from the Lissnkids family...
notes from a knew-it-all-- the blog of YA author ELISSA JANINE HOOLE
Friday, January 1, 2010
Thursday, December 31, 2009
goals an' stuff...
I made some writing goals, and I've shared them on my lj but not here. But I should share them here, on the public me. So the public (all four of you!) can gaze upon them and shake your heads disparagingly at me when I fail. Um, I mean encourage me when I'm faltering? No! Cheer me on when I'm kicking ass!
So hardest and most important goal for me is about receiving feedback on the ms. that's out there, spinning around in the world right now. I'd like to remain thoughtful, objective, gracious, and rational about anything that happens with this book. (dudes. get ready toshake your head disparagingly cheer!) I mean, I've done what I can to give it its best shot now, and there are a lot of factors at play here. I can keep my head and think of the journey. Yes.
Next goal is about the next book, and that is to finish editing it and send it out there spinning into the world as well. It has come a long way in the last few days (nothing like a deadline to get elissa to spring into action, let me tell ya), but my vision for it goes beyond this round of prettifying. This feels okay.
Third writing goal is to decide on the next project. Got a lot of ideas bouncing around, a lot of different directions, and some of the decision depends on what happens with TDBB and ATW. In any case, I'd like to get one more novel rough drafted by the end of this year. Totally do-able.
And last is for me to keep working on the one story, you know the one. No? Well, I know the one. And it excites me, but I get the feeling it's a simmerer.
So now you know. My writing goals for the year. The rest of my life could probably use a little examination, too, you know, but I can do that later. (oh, wait, was "stop procrastinating" on my goals for this year, by any chance? impossible.)
So hardest and most important goal for me is about receiving feedback on the ms. that's out there, spinning around in the world right now. I'd like to remain thoughtful, objective, gracious, and rational about anything that happens with this book. (dudes. get ready to
Next goal is about the next book, and that is to finish editing it and send it out there spinning into the world as well. It has come a long way in the last few days (nothing like a deadline to get elissa to spring into action, let me tell ya), but my vision for it goes beyond this round of prettifying. This feels okay.
Third writing goal is to decide on the next project. Got a lot of ideas bouncing around, a lot of different directions, and some of the decision depends on what happens with TDBB and ATW. In any case, I'd like to get one more novel rough drafted by the end of this year. Totally do-able.
And last is for me to keep working on the one story, you know the one. No? Well, I know the one. And it excites me, but I get the feeling it's a simmerer.
So now you know. My writing goals for the year. The rest of my life could probably use a little examination, too, you know, but I can do that later. (oh, wait, was "stop procrastinating" on my goals for this year, by any chance? impossible.)
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Guest Blogger: Jabber
To Papa Rick
2009
This is a race car going over a ramp. And he’s going really fast, so that’s why I drew little yellow stripes saying that it’s fast. And there’s puddles, ‘cause it’s raining. The mountains far, far away. The clouds, wind, rain. And here’s the sun, it’s just starting to come out.
Papa will like it because I drew him what he wanted, which was a race car with flames on it, all painted yellow. Also a back tail fin, the motor sticking out of the hood, and that’s it.
From Jabberwock
(Barcode)
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
reflections on the gaudy Christmas lights...
So I'm obsessed with memories. Or with memory. Or both, really. In almost all of my writing--whether it be fiction or goofy blog entries--what I'm trying to do is capture moments so that they feel so real and true and whole and...well, like you're living them. And for most of that writing, I rely heavily on my memory. The way things looked, the way people speak, and most pressing to me, the way I felt in that moment.
I've noticed that a common feature in my novels (and hey, even in that old short story I was reading the other night from years ago...) is that something will happen--maybe a look, a smell, a kiss!--and it will trigger a memory in my character's mind. Sometimes (a lot of times), I write these memories without any real idea of where they will ultimately go in the final narrative, and maybe even less of an idea of how they fit into the theme and the pace of the story. They surprise me, almost every time. And they also, very often, become these tiny pieces of the story that make me fall in love with it.
In real life, the triggers of memory can be subtle or vivid, and I love exploring the path my brain takes when I can trace it. Driving home a couple nights ago, I went past this house all lit up for Christmas, a house I go past every single day on my way from work to home. The lights are a little gaudy for my taste, but the other night as I drove past, I was instantly reminded of another night that I passed that house lit up like that, a night the lights made me burst into tears of happiness and hopefulness and...well...hormones.
It was six years ago, when I was pregnant with Jabber, and I know it was close to his birth day because a) the house was decorated, and b) my belly was wedged in behind the steering wheel so tightly I couldn't breathe properly. It had been a long day, and I remember looking up at that house all lit with its gaudy green and red poinsettias hanging off all the trees and thinking, "Wow. I'm getting a baby for Christmas." And I cried. And I can remember the little flurry of squirming that went on at just that moment from within my giant abdomen, as though Jabber were jumping for joy within his cramped quarters.
So all it took to revisit that memory was a glimpse of some lights strung up on a couple of trees in a yard I drive past every single weekday. Instantly, my whole body was awash in the sensations of that moment from over six years ago.
Amazing!
I've noticed that a common feature in my novels (and hey, even in that old short story I was reading the other night from years ago...) is that something will happen--maybe a look, a smell, a kiss!--and it will trigger a memory in my character's mind. Sometimes (a lot of times), I write these memories without any real idea of where they will ultimately go in the final narrative, and maybe even less of an idea of how they fit into the theme and the pace of the story. They surprise me, almost every time. And they also, very often, become these tiny pieces of the story that make me fall in love with it.
In real life, the triggers of memory can be subtle or vivid, and I love exploring the path my brain takes when I can trace it. Driving home a couple nights ago, I went past this house all lit up for Christmas, a house I go past every single day on my way from work to home. The lights are a little gaudy for my taste, but the other night as I drove past, I was instantly reminded of another night that I passed that house lit up like that, a night the lights made me burst into tears of happiness and hopefulness and...well...hormones.
It was six years ago, when I was pregnant with Jabber, and I know it was close to his birth day because a) the house was decorated, and b) my belly was wedged in behind the steering wheel so tightly I couldn't breathe properly. It had been a long day, and I remember looking up at that house all lit with its gaudy green and red poinsettias hanging off all the trees and thinking, "Wow. I'm getting a baby for Christmas." And I cried. And I can remember the little flurry of squirming that went on at just that moment from within my giant abdomen, as though Jabber were jumping for joy within his cramped quarters.
So all it took to revisit that memory was a glimpse of some lights strung up on a couple of trees in a yard I drive past every single weekday. Instantly, my whole body was awash in the sensations of that moment from over six years ago.
Amazing!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
the anti-santa
'Twas a week before Christmasand two little boys
are weeping 'cause Mama says,
"TOO MANY TOYS!"
...
"What are you doing?" says Jabber, his voice nearing hysteria. I'm caught, in the dining room, with my sack flung over my shoulder and a guilty look.
"Are you Santa?" asks Monkey, jumping up and down.
"I'm the anti-Santa," I say. "Don't look in the bag."
"What's in it?"
"Just don't look in the bag, and you'll never miss it."
Two suspicious boys give me uncertain looks.
...
This is the second year we've honored the tradition of Anti-Santa Day, which I've decided occurs on the first free Saturday between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Celebrations include filling a large black garbage bag full of broken toys and junk found at the bottom of the toybox, cleaning and assembling the parts for toys we've outgrown and want to donate, and best of all, a lively reading of David Shannon's TOO MANY TOYS.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
progress and looking back...
I got my first computer just about nine years ago, in January of 2001. (Actually, that's a total lie, and I just realized it. My dad actually bought me a computer when I was like eight years old--a Texas Instruments thing that I plugged into an old black and white television and copied pages and pages of Basic Programming from a battered manual over and over again in a vain attempt to "see Mr. Bojangles dance"--but this doesn't fit into the story, so let's pretend that computer doesn't exist, okay?)
Up until then, I had done all of my writing on a Smith Corona typewriter in high school, and when I left for college, my family bought me the step up from that--a word processor that had a monitor and could save to a floppy disc, though it still typed my papers out onto the page like a typewriter with a loud, rapid-fire style that really annoyed my roommates when I printed out my essays in the middle of the night.
I still remember how exciting it was when David and I took out a personal loan and bought that shiny Mac G4. It's funny to think about that, how we took out an actual loan to buy a computer. I had been a teacher for two years and had left to go on an adventure out West with my boyfriend and was working in the prepress department of a printing company, a job that had no homework. I was going to be a writer!
It wasn't the first time I had considered being a writer, you know. I wrote stories in endless spiral notebooks from elementary school on, and I remember a point during my senior year when my amazing English teacher (*waves at M.S.*) pointed her fork at me in a somewhat threatening manner and demanded that I become a writer. But it wasn't until I bought that first computer that I felt like I could actually accomplish this goal.
It was that year I started my first novel, The Star Crossing, as well as countless poems and fiction pieces and journal entries. I collected rejection notices from every short story magazine I could find in my thick, dog-eared copy of Writer's Market. I made flyers on my new computer for a writer's group and met every week with the two amazing women who responded. I wrote, wrote, wrote--even penning stories in my journal in twenty-second spurts while I burned plates for the printing press in the tiny plating room.
I had occasion last week to fire up my old computer (which I used as my primary computer up until two years ago, actually) to pull up some business-related graphics for David, and I grabbed a couple of photos and an old short story on my flash drive to transfer to my lappy for the nostalgia. I have most of my documents from that time transferred, but because I was using different software on the Mac, and because I'm fairly lazy, I haven't had a chance to get it all copied. So I spent some time looking over the short story I was most proud of in those days, a story called "Shadows."
And it was weird, so very weird, to look at this piece of writing I hadn't seen for six or eight years, to try to connect it with me--to believe that I wrote it. There's a scene in The Dharma Bum Business where Kat says she doesn't want to design her own tattoo because she knows her art will improve. There may be a point where she's embarrassed of where she was before, and she doesn't want to face that embarrassment every time she looks in the mirror. Looking at my old story, though, I wasn't so much embarrassed as completely perplexed: who was this person who wrote like that?
The writing is rough and naive and yes, I can totally understand why it was rejected, but...the spark in it, the fierce belief in itself, in its own daring...well, I think my current self could learn a thing or two from that writer--the writer who hadn't yet learned about the ups and downs, who hadn't yet doubted herself or censored herself, who hadn't yet worried about the market and whether her work would sell, who believed utterly that the world would instantly adore her brilliance. Reading my crazy old story made me smile; it made me excited about writing, about possibility. And it made excited about the thought of looking at my writing in another eight or nine years, to see what lessons my current self will have for future Elissa.
So along with the story, I dug up this photo of me, with my computer (we named her CalliopeCheetah, the Silver Ponder) and my stacks of notebooks (see them up there on the shelf?) and my keyboard sitting on a board balanced across an open drawer. This is where I became a writer.
Up until then, I had done all of my writing on a Smith Corona typewriter in high school, and when I left for college, my family bought me the step up from that--a word processor that had a monitor and could save to a floppy disc, though it still typed my papers out onto the page like a typewriter with a loud, rapid-fire style that really annoyed my roommates when I printed out my essays in the middle of the night.
I still remember how exciting it was when David and I took out a personal loan and bought that shiny Mac G4. It's funny to think about that, how we took out an actual loan to buy a computer. I had been a teacher for two years and had left to go on an adventure out West with my boyfriend and was working in the prepress department of a printing company, a job that had no homework. I was going to be a writer!
It wasn't the first time I had considered being a writer, you know. I wrote stories in endless spiral notebooks from elementary school on, and I remember a point during my senior year when my amazing English teacher (*waves at M.S.*) pointed her fork at me in a somewhat threatening manner and demanded that I become a writer. But it wasn't until I bought that first computer that I felt like I could actually accomplish this goal.
It was that year I started my first novel, The Star Crossing, as well as countless poems and fiction pieces and journal entries. I collected rejection notices from every short story magazine I could find in my thick, dog-eared copy of Writer's Market. I made flyers on my new computer for a writer's group and met every week with the two amazing women who responded. I wrote, wrote, wrote--even penning stories in my journal in twenty-second spurts while I burned plates for the printing press in the tiny plating room.
I had occasion last week to fire up my old computer (which I used as my primary computer up until two years ago, actually) to pull up some business-related graphics for David, and I grabbed a couple of photos and an old short story on my flash drive to transfer to my lappy for the nostalgia. I have most of my documents from that time transferred, but because I was using different software on the Mac, and because I'm fairly lazy, I haven't had a chance to get it all copied. So I spent some time looking over the short story I was most proud of in those days, a story called "Shadows."
And it was weird, so very weird, to look at this piece of writing I hadn't seen for six or eight years, to try to connect it with me--to believe that I wrote it. There's a scene in The Dharma Bum Business where Kat says she doesn't want to design her own tattoo because she knows her art will improve. There may be a point where she's embarrassed of where she was before, and she doesn't want to face that embarrassment every time she looks in the mirror. Looking at my old story, though, I wasn't so much embarrassed as completely perplexed: who was this person who wrote like that?
The writing is rough and naive and yes, I can totally understand why it was rejected, but...the spark in it, the fierce belief in itself, in its own daring...well, I think my current self could learn a thing or two from that writer--the writer who hadn't yet learned about the ups and downs, who hadn't yet doubted herself or censored herself, who hadn't yet worried about the market and whether her work would sell, who believed utterly that the world would instantly adore her brilliance. Reading my crazy old story made me smile; it made me excited about writing, about possibility. And it made excited about the thought of looking at my writing in another eight or nine years, to see what lessons my current self will have for future Elissa.
So along with the story, I dug up this photo of me, with my computer (we named her CalliopeCheetah, the Silver Ponder) and my stacks of notebooks (see them up there on the shelf?) and my keyboard sitting on a board balanced across an open drawer. This is where I became a writer.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Waiting
I horrified my Lovely Daycare Provider this morning by revealing that I haven't really started my Christmas shopping...a statement that is not *quite* true, in fact, but it's close. I haven't started my shopping for David and the kids. Now that's the truth. And it's not an unusual truth, either. I admit that I am awful--really terrible--about buying gifts for people for specific occasions. I actually like giving people things, but I don't like waiting to give them on a particular date. I cannot even tell you how many times I've bought D. a gift for some reason and then given it to him right away instead of hanging onto it until a special occasion. I basically have no patience.
So then I started thinking about queries, because I'm in the query stage with novel number three, and querying involves a lot of waiting. First you send out your queries. And you wait. And then you may get requests (well, I finally got a few, anyway!), and you wait.
And then an email comes.
Different writers have different ways of dealing with the appearance of an agent email in their inboxes. Many of them cannot look at the email right away; they need some time to prepare themselves mentally. Me? I have opened them heedlessly when checking my email during my prep period at work. It's like ripping a bandaid off; I can't let that message sit there, unread, knowing it's in there. It will drive me crazy. And yes, this is probably a bad practice because there's a lot of emotion tied up in those emails. So sometimes I'm a little giddy while teaching class. And sometimes, of course, the opposite is true. But that's good for them, too, to see what it's like for a writer--and really, to see that with any goal, a person will encounter some exciting strides forward and some disappointing setbacks. I think it's good for them to see me keep on keeping on.
Which brings me back to Christmas, sort of. So I have my manuscript out in the world in various places (one of which shows up when I google myself--a fact which still gives me chills)(what? you don't google yourself? I'm just impressed that most of the items on the first page are now me instead of a Mormon polygamy trial!), and I know it's pretty unlikely to hear from people before the holidays are over. So here I am, being patient. Finding ways to keep myself busy, like revising novel number four!
I suppose I could try shopping...
So then I started thinking about queries, because I'm in the query stage with novel number three, and querying involves a lot of waiting. First you send out your queries. And you wait. And then you may get requests (well, I finally got a few, anyway!), and you wait.
And then an email comes.
Different writers have different ways of dealing with the appearance of an agent email in their inboxes. Many of them cannot look at the email right away; they need some time to prepare themselves mentally. Me? I have opened them heedlessly when checking my email during my prep period at work. It's like ripping a bandaid off; I can't let that message sit there, unread, knowing it's in there. It will drive me crazy. And yes, this is probably a bad practice because there's a lot of emotion tied up in those emails. So sometimes I'm a little giddy while teaching class. And sometimes, of course, the opposite is true. But that's good for them, too, to see what it's like for a writer--and really, to see that with any goal, a person will encounter some exciting strides forward and some disappointing setbacks. I think it's good for them to see me keep on keeping on.
Which brings me back to Christmas, sort of. So I have my manuscript out in the world in various places (one of which shows up when I google myself--a fact which still gives me chills)(what? you don't google yourself? I'm just impressed that most of the items on the first page are now me instead of a Mormon polygamy trial!), and I know it's pretty unlikely to hear from people before the holidays are over. So here I am, being patient. Finding ways to keep myself busy, like revising novel number four!
I suppose I could try shopping...
Monday, December 14, 2009
Happy Birthday, Big Brother!
Sometimes Jabber doesn't think it's fair that his little brother sneaked in the day before his third birthday, earning himself a lifelong position of "first," even when he was not, chronologically speaking, first. (It doesn't help that Monkey keeps proclaiming himself to be "SIX!" every time anyone asks him how old he is...)But when you are in kindergarten celebrating your Monday birthday with treats and paper crowns while your little brother is yesterday's news at daycare, it feels all right to be the grand finale.
I looked at Jabber this evening, telling him bits and pieces of his birth story just as I told Monkey his the night before, and I am so amazed by how far he has come, especially in the last few months.
He can read. He can do math. I mean, tonight the two of us snuggled in his bed and took turns with an easy reader, and he even read the silent e words! Like...when did he learn that? And then he said, "I'm six, and that means I'm four plus two. I'm three plus three. I'm five plus one. I'm..." He paused a minute. "I'm four less than ten."
He has permanent teeth, two of them.
He teaches his little brother songs.
He comes up with big words, big concepts. "Monkey and I are playing animals under the table, and we're nocturnal," he says. "That means we're active at night." Another day, waiting for bus call, he lists the buses that come first to his school and to my school and states, "Well, I think we have a pattern here."
If I'm amazed at the unique personality that Monkey is developing, I'm totally floored by the way Jabberwock thinks. "You and I are just alike, Mama," he said to me on the drive home a couple nights ago. "We spend all our time thinking and dreaming and thinking and dreaming."
Happy Birthday, my eldest! I love you so!
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Happy Birthday, Monkey!
It's late...this day has been full of running and grading papers and writing and singing songs to little birthday boys, but I wanted to take just a moment to say happy birthday to my little Monkey, who turned three today.
Three is a good thing. We've spent some time talking and telling stories from the day he was born, and we've eaten a good deal of lovely cake...my mom made a train for Monkey and a whole fleet of tanks for Jabber...and there hasn't been a moment all day where I haven't found myself looking at this child with wonder--thinking about how on earth did he get to be such an individual?
He has grown wiry and athletic, his baby roundness slipping away...this afternoon he almost learned to skip in the living room, and last night the way he stood in his new ice skates made David afraid for our future as hockey parents.
He has grown witty and wise...I watched him tease my cousin Jim with surprising sophistication and laughed out loud when he and his papa were exchanging puns about the cake "Tank you...tanks a lot!"
He has grown fiery and independent...he knows his own mind and woe to any who stand in his way.
Monkey knows the way to push me to the edge, and he knows the way to melt me with the smallest of smiles. His arms still wrap tightly around my neck, even as he shouts at me to go away. Most of all, I am amazed at what a unique little person he is, and I wish him a happy birthday.
I love you, Monkey.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
blue monkey group...
prodigal blogger returns...with a little cute?
Monkey decided on a favorite color, I guess. He crouched behind the buffet this afternoon and started coloring himself with marker. Luckily we noticed the strange quiet before he had progressed beyond the palm of his hand.
Monkey decided on a favorite color, I guess. He crouched behind the buffet this afternoon and started coloring himself with marker. Luckily we noticed the strange quiet before he had progressed beyond the palm of his hand.
Monday, November 2, 2009
aniversario de boda: ocho anos!
David and I were married on November 1st, and David's cousin got us a souvenir from Mexico for our wedding with a dia de los muertos skeleton bride and groom getting their portrait taken by a skeleton photographer (which was doubly meaningful since D. is a wedding photographer!).
Since then, we've bought Day of the Dead decorations for each other (okay, I admit, mostly he has bought them for me because I suck at giving gifts...) for all our anniversaries.
This year was our eighth anniversary, so I snapped some (not that great) photos of our collection.
Here they all are!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/32155717@N05/sets/72157622594740041/
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Calling all tooth fairies!
(the lazy dialogue posts continue)
Jabber lost his first tooth!
I was the devious mom: Ooh, lemme see! Wow, that's really loose. Do you want me to pull it out?
Jabber: Nooooo, I don't want it to hurt. Maybe it will fall out tomorrow.
Me: But it's barely hanging by a thread!
Jabber: We'll just let it hang there.
Me: Okay, but I'm kind of worried it will fall out in your sleep and then you could swallow it! Do you want a tooth in your tummy? *tickles his tummy* Tooth Tummy!
Jabber: Um...no, I do not want a tooth tummy. But I don't want you to pull it out. It will hurt.
Me: Okay, well, here. I'll just sort of dry it off with this washcloth, and then you'll be able to get a good grip on it and wiggle it better, okay?
Jabber: Okay!
Me: All right, open up...WOOHOO! There's your tooth!
Jabber: MOM! Did you pull it out? That hurt!
Me: But there's your tooth!
Jabber: *giggles* MY TOOTH!
We've actually had a week of firsts, but I haven't had much time to write about them. Jabber and Monkey went to their first Haunted House last weekend, at a pumpkin patch party in one of our local parks. That was the first time that Av had a motorized ghost get stuck in his hair, and the first time that Jabber had to lead the way through a dark, scary maze with Zombies jumping out at him. It was also the first time that Jabber had someone enthusiastically hand him a Snickers Bar, and the first time he realized that not all Halloween candy has been carefully de-peanutized and approved beforehand by his mother. Of course, the candy was whisked away into my pocket, and we tried to stay cool as all the little children in the area snarfed their Snickers all around us like allergen death traps.
It was also the first time I took both boys out to eat at a real restaurant all by myself, and the first time they were able to demonstrate proper manners in a really impressive way. Granted, there was a tricky moment there when Monkey decided that he didn't really want the quesadillas he ordered, and instead the pancakes that Jabber had ordered looked far more appetizing. But it was the first time, when confronted with such a dilemma, that Jabber stepped up to the plate and generously offered part of his pancakes, which, along with my dinner roll slathered in strawberry jelly, was enough to appease the small sticky boy with the loud voice, and we made it out of the restaurant without any scenes.
I personally had my first time with general anesthesia as I had my wisdom teeth out, and the first time in a long time that I've had four days off of work in a row. I thought maybe it would be quiet time to get my book reports graded and maybe catch a nap or two (this pain medicine makes me sooo sleeeeeeepy), but this morning Monkey woke up and decided to be the FIRST of our family to get the dreaded flu, so...fun times!
And my final first of the week: filling out my first conference sign-up form...I mean, from this end of the transaction, anyway! How exciting!
Not a great photo, but my battery died on the camera and this was all I got, but here are the kids feeling like superheroes after conquering the haunted maze!
Jabber lost his first tooth!
I was the devious mom: Ooh, lemme see! Wow, that's really loose. Do you want me to pull it out?
Jabber: Nooooo, I don't want it to hurt. Maybe it will fall out tomorrow.
Me: But it's barely hanging by a thread!
Jabber: We'll just let it hang there.
Me: Okay, but I'm kind of worried it will fall out in your sleep and then you could swallow it! Do you want a tooth in your tummy? *tickles his tummy* Tooth Tummy!
Jabber: Um...no, I do not want a tooth tummy. But I don't want you to pull it out. It will hurt.
Me: Okay, well, here. I'll just sort of dry it off with this washcloth, and then you'll be able to get a good grip on it and wiggle it better, okay?
Jabber: Okay!
Me: All right, open up...WOOHOO! There's your tooth!
Jabber: MOM! Did you pull it out? That hurt!
Me: But there's your tooth!
Jabber: *giggles* MY TOOTH!
We've actually had a week of firsts, but I haven't had much time to write about them. Jabber and Monkey went to their first Haunted House last weekend, at a pumpkin patch party in one of our local parks. That was the first time that Av had a motorized ghost get stuck in his hair, and the first time that Jabber had to lead the way through a dark, scary maze with Zombies jumping out at him. It was also the first time that Jabber had someone enthusiastically hand him a Snickers Bar, and the first time he realized that not all Halloween candy has been carefully de-peanutized and approved beforehand by his mother. Of course, the candy was whisked away into my pocket, and we tried to stay cool as all the little children in the area snarfed their Snickers all around us like allergen death traps.
It was also the first time I took both boys out to eat at a real restaurant all by myself, and the first time they were able to demonstrate proper manners in a really impressive way. Granted, there was a tricky moment there when Monkey decided that he didn't really want the quesadillas he ordered, and instead the pancakes that Jabber had ordered looked far more appetizing. But it was the first time, when confronted with such a dilemma, that Jabber stepped up to the plate and generously offered part of his pancakes, which, along with my dinner roll slathered in strawberry jelly, was enough to appease the small sticky boy with the loud voice, and we made it out of the restaurant without any scenes.
I personally had my first time with general anesthesia as I had my wisdom teeth out, and the first time in a long time that I've had four days off of work in a row. I thought maybe it would be quiet time to get my book reports graded and maybe catch a nap or two (this pain medicine makes me sooo sleeeeeeepy), but this morning Monkey woke up and decided to be the FIRST of our family to get the dreaded flu, so...fun times!
And my final first of the week: filling out my first conference sign-up form...I mean, from this end of the transaction, anyway! How exciting!
Not a great photo, but my battery died on the camera and this was all I got, but here are the kids feeling like superheroes after conquering the haunted maze!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
more jabbering
Jabber: I DON'T LIKE LENTILS. I'm not eating them.
Me: Okay, but that's your lunch. So if you don't eat them, you'll be hungry.
Jabber: I'm going to eat jelly toast instead.
Me: Too bad no one is giving you jelly toast until the lentils are gone.
Jabber: unnnnnnghhhmmmamaaahhh!
Me: Not to mention licorice.
Jabber: WHAT? LICORICE? You know what, Mom? I can just turn off my tongue. I mean, I could slurp these lentils right into my mouth, and my mouth would just not taste them anymore. *slurps*
Me: I don't care if you taste them, as long as you eat them.
Jabber: I'm eating them!
*ten minutes pass*
Jabber: I'm full, Mom. My stomach just told me it can't hold another bite.
Me: Oh, did you finish your lentils?
Jabber: Well, no. Because my body is telling me that it's too full for one more bite. I might explode, Mom.
Me: Oh, good. Then I won't have to get up and make jelly toast. Or get licorice.
Jabber: But Mom. Didn't you know I have two stomachs? Like remember when I told you I had two stomachs, one for food and one for liquids? That wasn't real. ACTUALLY I have two stomachs, but one is for sugar and one is for non-sugar. Lentils go into the non-sugar stomach. Even if there's natural sugar, that falls into my non-sugar stomach. But my sugar stomach is completely empty. It wants licorice.
Me: Okay, but that's your lunch. So if you don't eat them, you'll be hungry.
Jabber: I'm going to eat jelly toast instead.
Me: Too bad no one is giving you jelly toast until the lentils are gone.
Jabber: unnnnnnghhhmmmamaaahhh!
Me: Not to mention licorice.
Jabber: WHAT? LICORICE? You know what, Mom? I can just turn off my tongue. I mean, I could slurp these lentils right into my mouth, and my mouth would just not taste them anymore. *slurps*
Me: I don't care if you taste them, as long as you eat them.
Jabber: I'm eating them!
*ten minutes pass*
Jabber: I'm full, Mom. My stomach just told me it can't hold another bite.
Me: Oh, did you finish your lentils?
Jabber: Well, no. Because my body is telling me that it's too full for one more bite. I might explode, Mom.
Me: Oh, good. Then I won't have to get up and make jelly toast. Or get licorice.
Jabber: But Mom. Didn't you know I have two stomachs? Like remember when I told you I had two stomachs, one for food and one for liquids? That wasn't real. ACTUALLY I have two stomachs, but one is for sugar and one is for non-sugar. Lentils go into the non-sugar stomach. Even if there's natural sugar, that falls into my non-sugar stomach. But my sugar stomach is completely empty. It wants licorice.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Nightmares...
Both of my children can recite Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are by heart, but I'm hesitant to take them to the new movie for fear it will give Jabber nightmares. I think it's sort of telling about their personalities that Monkey likes to go to sleep at night while snuggling this book, There's Something in my Attic, by Mercer Mayer. He stares at the illustrations in the dim spill of light from the mostly closed bathroom door and talks softly to the monster while he falls asleep.
Across the room, Jabber huddles around his nightlight and complains about the book. "It makes me so nervous," he says. "I'm just going to look at my pillow." He buries his face in the pillowcase and tries hard not to think about the attic above his head.
It constantly surprises me how alike and different my two children can be, how they complement each other and how they contrast.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Dear Mister President
Jabberwock is makin' money. Of course the neurotic parent inside me hopes that this is not a telling side-effect of his deep anxiety caused by listening to David and I discuss our own personal budget shortcomings, but if it is, I suppose we'll have to work a therapist into our budget somewhere down the line. As it is, I suspect he's mostly thrilled to have mastered the concept of the tens and ones place and almost mastered the skill of writing the number five in a consistently non-backwards way.
Also he likes to cut things into little pieces.
Anyway, after he made a set of prototype currency featuring simply the denominations in green marker (including the rare but very useful $1,004-dollar-bill), he decided to battle the threat of counterfeiters by adding an image.
Specifically, the image of our U.S. president.
He churned out about a dozen bills with the image of President "BarackObama" artistically rendered in green, mostly with his mouth open in a giant grimace of executive enthusiasm. Then, if you look at the bill in the center of the photo, he tried something new.
"Mom?" Jabber looked up from where he was sprawled on the living room rug. "President BarackObama has a mustache, right?"
"No, he does not."
"Oh." He considered his drawing. "Well, he should. He'd look good with a mustache."
***
(I know, I know. I've been slipping again in my bloggy resolve. I've considered blogging about my to-do list, but you know, seriously, it's depressing...)
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
avert your eyes, then...
Scene: living room, after dinner. Monkey plays on living room floor.
Monkey: LOOK DADDY! Look what I can do! (throws plastic hammer up into the air and makes a half-hearted attempt at catching it)
David: Oh, Monkey. We don't throw toys.
Monkey: But I like it! (throws hammer)
David: Yeah, but we're in the house. And that's a hammer. We don't throw hammers.
Monkey: I do! (throws hammer)
David: No, Monkey. I really don't want to see you throwing hammers.
Monkey: Okay! So go away, Daddy!
Baby Neal Cassady?
Monkey: LOOK DADDY! Look what I can do! (throws plastic hammer up into the air and makes a half-hearted attempt at catching it)
David: Oh, Monkey. We don't throw toys.
Monkey: But I like it! (throws hammer)
David: Yeah, but we're in the house. And that's a hammer. We don't throw hammers.
Monkey: I do! (throws hammer)
David: No, Monkey. I really don't want to see you throwing hammers.
Monkey: Okay! So go away, Daddy!
Baby Neal Cassady?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
before I forget...
Earlier this weekend, I was reading a book with both boys about a firefighter, and I asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up. I expected them to answer that they wanted to be firefighters, since that's what we were talking about.
Just as I suspected, Monkey talked about being a firefighter (but also a zookeeper, which surprised me), but Jabber shook his head.
"No, I'm not going to be a firefighter," he said. He seemed so completely certain--totally confident in his decision.
"You don't want to fight fires?" I asked.
"Well, no," he said. No hesitation. "Because I'm going to be a tattoo artist."
Hmm.
Just as I suspected, Monkey talked about being a firefighter (but also a zookeeper, which surprised me), but Jabber shook his head.
"No, I'm not going to be a firefighter," he said. He seemed so completely certain--totally confident in his decision.
"You don't want to fight fires?" I asked.
"Well, no," he said. No hesitation. "Because I'm going to be a tattoo artist."
Hmm.
NO POLKA DOTS!
I know I've already written about this, but life with a toddler and a kindergartener is not free of repetition, so my art shall imitate life. (oh, stop scoffing. I didn't make it Art with a capital A or anything...)
Monkey astounds me all the time with how vehemently he declares his likes and dislikes, and although these are sometimes changeable (for instance, last night he fell asleep while muttering over and over, "I love my daddy and I hate my mama. Mama is a bad mother bad mother bad mother. I love my daddy and I hate my mama..." but this morning he loved me again), one thing he does not change his mind about is fashion.
The child knows what he likes. And even more, he knows what he detests.
He's also very good at making it impossible to dress him in anything that falls into that last category.
Each morning when I help him dress himself (he will no longer allow us to dress him, which is unfortunate on the days when I am particularly rushed...), I have to offer a broad selection of clothing for him to choose from. Right now, he is not interested in any form of clothing for the lower half of his body that isn't "JEANS JEANS JEEEEEEEANS!", for instance. There are some shirts that, inexplicably to me, are completely unacceptable, even when the laundry situation is such that there are no other options. His Star Wars shirt and a T-shirt that proclaims him to be a "Noisy Little Monster" are two such shirts. I mean, I understand his reluctance to wear the monster shirt, especially because when he does, everyone reads it and laughs at him, but Star Wars??? Come on, kid.
Anyway. On to our latestvicious battle of wills disagreement.
Diapers.
He refuses to wear the diapers we bought, which are generic because as any parent knows, diapers are freaking expensive, and dude, if it doesn't give you a rash and it's on sale, that's what you are wearing.
He refuses to wear these diapers. Kicking, screaming, thrashing, wailing, hitting, biting--refuses.
As in, "WHAT? I cannot possibly wear those ugly ass diapers that have polka dots on them! I HATE POLKA DOTS. How could you even imagine that POLKA DOTS were an acceptable pattern for something as respectable as a diaper. How can I even take myself seriously in POLKA DOTS? Have I mentioned I HATE POLKA DOTS? Sure, Blues Clues was a bit demeaning, but I endured it (except the green ones. God, I hated wearing the green ones. I don't mind the pink, the purple, the yellow, and the orange Blues Clues but I have to draw the line somewhere, you know? And green...it was just too much.) with only a modest amount of protesting. But this...this is an abomination. I will not wear them. I WILL NOT. YOU CANNOT MAKE ME."
And you know what? I can't, either. With all that kicking and thrashing and...undulating...I can't get the damn things on in any kind of manner that will actually accomplish the one thing it is meant to accomplish, which is NOT to make a fashion statement. And the one time I did get it on straight and fasten it up properly? He ripped it off in mere seconds.
Like, okay, you're almost three years old, child. Don't like your diapers? You can go on the potty. But seriously. You don't like your diaper because it has polka dots?
We battled. We tried to force him into wearing the damn diapers. No dice.
We bribed. We cajoled. We bargained. We made promises. We explained.
"Monkey, we don't have any other diapers. These are the kind that Daddy bought. When we get a different kind, you can wear those, but look, baby. WE HAVE NO OTHER DIAPERS."
Nothing.
And then.
"All right, Monkey, let's put on the diaper."
"I HATE POLKA DOTS!!! NO NO NONONONONONONO!" (kicking, thrashing, etc.)
"Oh. Well, good. These diapers don't have polka dots."
(stops thrashing) "They don't?"
"Nope. These have balloons. Without strings. Free balloons that float through the air and have dance parties all over the place."
"Oh. Okay."
Diaper success. For now.
Monkey astounds me all the time with how vehemently he declares his likes and dislikes, and although these are sometimes changeable (for instance, last night he fell asleep while muttering over and over, "I love my daddy and I hate my mama. Mama is a bad mother bad mother bad mother. I love my daddy and I hate my mama..." but this morning he loved me again), one thing he does not change his mind about is fashion.
The child knows what he likes. And even more, he knows what he detests.
He's also very good at making it impossible to dress him in anything that falls into that last category.
Each morning when I help him dress himself (he will no longer allow us to dress him, which is unfortunate on the days when I am particularly rushed...), I have to offer a broad selection of clothing for him to choose from. Right now, he is not interested in any form of clothing for the lower half of his body that isn't "JEANS JEANS JEEEEEEEANS!", for instance. There are some shirts that, inexplicably to me, are completely unacceptable, even when the laundry situation is such that there are no other options. His Star Wars shirt and a T-shirt that proclaims him to be a "Noisy Little Monster" are two such shirts. I mean, I understand his reluctance to wear the monster shirt, especially because when he does, everyone reads it and laughs at him, but Star Wars??? Come on, kid.
Anyway. On to our latest
Diapers.
He refuses to wear the diapers we bought, which are generic because as any parent knows, diapers are freaking expensive, and dude, if it doesn't give you a rash and it's on sale, that's what you are wearing.
He refuses to wear these diapers. Kicking, screaming, thrashing, wailing, hitting, biting--refuses.
As in, "WHAT? I cannot possibly wear those ugly ass diapers that have polka dots on them! I HATE POLKA DOTS. How could you even imagine that POLKA DOTS were an acceptable pattern for something as respectable as a diaper. How can I even take myself seriously in POLKA DOTS? Have I mentioned I HATE POLKA DOTS? Sure, Blues Clues was a bit demeaning, but I endured it (except the green ones. God, I hated wearing the green ones. I don't mind the pink, the purple, the yellow, and the orange Blues Clues but I have to draw the line somewhere, you know? And green...it was just too much.) with only a modest amount of protesting. But this...this is an abomination. I will not wear them. I WILL NOT. YOU CANNOT MAKE ME."
And you know what? I can't, either. With all that kicking and thrashing and...undulating...I can't get the damn things on in any kind of manner that will actually accomplish the one thing it is meant to accomplish, which is NOT to make a fashion statement. And the one time I did get it on straight and fasten it up properly? He ripped it off in mere seconds.
Like, okay, you're almost three years old, child. Don't like your diapers? You can go on the potty. But seriously. You don't like your diaper because it has polka dots?
We battled. We tried to force him into wearing the damn diapers. No dice.
We bribed. We cajoled. We bargained. We made promises. We explained.
"Monkey, we don't have any other diapers. These are the kind that Daddy bought. When we get a different kind, you can wear those, but look, baby. WE HAVE NO OTHER DIAPERS."
Nothing.
And then.
"All right, Monkey, let's put on the diaper."
"I HATE POLKA DOTS!!! NO NO NONONONONONONO!" (kicking, thrashing, etc.)
"Oh. Well, good. These diapers don't have polka dots."
(stops thrashing) "They don't?"
"Nope. These have balloons. Without strings. Free balloons that float through the air and have dance parties all over the place."
"Oh. Okay."
Diaper success. For now.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
jabberish
Well, we all survived the start of school, and Jabber seems to have enjoyed it the most out of all of us. He sums up his experience with these great words of wisdom: "Kindergarten is...um...kindergarten is cool."
We've had some good conversations about the process--one rather amusing one in which Jabber told Ms. N. and me about making a new best friend.
Jabber: Well, you know, I made a new best friend today, but I don't remember his name. He had a coat with stainless steel buttons, though. They were shiny. And he had a voice like a doctor.
Me: (laughing) A voice like a doctor? So like, did he use really big words or something?
Jabber: (shrugs) He just sounded like a doctor.
Ms. N.: What does a doctor sound like? Can you show me what he sounds like?
Jabber: (gives Ms. N. an incredulous look) Well, I can't repeat it, you know, because I can't change my voice. I have MY voice, not his!
We laughed. I have to admit, I want to meet this nameless kid with the shiny buttons just to hear his voice.
On the second day, the bus--which picks Jabber up from my school--came early, and we missed it. Ooops! MOMFAIL. David drove over quickly and picked him up, and all was well, but the next day I suggested that Jabber accompany Mr. L., the "Assertive Discipline Coordinator" for our school, down to the buses, since then he'd be sure to not miss his bus. I had a meeting, so I asked Jabber if he'd be willing to go alone with Mr. L. He surprised me by agreeing without hesitation (Mr. L. is a very nice guy, but I'll admit he does look capable of some pretty assertive discipline). After school, I said, "Jabber, I'm proud of you for being brave and going down with Mr. L. all by yourself."
He shrugged and said, "Oh, that's okay, Mom. I just pretended he was you." Um, okay.
In other news, he has started reading after one week of kindergarten. The two things may or may not be related, but all summer we read together and occasionally talked about letter sounds and stuff. At the time, Jabber didn't really "get" it; he totally nailed the initial consonant, and everything else was a big mystery. But the other night we went for a drive in our new car, and suddenly we heard Jabber shouting from the backseat, "PISS! PISS! PISS!"
I turned around, rather alarmed at the language (he MUST have picked that up from school, I thought), but Jabber was gleeful and excitedly pointing at the red seatbelt buckle. "IT SAYS PISS!"
"Oh. I think you're missing a letter," I said, laughing a little. "There's an R in there."
I didn't really expect him to be able to change his sounding-out strategy, but sure enough, he whispered back there for a few moments and then correctly said, "PRESS! PRESS!"
It was exciting, but not nearly so exciting as the following morning as I was driving Monkey to daycare, and I overheard Jabber teasing him from the backseat.
"You have letters on your leg, Monkey," Jabber said, and I didn't pay too much attention, my mind on the day ahead. But then I heard him back there making those "sound it out" noises, and eventually, he said, "F...R...S...A...L!"
Well, that doesn't actually spell anything. I dismissed it as jibberish. jabberish. But then.
"MOM! I'm going to write letters on Monkey's leg that say FOR SALE! Can we sell him now?"
Wow!
We've had some good conversations about the process--one rather amusing one in which Jabber told Ms. N. and me about making a new best friend.
Jabber: Well, you know, I made a new best friend today, but I don't remember his name. He had a coat with stainless steel buttons, though. They were shiny. And he had a voice like a doctor.
Me: (laughing) A voice like a doctor? So like, did he use really big words or something?
Jabber: (shrugs) He just sounded like a doctor.
Ms. N.: What does a doctor sound like? Can you show me what he sounds like?
Jabber: (gives Ms. N. an incredulous look) Well, I can't repeat it, you know, because I can't change my voice. I have MY voice, not his!
We laughed. I have to admit, I want to meet this nameless kid with the shiny buttons just to hear his voice.
On the second day, the bus--which picks Jabber up from my school--came early, and we missed it. Ooops! MOMFAIL. David drove over quickly and picked him up, and all was well, but the next day I suggested that Jabber accompany Mr. L., the "Assertive Discipline Coordinator" for our school, down to the buses, since then he'd be sure to not miss his bus. I had a meeting, so I asked Jabber if he'd be willing to go alone with Mr. L. He surprised me by agreeing without hesitation (Mr. L. is a very nice guy, but I'll admit he does look capable of some pretty assertive discipline). After school, I said, "Jabber, I'm proud of you for being brave and going down with Mr. L. all by yourself."
He shrugged and said, "Oh, that's okay, Mom. I just pretended he was you." Um, okay.
In other news, he has started reading after one week of kindergarten. The two things may or may not be related, but all summer we read together and occasionally talked about letter sounds and stuff. At the time, Jabber didn't really "get" it; he totally nailed the initial consonant, and everything else was a big mystery. But the other night we went for a drive in our new car, and suddenly we heard Jabber shouting from the backseat, "PISS! PISS! PISS!"
I turned around, rather alarmed at the language (he MUST have picked that up from school, I thought), but Jabber was gleeful and excitedly pointing at the red seatbelt buckle. "IT SAYS PISS!"
"Oh. I think you're missing a letter," I said, laughing a little. "There's an R in there."
I didn't really expect him to be able to change his sounding-out strategy, but sure enough, he whispered back there for a few moments and then correctly said, "PRESS! PRESS!"
It was exciting, but not nearly so exciting as the following morning as I was driving Monkey to daycare, and I overheard Jabber teasing him from the backseat.
"You have letters on your leg, Monkey," Jabber said, and I didn't pay too much attention, my mind on the day ahead. But then I heard him back there making those "sound it out" noises, and eventually, he said, "F...R...S...A...L!"
Well, that doesn't actually spell anything. I dismissed it as jibberish. jabberish. But then.
"MOM! I'm going to write letters on Monkey's leg that say FOR SALE! Can we sell him now?"
Wow!
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