So much to write, so little time. Once upon a time, I wrote on my blog … often. I wrote to resuscitate my comatose brain that had atrophied from spending the majority of my time making grocery lists, doing laundry and preparing kid-friendly meals. Conversation that used to revolve around industry news or art house film or politics morphed into simple sentences packaged neatly for child-brains. Writing was more of an escape than it was a hobby or a practice of craft, and I certainly never considered it an occupation.
But something happened after months of writing a lot. I began to define myself as a writer. This new descriptive made it to my top ten list of definitions along with Jewish, Gemini* and lady-lover.
*I have read that Western astrology identifies signs by season and not by the positions of the constellations. The recent information regarding the moon's gravitational pull and changes in zodiac signs apparently does not affect signs here on this side of the world. This may or may not be true, but I choose to accept it for now.
And once I started branding myself a writer, others followed suit. Some of those others even presented me with writing opportunities outside of my blog. And a few of the some actually forked over a bit of dosh for my efforts.
Like all good goal-oriented ENTJs, I need to look into the future and figure out my next steps now that I am a writer. Easier said than done. So, I’m taking a writing workshop. Having never taken a writing class nor been a part of a writing group, I feel overwhelmed and less than confident, and my left eye-lid twitches throughout the days that I have to submit work. That said, I feel awake and challenged, and sitting amongst talented people gets my juices flowing. If I’m being honest, I’m not exactly sure it’s the juices that are flowing. For those of you who have ever spent time in New York City apartments in the dead of winter, you’ll know that you have no control over the heat that is clearly set to “bowels of hell” degrees, and you can actually keep the windows wide open while the temperature outside is bitterly cold and still feel overheated. So when I stand up after 3 hours of writing talk, either my juices are flowing or my vagina is sweating.
So, I told my friends that I’m taking a writing workshop that makes my eye twitch and my vagina sweat, and I learned that a couple of them have been working on writing projects of their own. We talked about the challenges of carving out sacred, writing time outside of child minding. We talked about how isolating it is to write. And then Lauren suggested we meet up once a morning a week and write. No chitchat. No kvetching about spouses or school politics. Just writing. And with that, three of us came out of the writing closet just a little further and committed to a weekly writing session.
This morning was our first official writing session. Rebecca hosted, and I arrived a few minutes before Lauren. We chatted as we powered up our computers and determined seating. Once we positioned ourselves comfortably, we continued to talk.
Deborah: I’m going to move this vase of flowers in front of you so that I won’t be tempted to talk to you. Are these Valentine’s Day flowers?
Rebecca: Yes.
D: Nice.
R: Thank you.
D: I can’t stop talking. I promise to shut up when Lauren gets here. I hope I can do this write-and-not-talk thing. I’m easily distracted.
R: Me, too. We just have to get our rhythm.
D: You’re right. Can I quote you? I’m writing a blog post.
R: Yes. Always. Toujours.
D: You’re so very cultured.
R: Ok, we have to stop talking.
D: I know, right?
R: I thought I would be the worst offender because I was always the chatty one in my classes, but, well, I’m putting on my headphones and plugging in to the music now. It’s not a personal thing…but I’m going to have trouble focusing with your blabby mouth. Just kidding.
D: No you’re not. I need to stop talking to you through the flowers and get to it. It’ll be easier now that I’m writing down everything you say.
R: Am I going to look dumb?
D: Impossible.
R: AM I TALKING TOO LOUD?
She was yelling over The Smiths, and I yelled back at her just for fun.
D: LAUREN’S AT THE DOOR! JUST PRETEND WE’VE BEEN WRITING THIS WHOLE TIME!
Lauren tiptoed in assuming we’ve been hard at work.
Lauren: Sorry. Sorry. I took a quick shower and didn’t even wash my hair so I could get here in time.
D: I can’t imagine showering without washing my hair.
L: It’s just that it stays wet forever.
D: Don’t hand me things like that, Lauren.
Rebecca plugged herself back in and typed. Lauren scratched words on to a page in her spiral notebook…with a pencil! I couldn’t help but stare. Handwriting…in pencil?!? That’s not even old school. That’s one room schoolhouse, Laura Ingalls shit. “I like to know that I can erase,” she explained.
There are builders in the back yard sawing and drilling and hammering. They’re making all sorts of noise, but it’s noise that we’re all used to hearing out here in the suburbs. Between landscapers and their plantation sized tractors and leaf blowers that look like they could launch a man into space if pointed in the right direction, there’s a lot of noise associated with house maintenance.
R: I’m so sorry, guys. If it’s too loud with all the pounding, we could move into another room.
D: That’s ok. I like the sound of pounding.
L: If you ever need a good handyman, I know a guy who is really reasonable and trustworthy.
We stopped writing. Clearly, we agreed without discussion that the business of maintaining our houses was worth interrupting the writing process.
And when we had all entered the handyman’s name in our phones, we wrote quietly and diligently without interruption for the remainder of our session. We found our rhythm, and we were jammin’. Somehow, jammin’ sounded much better in my head than it looks on the page.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Sticky situations
Putting on my coat to get Asher at the bus stop, the phone rang. Caller ID told me it was the BOARD OF EDUCATION. This call usually means Asher is sick or is having a particularly bad day and that I should drop whatever I’m doing which is clearly inconsequential and get him. Well, he probably just sat down on the bus as the phone was ringing, so it seemed a bit peculiar to call at this point to tell me he’s unwell.
Besides, he couldn’t possibly be sick. The boys have caught everything that’s been going around this winter thus far, and he’s just finishing up his 10-day course of antibiotics for the grand finale of an ear infection. I might need to get them tested for gonorrhea tomorrow. That’s about the only thing they haven’t had.
Mrs. J, the school nurse, explained that Asher poured glue all over his head moments before class was dismissed. My first reaction was relief that he was not sick--in the germy sense of the word, anyway. He’s just got a case of Glue-Head. Then, I was confused. We’re talking about a kid who is very particular and neat and does not care for mess. “Asher?” I asked out of disbelief. “Yes, and he’s just been in to see the principal.” The principal?!? He’s got 2 teachers and an aide in his classroom, but that’s clearly not enough to deal with the severity of the glue infraction. Apparently, wearing glue is a CODE RED offense, and only the principal can handle such a crisis situation.
“Is he ok?” I asked the nurse. Asher doesn’t do well with shame, and I didn’t know if the principal simply told him not to do that again or if she chewed him a new one. If the latter, he was probably upset. “Yes, he’s fine. He’s just leaving to get on the bus.” “Ok.” I wasn’t exactly sure what to say next.
“Well, I am simply appalled that Asher would do such a hideous thing!” or “What kind of zoo are you running that not one of the three adults in the classroom was able to stop him?” No, I wasn’t really feeling either of those.
The nurse broke the silence. “He said he was making the other kids laugh.” I confess. I was proud. My Asher is not good with the social stuff. He is awkward with other kids and sometimes even intimidated by them, but there he was finding ways to connect and entertain in spite of himself. Ok, I do think there are less sticky ways of making people laugh, but humor is an art that blossoms after years of experimentation and practice and polish. So, he starts with a little glue when he’s 7. Big deal! “Huh,” is all I can think to say. Now what?
“So, I’ll just go pick him up then. The bus is probably on its way. I’ll be sure to tell him not to pour glue on his head again.” But I couldn’t help laughing while I was saying it. The nurse was not amused. She hung up abruptly. She had done her job. This was the CYA call – Cover Your Ass. She wanted me to know that they knew that Asher had glue in his hair before I picked him up at the bus and had a hissy.
Asher got off the bus, and I gave him an admonishing look with a sprinkle of smirk. His glassy eyes cautioned me to be gentle. He anticipated my wrath. “I’m not angry, Asher. As a matter of fact, I think it’s kind of funny. Is that why you did it? You wanted to make people laugh?”
“No. I didn’t know what else to do. But then when I did it, the other kids did start to laugh and say EW! and stuff.”
“Ok, well next time you don’t know what to do, I want you to please tell your teachers before you do something that might be disruptive or inappropriate. What did the principal say?"
"She told me that I couldn't put glue in my hair."
"Ok, so now you have to promise me that you won’t put glue in your hair again.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, not I’ll try. I wasn’t upset this time, but if you do it again after I told you not to do it, I will be.”
“Ok. I won’t do it again.”
“Thank you. Let’s go home and wash your hair.”
I think it’s time to start teaching him some jokes.
Two cannibals were eating a clown. One cannibal said to the other, “Hey! Does your food taste funny?” Thanks for that one, Uncle Benjamin.
Besides, he couldn’t possibly be sick. The boys have caught everything that’s been going around this winter thus far, and he’s just finishing up his 10-day course of antibiotics for the grand finale of an ear infection. I might need to get them tested for gonorrhea tomorrow. That’s about the only thing they haven’t had.
Mrs. J, the school nurse, explained that Asher poured glue all over his head moments before class was dismissed. My first reaction was relief that he was not sick--in the germy sense of the word, anyway. He’s just got a case of Glue-Head. Then, I was confused. We’re talking about a kid who is very particular and neat and does not care for mess. “Asher?” I asked out of disbelief. “Yes, and he’s just been in to see the principal.” The principal?!? He’s got 2 teachers and an aide in his classroom, but that’s clearly not enough to deal with the severity of the glue infraction. Apparently, wearing glue is a CODE RED offense, and only the principal can handle such a crisis situation.
“Is he ok?” I asked the nurse. Asher doesn’t do well with shame, and I didn’t know if the principal simply told him not to do that again or if she chewed him a new one. If the latter, he was probably upset. “Yes, he’s fine. He’s just leaving to get on the bus.” “Ok.” I wasn’t exactly sure what to say next.
“Well, I am simply appalled that Asher would do such a hideous thing!” or “What kind of zoo are you running that not one of the three adults in the classroom was able to stop him?” No, I wasn’t really feeling either of those.
The nurse broke the silence. “He said he was making the other kids laugh.” I confess. I was proud. My Asher is not good with the social stuff. He is awkward with other kids and sometimes even intimidated by them, but there he was finding ways to connect and entertain in spite of himself. Ok, I do think there are less sticky ways of making people laugh, but humor is an art that blossoms after years of experimentation and practice and polish. So, he starts with a little glue when he’s 7. Big deal! “Huh,” is all I can think to say. Now what?
“So, I’ll just go pick him up then. The bus is probably on its way. I’ll be sure to tell him not to pour glue on his head again.” But I couldn’t help laughing while I was saying it. The nurse was not amused. She hung up abruptly. She had done her job. This was the CYA call – Cover Your Ass. She wanted me to know that they knew that Asher had glue in his hair before I picked him up at the bus and had a hissy.
Asher got off the bus, and I gave him an admonishing look with a sprinkle of smirk. His glassy eyes cautioned me to be gentle. He anticipated my wrath. “I’m not angry, Asher. As a matter of fact, I think it’s kind of funny. Is that why you did it? You wanted to make people laugh?”
“No. I didn’t know what else to do. But then when I did it, the other kids did start to laugh and say EW! and stuff.”
“Ok, well next time you don’t know what to do, I want you to please tell your teachers before you do something that might be disruptive or inappropriate. What did the principal say?"
"She told me that I couldn't put glue in my hair."
"Ok, so now you have to promise me that you won’t put glue in your hair again.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, not I’ll try. I wasn’t upset this time, but if you do it again after I told you not to do it, I will be.”
“Ok. I won’t do it again.”
“Thank you. Let’s go home and wash your hair.”
I think it’s time to start teaching him some jokes.
Two cannibals were eating a clown. One cannibal said to the other, “Hey! Does your food taste funny?” Thanks for that one, Uncle Benjamin.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
At what age do they NOT want to spend time with Mom?
Asher decided not to go with Mommy (Gabriella) and Levi to the grocery store because he wanted to “keep Mom (me) company.” I cannot remember the last time Mommy offered to take both boys out anywhere and leave me to a peaceful house. Why, just the other week I asked her if she would take them out to get haircuts and she countered with, “Why don’t we all go?” Yeah, that’s not what I had in mind.
When one parent works and one parent stays at home all day, each parent has very different ideas about how to spend weekends. Gabriella prefers that we all hang out together. She wants to spend time with the family she doesn’t get to see during the week whether we’re hanging out at home or going into the city for some culture or taking the boys to get their hair cut.
I, on the other hand, want everyone to leave my house for an entire day so that I can be all by myself. You might think that I’d want to get far away from the house where I spend all of my mom-time, but actually by the end of the week, I’m tired of schlepping. I drive here, there and everywhere. Over the past few months, I drive in the freezing rain, on top of icy roads and weave in between parked cars on 2 lane streets that are now 1 lane due to all the snow. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want everyone else to get out!
I want to turn on music loud enough to drown out the sounds of the steam banging its way up through the pipes of our dilapidated house. I want to sing along to nostalgic songs and not worry about getting all the words right. I want to light a fire in the fireplace and pour myself a glass of wine and breathe without interruption. I want to ignore the telephone and the piles of bills on my desk inviting me to drain our bank account of cash. I want to know that I could engage in inappropriate behavior without fear of getting caught like picking my nose or passing wind….if I did those sort of things which I am not saying that I do . I just that I would want to know that I could.
Gabriella did end up taking the boys for haircuts on her own but it wasn’t without my having a little hissy fit about why she can’t just take them out herself. It’s not as if she can’t handle them on her own. It’s not as if she thinks I’m a worthless lay-about who will abuse her free hour by eating cakes and avoiding housework. Well, she might think that, but she would never say it out loud. Mostly, she just can’t understand why I wouldn’t want to have family-time on the weekends.
Before Gabriella and Levi left for the store, Gabriella said to Asher, “You can keep Mom company, but she’s going to be writing, so you have to leave her alone.” Asher believed he could do that. He was deluded. Asher is incapable of entertaining himself. I should have anticipated that this would not be quiet time for Mom.
His presence makes me feel guilty that I’m not doing something with him like reading or playing a game or … He’s practicing the piano, and I want to scream. But he’s practicing…without anyone telling him to practice. I have to put on headphones and listen to music, but I’d rather hear the keys under my fingers. The music distracts me even though it drowns out Asher’s piano playing.
Truth be told, I’m supposed to be writing for a writing workshop that I’m currently taking. Gabriella instructed Asher to entertain himself so that I could write my workshop piece. More guilt as I compose this blog post, instead. But I love you all so much that I can’t deny you a bit of blog. You’re welcome.
haircuts
When one parent works and one parent stays at home all day, each parent has very different ideas about how to spend weekends. Gabriella prefers that we all hang out together. She wants to spend time with the family she doesn’t get to see during the week whether we’re hanging out at home or going into the city for some culture or taking the boys to get their hair cut.
I, on the other hand, want everyone to leave my house for an entire day so that I can be all by myself. You might think that I’d want to get far away from the house where I spend all of my mom-time, but actually by the end of the week, I’m tired of schlepping. I drive here, there and everywhere. Over the past few months, I drive in the freezing rain, on top of icy roads and weave in between parked cars on 2 lane streets that are now 1 lane due to all the snow. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want everyone else to get out!
I want to turn on music loud enough to drown out the sounds of the steam banging its way up through the pipes of our dilapidated house. I want to sing along to nostalgic songs and not worry about getting all the words right. I want to light a fire in the fireplace and pour myself a glass of wine and breathe without interruption. I want to ignore the telephone and the piles of bills on my desk inviting me to drain our bank account of cash. I want to know that I could engage in inappropriate behavior without fear of getting caught like picking my nose or passing wind….if I did those sort of things which I am not saying that I do . I just that I would want to know that I could.
Gabriella did end up taking the boys for haircuts on her own but it wasn’t without my having a little hissy fit about why she can’t just take them out herself. It’s not as if she can’t handle them on her own. It’s not as if she thinks I’m a worthless lay-about who will abuse her free hour by eating cakes and avoiding housework. Well, she might think that, but she would never say it out loud. Mostly, she just can’t understand why I wouldn’t want to have family-time on the weekends.
Before Gabriella and Levi left for the store, Gabriella said to Asher, “You can keep Mom company, but she’s going to be writing, so you have to leave her alone.” Asher believed he could do that. He was deluded. Asher is incapable of entertaining himself. I should have anticipated that this would not be quiet time for Mom.
His presence makes me feel guilty that I’m not doing something with him like reading or playing a game or … He’s practicing the piano, and I want to scream. But he’s practicing…without anyone telling him to practice. I have to put on headphones and listen to music, but I’d rather hear the keys under my fingers. The music distracts me even though it drowns out Asher’s piano playing.
Truth be told, I’m supposed to be writing for a writing workshop that I’m currently taking. Gabriella instructed Asher to entertain himself so that I could write my workshop piece. More guilt as I compose this blog post, instead. But I love you all so much that I can’t deny you a bit of blog. You’re welcome.
haircuts
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