Two Years

It's been two years since I last saw my boy living and breathing.  Granted, it wasn't much left of a life, and I wish our good-bye had been something so much sweeter.  But we were together, where we always ended up.

Moe and I at a schooling show, Hoffman Farms 1995ish

Today I celebrated Moe's memory by spending the evening with his two remaining buddies, Trinity and Fansi.  It's what he would have wanted, for me to be happy with his friends, with the sun warming our skin and the breeze kissing our cheeks.  I even snuck Fansi a few extra treats in his honor, just because he would've been the first one pick-pocketing me for his share.

Wherever you are, Moe, I hope you know how much I'm missing you and that my heart's breaking all over again as I write this.  Peace and love, sweet boy.

Trinity and her new bonnet.  She's thrilled.

Action shot with Trin.

Sunset ride on Fansi.  She is skeptical of the shutter sound on the phone.

Life Keeps Going On. 

Do It Anyway

I am the little sister in the mosaic of my family.  With that title comes a certain reputation: the spoiled one, the brat.  I'm sure my siblings would agree with that stereotype.  I even agree.  It's okay.  I've accepted it because, hey, it's okay to be spoiled.  Being the baby also comes with its own set of negatives, though.  Even though I'm mumble-mumble-mumble years old now, I'm still widely viewed as twelve years old.  

As a perennial tweenager, clearly I do not have a career.  How could I?  I'm a child!  All of my years of working with expectant families hasn't counted as a legitimate job.  Writing certainly doesn't count, either, because I write in my pajamas while my kids (and usually other neighborhood kids) destroy my house.  Plus, I like writing.  People don't like their jobs.  That's against the rules.

But writing is what I want to do with my life.  It is what I want as my career, but I don't want to call it my career because that word just sucks the joy out of all of it.  But this is what I do.  

I didn't go to college and rack up student loans to learn how to write.  I didn't intern anywhere to prove myself.  I merely sat down with a laptop and the words in my head and let them fly off into the atmosphere.  Most days it feels like I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but the words are finding other people and doing something so unimaginably far beyond me.  

This is real.  It doesn't feel real at all, but it's real.

Half of my family and a great deal of my friends don't really understand the person I've become.  They don't appreciate the long nights composing sentences and developing characters.  They don't care.  Well, maybe they care, but in that disjointed way someone pretends to be interested so feelings won't be hurt.  Truth be told, they don't have time for books, they'd rather save themselves the trouble and wait for the movie adaptation.  If I waited for these people to open their eyes and see that this is important, even as their 9-5 office job is important, I'd be waiting a long time.  Forever, maybe.  

Is that discouraging?  Sure.  But I don't let it stop me.  I pick myself up, knock the dust off my sandals, and find people who want to support me--and people I will support in return.  My Cartel.  My Skywriters. My posse.  My kindred spirits.
.  
Conditions will never be 100% perfect for me to write, and people in my own village will never fully respect me because they see me that same old bumbling kid, but I'm doing this anyway.  

What about you?  Do your friends and family support your writing or your career goals?

Today It Was Me

Today I was the one to cram myself into the white zip-up jumpsuit that made me look like the Easter Bunny's long lost sister. I was the one who slipped on the blue booties and hairnet, and tied on my face mask.

Today I was the one sitting on the bench in the hall while they wheeled my writhing, sobbing partner into the unknown.  I was the one who wondered if the anesthesia would work or if they would need to knock her out and the next time I saw her she'd have a baby in her arms.

An older man sat down next to me on the bench.  "You doin' okay?" He asked, and he genuinely cared about my answer.  I could tell by the way his gentle eyes rested on mine.  My bootie-covered toes tapped the carpet.  "Yeah, I'm good."  Because I was good, protected from terrifying reality by the distance of professionalism.  She was not my blood or my reason for being, but rather someone who knew she would need help when her child was born.  It's easy to be good when you don't stand to risk it all.  Then I asked the concerned gentleman about the newest addition to his family.  It was a granddaughter, his son's first child.  He beamed, then busied himself texting and grumbling at his new-fangled phone.

I wondered if that muffled cry was her.

"I promise they won't forget about you.  It just seems like it," said a nurse who had passed me twice now.

"I'm just hot."  My body heat collected within the kinda-sterile clothing.  The rise in temperature brought my stomach to a boil, a particularly unpleasant feeling for someone about to step foot into an Operating Suite.  Pictures flashed in my mind of passing out on the OR floor, or vomiting on the face of the expectant mother.  I unzipped the bunny suit and fanned the air between my layers.

Eventually they called me back.  I was no longer on the verge of heat stroke--for that I was thankful.

"Sit on the grey chair next to her head," the nurse said.  "Don't touch anything blue."

I sat in the grey chair.  My partner barely acknowledged me.  Almost immediately, the smell of burning flesh filled the air.  Then it was gone.

We don't see a thing, just a giant blue tissue curtain.  Somewhere beyond that the baby floated in a sea of instructions and chatter.

My partner wished to relay a request to the surgeon, the last two items left on an X-ed- out birth plan. Her voice failed from long hours of struggled breathing.  She turned to me to be her voice.  Neither of us knew who was there or who would hear us.  I turned to the anesthesiologist, who clearly didn't want to interrupt the surgical team.  She could see the team, though.  I was just guessing.

"Lots of pressure,"  Someone said.

"You're going to feel some tugging.  Just concentrate on your breathing," Someone else said.

We stared at the blue abyss and waited for the next thing to happen.

The baby cried and gurgled, cut off by someone's bulb suctioning.

"It's your baby!"  I smiled.  Tears filled her bloodshot eyes.  "Congratulations, Mama!"

The baby traveled to another end of the OR, X-ing off the rest of my partner's wishes.  A nurse remarked about what a sweetheart the baby was, and how adorable.  We saw blue while a stranger spent those first precious moments with my partner's baby.  This didn't upset the mother nearly as much as it upset me.  I wanted to brave the gore and hospital policy to grab the little one and put her where she belonged--cheek-to-cheek with the one whose body took care of her for nine months.  But I didn't, because today I wasn't the doula.  I was something else, entirely.

So You Want To Be a Writer...

Photo credit, CreateSpace

I'll start this post by admitting that I am, by no stretch of the imagination, an expert on writing. If you came here looking for a secret formula or the nuts and bolts of wordsmithing, well, I'm sorry to say you've come to the wrong place. Crafting a story, and doing it well, entails a lot more than could ever fit on one lousy blog post. Rules. Punctuation. Plots. Dialogue. So much to know before you can actually write. This doesn't align with our instant-gratification world. 

You should probably stop here. It's too much work.

But what if I told you that you could pick up your favorite pen--c'mon, you know you have a favorite!--or your laptop and GO? You don't have to have the perfect beginning, middle, and end.  It's not likely that you'll sit down with a cup of coffee and plunk out War and Peace on that first go. What stares back at you from the page might suck, and "suck" might be the understatement of the century. But even stories sucky-beyond-all-reason can be shaped into something more. A blank page cannot, at least not until your words end up there.  

Though I've always written for my own enjoyment, I never considered anything would come with it. Writing would be nothing more than a hobby. In 2011, my attitude changed. I wanted to take writing more seriously, to write books instead of rambling blog posts about coffee and kid-induced nervous breakdowns. And then came that day when I said, "Enough! I'm writing a book!" I didn't even have a story in mind, I just followed Chris Baty's advice and wrote the book I wanted to read. My first words after my attitude adjustment were, 

"I'm what you would call a simple girl, a chameleon."

If you think about it, that sentence doesn't make sense at all. Simple girls have nothing in common with ever-changing chameleons. And, if we're being real, it's a bit cliche to call yourself "simple". But those flawed words led to over 200,000 more. With a lot of hard, literally hands-on work, they have grown into stronger, more flexible versions of themselves. That never would have happened if I'd let the blank screen call my bluff. I wade through the suck every time I sit down to write, and you will, too. In the end, it's not about whether the writing is excellent or cringe-worthy. It's about letting the ideas out of your head and seeing what happens. It's getting past saying, "I always wanted to write a book/story/article/whatever" to actually doing it.

I can't read through that first manuscript without feeling sick to my stomach at its sheer awfulness, but I didn't let it stop me. That sheer awfulness became the first of three books in my Hope Creek series, which gained the attention of a publisher. While that might not happen for you, you can't possibly know for sure if you don't write that first word. And then the next. And then the one after that, and so on.

My advice to you? Go forth. Write all the horrible, wrong words. Laugh at yourself, and don't give up. 

That's truly all it takes to be a writer.

Winner!

Just validated my word count for Camp NaNoWriMo. Over 31k words edited and revised in April for my upcoming Young Adult novel, In the Middle.  
Can't wait to share it with you guys!  It's a cool, creepy story... but that's all I'm going to say right now. I don't want to give away too much.  :-)

The Court

This was the other half of the writing challenge for my group.  I'm not on this team, but I decided to give it a half-hearted shot.  For this prompt, we were to write describing setting only.

The Court  

This is a pretty picture that belongs to someone. I just don't know who.

The voice of the breeze carries above all others, hushing the chatter of birds and humming of the insects.  They rush among the crowd and tap each one on the shoulder announcing the presence of the king. Throngs of green bow in reverence to the victorious fingers of the mountains.  The rocks thrust themselves into the blue sky, challenging the threatening clouds.  

The only ones brave enough to stand against the hills are the Juniper trees.  Few they be, they stand straight as warriors.  Wielding their prickles and thorns in gnarled fists, their scarred bodies defy the wind.  They grit their teeth and squint against the rain.  

***

How would you describe this picture?

Lines

In one of my writing groups, we were given a few pictures to choose from and the task to write a story either based on the character or setting to see which stories were more appealing to the readers.  We were asked to keep the story under 1000 words, and told that it didn't need to be a complete story, a scene was okay.

With that being said, here's the picture I selected followed by my vision of this man.

Photo credits to whoever took this picture. You know who you are.  

Lines – Character/Plot

S.J. Henderson

Lines. Ain’t that the story of my life? Always been standing in one line or the other, my whole blasted life.

Today I’m stuck in the soup line behind the old lady with rollers sticking out of her hair like pussywillows and tufts of cat hair clinging to her pink housecoat. Always bumped into by the guy waving his hands like he’s conducting at Carnegie Hall while talking three octaves too loudly about politician so-and-so to his buddy. Who cares about the crooks in office? I sure don’t. All those suits ever done is send innocent people to their death while they’re busy signing ridiculous bills and screwing some floozy on the side.

It was a handful of them crooks who gave me the lines above my right eye--my sightin’ eye. The one that saw every last second. I’d poke the cursed thing out if I thought I had the balls to do it. But I lost those as soon as I let that kid die.

He couldn’t have been more than 11 or 12, the age of my little cousin, Ben. They’d sent a kid into the stinking paddy with a rifle bigger than he was. And now the kid was a murderer. His big black eyes grew wide as he watched my buddy crumple, dead before he even hit the mud. Ray--that was my buddy’s name. Had a girl he planned to marry if we ever made it back home, and four younger brothers and sisters to help care for after his Dad passed.

The Vietnamese boy, the enemy, turned his rifle from Ray to me. The spot where my heart should have been. Truth be told, my heart stopped beating a long time ago, when I took my first step on this blood-soaked ground.

“Do it,” I said, opening my arms to expose my chest. “I don’t want to live another day in this hellhole.”

The boy blinked. His finger shook on the trigger. I may as well have been recitin’ the ever-loving Constitution, for all the English he knew.

I pointed at my heart, my fingers in an L-shape. A gun. “Bang!”

The tiniest bump at his throat bobbed as he gulped. He doesn’t want to kill me or he’d have done it already. I wish he’d make up his mind already, or at least run off before something worse happened. But he didn’t.

Another soldier, a guy named Lou, came around the corner and his boots slid in the muck. When he spied poor Ray on the ground, and me and the boy in our stand-off, his rifle locked on the boy with a click.

“Wait!” I don’t know who I was talking to, the kid or Lou. All I know was that I didn’t want to see another river of blood or another broken body.

Lou grunted then fired a round. The boy was too slow. His round eyes focused on mine as he fell to his knees, and then facedown into the muck. I didn’t cry for him, or for dead Ray who wouldn’t get to marry his sweetheart or provide for his family.

Instead, I stand in lines. Lines for food. Lines for shelter. Lines for everything because I’m not free to be me.

Well-dressed women with their manicured nails and little yappy dogs shrink to the other side of sidewalk when I scuffle by. Men in business suits with cell phones attached to their ears tell me to get a job as they plink pennies at my feet. Problem is, no one wants to hire a ghost of a man who jumps every time a hammer strikes a nail or hits the dirt when someone drops a load of wood.

The lines will take me, though. I blend in here among the outcasts, the forgotten, the spooks.

The Hows and Whys of Daniel

Two weeks ago, nearly to the minute, I made a decision.  A big, scary, and, honestly, ill-advised decision.  I was going to self-publish a silly little story I wrote last fall.  And I was going to do it by the end of the weekend.

There were at least two reasons for this big, stupid goal:

1. My family needed the positive cash flow, no matter how small.
2. I had something to prove.  To my husband, whose favorite greeting is, "You finish that book yet?" (Grr!).  And to myself, who rarely asks myself if a book is done because she knows how annoying that really is.

Let's get one thing straight: I'm not afraid to share my stories.  Against all common sense, I'll type the last words of a first draft and send it off to someone, anyone, who wants to read it.  That's not the way it's supposed to work, so other writers tell me, but it's the way I work.  The excitement of sharing and getting that early feedback from the poor shmoes who have to slog through my typos--well, it's what makes this writer thing feel more like a village and less like solitary confinement.  Not that I have anything against solitary confinement.

Two weeks ago, "Daniel the Draw-er" was literally half the story it is now.  Like, 6k words to its now-finished 13k.  I knew the story needed to be more substantial, size-wise, but I didn't know how to do it. Some friends who read through pointed out some plot issues, mainly having to do with resolution of the various conflicts in the story (Daniel's mom's desire for Daniel to make more friends, Daniel and his best friend Annie's argument, etc.) and how the timing was way off.  Story structure.  It's a thing, apparently.

I would save myself a lot of time if I just learned how to outline.  Know where I'm headed, what needs to happen, that kind of thing.  But nooooooo.  My imagination insists on working free of the constraints of detailed lists, especially when I'm operating as a nine-year-old boy with a magic pencil, where the sky is the limit.  They call someone who doesn't plan out their writing a "pantser", meaning they're flying by the seat of their pants (versus the more serious and responsible "plotter", a. k. a. People I Don't Really Get).  The fun part about zero planning is that every single thing I write is a surprise.  I make myself laugh a lot.  Sometimes my weirdness scares even me.  But, anyway...

For a week and a half I spent night and day working on the story, holed up in my writing room in the basement listening to Bon Iver on repeat and eating cinnamon Fire Jolly Ranchers (!!).  My friend Courtney sat across from me and dished out tough love ("draw a plot diagram," she said. I threw a tantrum like a two-year-old, no lie). I spent almost an entire day working at a Panera Bread.  Two of my doula babies were born.  We said good-bye, for now, to a beloved family friend.  Life happened.  A whole lot of life happened.

This story is important to me in a much different way than my others have been.  "Daniel" came to be when I participated in an online writing course called The Story Cartel.  Our assignment was to identify the audience we felt we were writing to and write a short story with them in mind.  I didn't want to write a short story to teenage girls and bored housewives (you know who you are.  I am one of you!), I wanted to write a book for my boys like Tolkien wrote his classic tales as bedtimes stories for his children.  Like Dav Pilkey without the constant references to bodily functions and underwear. So I turned to my eight-year-old and asked him a good name for a main character.  He picked Daniel.  Then I wrote on, with my son peeking over my shoulder and laughing at all the funny parts.  He soaked up every word, waiting for me to peck them out in my usual slow manner, until it was late and I had to send him to bed. This story is my nod to my boys--the introverted Daniel who doesn't mind having only one friend.  The boy who hates meatloaf but loves pizza.  The boy who fixates on capes (for us, it is hooded sweatshirts).  The endless sketches of made-up creatures.  That's all of them lumped up in one fantastic boy.  That's why.

And now the "how". There are many facets to self-publishing that most people don't fully consider beyond just writing a story. Here are a few major points:

Editing 

Like, thorough editing.  It's best to use someone who edits as their profession, but I didn't have that option (see Reason 1 above).  Instead, I recruited a handful of people to read through and make sure I caught typos, punctuation, that kind of thing.  Then I gave it another read-through right before uploading it to Amazon and CreateSpace.  I'm 100% positive I, and my troop of beta readers, still missed errors.  I take comfort in knowing that even New York Times' bestsellers still have errors undetected by the people paid to do so.

Formatting  

I write most of my novels using Google Drive because I insist on making my friend read along. Amazon and CreateSpace want authors to upload Microsoft Word files (or one of their other preferred file formats).  Most of that formatting process wasn't a huge deal because I've been training myself to be better about indents and all of that mind-numbing detail.  I did spend about three hours one night doing battle with Word 2011 about page numbers and section breaks while my family went to the school carnival.  Bummer.  Although I did hear, in great detail, about my eight-year-old's meltdown while waiting 45 minutes in line for a balloon animal.  So, I'm chalking it up as a win in my column, even though I wanted to hurl my Macbook more than once.

Cover

Not surprisingly, the cover of any book might be the most important thing ever.  I drew what I thought was a pretty cool cover, a cat with a pencil in his mouth.  The charcoal on a plain white page was pretty drab, so I flipped it into a negative and thought it was good to go.

Except it frightened kids and adults, alike, so I had to draw a second cover.

And then I had to bug my brother to do about a million things to it until it was ready to upload at both Amazon and CreateSpace.  Poor guy.  If it had been up to me, the thing would never have a cover.  Never, ever.

Marketing

I'm still in the middle of this, and it's all trial-and-error because I should have done things different, if not for the self-imposed time constraint.  Cover reveal?  Psssh.  Blog tour?  Ha!

BUT, you can buy a digital copy of Daniel the Draw-er here.
You can buy a paperback copy of Daniel directly from CreateSpace here. (In a few days the paperback option will be live on Amazon, just not yet).

Book reviews are very helpful, too.  Even if you didn't buy your copy from Amazon, you can leave a review here for future readers.
If you use the Goodreads app/website, you can leave a star rating or a review for Daniel there, as well.

Side note:  I am open to other methods of marketing, as I'm reaching the end of my friends and family and need to figure out other avenues of getting the book noticed.  If you think of anything, comment here or contact me the way you know how.

So there you have it--a little peek into my hyper-accelerated process for the debut of my novella, Daniel the Draw-er.  While it's certainly no War and Peace or Harry Potter or anything, I'm hoping it leads to bigger and better things in the future.  I'm hoping Daniel is my little bit of magic.  

Daniel the Draw-er Is Alive... I mean, LIVE!

This has been the longest week and a half of my life, but I'm happy to say that my children's novella, Daniel the Draw-er, is now available for purchase as a digital book on Amazon.  Within the next day or so, readers who prefer physical books to eBooks will be able to purchase "Daniel" in paperback form.  

Daniel the Draw-er

About the Book

"This pencil is no ordinary pencil,” says the cat sitting on the end of nine-year-old Daniel’s bed. "It's magic."

Everything Daniel draws with his enchanted pencil comes to life, from a talking cat named Whiskers to a group of pizza-loving aliens from the planet Beezo.  Daniel’s mom said she wanted him to make new friends. This probably isn’t what she meant.

Join Daniel and his fantastic creatures on this fun-for-the-whole-family adventure as he discovers that friendship is the greatest magic of all . . . and that it can be found in the most unusual of places. 

Ways You Can Help

~ Buy the book. If you have Amazon Prime, you can borrow it for free from the Lending Library. I've even enabled lending so you can let a friend borrow it for a couple of weeks at no charge. 
~ Share the link to my book with your friends and loved ones. If you have a blog or some kind of following that would be receptive, share with your followers. 
~ Leave a review on Amazon. Please be honest, and only leave a review if you or your child have read the book. My goal is to help future readers find a book they'll enjoy.


~ If you're on Goodreads, add Daniel the Draw-er to one of your shelves or post a review!
~ If you're on Twitter, follow me - @SunnyJHenderson 
~ If you're on Facebook, "like" my Author Page 

I'll write more about my experience creating and publishing "Daniel the Draw-er" in another blog post. For now, I wanted to say thank you for believing in this little bit of magic... and thank you for passing it on.  

The Things We Take For Granted

I read every night with my H, who turned 10 just over a week ago.  Reading time isn't near and dear to my heart like it is for a lot of parents.  When we read, it's not a Hallmark moment.  It is hard.  I read each and every word silently as he tries them out.  Most words he struggles with, even those as simple as "in", "on", and "the".  Often I have to stop him and say the beginning sounds of a word until he stops and figures it out.  Reading is work.  Life is hard when words hold you back.

H is two years behind his classmates in reading.  He is impaired in his language and has an IEP (individualized education program) to support this.  The teachers insist upon nightly reading.  We average six nights of reading per week, at least 10 minutes per night.  It's probably not as much as he needs, but it is as much as he will give me every day.  Beyond the services the school district provides, we've been taking him to private therapy with a therapist who works at the place the boys used to get Speech and Occupational Therapy.  He's been there only a few weeks, and I don't even know what they do there because Mr. Ohboy insists on taking him so they can have some bonding time.  I wonder if it is helping.

When we read, I let him choose his books.  We read mostly using my Kindle, though his Resource Room leader prefers we read a physical book.  I don't care what it is or what format it comes in, as long as he gets to explore something he's interested in.  He chooses the books I would expect for a boy in love with potty humor of all kinds:  Captain Underpants, Super Diaper Baby, and the considerably more high-brow Diary of a Wimpy Kid.  Even with such amusing selections, reading is still a fight.  Each night when I ask him to come read with me, he usually whines and throws a fit.

Tonight he bursts in my room and jumps on my bed.  "Sorry I'm late," he says.  "E was tickling me."

This is not my child.  The H I know needs to be dragged into my room for reading time.  This H is bouncing like a jumping bean as I turn on my Kindle.  When I ask him why he's so excited, he says, "I like to read!"  I smile.  I like to read, too.

He wants to read on his own so badly.  I want him to enjoy it like I do.  I want it to set him free.

As we settle into Diary of a Wimpy Kid, he reads slowly and methodically.  I only have to help him with a few words he doesn't know and one he guesses incorrectly.  It is a huge, nearly overnight improvement.  When we reach the end of the first page, I stop him to tell him how phenomenal he is and ask him what happened since the last time we read together.

"I'm reading smoothly," he answers, as if it explains everything perfectly.  It does.

We laugh at the picture of Greg dressed up as a talking tree in the school play.  He moves on to the next page.  And the next.  Then the next.  In our usual ten minutes, he reads four pages.  Three pages is our norm.  I don't know who this child is, where this blessing has come from.

For a minute, I'm on the edge of crying.  It's the warm glow of a porch light in the middle of the wilderness, a cup of water in on a hike through the blistering desert.  It is hope.

I don't take it for granted.

Weak

Beating

My sneakers crunch against the sidewalk.  His back is to me and my heart launches into my throat when I see him.  He doesn't know me yet, not like he will.  I hold my breath as I run past, pretending it's not ripping its way from my lungs.  He must never know I'm weak.

And then I truly am weak and he is the one who knows it best.  Until everyone knows.

Breathing

In the dim glow my little one stirs next to me  Flat nose, pink lips, gold eyes.  He is the reflection of someone I cannot have and no longer want.   This life is a ruin I must wrench myself from and then build again with bloodied hands.  I will not dial the phone again only to reach the machine--his filter.  He must never remember I'm weak.

This life is not all about him, a person I barely knew even then.  He was a plot twist, a literary device.  But I am the protagonist of this story, the heroine.

The damsel in distress has left the building.

I will never be weak again.

The Quitting Season

My holiday winter babies have come and gone and there's a lull until families start contacting me for summer due dates.  The lull sucks.  It's "woe is me" and "I never want to be on call ever again" all rolled into one confused but adorable me.

It's the quitting season.    

It's the point of the year where I mull over each e-mail I get and wonder if now is a good time to hang up the rebozo and live the carefree life of someone who isn't constantly stressed about childcare and if the Doula Wagon will self-combust on my way to the hospital.  I daydream about last-minute vacations not sandwiched recklessly between births and on-call periods.  I fantasize about not having to navigate dark inner-city parking lots and the twisty-turny catacombs from the after-hours Emergency Room entrance to Labor & Delivery.  I smile at the idea of sleeping in my own bed all night instead of contorted into a Cirque du Soleil performer in a rickety vinyl chair for broken seconds of sleep before I'm needed again.  I dream about knowing I'll likely never be put in a position where I'm so tired I want to puke and/or cry.  

And then I sigh and press the "reply" button to set up that interview.

Deep down, I don't know how to quit this.  Not entirely.  Because when I walk into that coffee shop and sit across from a mother who is full to the brim of hopes and possibilities, I know this is such an amazing thing to be part of.  It's insanely difficult, yes, but nothing short of miraculous.  And then I'm pulled back in to repeat the cycle.

Vortex Shmortex

2014.  The winter of the Polar Vortex.

Polar Vortex.  Sounds like an amusement park ride.  I guess it kind of is like a rollercoaster, but with more frozen snot bubbles and less fun.  Negative 15 degrees and close to -40 wind chills?  Fuhgeddaboutit.  

No, I mean, really.  Forget about it.  Because if you don't, you will flee Michigan as soon as you can get your car battery to hold a charge again.

When we look back at this winter we will be reminded of how close we came to joining a monastery and/or finding creative ways to off our family.  That's what happens when you end up with roughly 24597 snow days after Christmas break.  My kids' brains literally turned into cream of wheat in the space of three weeks.  Three verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry loooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnngggggggg weeeeeeeeeeks.  In case you wondered, it is not favorable to have kids with craniums full of porridge.  They don't have porridge kids in the monastery.  Or in jail.

Oh, please.  Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.  I'm sure you had fantasies about that whole "vow of silence" thing.  And arsenic.  But I didn't do it, and neither did you.  I chalk that up as a win.

In an attempt to break this funk, the other day I tried to recreate Dittrich fur's bareback, fur-wearing gallop through the snowy countryside--except with a saddle and without the fur.  Oh, and at a walk.  In snow up to her knees, my horse felt more like a camel than anything else.  We made it two times around the yard before I called it.  Horses can have heart attacks, too.  The way my day was going, I didn't want to push it.

Oh, and I miss running.

Really.  I just said that.  And I even meant it.  It might be a sign of the end times--better check that.  

I miss running outside.  It's not the sub-zero temps that scare me, because I've been out running in -11 degree wind chills (and colder temps than that doing barn chores).  It's not even the snow or ice on the road, thanks to my handy-dandy snow chains.  No, I'm a tough cookie.  That road is just not big enough for the both of us, a car and myself.  And I can't trust my neighbor not to schuss straight into my kneecaps with his redneckified F-10.  Plus, the treadmill's been unkind to my foot this week, so I've taken some time off to help it heal.  I guess sitting in bed mainlining chocolate chip cookies is the next best thing.

There's no real point to this blog, other than this winter blows.  Pass the cookies!

The End.

The Tapestry Of

When I posted my rant about wishy-washy birth partners the other day, the call to arms I so cleverly titled "This One's For the Fellas", I never dreamed that 100+ people would read it.  I imagined a few would skim it and the husband hate mail would begin piling in, but never 100-something sets of eyeballs on my frustrated words.

So far so good on the husband hate mail.  I'll give it time.  And, no, that's not an invitation.  I love you guys, really.  Just not as much when you're being a pain in the behind.

On my Facebook wall, where I originally posted this, I explained to my friends that I'd written "This One's For the Fellas" over a year ago when I'd had the displeasure of meeting a couple of particularly unsupportive husbands.  One man completely belittled his wife (and, frankly, myself) in public and then left abruptly in the middle of our interview, leaving her to blush and apologize for him when she needed an apology from him more than I did.  Luckily, for as many clueless, borderline abusive relationships I've come across in my life and in my work as a doula, I've been blessed to know so many really connected couples and birth partners who go above and beyond.  It's amazing to see this first-hand, but really a wake-up call to me when I come across a crumbling situation.

As a doula, I don't have a psychology degree.  I'm not qualified to help these families in any way other than preparing themselves for birth.  But I still see it.  The very primal essence of birth brings all of these emotions to the surface without any effort.  If there's a rift in your marriage, I probably will get a good glimpse at it.  If you have fear or scars from past abuse, I can guess they exist based on how you bring your baby into the world.  Maybe it's science or something else explainable, but I prefer to think it's intuition and knowing after watching a hundred families interact.  Or not interact.

We are a hopelessly intricate tapestry woven with the bitter threads of daddy issues and doubts and insecurities.  Each one of us are beautiful and tragic works of art.

I cannot fix a lifetime of problems in a few short months.  But I can hold witness to it.  I can say, yes, I see it.  Yes, it happened.  You aren't crazy.

I do not expect to right the wrongs of a thousand inattentive partners in a few short paragraphs.  On the other hand, I do not wish to rile up all of the volatile pregnant women, either.  But this matters, what you are doing as a unit.  You are creating a new person who will be a confusing, glorious jumble of threads from you and your partner.  This baby deserves your very best, not only for him or her, but also for your relationship.

Families leave me short weeks after baby arrives, and our communications usually go the way of the buffalo.  But I always wonder what becomes of the struggling partners after our silence is established.  What becomes of the wriggling child I watched gulp its first breath of being?  Is this as good as it gets, this outpouring of love and joy at the birth of this child?

I hope not.

This One's For the Fellas

Yeah, you heard me, guys..... And, when I say fellas, this isn't to exclude the ladies, should you be in a same-sex relationship. If you're in a relationship and not the one physically growing a human being, I'm talking to YOU. Filter off, and quite possibly, gloves off. I'm blaming this a wee bit on not being topped-off in the sleep department, but maybe just a little because I've seen a recurring theme over and over (which is what a recurring theme is, I guess). And, frankly, for you thrifty gentlemen, I think you could practically put me out of a job if you'd just pay attention and figure out how to put into practice what I'm about to say.

Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?

"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.

What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.

Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.

Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".

And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.

As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.

Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.

I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.

Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.

2013: The Best of My Worst, The Worst of My Best

I'm in my pajamas on New Year's Eve.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course.  Say what you will, but pajamas make nearly almost everything better.  Even Wal-Mart.  Pretend you don't agree--I won't believe you.  

My stomach is protesting for the fourth day in a row.  I'm afraid to eat the salad with Italian dressing I'm craving knowing salad is never awesome the second time around, knowing I hold no interest in becoming a human Salad Shooter.

A pain throbs between my eye sockets and the base of my skull.  I've seen movies like this, where a person's head splits in two, revealing the sparking, beeping innards of the robot menace within.  I'm hoping there's a robot menace within, at least, because I have a busy weekend ahead and the human menace (me) doesn't want to deal with the holiday clean-up that this dumb virus has delayed.

It's probably dehydration.  Darn.

Two Advil and a lot of water later and the headache's not getting better, so I pull on my sleep mask while Mr. Ohboy watches Moonshiners.  Seriously, Moonshiners.  I can't get behind this show, even with a main character, a full-grown adult named Tickle.  No.  With the twangy lullaby of sweaty gentlemen wearing overalls and no t-shirts, I'm asleep by 8:30p.m.

An hour later and the unofficial neighborhood fireworks wake me up.  I proceed to text my friend Allison, who always seems to get the "Seriously?  Fireworks?" texts from me and I don't know why, other than to also stress her out because now she owns a horse who may or may not appreciate said fireworks.  We quickly established that my age bracket is sliding closer to that of a Medicare recipient than its rightful place of 35.  (The fireworks and random machine gun firing awoke me again just after midnight.  Happy New Year!  Huzzah!)

On New Year's Eve I like to write a blog post reflecting on the past year.  It's not happening tonight. The pressure of my pillows against my head and my back make me feel nauseated and sore.  I'm in a bad mood.  I'm uncomfortable from the tippy-top of my head to the ends of my toes.  I feel sorry for myself, which makes me cry.  Sad me is sad.

My guitar hangs from a peg on my bedroom wall.  I'm mediocre at so many things, but I especially struggle with the guitar.  While my youngest was still in the womb, I took lessons with a little old Irish guy at a local music shop that has since gone out of business.  In the hands of my teacher, my guitar sang like a heartbroken lover or a carefree dancer.  In my stuttering hands, my guitar hesitates and falters.  Practice makes things perfect, usually, but I haven't been able to bring myself to practice in a couple of years.  Last night, so lost for something to do, I pulled the guitar down and tuned it.  I thumbed through a few easy melodies, single notes, no chords.  As I pick away at a phrase, my baby boy, now four years old, walks in and watched me.

"What are you doing?"  He asked, sucking in his lower lip beneath his front teeth.

"Do you remember when I used to play guitar when you were in my tummy?"

"Yes."  He says.  I don't know if he really remembers, but I want to believe it's true.  That even my imperfection means something to him.  Even the best of my worst (or the worst of my best) tickles his memory of a time before.

I've managed a lot of good things in 2013.  I've written two novels and a short story, all of which I hope to edit and do something with in 2014.  I've randomly become a runner and completed my first race, a 10K (6.2 miles) in December.  All good things, but I feel guilty.  In pursuit of any of my goals I've been more withdrawn from friends and family and lately I've been feeling like I'm the reason why certain of my kids struggle in school or my house isn't very clean.  

At the moment, all that I accomplished in 2013 matters little to anyone else, even my family.  My kids don't care that I can run a mile in 11 minutes or that I'd like to try to run the equivalent of a half marathon in one outing before 2014 is through.  They don't care what happens to Claire or Liam, or if Lucy figures out why she's in Mitte.  They don't care if my horse gets ridden every couple of days or if there's manure in the pastures.  Maybe they will care someday, but right now I don't see it.

2013 was kind to me, but I want 2014 to be kind to my entire family.  For the blessings that surround me to surround them, as well.  I want the best of my worst and the worst of my best to mean more to everyone I love.  That's what I want for 2014, not just riding and publishing and miles.  

To mean.  To matter.  To make a difference.