Heptadecagon

In case you missed us (a vacation in Northern Michigan without internet means no posting), here's a few more things that fill up Melina's world: Madagascarve (the movie) and Eksimo kisses. She turns 5 in a few weeks. These tidbits will soon be nothing but memories (and past posts).

I've been really into reading author bios lately. Maybe it's my way to vicariously live through the people that have already been lucky enough to publish a book. Maybe it's wishful thinking for me to see my own bio at the back of a novel. Maybe it's simply because I want to know more about the authors that write wonderful (and not so wonderful) books. I get stumped by the ones that don't say much, like XX is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and Columbia Law School. Where's the fun in that? Is that all you can come up with? All you want your readership to know? All that you can be proud of? I love the bios that are snarky, witty, and full of fun (I can't print one here, as I don't want to bother asking for permission), because those lead me to believe that the authors, too, might be snarky, witty, and full of fun. So I've been thinking. What would I include in an author bio? Do I need to tell everyone that sometimes, vanilla ice cream

It is never too late to be what you might have been.  ~ George Eliot

Being home 24/7 with the kids has its advantages. Like, I'm able to listen intently to what they say and run to the computer when they say something funny. Which in the case of Melina, is quite often. Today's tidbit? A new word that Melina calls propular . Me: And what does propular mean, Melina? Melina: Oh, its the words that big people say, not kids. Me: Okay. Melina: The words you use are propular, Mom. Melina ran away at that point, in 3 inch dress-up heels mind you (I can't even walk in those heels, much less run). Then she ran back to me. Melina: Soon, I'll say propular words, too. Me: Hmmm. Propular . Can you use it in a sentence?

Yesterday was my big day. After thoroughly combing through my story for the last time, I printed 8 copies of the entire manuscript, slid them into binders, and handed out most of them to my writing group. As I gave each person the copy, an ache in the bottom of my stomach began to swell and questions swirled in my mind. Am I ready for this? Will they like it? And what will they say? Will I have to completely overhaul the piece before the group thinks it is worthy of anything? How many revised drafts will there be at the end? The list of questions can go on and on. So while I think of yesterday as a big accomplishment, I also view it as a big worry.  I think I'll go have a peanut butter cookie and some coffee. And then work on the next manuscript.

I awoke this morning with the thought of a run in my head. It's Monday. I try to run on Mondays. Last Monday we were in Chicago, so I took the day off. I should get my body out there today , I thought, as I heaved my body from the warmth of the bed. I tiptoed down the stairs, and headed to the kitchen, running clothes in hand. I made it to the bathroom, and threw on the light. I don't like artificial morning light, but somehow, I'm just old enough not to be able to successfully navigate dressing myself in the dark. Crap, I have trouble with the light on. Today was no exception from that. I pulled on my running shorts, no problem. And then, I removed my glasses, reached for my bra, and put my arms through the holes, pulling down the padded part in the process. I stopped half way, because there, in the mirror, it was obvious that I had put my running bra on inside out. I'll admit, I hesitated, as I was still tired. Could I run with my bra on inside out? Would the supp

I'm not one to take a medical condition or disease lightly. But this is what happened at dinner tonight. We're jumping to the meat of the matter: Me: Asperger's. Melina: What are ass burgers? Let me say that the entire crew laughed until they cried.

The kids and I took a quick trip to Chicago last week, which means we were gone for 4 nights and 5 days. Tim was left alone, with only the dog and cat for company. And some veggies in the refrigerator. And a half gallon of milk. We arrived back on a Tuesday afternoon, after having made incredible time. What more could I ask for? How about a mowed lawn? Pulled weeds? A vacuumed house? Clean laundry? Yes, that is what Tim would have encountered had he taken the kids for that period of time. I'd have even gone to the grocery store, stocked up on fresh fruits, veggies, and snacks, and had dinner waiting for them. Alas, that's not what happened. Below, I give you snippets from a real life conversation. Please, whatever you do, don't laugh. Me: You know the lawn needs mowing. I thought you were going to do it. Tim: Yeah, but it started to rain, and then I didn't do it. Me: That part was obvious. [ And you were here for 4 nights, 5 days by yourself. It couldn't pos

Melina: Mom! Me: Yes. Melina: There's a really, really, really, really big... Me: ... Melina: There's a really, really, really, really poisonous... Me: ... Melina: ...ant on the trampoline. Me: [Laughing until I convulse] Oh.

While I was getting dressed today... Me: I'm going to have to cut off these jeans. Melina: Why? Me: Because they have holes. And the holes are getting too big. Melina: Oh. Me: Now, I have holey jeans. Melina: Holey jeans? Me: Yes, holey jeans. Melina: You mean like holey pickles? Me: Pickles are holey? Melina: No, I mean like Robin. How he says Holy everything. Like, Holy Jeans! We've taught her well.

31. Cousins who get along, for the most part, very well. 32. Sharing the parenting duties with a sister (we make it look pretty easy). 33. Making good time on a trip to Chicago. 34. Only making one potty stop on said trip back from Chicago. 35. Seeing old friends and realizing that they are pretty much the person you knew and fell in like with in the first place (yes, that's you, Tasha!). 36. Grilled asparagus. 37. Green leafy vegetables. 38. The clicking sound of the keys of a keyboard. 39. The laughter of a one year old. 40. Coming home.

From the mouth of Melina: Mommy, if we go to Indiana, will we be able to understand the Indiana language?

As a teacher and a mother, I truly do subscribe to the notion that there's no silly question except the one not asked . I might not give the person the answer; I might ask (especially in terms of the kids) him or her to think through the problem and at least attempt to figure out the answer. But I encourage the questioning process. There is no better time for questions to arise than when I am home with the kids almost 24/7. Why aren't Golden Retrievers allowed in stores? When I was little, did I always take a nap? What does the word abdicate mean? Can I read this book? Have you seen my sunglasses? Where is Daddy and why haven't we seen him for almost two days? Do I have to? What's for dinner? Do you only need sugar, salt, and water to make a cake? Can I have some lemonade? Is the quark the smallest particle out there? And the granddaddy of them all: What is gay sex? Wonder if they figured that one out.

Wrenching open the ancient refrigerator, I reach into the cool interior, and graze my fingertips against the shelves, sticky with watermelon guts and soy sauce, on my way to the half-filled pitcher. I grab the handle and hold on tight. With as much strength as I might use to cling to the leg of one of my children, if they were hanging from the rung of a ladder, suspended over the edge of a 500 foot tall mountain. I tip the vessel over, and  the liquid sloshes into the waiting glass, a mini waterfall of sorts, tumbling into the bottom. My mouth salivates, imagining the tart crispness, the bitterness of the alcohol-soaked fruit against my tongue as I wash away the trials of the day. And then, disappointment. I'm on full duty tonight as Tim has baseball. This isn't the drink I need, only cool ice water. No matter. I drink it like it's my last one on earth.

Melina: We're animals, Momma. Me: Yes, we are. Melina: Why are we animals? Me: That's just the way we are. Melina: Am I a poodle?

That I've had a quote at the bottom of my signature line for a VERY long time. I don't want to reveal what it is, but those of you who know me personally have seen the line. It is something I try very hard to adhere to each day. Well, today, a local author posted that line on FB. And then ANOTHER local author referenced that author's use of the line. I had it first.

There's not a whole lot of privacy in this house. Yes, we've had this conversation before. The four kids, the animals, the lack of boundaries. I see you nodding your head. Well, let me say this: I can take it when someone walks in on me when I'm in the bathroom, but I really do prefer to have the shower to myself.  I don't ask for much: let me have, to myself , the four minutes it takes for me to shower. That's it. Once I have the towel wrapped around me, I can deal with you. So here's what happened. This lovely late spring morning, I turn on the water and get into the shower. The warmth of the water droplets soothes my slight crankiness (Aaron woke me up to go downstairs) and I'm humming away while lathering up the shampoo. And then, Tim peeks his head through the curtain. Tim: Hi Chrispea. Me: Hi. Tim: Oooooh. [He's ogling, if you can't tell.] Me: Can I please have some privacy? Tim: But I like you. Me: [At this point in our marriage, I