Heptadecagon

I will always be short. That's how I was born. I'm adult, and aside from growing outward, which could happen, I will not be growing upward. I am okay with being short. My body parts are all relatively healthy. My husband and kids are also short. Yes, Tim is only 5'6". Since he's 44, he won't be growing upward any time soon, either. The girls, identical twins, are short. They aren't short because they are twins. They are short because they are the byproduct of short parents. This happens sometimes. We don't have too many rogue tall genes in the family. But we have plenty of short genes. Grandma Meade and Aunt Tara, in particular, are shorter than me. We're short. That's life. Why am I telling you this? Because I am tired of people pointing out my lack of height as a deficit or a flaw. I can reach all of my cabinets, so who cares if I'm short? I'm also tired of listening to people go on and on about how small the girls are, or comparin

One year ago... It hurt to walk, much less run. I had trouble leaning over to empty the dishwasher. Pain radiated through my pelvis and down my legs. I felt as though my bones would crack. One year ago... I wondered what went wrong. I wasn't sure I'd be able to sit without pain. I thought my running days were over. But this past Monday... I ran one of my old short loops. I went down the hill, around the bend, and up an even steeper hill. When I was done, nothing hurt. Even after running 30 minutes. So I ask myself some questions... Am I back for the long haul? Will my body cooperate? Can I see myself, in a few months, running as long as I once did? And most importantly, do I even want to try?

He calls her more often now, asking to come for a visit. To stay for a few days and then go home. For years, she's been trying to get him--them, really--to visit for a weekend. To see their granddaughter and spend time with the girl before she's grown, or they're gone. "Time flies," she says to them. "We have so many things to do," they reply. Now, time has flown but times have also changed. And instead of being too busy to drive the hour to go see her and the girl, he realizes the potential that sits 66 miles to the east. He sees her for what she is at this moment: an escape from the monotony of his life. For if he goes to see them, he can be lifted from a life chock full of the same stories over and over, from the never ending chase against time. If we visit, he thinks, someone else can do the cooking. If we visit, he thinks, someone else can talk to my wife. If we visit, he thinks, I can hold a conversation with a lucid adult. If we visit, I d

I'll let you make up your own story based on these pictures, taken within the span of about one day. I'm truly not certain why some of them were actually taken, which means I did not play the part of photographer for them all. Do with them what you will.

I found this picture here .

She found herself at the stoplight yesterday almost in tears. She can't really tell you why. The temperature was mild, the kids had gotten off to school okay, and her husband had made it back from his business trip all in one piece. She'd had a decent night's sleep and almost all of a cup of coffee. Everything should have been all right. And yet, it wasn't. Putting a hand to her forehead to feel if she was warm--because maybe a rogue fever was the cause of her errant behavior--she looked to her left. She was immediately taken in by the sun, whose light peeked over the top of the Shell gas station sign. She squinted, almost missing the man who walked across the street in front of her car. She looked once at him. He looked at her. He tipped his ball cap at her and smiled. The simple gesture was enough to get her day back on track. She managed a wobbly smile, and shot it in the direction of the man, then proceeded to the grocery store, as was her habit each Tuesday m

My good friend--and loyal reader--Barbara (otherwise known as Loyal Reader from the North, or LRN) sent me a lovely message yesterday informing me of Ed Sheeran's song, Afire Love . "Whenever I hear this song," she wrote, "it reminds me of you and your parents." Well Barbara, I would agree with you. I've included the lyrics below, but hopefully the link to the video will work just as well. (By the way, there's no visual with the video, but you can hear how these lovely words turned into auditory art by Ed if you listen. If you want to see Ed perform an acoustic version, you can go here .) Thanks, Barbara, for making my job easy today.

Way back when I first moved to Ohio, I met a woman I'll call Olive. We run in the same circles, but we've never been friends, per se. Over the years, she's contacted me when she's needed me: asking questions about kids, schools, or jobs. I remember a couple of times, she called to find out if I could watch her child for an hour or so because she had an appointment. Of course I said yes. I always said yes. I think she knew that I would; that's why she asked me . The other day, while I was trolling (my favorite) Word Porn site, I found the statement below. I realized two things after reading it. 1. While I don't expect to be given anything, relationships are usually reciprocal, and this woman has never given anything to me in return; and 2.  When I see this woman and I say, "How are you?" she replies with a simple, "Good." And then, keeps walking. As I said, I wouldn't consider her a friend. And now I know that I probably never

Melina and I went grocery shopping on Saturday afternoon. While I was unloading the groceries from their bags, Arnold took it upon himself to get comfortable. He was so cute, I had to document his cuteness from multiple angles/poses.

My writing group informed me the other night that my character, Theo, needed to be fleshed out. He's not a POV character, but he's an integral part to one of my stories. The ladies only told me what I had already suspected, but I'm so glad they did. Their support and guidance have forced me to really look at Theo and come up with a character sketch for him. I think this sketch should help me move forward on writing some scenes and filling in backstory. (Some of you know Theo already. This sketch might help you know him even better, too.) Theo is... A 40-year-old male. About 6 feet tall. An anesthesiologist. A sports fanatic. A man his colleagues go to for answers. A skilled archer. A lover of nature and the outdoors. A horrible communicator. A wiseass. A lovable father. He has... Thick, dark brown hair. Greenish eyes. Strong but wiry arms. Long legs. A straight nose. Clear, olive skin. A tight back end. A confidence in himself that other people envy.

Some Sundays, you just need a good laugh. Thanks to Jimmy Fallon, we have one for this morning. (By the way, yesterday was Jimmy Fallon's birthday! So sorry to have missed it, man!) Just in case you're younger than I am (this song was released in 1984!), here's the original video from Lionel Richie. And, I can't take credit for this funniness. People magazine jumped on the bandwagon before I did. So, I guess I'm just a poseur. IMPORTANT UPDATE: Just for kicks, I watched the Lionel Richie video again (I hadn't this morning when I posted it) and was reminded how creepy the video is. Talk about inappropriate teacher conduct toward a student. And like any good person these days, I looked up "Lionel Richie Hello teacher student" online. I found this link , which I think you should visit.

"Another day." The words left her mouth slowly, as if it took every ounce of energy to produce four measly syllables, and a scowl filled her face. I understood what she meant: mustering the wherewithal to come in and teach to students who didn't appreciate you and put no effort into understanding material was a tough task to accomplish. "Another day!" I repeated, a smile in my words and one my face, a spring in my step. She turned toward me, paused for a moment. I'm not sure what thoughts whirled through her brain in that one moment, but I know it didn't take long for her to understand what I meant. That as hard as it was to put one foot in front of the other, she'd been given that opportunity again . "Another day," she whispered before giving me a thumbs up. "Another day."

Life can be hysterical sometimes.  (Insert maniacal laughter here.) I was looking around the blog the other day and found this post from May 15 , aptly titled Summer Hopes. (Sure, go ahead and laugh again, FRN.) That date is the day before Mom and Dad came out for the girls' recital and ended up going home, after a trip to the ER here in Ohio. It's the day before Dad fell once he was back in Michigan. It's the day before a certain chain of events was set off by Dad falling. Dare I say it's the day before my summer took a turn for the worse? I especially like this quote from that post: But this year, I'm armed. The girls are 13, Aaron is 10, and Melina will turn 7 in July. Not only do they have the maturity to be more helpful, but they have the strength. Which means five people getting things done around here should give us more time to do the fun things, like visiting metroparks, pools, and museums, or perhaps just sitting outside having a picnic.

I made the mistake the other day of mentioning to my dad that the kids did not enjoy going to Sunday school. The comment slipped out of my mouth before I could think better of the decision, but the moment the comment left, I wanted to pull the words right back in. I had no intention of starting a conversation on religion. Thankfully, something at his house grabbed his attention and we said a quick good-bye. A few hours later, the phone rang. "Hey Chris," Dad said. "Why don't the kids like going to Sunday school?" I didn't laugh right then, but I could have. It seems as though Dad has a bee in his bonnet about religion as of late, and maybe he always has. He was raised Catholic; he raised his three girls Catholic. His kids are not necessarily raising their kids with the same level of Catholicism as he'd like. A few days prior to this conversation, he'd asked me if Tara would "ever come back to the church." That day, I did laugh out lou

A thought popped into my mind the other day as I was pulling laundry out of the dryer, that every job I've ever had, I've either studied long and hard to do the job, i.e. spent five years in graduate school so I could teach those whippersnappers A&P, or I've had enough of a background to get hired, but then I gathered on-the-job training. In fact, the only job I didn't have training for was being a parent. You're just thrown into that job with very little background (babysitting counts, but not so much, really). Parenting is an extreme case of on-the-job training, right? All of this thinking about jobs made me kick myself in the rear end, at least metaphorically. Despite the fact that I've been writing since I was young, I never majored in English, Literature, or Creative Writing; I never edited more than the high school newspaper (that is, until Literary Mama ); I never enrolled in advanced writing courses at the college level. I've been picking my wa

Do you ever feel like the bananas in your house are against you? I do. Even though we love bananas and we eat a lot of bananas, we always have some in the freezer, waiting to find new life as banana bread, cake, or cookies. The other day, I was tired of my same old recipes and thought I'd look for something new. And, I had three very ripe bananas staring at me from my counter top. Find something worthy , they said. Something so rich and so fine, we'll be happy to be a part of it. And boy, did I. These are called Banana Oatmeal Cookies (you'll notice the link says moist and chewy , but due to an aversion to one of those words by several of my faithful readers, I decided to cut those two words out of the title). But me? I'm going to call them Damn Good Cookies , because they are. Even without chocolate or nuts, these are, by far, one of my favorite cookies. In fact, these are so good (maybe it's the butter?) that I will, for the meantime, allow a bit more sugar i

I'm using these images this morning to start the week off on the right foot. Hope they help you, too. (I especially like that last image. I find myself struggling with the Negative Committee quite often.)

"I wish I could do this all day."  Melina's big hazel eyes peered up at me as she sat on the toilet. "What? Sit there?" I said. "Yep. All day." She leaned back against the porcelain and spread her arms as far as they could go. A slow smile crept across her face. She had the time to sit, and so she would. Most people say that Melina is a mini-me, but in that moment, I found out exactly how she is just like her father.

We tell ourselves we're nuts. We tell ourselves we love what we're doing. We tell ourselves we cannot live without writing and that the rejections no longer hurt. But every rejection does hurt, no matter how kind the words might be... Thanks so much for sending your chapters and for offering me the chance to consider your material. Unfortunately, your project doesn't seem right for me. Since it's crucial that you find an agent who will represent you to the best of his or her ability, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to step aside rather than ask to represent your manuscript. Had she stopped there, I would have felt less hurt by her rejection. But instead, she rubbed salt into the wound... You have a great imagination - I love the premise - and you're a good writer, but I'm sad to say that I just wasn't passionate enough about this to ask to see more. I wish I could offer constructive suggestions, but I thought the dialogue was fine, the charac

I'm convinced that if I had any singing voice, I'd spend the moments when I'm alone in song. As it is, I hum--a lot--and I find myself so wrapped up in songs at times, that I reach for a piece of paper to remember the words. Because as I've said before, I love lyrics . I don't care what you think of the following song or of the lyrics. I simply want to point out the two places within the song that make me think. In my case, thinking leads to writing. Thinking also leads to reflecting. And since reflecting sometimes leads to writing, too, it's become very clear to me that other people's lyrics are very good writing prompts.  From Cecilia and the Satellite by Andrew MacMahon in the Wilderness Through all the things my eyes have seen The best by far is you For all the things my hands have held The best by far is you As it turns out, my girls have fantastic voices, although few people know it. And as scary as identical twins can be, they harmon

And yesterday's learning involved mental health. That's right, you would have thought that I had tagged along with FRN yesterday, but I didn't. I was, in fact, right here in my local elementary school. Yes, a half day subbing in a third grade classroom isn't so easy when you have a child who is categorized as oppositional defiant. Not sure what that means? I didn't either, but being pretty good with the English language, AND having seen this kid in action, I was pretty sure exactly what it meant. However, I still wanted to look the term up. According to WebMD , oppositional defiant disorder (ODD) is "a condition in which a child displays an ongoing pattern of uncooperative, defiant, hostile, and annoying behavior toward people in authority. The child's behavior often disrupts the child's normal daily activities, including activities within the family and at school." Was the child hostile? Yep. How about uncooperative? Yessir. Did the child

"Um, excuse me. When will you be done with our grades?" The young man with the short blond hair stood before me, a look of concern on his face. "I have to get the tests to the scantron machine and hope that the machine works. So assuming it does, I will have your actual grades in hand shortly. However, I need to look the exams over. So about 1 p.m. I think." I looked at the clock, which read 11:15 a.m. on the dot. My estimate should work. The boy plunged ahead. "Okay, and then you'll email me?" I laughed. I certainly had better things to do than to remember his name and email him his grade. "No, but if I don't have the grades in the grade book by then, you can email me. I put the responsibility on the student." I straightened some papers on the desk in front of me. "Are you worried about your grade?" The boy shifted from one foot to the other. "I'm a little neurotic. Some of the answers I knew, and others, I jus

After a long weekend, who doesn't want to just snuggle up with some kitties? I know I do, but I have to work today. So while I'm sitting back and watching my students take their first exam, I'll pull these pictures up and think about how, in a few hours, I can be there with my kitties.

Five-hundred dollars. What would you do with $500? What could you do with $500? I'm not sure what I would do with the money. It's a nice sum, but it's not really all that much anymore. Of course, that number can buy a significant amount of groceries for us. Or pay part of Aaron's soccer fee, half of Shadow's surgery, and many, many scoops of ice cream. It can also place Dad and Mom on the wait list for an independent living cottage here near us. That's it--$500. I know what you're thinking. Dad might not be ready to put down $500 because he's not quite ready to move. I know this to be true. Which is why I checked on the policy. If he puts the $500 down he is placed on the wait list (as I just said). And it usually takes two to four months for a cottage to open up. If he's still not ready when they tell him a cottage is open, he just has to say "I'm not ready." And then? AND THEN, he's NOT dropped to the bottom of the list.

I look at the rumpled piece of paper and toss it into the recycling bin. That's not just paper, Mommy. That's my melted snowball. It can't go into the bin, you know. She brings it back inside, and sets it on the counter, along with the hundreds of other papers that for some reason (or another) do not belong in the recycling bin. I try to put myself in her place. I tie my shoes on-- one of wonder, the other of awe-- and I imagine. The blue construction paper before me becomes the waves up at Walloon Lake. The faded piece of cereal box transforms into a garden in the spring, before the planting has been completed before the season's harvest has been fulfilled. I rifle through the stack of papers, seeing something new something amazing, with each sheet. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder , I think. And I wonder how much I've been missing because I haven't considered a different perspective. I smile as I realize that once again,

With my schedule so busy right now, I've had very little time to do any writing. But I have still have plenty of time to think (thank goodness). So I'm writing my thoughts down. Some are based on fact, others simply fiction. But perhaps, someday, something will come of them: She drifted out of my life casually, slowly, like the tide sneaks out; unlike the tide, she won't be back. The scuffle on the other end of the line made me wonder what is really happening over at their house and whether or not they really can sweep all of the dirt under the carpet. I never made it to her funeral, and but she never quite made it to my life. Fear is a very funny companion. She always wondered if her superpower was connected to the length of her hair, but she didn't have time to test out her theory. Now, thanks to the Nair Incident , she'll finally discover the truth. I thought I'd seen it all by way of someone asking for help. But then, the postings went up. Not on

Part of the reason I love music is that I love lyrics. Taylor Swift, whether you like her music or not, is a talented lyric writer. (Don't believe me, Google some of her lyrics.) I'm sure my attention to lyrics has to do with my penchant for writing, but I have no way of proving it. One of the songs I've been fixated on lately is Photograph , by Ed Sheeran. Why? I have my theories, but I'm not sure I'm right. Either way, you can listen to the lyrics for yourself below. Anything strike a chord with you?

You'd think someone who loves to write as much as I do would be able to come up with some piece of eloquent writing for my 15th anniversary. Yet here I am, sitting in front of the computer, furiously checking email before getting ready to sub for the day. And that's the way the day will go. I'll work. Tim will work. We'll pass each other at some point, plant a peck on each other's cheeks, and fall into bed, separately, after a long day. I'm tired just thinking about what this day will bring, so nary a lovely thought springs to mind. So I'll just say this: The last 15 years have been interesting and fun, and that's more than can be said for the approximately 25 years I lived before I met Tim. And, I'd say yes to him all over again. I love you, Timmy.

"It wasn't meant to be," Davy said, as I regaled him of the story of Vivian and me. He'd come by to grab lunch. We hadn't seen each other much over the summer. I pretty much worked the whole day, played sports, and spent time with Vivian. And he'd taken a class before heading off to see his Dad, in Norway. A few texts and emails had been exchanged, but I hadn't told Davy everything. "I pushed too hard, I think. I wanted Vivian to be someone she wasn't." I plunged the straw into my Coke. "Isn't that what you said about Cecilia? You wanted her to be someone else?" Was it? "No, no. that's not fair. You're telling me I have a problem, and I don't really think I do. Cecilia...she was different. I spent far more time with her. I knew her. I was attracted to her for very different reasons than why I was attracted to Vivian." "Are, Daniel. You are attracted to her." "Whatever." I took