Life-span.

Yesterday I read a book called I'm Not the New Me by Wendy McClure. I vaguely remembered her from years and years ago, when I read her website Poundy, but honestly didn't realize it was her until she made reference to it in her book.

I liked the book. I liked it a lot. I liked it so much, in fact, that I sent her a slightly slobbery fan-girl email.

I didn't say this in my email, but one of the things I liked so much about her book was that she mentioned all these websites that I used to look at, years ago, and had forgotten about.

And? I liked that her book was written in 2005. And I just picked it up yesterday.

Because I've been so worried about that. This year. That I have to let everyone in the world know RIGHT NOW TODAY that I've written a book or it will be like the book never existed. Honestly, after the first day? I thought it was all over. I thought that was it and no one else would ever buy my book and it would be an abject failure.

That's not happened.

It's ridiculous, really. When you think about it. My new favorite book Mrs. Mike was first published way back in 1947. I didn't read it until this year. It was amazing.

Books have no life-spans. They will go on.



I find that very comforting.

Questions.

Not long ago I was doing an interview with...someone. I can't remember, okay? Not that I've had a million-zillion interviews lately. I'm just tired and can't remember anything. I called Girl Child "Ginger" last night and she was NOT amused and if I can't remember the name of something I birthed and love, well. There's probably not a lot of hope for me.

Anyway. Interview.

The questions are all starting to run together, to be honest. What gave you the idea? A dead animal, a buzzard, and a girl named Lisa who reads my blog. How long did it take you to write it? Less than one month. Are you writing another one? Yes. How many have you sold? I have no idea. What's your next book about? Jason, mostly. And me and what a loser I was.

I don't mind the questions, mind you. I want people to read my book. I know that if people are going to read my book it's not because I'm famous and special and everyone knows me. It's because I do these interviews so people in...I don't know, South Dakota or whatever can hear about me. I get it.

The interviewer caught me off guard when she asked me, "What is the thing you most regret about writing this book?"

I thought about that for a moment. I was going to say something funny. I tend to say funny things, especially when things are hard. I was going to say, "The fear that Denny will find me!" or something.

I didn't.

I said...I spewed forth really, "My blog. The thing that I probably love more than anything in this world. It's changed. It's different. People still read...I know they read. They don't comment anymore. I don't comment other places. I look at the other blogs and see the other people commenting. They used to comment on my website and now they don't and I feel like an intruder in this place I used to love so much."

She didn't say anything after that. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm insane, but that's okay. It doesn't really matter what she thinks.

Some people just didn't like that book, and that's cool. (Except that one chick who made fun of me on her blog which was really NOT cool. I know she's a jealous hater, but still). Some people, hysterically, think I'm too famous to talk to them or something now. I would like to invite those people to take a look at my mortgage and the pitiful state of my checking account because I assure you, were I famous neither one of those would be an issue right now and let me assure you just as passionately that both of those are the cause of many sleepless nights for me. Some people...I don't know. It's just different.

I'm different too, mind you. Not blaming anyone. Okay, if I'm blaming anyone, I'm blaming me. Because I'm preoccupied and I'm obsessed and I spend way less time than I used to on all of this.


But mostly? I'm sad. I'm really, really sad.

This used to be my happy place. And it's not so happy anymore.

Helpful hint!

If you change your work schedule and now arrive at work at 6am? That means you have to get up at 5am to get ready.

If you think your hair looks hot and sexy at 5am? Please go the restroom at approximately 9am to verify said hotness and sexiness.


Trust me on this.

Didn't you hear me say I'm not ready?

So. Tuesday.

I'm sitting at my desk. I was either working or telling my co-workers a story about this one time when this guy dumped me because he didn't like the way I "kept house" (and excuse the frick out of me dude but you try living with two sixteen month old babies in one big room and see how well YOU keep house) and then he kept emailing me ALL THE TIME about STUPID CRAP and then he decided he was getting married because he'd gotten this other chick knocked up and sent me an invitation to his apparently trashy/fancy wedding and I wrote something REALLY nasty on the response card and sent it back. I can't remember which I was doing at the exact moment that my cell phone made a little buzzy noise that I recognized as meaning I had a text message.

I don't get a lot of text messages y'all. I'm not cool.

In all honesty? I'd rather type than talk. Any day. But I'm cheap as hell so I don't pay extra to have text messaging on my phone. I have two kids to put through college. Don't judge.

I can GET text messages and I think I can even send them, but it costs me cash money to send them so I don't initiate. I don't generally respond to the ones I get either.

Usually? The ones I get aren't even for me. They're something like:

Pray for Beulah! She's done lost her job!

I don't know who Beulah is. I'll send one up for her because it can't hurt. But I don't know her.

So I opened my phone and here is the text message I received:

Is this the Boy Child HisLastNames moms#? This is his friend GirlfriendChild.


OH. NO. SHE. DID. NOT.


I wavered for a moment. Do I respond? Don't I?

I didn't. I read the message aloud to my co-workers and decided I would just wait and discuss it with the Boy Child.

I picked them up that evening and the following conversation ensued:

Me: Boy Child. I got a very interesting text message earlier today.
BC: Really? From who?
Me: Let me just read it to you.
*reads text message*
BC: *Silence*
Me: Well?
BC: Is that from MY friend GirlfriendChild?
Me: YES.
BC: Huh. What did she say when you called her back?
Me: BOY CHILD. I did not call her back.
BC, completely unconcerned: Huh.
Me: Boy Child. How did GirlfriendChild get my phone number?
BC: I have no idea. Girl Child, did you give it to her?
GC, annoyed: BOY CHILD! NO. GirlfriendChild and I are NOT FRIENDS. I would NOT GIVE my mother's phone number to anyone! Why would I do that? I am not-
Me: Okay Girl Child. Boy Child?
BC: Mom, I have no idea what your phone number is.

Okay then.

After further probing we discovered that GirlfriendChild is a friend of GirlScoutChild, and she probably passed the number along.

I told Boy Child that he would need to call GirlfriendChild and tell her that it was not appropriate to send text messages to his mom's phone, ESPECIALLY during working hours.

Then, I came home, was distracted by something shiny on the internet, and promptly forgot to have him call. Mom=Fail.


Anyway. I've been stewing on this for a while now and I can't decide what to do.

These kids are YOUNG. They JUST finished fifth grade.

Doesn't that seem a bit...forward?

I can't IMAGINE calling someone's mom's phone at that age. I can't imagine Girl Child doing anything like that either.


I don't know. I'm becoming THAT mom and I hate it. I HATE it.


But I still think she needs to back off a bit. Sheesh.

*Insert sound of head exploding*

This morning? When I opened the front door? Guess what was on my porch?


*Not actual size. Close to actual disgustingness.

It ran off the porch as soon as I opened the door, but not before FREAKING ME THE FREAK RIGHT ON OUT.

I knew raccoons were hanging out because our trash cans, which my husband cleverly ties up with bungee cords, have been broken into. Repeatedly. And dogs can't do that. They can knock them over, but they can't take the bungees off. I know this for sure because my dog Ginger? She's the smartest dog ON THE ENTIRE PLANET. So if she can't do it, no dog can.

THEN, because I'm a huge freak and because it's five thirty in the morning and because I have slept a total of three hours in the past two days? I was afraid to get in my car.

Because there might be a RACCOON IN MY CAR.

So I go around and open all the doors AND the trunk (after, you know, disabling the alarm and unlocking the car. Because raccoons, in my world, can disable alarms and unlock doors and then RE-ENABLE the alarm and then LOCK all the doors back). I looked under the car seats. I reached back and punched the air, vigorously, in case any raccoons (or murderers or rapists) were back there and would benefit from feeling my fists of death.

Nothing.

I got into my car seat and felt something hit my feet.

My heart? Hit the floor.

Slowly, I lowered my eyes and?


I had dropped my freaking cell phone. OUT OF MY OWN HAND.


Good God y'all. I need some sleep.

Everyday hero.

Yesterday, I wanted to call my dad. It was Memorial Day and I wanted to call him and thank him, like I do on Veteran's Day.

I mentioned it to the children and my son immediately said, "No. Let's not."

I was surprised and asked him why and he said, "Because he doesn't like the war. He doesn't like talking about the war. It makes him sad. I don't want to make him sad."

So we didn't call.

Today, I wish we had called.

Because I know. War is Hell. It's far more Hell than I will ever know. I really hate that my dad hurts, still. Almost forty years later.

But I like even less that my dad doesn't know how much I appreciate his sacrifice so that I can live in a free country.

It's that. It's other things too. Things like the fact that my dad didn't talk about it for years and years...doesn't talk about it now. How he's so much more than a Veteran. How he rescued me, eleven years ago, from a house where I was slowly losing most of my mind and all of my self-esteem.

Ironically? It was Memorial Day weekend.

He was my hero. I didn't know it then, I guess. But he was.

He still is. For so many reasons.

So Happy Memorial Day Dad. I'm proud of you for everything you've done and everything you are.



I'm sorry I didn't say it yesterday. Because I know that even though it still hurts, you need to know.

Another reason I admire stay-at-home moms.

If I were a stay-at-home mom? I would weigh approximately twifty billion pounds.

Because for the last three days? I've been thinking, "Oh, this chip/cake/side of beef looks good". NOM, NOM, NOM.

Okay, so not really. I've managed to stay within my Points and I've been exercising my butt off (literally), so I've not gone completely outside my mind.

But I might have just stuck my finger in the fat-free Cool-Whip. And I might have licked it off.

And it might have been really good.



















Don't tell anyone, okay? God.

Insanity, thy name is Stephanie.

Guess who volunteered to teach at Vacation Bible school?


















Guess who volunteered to teach PRESCHOOL at Vacation Bible School?




No. I don't know what's wrong with me either.

Excessive whining.

It's not even 7am and I am awake.

I got on the scale a minute ago and I am so pissed off right now I can barely see straight.

I realize it is not logical to be so pissed off. The scale will go back down soon. Like, within a day or so.

No, I'm not going to say why the scale is one pound up. I'm low-class but I'm not THAT low-class.

I had a bad dream about my husband last night and I was SO PISSED OFF I nearly woke him up to yell at him.

Thankfully, I aborted that plan.

I need to go for my walk now so I can get my exercise in before anyone else wakes up.

I don't want to go. My knees are screaming at me.

I'm going anyway. Because of that bastard scale.

Last night I cried because I feel like everything is going away from me so fast.

Like ten minutes ago? I had two babies. Today? I have two 6th graders.

It's not fair.

I can't have any more babies, and that's not fair either.

I know, I know. I already warned you, in the subject of this post, that I would be whining excessively.

If you don't like it, you probably shouldn't read my blog. Because apparently? I'm a whining bitch.

Instead of reading my blog? I suggest you read something about Hulk Hogan.

I think he, maybe, has more problems than me.

Oh, the places you'll go!

Dear Boy One and Girl One,

Today is your last day of Elementary school. After 11:15am, you will officially be sixth grade students. Middle schoolers. Big kids.

Your school, thankfully, does not have a graduation ceremony. Not that it wouldn't be fun to see you all dressed up and receiving your "Bachelor of Fifth grade arts" or anything, but your mom, in case it's not become apparent to you after eleven years, is a bit of a sap. And my make-up looks really pretty today so I don't want to cry it off.

I know, I know. I can hear it now.

It's just fifth grade.

It is. But it's not.

It's also sleepless nights, before you were born, wondering if you would even live. It's sleepless nights during the first, few fragile days of your life, wondering if you would live. It's hearing a doctor say, "We don't know if she's blind" and "He'll never be normal". It's realizing that the one who the doctor wasn't sure about being blind has 20/20 vision and the one the doctor wasn't sure would ever be normal most certainly is NOT normal, but is abnormal in the most strange and beautiful ways.

It's seeing you struggle to keep up. It's seeing you fall.

Seeing you get back up. Again and again and again.

It's the knowledge that the day you were born, I almost lost my life. That I came really darn close to never knowing any of this at all. To you being raised by someone else, somewhere else. Never holding your tiny hands, never watching you run, never running alongside you.

It's how, somehow, you've become my cheerleaders. How all those words I said to you over the years, you repeat back to me; You can do it mom! I'll run beside you mom! You can go another mile! You sold your book! I'm so proud!

I don't dwell on the past. What happened, happened. I can't change it. I can't make you as strong as tall as the other boys in your class. I can't make you less shy as the other girls. I can't change who you are. I can't rewrite history.

And I suppose I really wouldn't want to. Not just because you are twelve pounds of awesome in a ten pound sack, but also because I would never change the experience of watching you grow up. The work was hard, but the rewards are great. The days were long, but the years have been short. So short.

Elementary school is nothing, I guess. To a lot of moms and dads it's no big shake.


To me? After seeing what you started as? It's a miracle.


I am so, so proud of you.


And when you graduate high school in a few years? They'll probably have to carry me out on a stretcher. Good Lord.


Love you and love you and love you,
Your mom

An unexpected benefit!

When you write a book about your life? People in your life get a bit nervous.

No lie, I had a ridiculously large number of people call me, upon hearing about my book to ask, "Um...is there anything about me in this book?"

The answer, every time, was no.

And if the majority of people asked me the same thing this time? The answer would still be the same.

However, it seems that other people have realized that, OH HOLY CRAP, the time period of my life that I'm currently writing about could maybe, potentially have something to do with them.

And some of them? Seem to be a little scared. Because they are being really, really nice when they had previously been really, really un-nice.

Now my writing is generally...careful. I think that's a nice way to put it. Careful.

Still. I'm enjoying the benefits of other's fears.












Hell is not safe from me. Not yet.

No ordinary time.

Things I've learned lately:

1) You can't change people. You can want to change them. You can want them to want to change themselves. You can't change them.
2) I really don't care for Tab.
3) You can't please everybody. Sometimes? You can't please anybody.
4) I'm not completely socially inept. Maybe I'm mostly socially inept. But not completely.
5) Kids don't have to turn out like their parents.


Things I still haven't learned:

1) When to say, "Well! He can just suck a bag of dicks!" Because everytime I seem to say that? Someone really important is standing within my proximity.
2) To look around my proximity before shrieking things about dicks.
3) To stop talking about dicks so much. Good Lord.
4) To forgive and not glare at someone with a condescending look upon my face when they were at least pretending to give a crap about me.
5) How to play Texas Hold 'Em. I really want to learn too.

I am JUST a little bit horrified.

Because of the Facebook? And the things that people say as "what's on their mind"?

Because if what's on your mind is that you want to f someone? You might want to keep that yourself. Or, you know, just tell the person in...question.



Lawd!

It's like the Mommy Wars. Only bitchier.

I, like everyone else on the planet, have a lot going on.

The other day? I was telling someone in my life what I had going on. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Man, I'm tired.

Other person: I'm tired too.

Me: I was up until midnight working on a project.

OP: I got up at 4am to finish cupcakes for my child's class.

Me: I'm mostly tired because I worked out for an hour and a half after working 9 hours yesterday. *yawn*

OP: Well, I work ALL DAY EVERY DAY because I'm a mom.

Me: Yes, I know. I'm a mom too.

OP: But I stay HOME with my kids. It's all the time! You at least send your kids to school! I homeschool!

Me: That must be hard.

OP: AND! I drive my children to piano THREE TIMES A MONTH! I'm exhausted!

Me, getting in the spirit of it because, apparently, I'm twelve: Well, I work full-time and blog and I'm writing a book and I'm promoting another book AND I work part-time blogging for my company AND I work out four or five times a week AND I freelance AND I'm...

OP: I GO TO CHURCH ON WEDNESDAY NIGHTS!

It could have went on. Mercifully, I had something else to do, so I had to end the conversation.

(And see? I win! I had something else to do EVEN WHEN HAVING A CONVERSATION ABOUT HOW BUSY I AM!)

(Also? Apparently I'm a douche)

It's not just women I have this kind of conversation with and it's not just about parenting. Everybody wants you to know that THEY ARE BUSY BY GOD and no matter what you have going on THEY ARE FAR BUSIER THAN YOU.

I'm guilty too.

What I don't understand is why. Why do I care what anyone else does? Why does anyone care what I have going on?

WHY IS BEING BUSY AND STRESSED OUT SOMETHING VALUED?

Cause I don't know about you, but I really freaking hate being so busy and stressed out all the time. My life would be a whole lot easier if I didn't have twelve jobs and a big ass. Why do I act like it's something to be proud of?

Being so tired you almost fall asleep at the wheel of your vehicle doesn't sound like something you strive to attain. Am I right?

Pictures and other crap.

I realized something about myself recently that will sound really strange and probably come as a huge surprise.

I am shy.

Painfully shy.

STOP LAUGHING. I REALLY AM.

I'm a lot better on paper than in person, I believe. People are so surprised to hear that I'm shy and well, let's face it, socially inept. But I am.

Needless to say? The past few days have been kind of hard for me. Not a bad hard, but still. Hard.

This nice guy made my life easier. His name is Rob and he's the Events manager at Barnes and Noble. He had actually read my book (which was so helpful, honestly) and made me feel right at home. He even brought me water in a fancy-shaped bottle and a thin-tipped Sharpie pen. I love Sharpie pens.


To further ease my mind, he told me a hilarious story about someone who recently brought the author of "The Shack" a vial full of their tears. To a book-signing. For reals. I had one strange experience (more on that in a minute) but nothing like that.


Rob was really nice. I did that thing that I'm doing in this picture (hand-wringing) a lot. And he was really nice about it.

Also nice?

This is my friend Rebecca! She came out to support me and brought her son and daughter-in-law. They were all so nice. And funny. And wonderful.

(Isn't Rebecca pretty? Can you believe she's old enough to have a married son? I know, right?)

AND...

My friend Amy drove a long way to see me too! I was so touched!

I don't think I got a picture of my friend Karin, who came to see me also. I didn't know she was coming, so I was so happy to see her!

Beyond that...




It was mostly a great time. Especially great?

I still don't know how his name is spelled. I said, "How do you spell your name?" and he whispered, "Zack".

Not great was a young man who made me extremely uncomfortable. I have a few pictures of him, but I will decline to post them here. I will post a picture of my face when someone was telling me about him and what he was saying.


I was a bit alarmed. Enlarge the picture for the full effect.

It was nice to have a lot of my family there:


And the cake was tasty too.


No matter how long I am blessed enough to get to be a writer, I'll always prefer writing over any type of publicity or promotion. But I think maybe next time it'll be okay.

We'll see.

Oh snap.

Home. Tired. More later.

Book Review/Throwdown: The Double Daring Book for Girls

I was lucky enough to get to read the Daring Book for Girls as part of a MotherTalk book review. I loved the book so much that I bought it for several friends.

I was delighted to recently get a copy of The Double-Daring Book for Girls. This book basically picks up where the first book left off, and is chock-full of fun, inexpensive activities for girls (and my boy got into the action on some of them).

I love this book because it's not just fun fluff. There are also tons of useful facts, presented in a kid-friendly, entertaining way. I love the section on the Moon and Moon Lore as much as I loved the instructions on how to paint a room. The Girl Child and I are going to make a snow globe, and both the children particularly loved learning the dance moves to the "YMCA", which are helpfully illustrated in this book.

To promote this fun book, I would like to challenge all of my readers to a Hula-Hoop contest.

You heard me.

There is a section of this book called, "How to Hula-Hoop". One would think you wouldn't forget such things, but apparently the passage of time does dull the mind, so I read up on it, found an old hoop I had and twisted again like I did last summer. Okay, well, MANY summers ago.

I made it around 24 times. Can you beat me?

(IT'S SO ON!)

There are tons of fun activities in this book and I highly recommend it to anyone looking for fun, practical, and inexpensive activties for your kids. You can read more about it at the website. And it's available for purchase at Amazon and other booksellers.

I loved this book! And if you can beat my hula-hooping skilz, let me know.

Even when I'm not busy? I'm busy.

Yesterday morning, as a matter of routine, I was answering emails. I forwarded one of the emails to my boss and asked if she could please check on something for me and she responded back:

Yes.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!! GET OFF THE COMPUTER AND ENJOY YOURSELF!!!!

Enjoying myself is a bit of a foreign concept to me, however. I have work to do. I have articles to write. I've got a couple of freelance projects which are taking time. I STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M GOING TO WEAR TO MY BOOK SIGNING TONIGHT. Important crap is going on!

I did take a break yesterday, I'm happy to report. I went swimming with the Boy and Girl children and I also played at least an hour (okay, probably more) of video games with the Boy Child. Before I did that, I wrote a short email to the President of my company, letting him know where I am and that I would send him an intro to the employee blog that I write so he could send out a notification to all the employees. I also mentioned that the local t.v. thing I did yesterday morning went well, because he knew I was nervous about it the last time we spoke.

I opened my email this morning, and this was his reply:

You go Diva!


From the President. Of my company.



Yes. I really am the luckiest person in the world. Thank you for noticing.

Good times with the Boy Child.

Yesterday, in the car after approximately 6.5 hours:

BC: "Mom? What would be funnier? Calling someone a douchebag or writing the word douchebag in your FANCIEST CURSIVE and showing it to them?"

Me: "I have no idea. I like both ideas."



Today, after we got out of the pool:

BC: "MOM! MOM! MOM!"

Me: "What?!? What's the matter?"

BC: "I don't want to alarm you...but...I have black hairs on my toes. BLACK. Mom! They are totally black! And long! And look...I only have about three on my pinky toe! And...mom? Why are you laughing?"

On the road again.

I'm headed to North Carolina for a book-signing.

Woo-hoo!

I've seen fire and I've seen rain.

I guess I'm finally a grown-up type person. And yes, I've been over the age of eighteen for the past fifteen years, but I think I just got it this past weekend.

For this weekend was Mother's Day. I don't get really hung up on having a special day just for me, although the people I live with did make a supreme effort to make sure I had a nice day (I even went to lunch at a Mexican restaurant. With my husband. Who hates Mexican food. Because he's a freak). To me, though, it's really just another day. I still did laundry, I still worked, and I still did my usual mom things like listening to Boy Child describe, in excruciating detail, a snake he'd seen once. It was riveting. While walking (for almost two hours...go me!), I also dodged some Canadian Geese and their disgusting poop. They? Can suck a bag of dicks. But that's another story for another day.

I was proud of my husband. Not because he went and had Mexican food with me and not because he bought me these beautiful plants for my porch and not because he was sweet and loving and kind and said and did all the right things. But instead because he sent his mom a card. Then? He called her.

He's trying. He's extraordinarily stubborn and holds onto things for a long time (and I'll reserve judgement as to whether or not it's a good idea to hold a grudge sometimes), but he's trying.

And even though it was Mother's Day, it wasn't all about me. I didn't want or need it to be.

I still don't think I'm going to gain a bff, but I hope it was a good day for all involved.

Happy May 10th.

I know this will come as a huge surprise, but sometimes? I'm pretty much a hot mess.

I'm other things, mind you. A lot of other things. Sometimes I forget all the other things I am and then I get a Google alert which reminds me that I'm a character in a book. And don't even get me started on how flucked up that is. Because it's a LOT.

The only thing that really matters, though, is that I'm a mother.


I know how that sounds. I really do. My entire life I wanted to be a mother and when I did, eleven years ago, I determined immediately that I was not going to be JUST a mother. I was going to work. My husband left me when I was pregnant, so I was going to date. I was going to have hobbies and activities and I was going to have a life because someday those children would grow up and leave me and I didn't want to not know what to do with myself when they were gone.

It was a great plan.

Also? A total bunch of b.s.

Because, yes. I have a job. Actually? I pretty much have two. And I write books and I work out and I freelance and I do laundry and make dinners and go to church and romance the husband (if by romance you mean cook the aforementioned dinner and tune the DVR to record Jeopardy). I also love television and reading and love blogging so much that I do it here, for free.

So I'm busy.

And all of that? Means absolutely nothing.


I could lose my job tomorrow. I could lose both my jobs tomorrow. No one could buy my book. I could stop going to the gym, no one could call me anymore asking me to write articles. My oven could blow up, I could lose my faith, and my TiVo could break down.

It wouldn't matter. None of it.

The Boy and the Girl would love me if I were poor. They'd love me if I were unemployed. If I never sold another book. If I were fat as hell. If I never cooked. If we didn't even have television.

They'd love me. They'd support me. They'd still look to me as an example.


Since they were born, I've known how important I am to them. I've also know how important they are to me. There is nothing in this world that is as important as this relationship. This responsibility. This love.

Nothing.



And I'm thankful every day of my life for it. Not just today.

Yes!

Because, clearly, I don't have enough to do every day of my life as evidenced by the two hours of sleep I get every night, I have become obsessed with yet another television program.

Ladies and gentlemen? Say Yes to the Dress.

Oh Kleinfeld and all your employees. How I adore you and your barely concealed annoyance at whiny brides trying on gowns that cost more than my car.

(Not all the brides are whiny. Most are very pleasant)

I never got to go to a bridal store and try on gowns. I went to one store and the salesbitch was so extraordinarily rude to me that I was immediately convinced to purchase my gown on the internet (and even if she wasn't a complete cockslap, they had like three plus-sized dresses. One was about three sizes two small and the other two would encompass me, Jason, and both the children).

I never got to have that experience. Which is fine...someday I'll have it with Girl Child, if she decides she wants to get married. Currently, at age eleven, she's unsure. She might just want to have a career and adopt babies. Which would be cool also. In that case? I'll just force myself upon the Boy Child's bride to be, thus reserving my rightful place as Mother In Law From Hell Overlord.




No, not really.




But it would be fun to go to a bridal salon and try on dresses. Or watch someone prettier than me try on dresses.

I can be lugubrious with you.

I don't pay a lot of attention to a lot of things.

For example, when I'm driving? I notice nothing except the road directly in front of me. This is highlighted by conversations such as this:

Stephanie: Oh my God! Look at those new apartments! Aren't they pretty?
Jason: Yes. They are pretty. But not new.
Stephanie: What? I've never seen them!
Jason: Um, sweetie? They're historic.
Stephanie: Oh.

I've driven by those apartments every single day for the past four and a half years. I'm not kidding.

Anyway. I've decided that I want to be better about that. So today, I was zipping along, chilling to some Jason Mraz, and I noticed a big 18-wheeler that had a placard on the back which read:

IT'S A CHILD, NOT A CHOICE!

Which is cool, if you swing that way. But doesn't that seem like a really odd place to advertise your feelings about abortion? On the back of a truck like that?


I don't know. Maybe it's a good place. Judging by how most of the people on Interstate 40 drive? They aren't paying much attention to the road anyway.

*Cue ominous music*

Yeah. This is what I'll be doing tonight.

Sigh.

Yes, I know I'm harping on this. I'm being whiny and I'm being ridiculous. It's middle school. It's not like they are moving to Outer Mongolia or something. It will probably even be better for us, really. My work schedule will change and I'll pick them up every day and we'll do crap like bake cookies.

It will be awesome, right?





So why do I feel so sad?









ETA: Okay, so I forgot to black out the initials one time. So sue me.

Book stuff.

I haven't talked/whored enough about that lately, I suppose.

You can win a signed copy here.

If you can, come by and meet me and my sorry butt on Thursday, May 14th at 7pm at the Barnes and Noble in Greenville, NC.

Also, if you are a glutton for punishment and enjoy such things AND if you are in the Eastern North Carolina area, you can see me and my potentially haggard face on WITN News at Sunrise on May 13th. It's an early one, I'll just warn you.

I'm working on some fun freelance stuff and the next book is coming right along.













Also, this has nothing to do with anything, but I am horrified and amused by this story about a Man who smuggled birds in his pants, which sounds like my idea of Hell.

16,358

I've stopped hating my second book.

I don't know how it happened exactly. Probably because I stopped writing for three days and cursed and cried a lot and was angry and sullen with my spouse.

Then? I don't know. I opened up the file and changed a really bad swear to: something that is followed immediately by "and the horse you rode in on".

And that? Made me laugh.

So I'm up to 16,358 words now.

It's going well.

That is so money!

As I've proven many times before, I have absolutely no shame, thus I am in no way embarrassed to admit that I completely love the television program Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.

Did you know it comes on like, fourteen times in a weekend? I do now, thanks to TiVo (and much to Jason's dismay).

The guy that hosts it though?

Seriously. Is he on drugs?


I'm being serious when I ask that question.


Okay, because this is him:


And I'm pretty sure that's on purpose y'all.


I'm not even going to talk about how you can see his food when he eats. I won't even mention that part even though it's REALLY DISGUSTING.



















God, I have been on Weight Watchers so. long.

Cause we belong together now.

Boy Child, reading a flyer about the men's fishing trip at church: BWAHAHA, BWAHAHA!!!
Me: What?
Boy Child: Look! Mom! It says NO CRAP! BWHAHAHAAHA!THEY SAID CRAP AT CHURCH!
Me: Um, son? That says carp.
Boy Child: Oh.
Girl Child and Jason: BWAHAHAHAHAHA!
Me: *sigh*

Girl Child, quietly to Boy Child, after a moment: What the heck is a carp?
Boy Child: Whatever it is? It's not crap.

Lo, I am bummed.

Writing a book and having a book signing and all that should be really cool, right?

You would think.

Instead, it's kind of been a...well. It's just not been a good experience. I'll leave it at that.

And now? Jason can't come with me. He can't get the time off because of some stupid meeting. And of course we aren't independently wealthy or anything, so he has to go. He has to work.

It just sucks.

I said, "It's just sad because this won't ever happen again". And he was surprised and said, "This will happen again! Lots of times! You'll have lots of books and lots of book signings!"

And I said, "It won't ever happen again for the first time".


It won't.



It's no big shake, really. I know it's not. I know in the grand scheme of things it's not a big deal.


It just sucks. It would have been nice to have my biggest fan there.

Ever.

When the Boy and the Girl turned about three years old I declared, to anyone who would listen, “This is the best year ever!”

And it was, you know? It was a great year. They were independent enough to do a lot of things on their own, but still dependent enough on me that I felt useful and needed. That was the year I bought my first house of my very own and the two of them lived in their little room together. The walls were painted blue, like waves, and they would pretend they were under the ocean. They had bunk beds and the very first night the Girl one deemed the top to be hers. She climbed up, fearlessly, and promptly fell asleep. I sat on the edge of the Boy one’s bed for hours while he told me stories of a cartoon he’d seen called “Dave the Barbarian”. He was afraid to go to sleep, but would not ever say those words.

I took the day off on their birthday and we went to the beach with my friend Summer. We could do things like that then. They weren’t in school and March is the perfect time of year for Atlantic Beach. They still fell asleep in the car on long trips, but they could hold their pee really well too.

Perfect. Best year ever.

And then? They were four. And four was really awesome too. We all lived together then, like a family. Jason would get Bojangles for breakfast every Sunday morning. I went to college that year, and I remember how relieved they were that I wouldn’t be like that rat-bastard Steve on Blues Clues and say, “I’m going to college, bye!” only to be replaced by the less attractive and similarly nerdy Cousin Joe.

It was? The best year ever.

Until the next year. Jason and I got married and the Boy was the best man and the Girl was, as my Uncle Danny says, the “Flower young’un”. They went to school about a month later. They joined Karate and the Girl took dance and was a Girl Scout. They got involved in school. They were fun and bright and witty and…

It was the best year ever.

And every year since then? Has been the best year ever.

Eventually this will end, I know. I fear it all the time as I see them get taller, see them solve math problems that I can’t understand (“Let’s let dad help you with that one!” I say, and they buy it). The Boy has a girlfriend now and, thankfully, it’s only a school thing right now (with the exception of her birthday party a few weeks ago), but I dread the days he will spend hours on the phone with a girl. I dread the days they will become sullen and angry and acne-scarred. Full of angst and rage and things I remember but still can’t explain.

Because right now? They do things I can’t imagine having done at their age. They break boards in Tae Kwon Do, travel gracefully through social classes, and have absolutely no fear of things that terrify me still. They built forts, they write books (he draws, she writes), they even cook dinner.

They are growing up.

And then the Boy has poison ivy patches on his face and he needs his mom to help him.

And the Girl has a question about having a period. And she needs her mom to answer it.



They still need me.




It’s still the best year ever.






I suspect it always will be, because of them.