s plan for me will be to return home.  And, as my seven-year old (and four-year old, too) turn into 17 year olds, I pray to God that they, too, will return home, each night that they drive off to join friends at parties or movies.  Above all else, though, I pray that if God intended for me to be their mother, then He’ll show me the way.

The Extraction

I always hesitate to send complaint letters or e-mails, because I know sooner or later I’ll come face-to-face with the person who upset me. As a non-confrontational person, I wilt like a flower, even though I have every reason to defend myself.  It isn’t that I shoot off my mouth and regret it; quite the contrary.  I always outline my argument respectfully and professionally, even if it’s a personal matter (isn’t everything, though?), and then I pray that I never see or hear from the offender again.   Yet, no matter how hard I try, we eventually cross paths, and in the most unlikely places.

Last week, my husband and I went to see Harry Connick, Jr. in concert.  We had excellent seats, five rows from the orchestra pit, stage left, directly in front of his Steinway piano.  With thirty minutes to wait before the New Orleans Saint was scheduled to perform with his famous Big Band, I recognized someone walking toward me. 

Our former dentist.

Flashback to November 2009:  Ava’s first cavity.  We had been seeing this particular dentist for the past year, and we weren’t pleased or displeased…we were just indifferent, I suppose.  During other visits, I was invited to accompany the girls to the exam room, which I agreed to while staying out of drill and pick’s way.  This time, however, I was met by the hygienist, who told me to wait outside. 

“It would be best if you wait out here,” she said curtly.  “Why?” I asked. “We think it’s best if she goes in alone.”

NO. Absolutely not. Why am I not allowed to walk her down the hall this time? What’s so different about this procedure? ”That won’t work,” I said calmly.  “Either I go with her, or we go home.”

She moved out of the way so we could pass, but the dentist met me with the same demand. “It’s better if you go back to the waiting room,” she said bluntly.  “That won’t work,” I repeated.  “I’ll stay out of your way, but I won’t leave her.”

Ava was perfectly fine until they told me to leave.  Tears filled her eyes, and I filled with frustration.  There was no reason to exclude me or to unnecessarily upset her.   I never interfered with cleanings, and I never offended the dentist or her staff.  Everything seemed so absurd to me: Would we send our six-year-old to the emergency room alone? Of course not.  Would we send her to the optometrist alone? Certainly not.

The dentist and her assistant went on with the procedure while I waited in the doorway, thinking of Rosemary Wells’ book, “Felix Feels Better.”  A little guinea pig eats too much candy and suffers a terrible stomachache, and his mother has to take him to the doctor for medicine.  Felix isn’t afraid of the doctor or the medicine…he’s afraid that his mother will be asked to leave the room.

Dr. Duck allows Felix’s mother to stay with him the entire time, which makes it all better…not the “Happy Tummy” potion that he drinks by the spoonful.

Ava’s procedure took no time at all, and we left with a receipt showing our bill had been paid in full.  I insisted on paying it right then and there, to clear our records so that I could divorce them immediately.  When I got home, I wrote a lengthy letter to the dentist sharing my irritation, as no one had ever told me to “wait outside”  without explanation.  While Ava may be their patient, I am her mother, and I authorized the procedure…but they didn’t have permission to eliminate me from her care.

About a month later, I received a reply from the dentist apologizing for upsetting us, but citing medical studies that supported her decision to ban parents from the treatment room.  Reports discovered that the absence of parents tended to be better for the child in clinical settings.  Medical providers were better able to discipline children without the pressure of onlookers, and they were able to complete procedures more efficiently and effectively without parental interruption.

Case studies. Scientific evidence.  Psychological findings.  Tests show.  Who cares!  Thousands of dollars are dedicated to promoting family dentistry; care for the entire family from cradle to geriatrics.  Yet, when it comes to actually practicing those claims, some “trained” professionals simply fall short.  

Fast-forward to the Harry Connick concert, when the dentist walking toward me in the aisle found her reserved seat directly behind mine.  I couldn’t tell which one of us felt more uncomfortable.  Luckily, Harry took the stage within a few minutes, and I forgot all about the person staring a hole through the back of my head.

Of course, one of Harry’s first musical numbers just had to be “Smile”.

The Guardian

Since becoming a parent, I’ve developed a deeper awareness of how loyal children are, particularly when they’re younger.   I will never forget the day I received a telephone call from my obstetrician informing me that the Down’s syndrome test results had returned unusually high for my age, which meant we were at a greater risk of having a baby with special needs.  When I hung up the phone, I burst into tears.  As soon as Ava, just two years old at the time, saw what was happening, she put down her own toy telephone and ran to me.  Instead of motioning to be picked up or asking for something, she wrapped her little arms around my neck and patted me on the back.  She never said anything — she just patted my back and let me be for a few minutes.  To this very day, I believe that she was standing in for my own mother, who would have done the very same thing.

Yet, Ava’s empathy and sympathy toward others hasn’t changed, but mine has, and I’m ashamed to admit it.  She’s so sensitive and so thoughtful that she becomes emotionally involved in things she can’t control.  She barely made it through the movie, Charlotte’s Web, and she cried for a solid hour after reading The Velveteen Rabbit.  Corduroy produced a similar effect, as did the book about white terrier, McDuff, a stray dog who needs a loving home.  Just this past Valentine’s Day, Ava became terribly upset when her younger sister, Maryn, didn’t like the bear I bought for her.  She felt sorry for me, and I felt even worse that a child not quite seven was shouldering such exhausting burdens of making sure everyone receives a happy ending.

Her sentimental nature has caused tension in our family, though, as Ava still cries on the way to school.  She mourns the end of pleasant weekends, and she secretly grieves the loss of time at home with me, which now belongs to her little sister.  She falls apart when her dad has to go on a business trip, and she usually ends up in our bed at night.   She’s attached in good and bad ways, yet I find myself becoming impatient with her sadness.

In the book, Our Snowman (written by M.B. Goddstein), two children go outside to play in the freshly fallen flakes on a day they’re both home from school.  At dinnertime, the little girl begins to worry that their snowman is all alone in the yard, without anyone to keep him company through the night. 

“You’re going to have a hard life if you cry over things like that!” her mother warns.

The little girl is simply miserable with worry over her lonely snowman, so her father takes her outside to make a friend for him.   After a while, the snowman has a lovely snowlady to see him through the next day, when the warm sun will most certainly take them both.

When I read this book to my daughters, I realized how harsh the mother’s comment was, and how precious the little girl’s intention was.  The one thing I love most about my Ava is her heart — yet every now and then,  I try to harden it.  Tough love, I think it’s called. 

Sometimes I think I lose my temper with her because I fear that she feels too much at such a young age.  It’s misdirected anger; it’s a concern over how fragile she seems.  Then, I feel as though I grow testy because her behavior is so familiar — and I know what heartaches and heartbreaks are going to visit her life. I know how she’s going to react, because I remember all too well how I responded to them.  I dread this for her, even though adversity is how we learn our most important lessons.

Ava is an old soul, as they say, and she’s mature beyond her years despite the separation anxieties that demote her to a younger age.  I’m glad I read Goffstein’s book because it provided a glimmer into how I must sound when I fuss and bicker with her over things that she has to do.   Because when I peel back the layers and look beyond the protests, I can see what she really wants is to stay with me…just as she always has.

Luck of the Irish

So what if I never write a children’s book?

After typing the blog, “The Terminal Period”, which is about dreams delayed more than derailed, I began to ponder the question that people have been asking me:

“Rather than writing about everyone else, when are you going to write your own book?”

I wish I knew.  I used to crank out stories like an old-fashioned pencil sharpener…each one was a bit better than the other.  Then, my hobby became work, which is when it stopped being fun.  It wasn’t that I couldn’t take criticism, and it wasn’t that I lacked discipline.  I had plenty of both.  The problem was that it became too pressure-filled…too required….too important.  Graded work meant awarded point values, which determined GPAs, which determined college acceptance letters, which determined my future…which decided my life’s work.  

All of this now begs a simple question:  Do I really want to be published?

Once again, I turn to one of my favorite authors for advice — Greg Foley.  I love his simple stories about worry, doubt, and this time…luck.   In his children’s book, “Good Luck Bear”, the lovable furry character returns to search for his good fortune in the form of a four-leaf clover.  Of course, Monkey gets involved again and tries to tell Bear that there’s no such thing.  Turtle warns him that such a task will take forever. Elephant thinks he saw one once, but he can’t remember when or where.  But the real downer comes from Groundhog, who asks:

“If you don’t find one, does it mean that you’re unlucky?”

So what if I never publish a children’s book? Does it mean that I’m unlucky — or meant for something…dare I say…better?

Garth Brooks sings about thanking God for unanswered prayers.  The Baptist minister, Charles Stanley, writes in so many of his Christian living books that every “loss” is replaced with something better.  We’re actually promised by God that He’ll make our losses up to us in ways we cannot imagine. 

St. Patrick’s Day is approaching, and that means everyone will pretend to be Irish, drink green beer, sing “Danny Boy”, and wear shamrocks on the lapels of their jackets and in the middle of their tee-shirts.  We’ll look for rainbows and try to find the end of one, seeking the gleaming pot of gold that will make us richer than our wildest dreams.  It’s the one day of the year we feel certain that something good is going to happen to us.

Bear felt unlucky, until he saw Mouse.  Mouse said, “I think I’ve found something for you.” Bear went over to look.  “Does it have four leaves?” he asked.  And Mouse said, “No…it has five!”

The Terminal Period.

“How did you get so derailed?”

What do you mean?

“I mean, when did you stop writing?”

Oh, that.  “Eleventh grade, Honors English.”  

…

On rare occasions, I get more understanding from the dust jacket of a book than the entire story inside of it.  This was the case when I read Peter Reynold’s book, “The Dot”, which I loved, but more so for the author’s bio on the back flap. 

Peter H. Reynolds is committed to honoring the creative spirit in children, even grown-up children.  “I often visit classrooms and ask who loves to draw,” he says. “In kindergarten and first grade, all the hands go up.  By fourth or fifth grade,  most of the hands are down, or perhaps pointing to the class artist. It’s sad to see creative energy slowing down, being packed away.  I am convinced it’s because they learn early that there are ‘rules’ to follow…”

 At Chamberlain Elementary School, I was the one who kids pointed to as the class writer.  For whatever reason, I seemed to be able to develop characters and plots and themes like an older student, which is what caused my third grade teacher to pull my mother aside to suggest that someone work with me.  “She has something here,” the teacher remarked, and my mother beamed.  Yet, my parents hired a Math tutor because that was the subject in which nothing was there.

I’m not blaming my parents  for not doing more to cultivate my “talent”, and I’m not really blaming my 11th grade English teacher.   Like Reynolds, I’m blaming the rules that took all the fun out of something I dearly loved. 

People often refer to being derailed as having missed our calling.  I remember this moment as if it were yesterday.  I had written a handful of poems about being dumped by a stupid boy (and he was stupid — forgive me — but there’s no need to turn a rock into a diamond).  My mother did subscribe to Writers’ Digest for me, so I decided to send the poems to an editor in New York just to see what would happen.  About four months later, I received a thick packet in the mail, which I assumed meant all of them had been returned…rejected.  Instead, every single poem was stamped with giant red check marks …of approval.  I shoved them back into the envelope and hid the packet under my bed.  I was 14 years old.

That was part of the problem…I was 14, and I didn’t want my parents to know that I had so much to say on the issue of young “love”.  While the poetry was so clean it squeaked, I was still afraid to let my mother read about my heartache.  I was afraid of her, but not an editor in Manhattan holding my future in his red, Bic pen.

After that, I figured my “talent” was more harm than good.  I shelved the dream of becoming a writer until I could grow old enough to justify my feelings put into words, but while I was in waiting, the rules of composition ruined everything. 

No more than 500 words!  Opening paragraph, supporting paragraph, ending paragraph!  Write your notes on 3×5 notecards and use only three sources to support your argument!  Write more than two pages and you’ll lose 10 points!

THE RULES.  The limitations.  The boundaries. The must-haves and must-nots.  The penalties! I appreciated the rules of punctuation, grammar and style, since they provided a sense of correctness to otherwise free writing, but I was ruined by the rules of the reader, who ultimately would grade me on how well I conformed.

In eleventh grade and then my senior year, I had decided to apply to colleges that offered a broadcast news program.  Once I earned my degree, I went to work for a hospital as a physician recruiter.  Deciding that I needed to get back to my roots in even the smallest way, I returned to the same university and obtained a master’s degree in human resources, which helped me to become the director of marketing for a law firm.  Once that career came to a close, I focused on becoming a stay-at-home mother.  Through my two daughters, I rediscovered a love of books … and writing.

In Peter Reynolds’ book, “The Dot”,  a quite capable art student named Vashti is frustrated by a blank sheet of white paper.  The teacher encourages her to simply draw a dot in the middle of the page, which she does.  “Now sign it,” the teacher demanded.   A week later, The Dot, signed by Vashti, was framed in gold and hung above her teacher’s desk.   One dot became two dots, which became a red dot, a blue-green dot, and so on and so forth.  You get the picture.

On the last page of Reynold’s book, he writes that the book is dedicated to his 7th grade math teacher, who dared him to make his mark.

Twenty-three years later, let’s see where mine takes me.

Grin and Bear It

This weekend was a 48-hour test to see how well I manage disappointment.  Valentine’s Day always seems to deliver an arm-load of unrealistic expectations, and this year proved to be no different. 

It all started with the weather.  Another winter storm was slated to hit our area, wiping out all chances of driving to a nice restaraunt and then to a movie.   Then, the mail arrived without the much-needed check that I was waiting and hoping for, which was going to be used to buy my husband’s present.   By this time, I had surrendered my plans to their frugal alternatives, which was to prepare my own gourmet meal and rent an even better film, coupled with an IOU in his “I love you” valentine card.  So, off to the grocery store I went, with Julia Child’s famous Beouf Bourguingon recipe in hand. 

A shocking $162 later, I was prepared to tackle French cooking, from the hearty stew to crusty bread, and molten lava cakes for dessert.  The entire meal took 7.5 hours to complete, from chopping and searing, mincing and slow-cooking.  When I called everyone to the table, we lifted our spoons, dipped them into the good chef’s masterpiece, shoveled beef, potato, onion, mushroom, and wine broth into our mouths and chewed.  And chewed. And chewed.  Bon Apetit? Non Apetit.

What a dissapointment that was!  After watching “Julie & Julia” a few weeks before, I was expecting the recipe that spawned a world-renowned cookbook, a movie, and countless magazine reccomendations to be life altering.  Rather, it was just the opposite. There was nothing to this dish at all other than expensive ingredients.  The broth tasted like dirt — literally — earthy vegetables and watered down wine and beef stock.  What a letdown after all the hype! 

Hoping a rich chocolate molten lava cake would save the meal, I returned to the kitchen to melt, temper, whisk, and fold.  After 14 carefully-watched minutes, I inverted the ramekins onto white plates, dusted the tops with powdered sugar, placed raspberries on top, and called everyone back to the table.  Mike and the girls dug into the centers, as gooey chocolate sauce escaped onto the plate.  My youngest, Maryn, now 4 years old, curled her lip and looked up at me. “You shouldn’t have made this,” she said. “It’s too chocolatey”.

Now that’s one review I didn’t expect.  Granted, it was sweet enough to spark diabetic shock, but it was fitting for Valentine’s Day…I thought.

After throwing the dishes into the sink, I moved on to presents.  I was so excited to give my daughters a beautiful doll and a precious oversized bear from FAO Schwarz.  I was able to wrap the doll since it was in a rectangular box, but the bear wasn’t as easy.  After several failed attempts, I settled for a gift bag.  I should have known this was going to cause controversy.  When Ava ripped paper into shreads, Maryn stared with deep annoyance that her gift lacked such suspensful presentation.

She pulled out the bear wearing a navy blue pea coat and matching hat, and tossed it aside.  Crossing her arms, she informed me that I should have wrapped it.  She would have nothing to do with the bear, which I admit, broke my heart.  After an invervention with her father, Maryn walked into my bedroom later that night and thanked me for her dog.  Uh, Maryn — it is a bear. 

When she walked away, trying harder to cover up disappointment, I remembered a story by children’s author, Greg Foley, simply titled “Thank You, Bear”. 

Early one morning, a little bear found a little box. He looked inside it and said, “Why it’s the greatest thing ever! Mouse will love this!”  On his way to find mouse, he showed it to the monkey.  Monkey said, “That’s not so great.”

The little bear shows it to an owl, who is unimpressed.  He moves on to the fox, who informs the little bear that he is holding it the wrong way.  He then finds the elephant, who believes the gift is too small.   After more opinions and criticisms, the little bear begins to wonder if he should just forget the box altogether.  Just then, the mouse runs in and finds the box, and lets the little bear know how much it truly means to him.

Late last night, I was posting comments on Facebook  about my disastrous “Beef Boringyawn”, and recevied feedback from 18 friends asking what might have gone wrong.  Did I use the right wine? Did I overcook it?  Did I buy the right cut of meat?  As I scrolled down to read the last remark, I saw that it was from my husband, who rarely — if ever — writes anything on my page.

“I liked it.  I thought it was a good Valentine’s Day Dinner.  Thank you.”

And it was the greatest thing ever.

The Little Dream Around the Corner

One of my favorite movies is “You’ve Got Mail”, starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  It has been my lifelong dream to either write children’s books or own a small bookstore, both of which shared the spotlight in this blockbuster dramedy.

While I’m sure you’ve seen the movie at least once, Kathleen Kelly tries to save her Little Shop Around the Corner from being eaten alive by mega retailer, Fox Books.   In one pivotal scene, Kathleen asks her significant other, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I do.  I mean, what is it that I do, exactly? Because all I really do is own a children’s bookstore.”

That Kathleen and this Kathryn have a lot in common.  After becoming a stay-at-home mother and relinquishing the title of marketing director, I started to wonder what it is that I really do, too.  I knew that I had been given the most challenging job bestowed upon women, and I knew that it wouldn’t pay a red cent, but it would be rewarding in ways that I couldn’t explain.  My title was impressive (“Mother”), but as far as how I spent my time and how I used my brain…I simply couldn’t find the words.

When medical students complete their education and finish a hospital-based residency, they become doctors and prevent illnesses, promote healthy lifestyles, cure diseases, and save lives.  That’s what they do. 

When lawyers pass the Bar exam, they represent clients who have been wronged, or they try to get clients out of trouble who are wrong to the core. They fix problems.  That’s what they do.

When I stopped marketing, or selling people’s talents, I lost my balance.  I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.  It took three years before I finally realized that I had shelved a dream of becoming a writer — a real writer — one that was published by newspapers and magazines and followed by thousands of readers.   However, being at home for three years had erased some of my confidence. 

As if The Little Shop Around the Corner really existed, I was able to catch a glimpse of myself in the pages of Peter H. Reynold’s book, Ish.  

Ramon loved to draw.  Anything.  Anywhere.  Anytime.  One day, Ramon was drawing a vase of flowers.  “WHAT IS THAT?!” his older brother Leon asked, and burst into laughter.

Humiliated and embarrassed, Ramon balled up the drawing and tossed it to the floor.  He ran into his sister’s bedroom, which was wallpapered with all of Ramon’s rejected artwork.  Confused, Ramon asked why she would want all of those worthless pictures.

“It’s vase-ish,” she told Ramon.  And another picture was tree-ish.  And another picture was  beach-ish.  And another color was  purple-ish.

Almost but not quite.  That’s how I feel when someone asks me what I’m doing these days.  “I’m writing now,” I say cautiously.  Yet I can’t bring myself to say with certainty, “I’m a writer.”  For some reason, I don’t feel quite worthy of the title.  I’m a writer-ish.

One person’s trash is another person’s treasure.  No expression could be more fitting for the writing industry.  The work I’m involved in (or should I say, the work I do) is a process of submission and rejection, in most cases.  

What is it that I do, exactly?  I am a mother.  That much I know.  I am a friend.  This too, is correct.  I am a wife.  Absolutely, and a darned good one.    Yet the one thing that describes who I am to myself — not to other people — is much harder to define.

I once wrote that  ”I am one grateful lady with many experiences to report, and hopefully, lessons to share at the expense of my very full past. I hope to do what I believe is my life’s purpose: Teach, inspire, educate, question, entertain, and help others through the words I write.”

The world of publishing requires the acceptance and appreciation of others.  It requires us to write something that is worthy of other people’s time and attention.  When we do this, editors, publishers and agents stamp their name on our work, too, as an endorsement of their approval.  

One of these days, my name and my writing will be synonymous.  For now, though, I admit that I’m not quite, but almost.   Rather than writing and editing, it could be that comfort and confidence are two of the most important things that I need to accomplish.

The Decisions

Quitting my job as a law firm marketing director to become a stay-at-home mother and caregiver to my aging father was the most frightening decision I had ever made.    The Decision was so scary that it deserves to be capitalized like a proper noun.  Yet, I had no idea The Decision had relatives — a family of bullies that took turns waking me up in the middle of the night.

Three years later, when I started worrying about losing my identity in the workforce (which could make life very difficult if I ever had to go back to work), a Decision showed up again and forced me to make an even harder choice.

On this particular morning, I decided to start my own business and open a home-based writing agency, one that would allow me to stick a toe back into the corporate world without leaving my daughters.

Another Decision showed up 14 months after that, when I was offered the opportunity to sell my agency and become a direct-hire of  yet another law firm, but on a part-time basis until the girls started school.

The fourth  frightening Decision appeared when I realized that working outside of our home was creating more problems than ever before, and I needed to return to contract status.  

The fifth frightening Decision popped in shortly after that, when the 15th and 30th days of the month passed without paychecks.   After getting used to scheduled direct deposits, I was once again at the mercy of clients paying invoices upon receipt, which has come to mean different things to different companies in a troubled economy.  Yet I was and still am determined to make this work.  It simply has to work.  There’s no other choice.

I look like Charlie Brown when I walk  to the mailbox each afternoon and stick my head inside, eagerly awaiting payment of any kind.  “HELLO, IN THERE!” I say, as the sound of my voice bounces off the sides of the hollow, metal container. 

But more  so than Charlie Brown (who will be given a blog of his own in the very near future) I feel like Alexander, Who Used to be Rich Last Sunday.

“Last Sunday, Alexander’s grandparents gave him a dollar — and he was rich. There were so many things he could do with all of that money!

He could buy as much gum as he wanted, or even a walkie-talkie, if he saved enough.  But somehow the money began to disappear….”.

An adult allowance…that’s what I get these days.  I bill clients on a set date each month, and then I wait.  When the money arrives, I take it to the bank, wait 48 hours until the cash is available, and then I write two checks:  one to the State Tax Department for their 6% of my income, and then a second to the IRS for their 25% of my income.  After paying bills that keep my basement office light on, I get to keep what’s left over in the form of a draw.   However, I have to cut my “drawing” in half,  to make sure I don’t spend it all in one place.  I take half on the 15th, and the other half on the 30th.  That is, if I get paid by those dates.

The temptation to spend without restraint is difficult, but so is the act of waiting to make sure the money is truly mine to use.  The overhead costs of running a business, however small, sneak up on me when I least expect them – from computer viruses to reserving Web domain names, and printer toner that costs more than an outfit at Talbots. 

Like my friend, Alexander, who used to be rich last Sunday,  I’ve had to learn the true value of a dollar.   Though because of this, the newest thing I have to show is called perspective.

…

Alexander, Who Used to be Rich Last Sunday – by Judith Viorst

Mama in the Middle

Life as an only child meant that I was the sole object of my parents’ affection and the recipient of their undivided attention.  I didn’t have siblings to play with — or fight with — but I had plenty of toys and animals (real as well as stuffed) to occupy my time.   I didn’t wear hand-me-down clothes, I didn’t have to wait for my turn in the bathroom, and I didn’t have to share the car. 

…And then I got married and had two children.

Like it or not, feminists, my husband is head of the household in the sense that he works full-time and pays the mortgage, car payments, utilities, and taxes.  I consider myself a work-at-home mother, so my professional hours and income are significantly lower.  Therefore, I pay for groceries and anything the girls need.  In short, he’s shelter, and I’m food and clothing.  While we share financial responsibilities, he has tenure when it comes to household management (but I still have a voice in the matter).

Then, there are our two daughters, Ava and Maryn, aged 6 and 4 respectively.  They come packaged as a unit given that they act like twins in so many ways.  The girls share a room (and often a twin bed), play with each other’s dolls, use one another’s crayons, and drink out of the same cup when I’m not looking. 

And then, there’s me.  Mama’s in the middle.

I am happily married with two children whom I love, and three pets that I adore.  Yet sometimes, I have to fight to be heard.  I feel exactly like Noisy Nora, a product of writer Rosemary Wells, of the “Max and Ruby” cartoons on Nick Jr. 

Noisy Nora is the middle mouse sandwiched between a brooding older sister and a screaming baby brother.  If Nora wants to be heard, then she has to make considerable noise.  After a while, she decides to try a different approach — and when the noise stops, her family finally begins to listen.

A few nights ago, I was fretting over decisions that needed to be made and messes that needed to be cleaned up.  Bags of trash needed to be taken out, dishes needed washed, the dog needed walked, the cat needed fed, homework needed checked, and baby teeth needed brushed.  I felt angry that no one was as concerned about these tasks, and so it was high time that I made some noise.

Noisy Nora broke a vase, and I dropped a glass in the sink.  Noisy Nora flung paint all over the house, and I splattered fried chicken grease all over the cabinets.  Noisy Nora slammed windows and doors, and I mashed potatoes until they resembled baby food.  When Noisy Nora reached the end of her rope, she yelled at the top of her lungs, “I’M LEAVING!”.  And she left. 

But I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to leave the house; I just wanted a break within it.  I wanted to be a part of my family, not “apart” from them.  More importantly, I didn’t want to feel guilty about it.   Like Noisy Nora, I was throwing a tantrum; like the middle child, I wanted to be noticed.

Spoiled?  Only the milk in the refrigerator.  I wanted to be spoiled, not act spoiled. I wanted my husband, who had his priorities in order (the trash and the dishes and the dog and the cat could wait) to notice that I was upset.  I wanted my children to stop finding reasons for me to get up the second I tried to sit down. 

Without informing anyone of my whereabouts, I retired to the basement to take out my frustrations on a computer keyboard, which became the first drafts of this particular blog.  Some time later, the office door cracked open to reveal the button nose of my youngest daughter. 

“Mama?” she began.  ”I miss you.  Will you sleep in my bed tonight?”

After the dog was walked, the cat was fed, the dishes were put away, and the trash was bagged, I lay in the middle of two twin beds that were pushed together for my benefit.  Ava lay with her head on my right shoulder, and Maryn lay wrapped around my left arm.  At that very moment, I realized that in order to achieve peace, you sometimes have to be brave enough to disturb it.