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Use What You've Got, and Do What Feels Good

It's the Monday after my favorite writer's conference. That feeling of joy and excitement lingers, my commitment to writing renewed. The weekend was wonderful - I met new people, learned new things, and had a great time bonding with my friends. The blog is about to experience a re-launch, as I work to build my writer platform. In the meantime, some reflections.

Not everything is sunshine and roses. I entered two contests and lost. Received feedback in my email this morning and as feedback tends to be, some was positive and some soul-crushing. The book is at a place where it is good, but not quite good enough. One of my friends and I talked about how we can receive twenty positive comments, but then one negative comment sends our brain into a tailspin. The thing is, everyone experiences the same thing. Even if you have written a best-seller, there is going to be a reviewer that didn't like the book, and as writers we have to find a way to incorporate the useful, constructive feedback and flush the mean stuff down the toilet. So this is me, mentally flushing the things that make me want to cry and set my manuscript on fire.

Writers, in general, are awesome people. Talking to strangers is so very hard for me, but I've figured out how to talk to other writers. It's like we have this whole, "I'm a slightly odd introvert who creates worlds with my fingertips, oh really me too" sort of thing going on. It bonds us. We've survived the above mentioned criticism. We've experienced first conference jitters. We've sat for hours staring at the computer screen wondering if perhaps we can just will the scene to life. (That's not just me, right?) The PennWriters community in particular is a great group. They are supportive and welcoming, and they bring in industry professionals that want to see writers succeed. It's why I feel like I can conquer the world after each conference.

Fear is okay, but don't let it become the enemy, and don't be afraid to ask for help. Life is overwhelming. And one of the topics this weekend was how we often make excuses for not writing. Why? For me, a lot of it is fear. Fear that no one will want to read my work, that it will never be good enough, that I will never be good enough. In writing and in life. But hey, I'm here to say that I am officially tired of being afraid of failure, of rejection (both personally and professionally), of not fitting in, of anything else that's holding me back. Still afraid of snakes, though. Can't seem to get over that whole forked tongue thing.

My friends put up with my weird personality, and I am incredibly thankful for them. Honestly, I can't imagine being on this journey without them. I laughed until I cried on multiple occasions this weekend, something I desperately needed. It is important to surround yourself with people who love and support you, that you can love and support in return. Writing can be lonely, and while that's okay sometimes, it's also okay - and necessary - to have people in your corner. Cheerleaders. Brainstorming partners. People who make you laugh and hug you tight.

Thank you, friends, family, fellow writers, and followers. Out of respect to my soon to be teenage son (ack!), I will be closing down The Family Van soon and starting a new, more writing focused blog. Stay tuned!

The Incarnation of Love

In honor of Valentine's Day, or perhaps in protest of it, here's a little flash fiction piece I wrote a few years back. And by "fiction" I mean a version of this actually happened to me, which I suppose technically makes it flash memoir. Or something like that. Names have been changed to protect the people whose lives turned out exactly as I expected they would.

THE INCARNATION OF LOVE

As if it isn't miserable enough to be a twelve-year-old girl, add some jealousy and humiliation and you've got the makings of the worst Valentine's Day ever.

The year:1988, the object of my affection: a boy named Matt, part rebel and 100% flirt. In math class he would reach into a tiny Ziploc bag, pull out a miniature rubber band, and instead of slipping it onto his braces he would shoot it across the room. Right at me. From what I had been told about preteen boys, this act was a sign of affection. I would laugh, whisper a flirtatious, "Stop it" and smile inwardly.

He obviously loved me.

When Valentine's Day rolled around I took a chance and confessed my feelings via a student council carnation. My tiny act of adoration paled in comparison to what Matt did to show the world which girl he truly liked.

Spoiler alert: It wasn't me.

It was Kara, who had recently moved from Tennessee and had a sweet southern drawl and beautiful golden flecked hair. I had been one of her first friends when she arrived, but as we approached teenage-hood she began to pull away and associate herself with the popular crowd, destined to become a cheerleader in high school and date all the best looking jocks. Matt, of average attractiveness (a hunk by my standards), did not even blip on her radar. But that did not stop him from sending her a dozen red roses. Roses. That he ordered from a florist and had delivered to homeroom. Their appearance made a mockery of my single white carnation. And dashed any hope I had of Matt becoming my Valentine's Day sweetheart.

What a sad, sorry tale of woe. So what? Heartbreak happens all the time. But it didn’t end there. On a dare, Matt decided to eat my carnation. Chomped away at it during first period as if it were an ordinary breakfast sandwich. Did I mention he was a bit of a class clown? Oh, yes, the rubber bands. An act I had mistaken for affection, one that was carried out simply for a laugh. And there I sat, once again the butt of his joke. If that hadn't humiliated me enough, he proceeded to draw a flower onto a piece of notebook paper, staple it onto the last two inches of stem that hadn't ended up in his stomach, and place it on my desk. Desperate, I took it as a sign that maybe I did have a chance with him after all, and saved that pathetic spit covered stem for weeks. On the paper flower he had written, in scrawled boy handwriting, "Sorry I ate your flower. Love, Matt"

Love! I held onto that hope way past its expiration date.

Meanwhile, Kara threw her flowers in a nearby trash can, unwilling to give any indication that she returned Matt's affection. The path of rejection drew a straight line to her, the one with the most power. It taught me a valuable lesson in the hierarchy of love and showed that taking a risk does not always pay off.

As for Matt, he ended up in the hospital with stomach distress. Turns out the chemicals florists use to dye and preserve carnations make them inedible.

Love hurts, but karma is a beautiful thing.

Measuring success

Per the advice of my wise spouse, I decided to change the way I approach goal setting. Instead of vague ideas that never get fully accomplished and result in an endless spiral of self-doubt, I set out to be specific in what I hope to achieve and establish solid, realistic plans.

The house is better. Most of the time. We spent an afternoon purging the back room of our basement, which mostly contained empty boxes and other random things that never quite made it to where they were supposed to go. I cleaned out J's closet and donated several bags of winter clothing to a local charity. (SMART goal: to organize one space in the house and carry at least one bag/box of things out of the house). I've been consciously trying to end each morning and evening with a clean counter - which has been great for my psyche, but I haven't quite been able to get the rest of the family on board with helping out in that arena, which leaves me a bit frustrated. So that one is a work in progress I guess.

My health is better. I decided to do a thirty day yoga challenge for the month of January. It didn't start out so well, however, because I spent all of January 2nd in bed with a stomach bug. Determined to get back on track, I did days two and three on day three and managed to finish out the month strong. In fact today is the first day I haven't gotten up to exercise, but I gave myself the day off as a reward. My body is sore, but it feels good overall and I'm proud of myself for sticking to the challenge and actually getting out of bed with my alarm. Hopefully that feeling will keep me motivated to continue.

My writing.... oh dear. We seem to have arrived at an impasse. The good news is that I put myself out there for an online writing conference and with my critique group. They've even offered to workshop my entire novel. !! The bad news is I've been riding that annoying emotional roller coaster again, you know the one. Where you feel like you could conquer the world one moment and the next you are doubting why you ever tried to put word to page. Maybe it's because I am no longer drafting in the quiet silence of my office, surrounded by post-it notes and a sense of purpose. Now I am sending my baby out into the world to be picked apart and analyzed, and while I know it is a necessary part of the process and I NEED HELP fixing elements of the story, it does not make it any less terrifying. I much prefer the creative, locked in the room part of this journey. New projects swirl around in my head, but getting them down and going in a direction of some sort, well that's another story. In order to accomplish my SMART goal of sending out (some number - silly me wrote it in the letter, then stuffed it into my stocking without writing it down anywhere else... 20 maybe?) queries, I need to get DOW into better shape. Particularly the query letter, which currently stinks. Sigh. I did enter one writing contest and will receive feedback in May. And I'm trying to be helpful and encouraging to other writers. I really like my new critique group and am making new friends online.

My life in general is... better I guess? I decided to try acupuncture again and went for my first appointment last week. No overnight miracles, but I am hoping it will help get me on a more even keel. The new job is going well, although I feel a little overwhelmed by all there is to learn. Very much loving the shorter commute and lack of stressful traffic!! But I miss my old co-workers and students. Working in a cubicle is strange - kinda like sitting alone in an airport terminal. It can be incredibly lonely despite being able to hear the conversations of people all around you. Maybe even because of them? I don't know exactly... it's an adjustment.

Faithful readers: I hope 2017 is going well for you. It is not an easy place to exist right now, but I hope we can all find positive things to focus on. In an effort to help spread love instead of hate, our family committed to supporting a different local charity each month with both our time and resources. And here are a few more things I'm committing to this month:

• Send entire MS to critique group
• Plot new story
• Try a different exercise video series each week - and work out at least five mornings
• Recycle old/broken electronics
• Give myself credit (not measurable, I know... but something I need to work on)

I'll pop back in with an update next month, and hopefully will have a post or two in between. Cheers!

Letters to myself

Last weekend we unpacked the Christmas boxes and began to decorate the house. My favorite things about the holiday season are our family traditions, and one of those traditions is to write a letter to your future self and hide it in your Christmas stocking. We did it for a few years when I was a kid, and I remember reading over highlights from the previous year, my current faves (which were somehow no longer cool a short twelve months later), and the list of things I hoped to accomplish. My boys love this part, writing things like, "Ride the Viper" and "Play video games for 100 hours". When boxes appear from the back corner of the basement, I excitedly search for the one containing our four stockings, and pull the letters out like buried treasure.

The letters are meant to be a snapshot of the year and an encouraging way to look at all we've accomplished as a family and individually. But sometimes they make me sad. When I was substitute teaching year after year, the letters would ask if I'd found a permanent position yet. Now that I've been querying, the letters ask if I've found an agent. And every single year I vow to be more organized, vow to really, truly purge the house and live with less.

Spoiler alert: I left the teaching world, am still searching for an agent, and the house isn't any cleaner.

But every year I give my future self a little pep talk.
From 2009: "Take care of everyone. And remember to take care of yourself."
From 2010: "Remember that you are a great mom, a devoted wife, a dedicated teacher, and fabulous woman!"
From 2013: "C'mon girl, you CAN finish things! Really and truly!"
From 2014: "Love yourself every day - despite the wrinkles and sagging bits, despite the incessant need to procrastinate. Despite the cynicism."

Last year I even acknowledged that my goal setting often falls short. "Every year you make goals for yourself. Some you reach while others fall by the wayside. That's okay. You need to forgive yourself and move on. Change what you can - change what you can CONTROL. In other words, let others be who they are going to be and focus on being the best you in that moment."

How's that going you ask? Eh. I was sad for several hours after reading the letters because not much has changed in the past year. The truth is, we can't escape our weaknesses - no matter how hard we try to cheerlead them away. There is an underlying current of jealousy in these letters, of wanting what others have and I don't, and it feels dirty.

Last night I attended a book launch for a new writing friend. Her book is beautiful (I read an Advanced Review Copy - one of the perks of being immersed in the writing world), the room was packed full of people who love and support her, and I was happy to be able to share in her moment. But right before I left I said to hubs, "I understand that saying now - the one about always being a bridesmaid and never a bride." It's impossible not to feel the "when will it be my turn?" feelings at book launches, impossible not to sit there and imagine my own book launch, imagine where it will be and if my mother will still be alive to make trays of Italian cookies. Maybe the green-eyed monster is a good thing. Maybe he'll keep me motivated. Maybe I need to look at the positives in my letters to self instead of worrying about what I didn't accomplish.

From 2015: "I'm making a promise to have DEVELOPING OUR WINGS finished in the next six months. To be a better blogger and continue to encourage others."
I finished my rough draft in early April and just completed the first full round of revisions.
My blog entries were at an all time low this year, and I'm pretty sure no one even reads this little life chronicle - but I've been at it for EIGHT YEARS. And in my world of not following through, that's a pretty huge accomplishment.
Do I encourage others? I hope so. Maybe not all the time, maybe not with shouts from the rooftop.

But I keep trying. Because lifting others up makes everyone feel good. So here's some advice from past Sandis:
To all you other writers out there - "Keep writing, hon - there are so many great stories inside you."
To the parents - "You are a good mom [dad]. Have faith in your children."
To everyone who worries all the time, who thinks they are doing too much, or not enough - "Relax. Let things be - you can do it and the world will still revolve."
To the world, especially now: "Love more."

Perspective

I became a mom ten years and 11 days ago, and I can vividly remember the first 24 hours of parenthood. The first five were spent coming home from the airport, hubby driving in the rain on zero sleep - my India.Aria CD playing in a continuous loop because he didn't know how to change it, and me in the backseat trying desperately to calm a hysterical seven month old stranger. Yep, we were complete strangers on that first night - connected only by pictures (we had three of him, he had a chewable photo album with a few pictures of us) and health reports. We stopped at a gas station to change his diaper and were yelled at by the attendant for not having a hat on our baby.

Initial thought: I am a complete failure as a parent.

Back at home, I tried my best to help P adjust to his strange surroundings while hubby caught some much needed zzz's. I showed him his room, lovingly decorated with Noah's arc animals. We read books and sang songs. I felt like the babysitter waiting for mom and dad to come home and take over the real parenting. In the morning, we gave P a bath and he screamed. His foster mother told us he loved baths. My husband looked at me with an expression that asked, "I thought you knew what you were doing - did you lie to me?" In truth, I didn't have a clue how to be a parent, and I'm pretty sure none of us do until it actually happens. My brother had become a dad a few years earlier and he told me that the hospital staff passed him his son and ushered him out the door. Without any sort of instructions as to what to do next.

Truth: No one truly knows what they are doing at first.

There were two profound moments in that first 24 hours and both of them could be seen as parenting fails, but to me they were shifts in perspective that helped with our rocky transition. The first was during the bath, after hubby realized that no, I did not know what I was doing. He said, "Everything we're doing is wrong." Me, with bewildered expression, "Huh?" But he was right. Every smell, every sight, every experience was not what P had become used to in his foster home. It wasn't WRONG in the broad sense, but wrong in his little slice of the world. The second moment took place that afternoon when we brought him to the doctor's office. Our pediatrician, a kind and enthusiastic Asian woman who cooed at P when she first saw him, made my little boy's face light up for the first time. Her face, her tone of voice - the familiarity - comforted him.

It wasn't me. We had ripped this kiddo away from everything he knew, forced him to fly across the world with a complete stranger who handed him off to two other complete strangers, two weird smelling people who had no idea how to draw a proper bath. When I think about that day I think about our gain - I love my boy so much it hurts and I can't imagine life without him - but I think about his loss, about how scared he must have been during those first 24 hours. We were all pretty terrified. But his journey, and the journey of his little brother four years later, must have been incredibly frightening. We celebrate the anniversary of those days (known in our family as KTA day, or Korea-to-America) and recognize both the joy and the heartache involved.

Truth: Parenting is hard, and I'm not always good at it. But I love my kiddos unconditionally and try to grow as a mom every day.

No doubt I have made countless parenting fails along the way and there are plenty more waiting for me in the next ten years and even in the ten beyond that. But I'm trying to shift my perspective. We had P's conferences yesterday and it was overwhelmingly positive. They haven't always been, believe me. But yesterday, as I listened to his teachers talk about how smart, hard-working, and enthusiastic about learning he is, my heart swelled with pride. Sure, a lot of that is genetics, but some of it must be our parenting. Don't get me wrong, I make mistakes. ALL THE TIME.

But somehow we've figured out how to do a few things right.

Van Family Summer Bucket List

Inspired by the launch of my dear friend's book, The BFF Bucket List, the boys and I decided to make our own summer bucket list. As soon as school let out, we brainstormed ideas, wrote them down on a piece of loose leaf paper, and posted the list on our fridge. There were 18 items and we checked off 14. Which is pretty darn good and made for an exciting, adventure filled summer.

Here are some highlights:

BUCKET LIST ITEM #5: HAVE A CAMPFIRE WITH S'MORES

We started the summer off with a backyard campfire complete with requisite s'mores. Our friends joined us for a fun night - the kids loved launching LED copters into the sky once the sun went down. 

BUCKET LIST ITEM #15: DARIEN LAKE 

We actually did this one twice. Once for hub's work picnic, where J braved his first upside down roller coaster (and LOVED it), and once with friends for a crazy day of rides, water park, and slushies. We're pictured above on my favorite ride, one that does not go upside down or fast... the Ferris wheel. 

BUCKET LIST ITEM #3: TRY COFFEE ICE CREAM 

For whatever reason, this was important to P, so it made the list. We went out for ice cream to celebrate the removal of braces (YAY!) and let him order whatever he wanted. Look at the shiny, straight teeth! As you can see, he also decided to grow his hair long this summer. It's a middle school thing I guess.

BUCKET LIST ITEM #16: BOAT RIDE ALONG ERIE CANAL 

There is a lot of cool history in our town. We rode a boat through two locks on the Erie Canal and then spent the afternoon walking through Lockport and sampling more ice cream (see next item). There is also an underground cave tour which we have done once before but decided to skip this year. Fun fact: part of Sharknado 2 was filmed in the Lockport cave. 

BUCKET LIST ITEM #9: TRY LAKE EFFECT ICE CREAM 

It tastes good.

BUCKET LIST ITEM #10: GO TO A LOCAL BEACH

The boys went to the beach a few times with their summer camp group, but the picture above is from our day trip to Canada to visit with some friends at their cottage. It was a fun, relaxing day that included fishing (item #18) and a campfire, with s'mores of course (item #5).

BUCKET LIST ITEM #1: GO TO THE DRIVE IN

Look at us, all match-y and smiling... oh wait...

Our cub scout pack organized a summer outing to the drive in, and it was the perfect opportunity to cross another item off the list and enjoy a night out at the movies watching one of my all-time faves, The Princess Bride. P had a good time, he just didn't want to have his picture taken.

BUCKET LIST ITEMS #5 and #18: GO CAMPING/GO FISHING

Camping next to a creek = AWESOME! I'm fairly certain J would still be in there looking for crayfish if we hadn't dragged him out when we left the campground.

BUCKET LIST ITEM #7: CAMP IN THE FAMILY ROOM

Labor day weekend. Second to last night of summer vacation. Perfect opportunity to sneak in one more bucket list item. I have no idea why they wanted to sleep on the hard floor under a fort of several blankets ("Mom, it's really sweaty under here!"), but they did.

I'm happy with how things went this summer. The boys grew a little taller, a little braver, and a little more independent. I am grateful for their enthusiasm and willingness to try new things and happy that we are able to spend time together as a family. The day is coming when they'll have summer jobs and scoff at the idea of hanging out with mom and dad. So I'm doing my best to cherish the moments we have right now and letting go one finger at a time.

Oh, summer...

Hello from under the rock of summer that buried me sometime in June. There have been several blog posts running through my brain (typically at two a.m.) but my fingers and the keyboard have been strangers these past few months. Don't ask about the book; it's covered in avoidance cobwebs. My Twitter account? Silent. BUT, the family has been plugging away at our summer bucket list, and I promise to post a detailed account, complete with photos, sometime in September.

Or October. Hashtag PROCRASTINATION.

I'll try to avoid bucket list spoilers, but here are some of the things the Family Van has been up to since my last Internet shout-out:

Hubs went to Milan for work and took me with him. Hello, Italy. Your food is delicious, and I had fun wandering your streets and checking out your amazing churches. Love, Sandi.

The boy graduated elementary school and is headed to the big, bad, dreaded middle school in two weeks. Neither one of us is ready, but when will we be? Truly? Our root beer float talk went well (P requested that root beer floats accompany our birds and bees conversation), but I am slightly terrified about the onset of puberty. And not sure how much longer I can openly blog about my preteen without him stumbling on my posts and feeling mortified.

Both kiddos went to scout camp for the first time (with mom and dad in tow) and loved it. Despite a weekend filled with wicked storms, we had a great time learning new skills and bonding with the other scout families. P also learned not to carry electronics in your pocket while paddling in a canoe.

Hubs and I decided to coach P's soccer team next season. And by season I mean now through next July. The past year was a little rough - there was a bit of bullying among teammates as well as aggressive parents on the sidelines, and we are hoping to create a more positive environment. The last (and only other) time we coached together was back in Virginia when we were in our early 20's - it was a coed U15 team, and it was a tough run. But we're ready to get back in the saddle and excited about sharing our passion for soccer.

Summer has been fun, but I look forward to getting into the routine of fall, a routine which hopefully includes time for writing.

Stay tuned for our bucket list post!!

Entering the next phase

Once upon a time in the not so distant past, I stood anxiously at a gate in JFK airport and waited for my son to appear. Tonight, I attended a parent information session at the middle school. Middle. School. The place where one comes in like an innocent little lamb and leaves as a horny teenager.

I am not ready.

To begin with, middle school remains a rough section of my past. It's where I mustered up the courage to ask a boy if he would dance with me and was met with a response that echoed in my subconscious for years to come: "My feet are tired." It's where I was taunted, teased, and harassed for talking to myself, having facial hair, and looking at someone's boyfriend the wrong way. It's where I discovered that boys prefer silly girls over smart ones.

Not the best years of my life by any stretch.

P is nervous. He's nervous about forgetting his locker combination, getting too much homework, and encountering bullies. But he's excited about the freedom and about joining computer club and chess club (a geek after my own heart.) I want him to hold on to the excitement instead of focusing on the things that make him nervous. Which means I need to let go of my own demons and let him be him.

That's harder than it looks. I teach through examples; he's already been subjected to the story of my facial hair taunter and the girl who was my BFF in 5th grade that turned all our friends against me right before middle school. He's even heard the tired feet story, complete with the part about how I barfed in the bathroom after it happened. Part of me hopes he'll learn from my experiences and mistakes, and realize that I came out okay (well, mostly) on the other side. The rest of me knows that he needs to have his own experiences, make his own mistakes, mistakes that he'll tell his kids about someday when they're getting ready to head off to middle school.

Parenting is so much harder than I ever imagined it would be, and there is still a lot of road ahead of us. Each day I have to let a little piece of my boy go and hope that he can navigate the world without me. He's a good kid. Smart, outgoing, secure in who he is. He yearns to be fiercely independent but still kisses me every morning before he gets on the bus and every night before he goes to bed. I want to hold on to my little lamb a bit longer, but I know I need to let him grow up. I need to let go of all the things that happened to me when I was his age, but I know that they have forever shaped me just as I know whatever happens to my boy in the next few years will forever shape him. He will have his heart broken, and may break a heart or two. He'll mess up, make bad decisions, ruin friendships. But he'll make new friends, learn more about the world, and figure out how to navigate through all of the crazy changes his body has in store for him.

I can't wait to see the amazing teenager come out on the other side.

Comfort zone? What comfort zone?

Greetings from my second trip to the annual PennWriters conference in Pennsylvania. The conference is in Lancaster this year, a bit farther from home base, but worth the drive. I had a wonderful stop over visit to my old stomping grounds and dinner with one of my favorite people. And solo road trips allow the advantage of singing as loudly as possible to the most ridiculous mix tape.

Yes, I said mix tape.

The original plan was to meet up with another friend of mine at the conference, but she was unable to go, a fact that sent me into a bit of a panic. Faithful readers know that I have social anxiety, as well as puts-foot-in-mouth disease. If words actually leave my mouth. Usually I create the world's most uncomfortable silence. It's bad.

So before I left I sought out the advice of my circle of trust, or should I say my circle of trust took it upon themselves to give me advice. Either way, the results were typical. Mom said to smile, be myself (but mom, that's part of the problem), and oh yeah, smile. That solves everything. She then told my sister, who sent me a confidence boosting string of texts advising me to channel the extroverts I know. It was actually rather sage-like and included the idea of putting on a "cloak of confidence." In other words, fake it till you make it. I can do that. I'm an actress, or at least I was back in the day. Mom said if I could get on stage in front of an audience then why can't I engage with a stranger in a bit of small talk. "It's a stage" has become one of this weekend's mantras.

The hubs told me to look at the weekend as an opportunity to enjoy "me time" and do the things that I like to do when I'm alone - just do them in a new setting. Wander around and people watch? check. Sit by the pool and read a book? check. Enjoy whatever weird vegan food/juice I want without having to justify myself? check. The only thing I won't get to is dance around wildly, although my suite at the hotel is big enough should I decide to.

So far the conference is going well. I miss my friend, but we've been texting throughout the day and she said it was like having a virtual reality experience. Every once in a while I get a wave of, HOLY CRAP I'M ALL ALONE, WHAT NOW. But I just breath and smile (see, mom, I do listen) and come up with something to start the conversation ball rolling. With everyone I encounter. I do not allow the evil enemy, Uncomfortable Silence, to even bare his claws.

Because here's the thing: writers are inherently introverted. And I've noticed that a lot of people come here alone. So they're probably just as freaked out on the inside as I am. It isn't a perfect system, mind you. But I'd much rather be the person who starts a benign conversation that may or may not lead anywhere than the person who sits in a puddle of negative thoughts trying to figure out what to say next. It's a stage, I'm an actress, someone who seems like she is outgoing but is really just trying to keep herself from imploding. And then, I hide away in my room to recharge.

Do what scares you, people. Figure out a way to make it work. It's worth it.

The plane, the plane!

The following post is somewhat overdue. My blog advertises that it is a journey of motherhood, cakes, and procrastination. Let's just say the first and third got in the way of blogging about the second. But I must not forget the roots of this blog, and that is to shamelessly flaunt my bi-yearly cake creations. This year P asked for a, oh gosh I've already forgotten the name of the plane. Something P something Mustang. P 51 Mustang. Thank you search history. Anyway, he's very much into all things war and weaponry, so I wasn't all that surprised when he requested a fighter plane. The design was relatively simple, although I was told afterward that the wings were supposed to be straight out, not at an angle, which I honestly only altered to make the cake fit on the tray. Ah well, lesson learned. Fit matters not; follow the pictures.

After nine years of cake building, the process has become rather streamlined. This year I went with a confetti batter and made a batch of rice krispie treats because they are super easy to mold into whatever shape you need. The key is to mold when the treats are warm and to do so on a well-buttered surface wearing plastic gloves sprayed with cooking spray. For the cake, I used a large loaf pan for the body and two small loaf pans for the cockpit, nose and rear wing (tail?). 

Frosting is no longer my nemesis. I make a batch of traditional buttercream frosting (room temperature butter, confectioner's sugar, and milk - I use soy) and stir in about half a container of cool whip. The cool whip creates a smooth consistency and allows for frosting along cut edges. Back when I made the tie fighter, I learned the trick to gray: black food coloring with a dash of blue. It looked too purple at first and I was a bit worried, but when it cooled the color was beautiful. 

I kept the decorations simple. Red coin candies flipped upside down, thick black licorice for the propellers and guns, and blue sprinkle sky with marshmallow clouds. P created additional guns with the candles.

 

Other than the misdirected wings, the cake turned out nicely, and I spent much less time obsessing about it this year. Which makes the husband happy. And the boy is clearly pleased. Which makes mama happy.

Now we just need to stop procrastinating and get the thank you notes done.

This is The End

I am incredibly close to the end of the first draft of my second novel. Scary close. And I am afraid to end it. Maybe it's procrastination. Certainly a believable theory given my reputation. Revising is way harder and less emotionally rewarding than drafting, the eventuality of sending it off for critique is mildly terrifying (okay really terrifying), and I can avoid those things simply by not writing the end. Just keep telling everyone that it's a work in progress. Then I don't have to let anyone else read it (including myself) and decide whether or not it is worthy of being read in the first place. It's like a nearly finished sweater that I keep stuffing back into the knitting basket so no one can look at and judge the mistakes.

Okay, procrastination, lack of confidence, all good theories. Then there's my weird desire to have the ending be a melodramatic moment in my life. When I finished the first draft of STREETLIGHTS, it was on a Friday night during Write Club, a now defunct group of writers on Twitter that cheered each other on all day via thirty minute writing sprints. I wrote a huge chunk of my book during those sprints and was thrilled to finish it with my virtual cheering squad alongside me, especially my friend and amazing sprint leader, Stephanie. Also, that night our local college had a concert and there were fireworks. Fireworks. To celebrate my accomplishment of course. But tonight? It's an ordinary Monday. And I'm not ready to celebrate just yet. So I stare at the last chapter title (aptly named "sixty four") and write cute notes to myself instead of finishing the story. Then I go onto my blog and waste more time talking about how I don't want to write the ending.

Endings are hard, yo. There's emotional stuff. Lots of it. Both in the story itself and in the writer's psyche. It can't just be me. I know there are others out there who feel the same way. Or maybe not. Maybe they rush through the last few chapters, eager to get their ideas down before they fade away. Eager to finish the story they felt compelled to tell. But for some reason I'm just not ready to write THE END. I know it's not goodbye. I will spend the next several months (after the designated first draft stewing period) in an intimate relationship with my characters, dissecting their every move, every eyebrow raise and turn of phrase. They will continue to live in my head like real people - talking to me during sleepless nights, pointing out the plot holes they're afraid to fall into.

So what's my problem, then? What am I afraid of?

It's 4/4/16. A good date, mathematically. The kids are in bed, and there are about 30 minutes before my husband gets home. My trusty sidekick cat is here to cheer me on with her snoring, and I've got saltines and dairy free butter for fuel.

Guess I'll give it a go. Stay tuned, faithful readers.

My Place on the Shelf

There is a philosophy that suggests if you put your desires out into the universe that those desires will come true. And while I'm often found rolling my eyes at my mother's similar “Think Positive” theory, I believe there must be some amount of truth in it. Not that I believe one can just imagine oneself rich and famous and it will miraculously happen. Success takes work. But the idea of visualization is something I can grab hold of, something I can easily implement in my daily life. Which sounds a bit like my dad’s way of giving driving instructions. "Picture it. Are you picturing it?”

My husband often asks me why I write. Is it because I hope to become rich and quit my day job? No, I am not delusional. I realize that most published writers require an additional income, and that very few are able to survive on the money they make from writing. Do I desire fame? No, again, this is the exception, not the rule. So what is it? (I mean, besides the aching need to get the voices in my head to stop telling me stories.)

I write because someday I hope to be able to walk into a bookstore, head to the YA section, search all the way to the near end of the alphabet, and find my book. A book. With my name on the cover and words that came from my brain spilling off of every page. Because when I tell people I’m a writer and they ask if they can read my book, I want to be able to direct them to the nearest online or brick and mortar retailer where they can buy a copy to read. Sometimes I find myself standing in a bookstore and picturing my book on the shelf. Is this the behavior of a crazy person, or someone employing the philosophy of visualization?

Last night I went out with three writer friends, all amazing women, all at different parts of their journey. The evening was filled with great conversation, not just about writing but about children, pets, birthday parties, and life in general. I felt so understood. And when I mentioned picturing my book on the shelf, they all shook their heads in agreement. And so we decided to go through the store and take a photograph of where exactly our book would live.

Shelf placement is a big deal. When readers are browsing a bookstore, what will make them grab yours? Maybe they were looking for a popular author and you happen to be close by. Maybe your books are situated near another writer of similar works. Like R.L. Stine? Try this! My friend whose first book debuts in May will be in between Rick Riordan and J.K. Rowling, two writers who most decidedly do not need day jobs. A girl I met for the first time last night has two books on the way and will be sharing the shelf with Tolstoy. My book, when it enters the world outside of my laptop, will be down low, sure, but close to Ned Vizzini (RIP) and Markus Zusak, best selling authors who weren't afraid to take risks with their work. I’ll take it.

After we took the photos, we talked about starting a Twitter hashtag, and my immediate fear was that people would think it was pretentious. I mean, I’m pointing at a gap in the shelf as if to say, yep, my book will live here someday.

But it’s not pretentious. It’s optimistic. It’s the power of visualization. It’s about having a dream, pouring your blood, sweat, and tears (and a whole lot of hummus) into that dream, and one day being able to stand back and admire your accomplishment.

And for me, it’s about having a place on the shelf. Not just for my book, but for me. The writing community is a warm supportive place most days. But there are days when I feel like I don’t fit in, when I doubt that I’ll ever be part of the exclusive club of published authors, when I convince myself that the whole idea is a crock of garbage and I should just give up entirely.

Then I have nights like last night. Where my thoughts and ideas are valued, where I feel connected to other writers and encouraged to continue on this path. Where I feel nestled in between other stories, stories that prop me up when I start to falter.

So, without further ado, #ThisIsMyBookSpot:

Picture it. Are you picturing it?

Yeah, I'd watch that over and over

I'm not a big fan of GIFs (as you can see by the complete lack of them on my blog). Something about the perpetual repetition makes me uneasy. But sometimes there are moments in life that I wish I could turn into a GIF. Like when P laughs so hard that he snorts or when J hugs me with every little piece of energy in his body. (He is the world's best snuggler. Really and truly.) Lately, P has taken to jump scaring me, and although I'm pretty sure one of these days I'm going to pass out and/or have a heart attack, I'm sure the look on my face would make a very entertaining GIF. Not that I would want that circulating the internet.

Hm. I'm suddenly worried about my future on social media once my child has a phone.

Yesterday I experienced a total GIF-worthy moment. I work at a community college helping students with disabilities navigate the world of higher education. Part of my job is to administer entrance exams that the students must pass in order to begin their program. If they don't pass, they are required to take non-credit courses in either math or English (or both) until they can prove competency. Many of my students are older and have spent much of their lives struggling with math or English (or both) and the tests create a lot of anxiety for them. They are often placed in the remedial courses and even then may be unable to pass and move forward. It can be extremely disheartening.

But then there are moments like yesterday. A young woman came in to take her math test with us after a previous attempt at the test, two attempts at the class, and an intensive training session over break. There was no doubt in my mind that she wanted to succeed and had been doing everything in her power to break through to the next level. When I went in to check her scores and we discovered that she passed, she jumped out of her seat, screamed, high-fived me with both hands, and then gave me an enormous hug. She started to cry and told me how thankful she was that we were able to help her on her journey. I couldn't help but grin and tear up a bit myself.

There's a video feed in the lab and we can watch saved footage at any time, something I usually only do when I suspect cheating. But I plan to watch the footage from yesterday whenever I start to feel overwhelmed, disappointed, or just downright sad. Life is full of heartbreak, but those moments of pure joy and accomplishment make up for it.

I am so inspired by that student and by many others who overcome obstacles daily in order to pursue their dream.

Now please excuse me while I check the hallway for hidden cameras.

Operation NO MORE NAGGING: Day One

Last night hubs and I had a rather heated parenting discussion. Oldest is halfway through fourth grade, which for students in our district means he is a mere eight months away from

~~MIDDLE SCHOOL~~

Pardon me while I collect myself.

Okay, I'm better now. The way I see it, there is a significant amount of mental and physical preparation required in the months ahead. We've already warned him that "THE TALK" is coming this summer and I've started to make sure he knows all the anatomically correct names for body parts so that we can skip over the giggling and get right to the sighing and nose pinching (he pinches his nose and shakes his head when he deems the conversation cringe worthy).

Side note: the day I taught my kids the word "anus" we were in the car on the way to weekly dinner with my mother in law. The boys entered her house loudly chanting "ANUS, ANUS, ANUS!" Perhaps not the best timing.

Aside from the coming of age inevitabilities, we are trying to create a stronger sense of independence and internal motivation so that the boy is able to handle the increased work load and hands-off approach of his future school years. Let me tell you, this is not easy. Hence last night's argument.

P is asked to complete various charts that track his progress, and each chart has a set number of required minutes. He is supposed to read 30 minutes a day, review math facts 10 minutes a day, and practice his violin 20 minutes a day. Personally, I don't think one hour is all that unreasonable, but tacked onto that is daily math and spelling homework that usually take him an additional half hour. Still not too bad. We get home three days a week at 2:30 and he has time on the other two days to complete his homework during the after school program. Soccer is two nights a week and scouts is one. It is entirely possible to complete his required work AND still have plenty of time to relax and have fun.

The problem is the charts. Days pass and he forgets to fill them in. I nag. He makes up numbers and asks me to sign the sheet. But if I don't, there isn't much of a consequence at school. The charts have little value to him, and it frustrates me to watch him become complacent about his responsibilities. I nag some more. He acts as if I've asked him to cut the grass with a pair of scissors.

And now hubs has started to rally against my nagging. He told me yesterday that if I keep kicking our son along the only thing he's going to have is a bruised ass. But I don't know how to let go. My parents tried to push me when I was in school and it didn't work. I was smart but also pretty lazy and knew how to do just enough to get by. It wasn't until graduate school that I finally figured out that, hey - if I try hard I can do amazingly well! I don't want that to happen to P, but my pushing is only repeating the cycle.

So after having it out with hubs last night, he challenged me to give up nagging for one week. No reminders to practice violin or read a book in the required genre. Let P figure it out for himself and if he fails, he fails. Of course there's a big math test this week, and it is going to take a whole lot of discipline for me not to tell him to study. Last night we sent him upstairs to get ready for soccer practice. He had ten minutes to change and get his bag together. 15 minutes later he was still upstairs screwing around with his brother. I bit my lip. Eventually he came downstairs and ended up being seven minutes late for practice.

That kind of stuff makes me batty. But something has to give, and I can only hope that in this next week he'll realize the method behind my madness. That I just want him to do his best, to do what is required and then a little bit more because that's what keeps you ahead in the world, and... sigh... it's going to be a long week.

GOALS! What are they good for? Absolutely Nothing!

Wait.

That is no way to motivate somebody.

It's January third. Right about now there are people everywhere feeling gung-ho about their new year's resolutions. But give it time. Because while some may actually change their behavior, most of us fall short of what we originally intend when we make our drunken promises to the universe on December 31. In other words, we fail.

Example: Every year I swear that I am finally going to get organized, to purge my house of unwanted things and live simpler. It's actually become a running joke with my future self in the annual Christmas stocking letter. I got really close once. Read an article in one of my mom's magazines about how you need to assign a week to each section of your house and go through every space, showing your useless crap no mercy. In six weeks your house would be free of clutter. I made amazing progress until I got to our den and was hit with the brick wall of SO. MUCH. PAPERWORK.

And then I quit.

Because goals are hard, especially the ones that try to re-shift our entire way of thinking/living. And at some point you may need to accept something about yourself that is less than perfect, and that's okay. But it doesn't stop you from making the same goal over and over again. I tried again last year, with a book about decluttering, a new calendar, and a promise to myself that this time it would be different. It wasn't. I barely scratched the surface. Or dusted it for that matter.

Is it healthy for us to constantly try to fix what we, or others, think is wrong with our bodies, houses, lives in general? What if, instead of setting goals that focus on some unattainable perfection that would likely leave us miserable, we set goals that are bite sized, within reach, and fit within the confines of who we are naturally meant to be? I'm not saying don't challenge yourself. Challenging yourself is good. Push outside the comfort zone every once in a while. But don't be ashamed if you have to crawl right back in. Growth is best made in baby steps rather than huge leaps. In my opinion anyway.

More importantly, have a strong support network. One of the other goals that I routinely set for myself is to let go of fear. This may seem very fluffy and over generalized, but I have a lot of very specific, very irrational fears. Sometimes I am forced to get over them, at least to a degree that allows me to function (somewhat) normally. One of my many fears: Phone calls. Most introverts will join me in the joy that is text messaging - the ability to communicate without having to dial someone's number and wait for them to answer, secretly hoping it will go to voice mail but then talking so randomly when voice mail answers that you sound like an idiot. When I interviewed for my current job I was asked to name something I don't like to do. Easy. Talk on the phone. Well, my former boss thought maybe I needed to get over that and she had me making phone calls ALL THE TIME. Each one required pre-call practicing and "I can do this" mantras and was accompanied by a racing heart and sweaty palms. It's better now, but I'm by no means "cured". My husband recognizes this about me, has helped me celebrate my progress, and happily dials for take out so that I don't have to.

He also knows that social interactions with strangers are not easy for me. Today after church we needed to sign up for a newcomer's group and the hubs announced, "I'll go get the kids, you sign up." Not sign up on a sheet, mind you, but talk to the guy at the information desk. I stood in the hallway for a few minutes and contemplated running into the bathroom and telling hubs that I just couldn't hold it and could he please sign us up? But I knew what he was trying to do; I felt his gentle shove. Took a deep breath and did it. (In two hours we have to actually GO to the event and talk to more strangers, but baby steps...)

If you want to change, have someone on your side who knows exactly how gently you need to be shoved.

Another example: Two years ago I participated in a writing challenge for the new year. As per usual, I didn't make it all the way through. But I made some amazing virtual friends who have supported my journey and make me smile when I need it most. This past November I did a lighter version of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month - where writers attempt to complete the first draft of a novel in one month) called WipMo which allowed participants to set their own goals and work at a pace that fit their current needs. I rocked it and was so fueled by my success that I set the same goals for December. Butt in chair at least three days a week and 2500 words or more.

And then I quit.

All those zeros are really depressing. And even more depressing was facing my extended family who all asked how the book was coming. It's easy to get discouraged and throw in the towel. Convince myself that there is no way I can regain momentum. Goals can do that to a person. Make them give up and not want to bother.

But we have to be resilient. To accept who we are, figure out where we want to be, and how to maintain enough motivation and heart to get us there. Will I ever be one of those people I envy on Twitter who crank out a thousand words+ a day? No. Is it reasonable to blame the holidays and forgive myself for slacking off and then vow to get back on track by locking myself in my writing room until the zeros disappear? Yes. Will social interactions continue to rattle my heart like a caged animal? Yes. Am I going to let that stop me from living? That would be foolish. Will my house ever be completely clutter free? When we move out, sure. Until then, not likely. Can I focus instead on having one or two organized spaces and shoving everything else into the den and shutting the door? Sounds like a plan.

Good luck with your resolutions, whatever they may be. I'm off to end the zeros.

The Writer's Journey

When you decide to become a writer and not just someone who writes *(see difference at the end of this post), you agree to travel down a path of highs and lows. Some examples:

High: You come up with a great idea for a book. The idea hits you one day and doesn't let go. You must write this book.
Low: Writing a book is hard. You have no idea what you are doing, how to plot an ENTIRE NOVEL and keep the story fresh from the first page to the last. The first several attempts are so bad that you are pretty sure the whole thing was a bad idea.

High: You don't give up, convinced that you just need the right inspiration. You read books on craft, and start telling everyone you meet that you are writing a book. Eventually you make connections to other people who write, both in the flesh and blood world and the online world. You learn strategies, like how to plot, develop believable characters, and write strong beginnings. You make new friends. You find a whole community of people and feel connected to a larger force.
Low: Some people in the writing community are mean. They criticize mistakes made by newbies (mistakes that you rush into your manuscript to fix - like omg did I describe my character by having her look in a mirror?) and sometimes do things that make you feel excluded. You worry that you will never fit in, that people won't like you. Or worse, they won't like your work.

High: You finish your book. Holy crap, YOU WROTE A BOOK! It is brilliant. Everyone must read it. Now.
Low: You make the mistake of sharing your un-edited manuscript with friends/family/random strangers online because you are just so unbelievably excited about having wrote a book. An actual book. The friend/family member/random stranger points out the ten million things you need to fix. Every flaw is exposed and you feel as though someone has taken your heart out of your chest and stepped on it. Repeatedly.

High: You recover from the criticism and learn who to trust to give you solid, helpful advice about how to make your book better. You revise, revise, revise, and feel incredibly good about the growth you've made as a writer. Idea number two pops into your head and you think, I can do this whole writing thing after all. You attend conferences and meet new people. You start to put your work out there to professionals in the industry. They appear interested.
Low: You get rejected. Over and over and over and over. You watch other people get snatched up by agents, published, and inundated with praise. It makes you want to crawl under a rock. Give up. But you keep plugging along and working on project number two. Or three. Because maybe that's how long it is going to take.

That's as far as I've gotten, but I know that the rest of the journey is fraught with more ups and downs. I've seen agented authors wait years to secure a book deal. Celebrated when the day finally came. I've seen friends experience heartache when their book is pulled from the shelves because of problems with the publishing house. I've seen authors in agony over bad reviews and/or their lack of sales, worried that their editor will reject every new idea. Done my best to encourage others to keep putting their work out there because it is beautiful, beautiful stuff.

It's not an easy life. But as writers, we create worlds everyday, and I think we need to sprinkle a little of that fantasy in our own day to day experiences. What keeps me writing is not so much the idea that one day my words will be out in the world, but the release I feel when I let myself get lost in the page. When I shut out the minutiae of daily life and plunge into the story. It feels like nothing else.
So why can't I do the same for my "real" life? Walk into a bookstore and picture my baby on a shelf. Imagine myself reading chapter one in front of family and friends at my release party. Celebrating every small success instead of wallowing in bitterness over every failure.

With each rejection I give myself permission to wallow for a brief moment, and then move on. With each high from someone else, I say hello to the green-eyed monster and then tell him politely to move on. There's no room for that in this life. When I wanted more than anything in the world to get pregnant and become a mother, jealousy was camped out in the front of my brain all the time. It was exhausting. But we are all on different paths, and the important thing to remember is that everyone, EVERYONE, has highs and lows. Celebrate the highs - your own, your friends, the random stranger you met online, and recognize the lows - give them their chance to exist and help you grow - but don't allow them to take over.


*Someone who writes: anybody really; grocery lists, thank you cards, letters to Santa - these are all things that someone could write.

A writer: A person who has dedicated part or all of his/her life to putting ideas on paper, to telling stories, to creating something meaningful from words.

Turning Forty

The big day is nearly here. The day when the clock turns over to 1:01 pm and I will have officially been breathing on my own for forty years. The months leading up to this event have been interesting as while I firmly believe the cliche that age is just a number, it has not escaped my sphere of thought that I am about to enter a new decade. And that means changes.

Some changes are a little tough to swallow. The gray hairs on my head seem to multiply while I sleep, and I shy away from the camera because the bigger I smile, the more wrinkles appear. And as many of my friends are discovering, I just can't party as hard as I did in my twenties and not expect to pay for it the next day.

Some changes are welcome. Like the wisdom to realize that life is too short to waste on drama. It's easy to get caught up in the web of trying to keep up with everyone else, but what for? I was happy to be myself in my teens and twenties and didn't care what other people thought - why start now? If anything now is the time to boldly pronounce that you're either here to have fun/be supportive/share in life's journey or you need to move on. It's a tough proclamation and not one that will make me very popular. But here's the thing about forty: I don't care.

I've made it halfway (? avg lifespan in my family is around 80) through life and it feels pretty amazing. There have been good decisions and bad ones, kind people and cruel ones, positive life experiences and ones that left me crushed and defeated. But I have traveled through it all and plan to keep on trucking. My thirties were all about being a mom. Waiting to be a mom, feeling completely clueless when I finally became a mom, and then figuring out (which I'm still doing) how to be the best mom I can be. In my forties I hope to keep rocking the mom thing and to discover what else makes me whole. It isn't so much about having a plan (I tried that in my twenties. Ha.) as it is about finding what fuels my soul, and then going out and doing it. Not being afraid. Not making excuses. Setting goals and reaching them.

When I set out to write a novel, I was naive and green. Oh so green. But I read up on the craft, expanded my social network to include people who could help me get a clue, and kept at the project until it was finished. It may never see the world outside my small circle, but that is okay. Because there's something else I've learned on the cusp of turning forty. I've always wanted to leave my mark on the world, but I never stopped to think about what that really meant. I have used my writing journey as an opportunity to teach my children about passion, about risk, and about perseverance. About the fact that you don't always get the thing you go after, but often the expedition is its own reward.

So bring it on, forty. Bring on the gray hair, the wrinkles, the sagging skin. Bring on the day afters because mama is going to keep on dancing. Join me, if you want.

Oh, and in case you like this sort of thing, here are highlights from the last four decades:

five years old... I wanted to be a model

seventeen years old... away from home for the first time and so not ready for the real world

twenty seven years old... solo trip to Hong Kong to visit hubby on deployment

thirty nine years old... dancing with the band

The road to independence is full of potholes

My oldest is now in fourth grade. Next year he'll be in middle school, changing classes, using a locker, and generally being independent.

Hopefully.

We have a bit of distance to travel before then, and my plan is to use these next 11 months (pardon me while I spend a few moments in denial.... ... ... okay, I'm back) getting him ready for the next phase of his life. That means letting go. Letting go of the nagging, the reminders, the doing everything for him because it's much easier than waiting for him to do it himself. Letting go is not easy for me. I like to be in control of the minutia of life; it's one of my character flaws. It is nearly impossible to enforce such levels of control over two young boys, but I try anyway. And now it is coming back to bite me. Because now I want P to do things without reminders and to make good choices and to not procrastinate until the last minute.

Needless to say it's not going all that well right now.

There is a lot to keep track of in fourth grade. Daily reading and math logs, spelling charts, and math homework. Violin practice. Cub scout requirements. Remembering to bring his gym bag home so I can wash his sweaty clothes (this has only happened once so far. ew.) We'd also like him to do chores around the house - nothing too complicated - simple stuff like keeping his room clean and collecting garbage once a week. And I want it all to happen without nagging.

As if it were that easy.

Last night the hubs and I had a convo with P about not letting his daily charts go until the end of the month and then scrambling to get them finished as the bus is pulling into our court. After our son went off to bed, my husband said something about the boy following in my footsteps. I am desperate for that NOT to happen.The procrastination struggle is real and a lifelong monkey to peel off one's back. My grades in school were not nearly as good as they could have been if I had actually made an effort. Turned things in on time. Worked up to my potential. Of course my parents said that to me in an endless loop and fool that I was, I didn't listen. And now I fear that we are wandering down the same path again, only this time I'm singing the "don't get swallowed up by the ease of mediocrity" tune. And the boy is clearly zoned out into the happy place where I spent a large part of my childhood whenever my parents lectured me.

The plan is to try and let him make mistakes and hope that he learns from them. My parents rescued me a lot, even into young adulthood. And while I appreciated it in the moment, it took me a long time to figure out how to stand on my own. It wasn't until graduate school that I learned how to focus on the task in front of me and give it 100%. (Admittedly that philosophy has not transferred into all the other areas of my life... but it's a process.) I don't want the boy to wait that long. I hope that if I allow him to fail, he'll eventually see that there are intrinsic rewards for doing your best work and getting things accomplished on time.

Mama just needs to step back and figure out how to guide him in the right direction without standing behind him and giving him a huge shove. We'll see how that goes.

Why it's okay to occasionally bribe your children

For some reason, J has been completely stubborn about riding his bike this summer. We have always enjoyed family bike rides; the boys started out in an attached trailer but quickly became too big for the free ride. P transitioned when he was five. He was a quick study post training wheel removal, taking a few tentative treks around our court and then zipping away. Proud to be out of the trailer and on his own, despite a handful of rides that required some creative manipulation of children and bikes when he declared that he was simply too tired to continue.

We didn't push our youngest quite as hard. It took him longer to learn how to ride with training wheels and we wanted to make sure he was physically able to balance on his own before removing them. But over the last two summers, the wheels became a hindrance. Last year we tried taking a family bike ride along a paved trail that transitioned onto an unpaved trail. Three of us were able to maneuver through the brush. One of us got stuck, training wheels spinning, and had a mini meltdown that required intervention and resulted in two of us getting left behind. About a month ago we tried another path that ultimately led out into a neighborhood, and three of us peddled along the quiet side streets admiring the scenery while one of us freaked out because he was afraid of.... well, I'm not entirely sure. It was a long, slow return to the car after which J declared that he was never riding his bike again.

He had already been refusing to ride it before the family bike ride, with really no explanation. There were excuses:
"My training wheels are loose." Tighten training wheels.
"My seat is too high." Lower seat.
"The tires are flat." Inflate tires.

My father found a used bike to keep at his house and tried to coax J into riding it without training wheels. Nope.
With training wheels. Nope.
With the training wheels on a different bike. Nope.

Seriously? What kid doesn't love to ride bikes? It wasn't as if he had fallen off the bike and suffered serious injuries. Heck, our oldest has more bike related scars on his knees that I can count. When I was learning how to ride a bike, my brother took me to the park to practice, and despite him telling me not to put my foot down I put my foot down, crashed, and a huge rock lodged into my right knee. Bleeding down my leg into my sock, he made me ride the bike all the way back home. With the rock in my knee. And I still ride.

Nothing that tragic has happened to our boy. So what, you say. So what if he doesn't want to learn how to ride a bike. I'll tell you what. We live in the suburbs. It is a childhood requirement. Besides, older brother wants to bike to and from school while the weather is nice, and I think it would be great if they went together.

School starts Tuesday. I declared this morning that this would be the day J would learn to ride his bike without training wheels. No, he said. Hmm. I want to go buy Yu-Gi-Oh cards, he said. Hmm. How about if you can ride your bike around the court without training wheels, we'll go to the store and buy you a pack? Contemplation. Some heel dragging. Forcing mom to put his sandals on even though he could do it himself.

And then.

He did it.

Hubs held on to him about halfway around the court, let go, and whoosh! The boy was off, just like that. He never even fell. His face filled with pure joy. After a few successful stops and starts he declared, "Now I can go on family bike rides!"

Perhaps it was bad to use bribery. But there was this little voice of fear in his head that kept him from moving forward, from doing something he was perfectly capable of doing. And I guess sometimes it takes a pack of Yu-Gi-Oh cards to tell that voice to shove it.