Heptadecagon

Some friends we used to know back in Ann Arbor contacted me last week to find out if we wanted to meet up sometime this week. They'd be coming up from Texas (where they now live) and heading to New York and would be driving right up I-75. What luck for us, and what a ride for them! I asked if they wanted to come to our house for dinner, as opposed to going out, since they'd likely be eating at restaurants a lot on the road. I love having company, partly because--despite my introvert nature--I like people (at least a good number of them). I also like to have a reason to make dessert. And this summer, so far, we haven't made one of our favorites: Eclair Cake. Craig, Tami, and their kids helped remedy that situation. I'm holding myself back from having it for breakfast. Eclair Cake Ingredients: 2 packages of instant vanilla pudding (3.5 oz variety) 1 container of whipped topping, previously thawed (8 oz variety) 3 cups milk (skim, lowfat, or whole) Graham crac

The day passed as it always did these days. With little fanfare and a plethora of tasks to perform. When had the mail stack risen so high? And how much laundry did he have yet to do? How in the world would he get it all done in a day? He didn't know, and he knew he'd find no sympathy from her. At this point, she'd convinced herself that she still took care of everything. Well, everything but the cooking. She knew she didn't do that anymore. The only reason he knew any of her perspective was because he caught her on the phone with one of the girls. He heard her end of the conversation over the din of the kitchen television. The Hallmark Channel's most recent made-for-TV movie seemed to have the most hideous music. "Oh, I still do all the housework," she'd said into the receiver. He wished he could hear his daughter's reply, but as much as he craned his neck, the phone volume couldn't win against the noise from the TV. Not sticking around t

I'm leaving for a writing conference in a few hours, and find myself running around the house like a chicken with its head cut off. Throw laundry in. Take laundry out. Make dinner and put in refrigerator. Be sure snacks are available for kids. Scoop cat litter. I'll be gone one night. Maybe a little over 24 hours. Tim will be here, with the kids. Four healthy and very capable kids. I have complete confidence in my husband and know he'll take good care of the wee beasts (who aren't so wee anymore). He won't do things the way I do, but he'll get those things done. Furthermore, those children are relatively self-sufficient. And yet, I still feel like I need to leave the house in a state such that no one will really notice that I'm gone. I don't have time to answer the question, only to ask it. And so, I'll leave that answer for another day.

I didn't expect much. Just a small apology, or a simple acknowledgment that what she did was wrong. But when I looked into her eyes, I realized how blank, how vacant, the space behind her eyelids seemed. She didn't recognize that her actions, or inactions (since that's what they really were) caused profound repercussions on those she called loved ones . Were they really so loved?  Did she hold these people close to her heart? Based on how she spoke to them,  I couldn't be sure. So I waited and watched, and wondered what or who had made her the way she was. And sadly, in those quiet moments, I found the answer. Because her parents scooted in and out of her life and managed, in one single instance, to sweep away her independence. Always the types to bail her out, and make excuses for her, I knew if I said anything at all about this latest transgression, they'd have a reason at the ready. And I wond

I think you can find this over at Sweatpants & Coffee , but I didn't take the time to look for it. I did, however, find it over at The Coulour Yellow (and all across Facebook, of course).

If anyone had filled me in back in 2012 and told me how difficult and time consuming it would be to try and publish a novel, I don't think I would have believed them. But now, here we are past the middle of 2016 and I'm working on revising a novel I started on Father's Day of 2012. I remember the exact day because the inciting incident of this particular novel actually stems from an encounter I had that weekend. I drove home from the grocery store, a story brewing in my head, and furiously pounded out a few sentences. For months I went back and added a few notes here and there, and then, sat back to let the story percolate. During that time, I wrote and revised a second novel, and finished up a third book that, to this day, has been spending time on my bookshelf, collecting dust. The Father's Day novel, though, is special. It's been read by a published author, who gave loads of valuable feedback. It's been workshopped by my writing group partners, who gave e

We stumbled across this awesome shirt the other day... Can you guess who we snatched it up for? Yes, that would be Melina. The happiest kid I know. However, I'd like to think that all of my children are happy to be themselves. Each of them has a lot to be happy about. We're lucky. And blessed. And grateful. At least I am. So here's to making sure you're happy to be yourself. It's a tall order, but something we should all strive for.

Despite the high heat around these parts, my brood felt like a snack of hot chocolate yesterday afternoon. Warm milk, curled chocolate sprinkles (hand grated by me), and whipped cream rounded out the ensemble. A collective yum left my kids' mouths as I set the cups in front of them. Along with an episode of Scooby-Doo, we managed to have a perfect summertime afternoon.

For as long as I can remember, Mom has always taken care of the dishes. "Don't worry about them," she used to say when I lived at home. "Just concentrate on getting your homework done. It's more important." And so I did. But even after I moved away, I realized that Mom took care of more than just the dishes at her own home. She'd do them at my house, and I remember her taking care of them at my grandmother's house, too. Anywhere she went, Mom was good at helping out with dishes. In fact, she took control of those dishes, and--as kids like to say--she owned them. At least at my house, when Mom was done with the dishes, she left the kitchen looking better than when I'd started. I often think of what's going to happen when Mom can no longer do the dishes. When she can't remember what the soap is for and the movements required by the actions are too much for her. I hope those days are a long way off because right now, I think doing

Do not think of knocking out another person's brains because he differs in opinion from you. It would be as rational to knock yourself on the head because you differ from yourself ten years ago. ~Horace Mann 

Like most other days since becoming an adult, Connie picked up the phone to call her parents. Dad answered the phone. She didn't know where Mom was and she didn't ask. Connie could anticipate the answers: weeding the garden beds, wandering the grocery store aisles, riding the stationary bike in the basement. It didn't really matter to Connie where her mom was. The call had become more of an obligation than a tried and true how-are-you-doing sort of thing. As usual, Connie would try to talk to Dad, but she didn't expect much besides a diatribe on the state of the political system or a musing on the weather. "How's work going?" he asked. Connie loved her job, but the stress of it she could do without. "I'm not going in today," she said. "I'm taking the day off." Dad didn't miss a beat.  "Again? You had a few days off with the holiday and all of that." Justifying herself to her father seemed to be a position s

Eight years ago this morning, at 1:09 a.m. I gave birth to a little girl named Melina. You all know this because Tim documented that day , and starting sometime in 2010, I began chronicling some of what she (we) went through on a regular basis. I hope that by now, those of you who only know Melina via cyberspace have an inkling of what she's about. But like I said last year , it's actually difficult to say what Melina is about and I think of that on a daily basis, not just on her birthday. Because from day to day, what she says and does can vary. Sometimes, she's writing a story on a Google document. Other times, she's coloring in a notebook. Last night, she was dressed as Tim--complete with baseball cap and plaid shorts--and this afternoon, she jumped on the trampoline like there was no tomorrow. I think of all the times she reads and pretends and looks up historical facts and I wonder how I came to be chosen for this extra special kid. Sadly, I've been bogge

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Caroline knew it was time for them to break up. The words had been written on the wall for months now. Okay, maybe not literally written on the walls, but when each interaction with a supposed loved one took more energy than anything else in your day, it made you stop and think about that relationship. The question she asked herself was, Could she live without him? She knew what her mother would say, had she been alive. She'd turn that question around and ask Caroline, Could she live with him? Based on her daily life with Adam lately, she'd have to say no. And that thought caused her stomach to clench and the breath to leave her body. She heaved and fell to the couch, doubling over her knees, with her head in her hands. Caroline didn't know how long she sat there, almost numb from the thought of having to let go of her love, but soon enough, a hand fell on her back. "You okay, Caro?" She looked up at Adam, not caring if he saw the tears that most likely

It's not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can't tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it, myself.  ~Joyce Maynard

Back when Tim and I got married, we brought together a collection of eclectic dishes. Our cupboards housed green and white plates with blue flowers, chipped 1990s mugs, and Tim's set of Pfaltzgraff he'd purchased when he found his own place. For most meals, I didn't care what plate, bowl, or mug I used. Each vessel was as good as the next. But I found myself drawn to the Pfatzgraff teacup each time I wanted just a half cup of coffee. On normal days, I drink almost an entire cup of part caffeinated/part decaf coffee in whatever mug I feel like at the moment. Sometimes, it's my blue mug with the large block M on it (Go Blue!); other times, it's the NaNoWriMo mug given to me my one of The Plot Sisters . That mug of coffee takes me from about 5:30 to 7 a.m. to drink, and then, I rinse it out and put it in the dishwasher. But some days, I need an extra kick around 10:30 (at least on the days that I'm home) and I reach for a mug to house my small bit of fully c

Dear Dad, It's been a really long time since I've written a letter to you. In fact, it's been so long, I had to go back and search this blog for the last letter with your name on it. I can't believe it's been ten or so months. Those months have gone fast, though, and that's partly because you've stayed relatively healthy and you haven't had to call on us to come over and help you out. And that's a good thing, because with four active children and all the things we do here on a daily basis, I barely have time for helping myself, much less helping you guys out. But please know that, if you need it, I'll still put away my obligations and help you. I am your daughter, after all. I have a question, though. It's been about a year since Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, which means we have maybe eight, maybe ten years left with her. (Just stating a fact here, not trying to dwell on the negative.) And you're already sitting at 80 years

  Sophie couldn't sleep. So begins Roald Dahl's, The BFG.   A brilliant moon beam was slanting through a gap in the curtains. It was shining right onto her pillow.   The other children in the dormitory had been asleep for hours.   Sophie closed her eyes and lay quite still. She tried very hard to doze off. How many times have I done the same thing?   It was no good. The moon beam was like a silver blade slicing through the room onto her face.    The house was absolutely silent. No voices came up from downstairs. There were no footsteps on the floor above, either.   The window behind the curtain was wide open, but nobody was walking on the sidewalk outside. No cars went by on the street. Not the tiniest sound could be heard anywhere. Sophie had never known such a silence.   Perhaps, she told herself, this was what they called the witching hour. Roped in yet?   The witching hour, somebody had once whispered to her, was a special moment in the middle of the night w