"I better go through all my stuff..."

My family likes to hang onto stuff.  We went for an afternoon hike this week, and Monkey picked up these two large, flat river stones.  And wouldn't put them down when we left the riverbank and got back on the trail.

As we hiked farther and farther, and he went longer and longer without a nap, he began to whine and plead with us to carry him.  "I'm not going to carry you while you're holding those heavy rocks!" we told him.  But he wouldn't put them down, even as he was crying with fatigue, until we got to the next river stop and he forgot about them in the moment--and we neglected to remind him.

I admit to collecting wayyyyy more books and journals and art supplies and books than I know what to do with, but every so often it comes over me all in a rush, and I just want to drag everything out into the yard and set it on fire.

I remember how difficult it was to pack up my life and fit it into the trunk of my car (and sharing that with D. besides).  I remember having to choose--which books?  which journals?  could I manage without any paints?  Deciding how many pairs of shoes was necessary, and choosing the small objects that would make our tent into a home, like the mandala rug that belonged to D's parents.  It was a daunting task.

But today I woke up yearning for those days where every one of our possessions is in some way essential.  And also, where every one of our possessions has a specific place it can be tucked away when it's time to move on.

I wake up on a day like this, feeling weighted down by all this stuff.

So there it is--the results of a morning of feverish clawing through closets and drawers, shoving THE STUFF into bags and boxes.  All these old clothes and toys and diapers, goodbye!  And it's funny...it was just one room (I also made a significant dent in my office but that was more filing and shredding, a super exciting story for some other day, some other post...I promise!), but it made me feel so much better.  (Ask me if I still feel better one week from now when the stuff is still piled there by the door.  No, wait.  Don't.  We will ignore that pile if it is still there in one week.  We will pretend it never happened.)

Tomorrow:  we organize the camping gear!  or...we lounge about on the floor, gasping in the heat.  I mean, it could either way, really.  But I am NOT carrying the rocks, no matter what.

(Title is a quote from the poem, "Dream: Us Kids Swim off a Gray Pier" by Jack Kerouac.)

kids are disgusting

I mean, really.

to the washerwoman go the spoils

It's an unwritten rule, of course, that the person responsible for sorting and washing and hanging and folding and putting away the laundry gets to keep anything s/he finds in the pockets.

Last week I made $8.00, no lie. Not bad for fourteen hours of work.

Now, I suppose it's the difference between asking David to collect his dirty clothing for me like I did today and simply going into the bedroom and scooping up all of his clothing off the floor (even digging it out from under the bed!) like I did last time, but today the spoils of my labor consist only of one orange toy car, a dime, a rubber wheel, and a pink plastic drink sword.

I'm sorely disappointed.

Everything in its Place

I’m organized, I swear!

This picture is proof for all the world that all of our new toys have a home.

Sadly, the home is in a corner of my dining room, taking up the space that, before children, was well-occupied by my own personal library. My books, and those of David, have been slowly but surely forced up onto higher shelves or even forced to move on to other accommodations entirely.

But here you can see: There is a bin for the Matchbox cars, a bin for non-Matchbox things with wheels, a bin for things without wheels, a bin for precious things that want to be kept separate, a bin for “Bad Guys,” a bin for art supplies.

There is a drawer for completed art projects, a drawer for eighteen different varieties of paper and forty-seven activity and/or coloring books. A drawer for Jabber’s treasures and a drawer for Monkey’s treasures.

There is a drawer set aside for playing cards.

There is another drawer which holds only purses, satchels, and other finery.

There are two bins of Little People. (Amy, I asked them if they would rather call their Little People “Chuckies,” as per your suggestion/plan for worldwide name change. They were enthusiastic about a name change; however, Jabber preferred the name “Robin Gobbins,” while Monkey was quite insistent that they should only be referred to as “Pee-Poo.”)

There is a toolbox for all tools and flashlights, including chainsaws, of which they have two.

There are bags, too, and hooks to hang them: for the train set, for the Legos, for the Knight Costume…

And of course, there are books.

So this moment, in this photo, there is a place for everything, and everything is in its place. It will probably never happen again.

Feel my asparagus?

Okay, scene in my house yesterday evening:

Jabber, shouting loudly upstairs, right in front of open screen door:DAAAAAAAADDDDDD! I want you to feel my asparagus!!!!

(Sound effect: Elissa hysterically laughing from the computer chair)

Dad: You want me to feel your what?

Jabber: My asparagus!!! You HAVE TO feel my asparagus right NOW!!!

Dad: (laughing also) I don't really feel like feeling your asparagus, Jabber!

Jabber: (even louder) FEEL MY ASPARAGUS!

Dad: I KNOW WHAT AN ASPARAGUS FEELS LIKE!

Jabber: But mine is WET!

Dad: I DO NOT WANT TO FEEL YOUR WET ASPARAGUS!

(Elissa nearly pees her pants from laughing.)

The End.

Nothing Like a Good Cupcake!

Yesterday was one of those days where it rains pretty much constantly from morning until bedtime, and the kids spend the entire time bouncing off the walls like my house is an elaborate pinball machine with unlimited play.

As it is mid-August, I am nearly out of new and exciting ways to keep them from gouging each other's eyes out, and many activities I have found online take waaayy more time for the set-up and clean-up than my kiddos will actually spend on the activity. I mean, sure, they probably would have fun and learn things and have all their senses stimulated or whatever, but yikes. I may want to edit my novel or watch the Olympics or even something less productive than that.

My one idea that was actually kind of fun turned into a crazy mess. I put out a bunch of bowls, cups, and spoons, and then filled them with some old dried beans that have been in a jar in our cupboard for a couple of years now (don't ask me why they were there for that long because I really have no idea). This was great fun--pouring, scooping, stirring, sifting, and...flinging? Oh dear. Flinging.

In a matter of minutes, there is not a single square inch of my kitchen floor that is unoccupied by a little white bean. Monkey is squealing with glee. So I do what any good mother would do: I ignore it and let him continue. Then I initiate a contest to see who can put the most beans in his/her plastic cup in one minute. Then I try to ignore the fact that they are flinging again.

The sound of dried beans clattering around the kitchen floor--behind the stove, under the refrigerator--is like music to my sons' ears. Also? Dried beans actually hurt a little when stepped upon. Not necessarily as much as walking across the Matchbox Minefield of the living room, and of course it doesn't even begin to compare with stepping on a Lego at midnight on your way to the bathroom, but still. It is unpleasant.

An hour or so later, I finally have cleaned up the majority of the beans. The rest I'll leave alone until they sprout beneath the radiator. It will make for an interesting science lesson later.

So...we decided to bake cupcakes!

Both boys played a part in the making and decorating, and of course, the best part--eating!


Here is Jabber, who is showing his great maturity ("I am more than four and a half exactly," he informs anyone who says hello to him) by getting only minimal frosting on his face.

Monkey sporting a 'stache.
Funny stuff, this.

It was a long rainy day, but there's nothing like a good cupcake!

Can you spot the lie?

MY NEW COMPUTER! It is shiny and fast, and all of my digital photos are like tiny drops in its enormous bucket of space. And even though it's not as good as the full power Photoshop that I used to be a pro with, at least I have Elements to play around with to remind me of what I used to do for a living.

Oh, god, remember that? Yeah, I used to work at a printing company, in prepress. I started off as a plate maker and film stripper. That was such a delightful little job title that allowed me to call up my mother from across the country, after she had been worrying about me and I had been worrying about me, and we had moved into a house with two lovely flakes--one of whom worked a job he loved for two months without getting paid for it, the other worked like fifteen jobs in those two months, quitting each one after less than two days--and David and I were jobless for so long. Jobless and broke.

So I call my mom, ecstatic, "Mom! I finally got a job!"

She is all halleluiah (oh, crap, is that how it's spelled?), wonderful, oh I was so worried, what kind of job did you get?

"I'm a stripper!" Gleefully, you see.

Shocked silence. Would she have to fly across the country and...what? Take me over her knee? Ground me?

"Ha!" I let her off the hook pretty quickly. "A film stripper!"

Anyway, that was a fun job while it lasted, but they noticed I was smart (I don't hide it very well at times, but I'm learning, as time goes on) and started having me do little jobs on the computer. Some type-setting, a little simple preflight, eventually I was handed an entire wheelbarrow full of transparencies of watercolor paintings to scan and color correct. Before too long, I was learning all the programs and doing almost all of the in-house design work.

Too bad they still paid me like a stripper, but it helps me make worksheets now that I'm back to teaching! And it gives me a good story to tell my students on my Introduction to Language Arts day when we play the game Two Truths and a Lie.

Can you spot the lie?
1. Ms. Lissnkids has eaten rattlesnake.
2. Ms. Lissnkids used to work as a stripper.
3. Ms. Lissnkids had a naked wedding reception.

No, just kidding, that last one is true, but I don't tell them that.

Are you sure it's young adult?

This is the question asked to me recently when I gave a quick summary of my WIP. Well, okay, I admit, what I actually gave the person was a laundry list of the things I am most worried about that are in my draft, namely: drugs, profanity, sexual innuendo (though no actual sex, at least not yet), lesbians, and grand theft auto.

Yes, I'm sure it's YA. And in my reading of current YA lit, it's actually pretty tame, even with all of that. The drug scene is really the edgiest thing in it, and even that doesn't really glorify the drug use, since my MC (that would be Main Character, non-writer-types) doesn't enjoy the experience much, and it leads him into a bunch of trouble. Plus it's "just" pot. One thing that makes me nervous about this, though, is that I know, in order for my story to go where it needs to go, it's not going to be the only scene like this in the book.

But the biggest thing that make me nervous about all of this is the people inside my head--like my mom, for one. Then all my students, but that's not as bad as...all my students' parents! My grandma, I can take her. Bring it on, Grandma! I'm ready for the fight. There would be one, too, just for the record. More than one, in fact.

OK, well, making a list here, it's not so bad, if I can just get rid of the voice of my mom and all the moms of anyone I have ever taught or will someday teach. There you go. Piece of cake, this writing stuff.

I know, I know, I have to just write it and not listen to the voices. (Well, except the ones that belong to my characters, but that was more about my crazy than you necessarily needed to know.) I have to write it and be confident and not worry about all those inner critics. Easier said than done, but it's coming out. And it's uncensored. And I love it. (When I get to the editing stage, probably not so much, but for now, wheeeee!!!!!) (And it's okay, it doesn't have as many parentheticals as my silly blog posts do.)

Still, there's fear. There's looking back over my shoulder. There's always a pen name. Ha!