Heptadecagon

On Sunday, Tim reminded me that as of this morning, we will have parented for a total of 50 child years. I know that sounds weird to just about everyone, but the number made me realize that with the twins' birthday today--holy cow, they are 15 (!)--that 50 is quite a number. Clearly, those years have overlapped and that 50 really means nothing. But something about it makes me feel very, very old and also makes me think I should be wiser than I am. And of course, just the fact that here we are, at 15th birthdays for Zoe and Talia.... How did we get here and how did we get here so quickly ? This year hasn't been the easiest. Fourteen brought with it a whole host of teenage angst, the likes of which I hadn't seen for a long while. Sullen faces, refusal to do what I asked, shoddy workmanship. All of those things sprung up this year like crocuses in the spring, but let me tell you--the flowers are much lovelier! Teenagers are, in a word, ugly at times, and don't let anyo

We decided to celebrate the girls' birthday this weekend, since Tuesday will be busy. Both girls like lemon, and Talia especially likes pie, so I hunted down a recipe for lemon meringue pie that I'd tried years back. The paper is splotched and yellowed at the edges, but the recipe turned out just fine. (For Zoe, I made one of her favorite desserts: cheesecake. I've already shared that recipe here .) I tend not to make pie that often, and I'm not sure why, because when I do, I realize just how much I actually like pie. If you try this recipe, be sure to let me know how you like it! Ingredients: 1 (9 inch) baked pie shell 1 1/2 cups white sugar 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 1/2 cups water 1/2 cup cornstarch 1/3 cup water 4 eggs, separated 1/2 cup lemon juice (I used fresh and bottled) 2 teaspoons lemon zest (grated lemon rind) 3 tablespoons butter 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/2 cup white sugar Directions: 1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F (165 degrees C). 2. Combine 1

Thanks go out to S.B. one more time for some fun fill-ins . I let Tim do the filling in this time. Here's what we started with... I'd know that __________ anywhere. This is the last time I'm going to put up with ___________. Why is all the ___________ gone? Second _________ to the right, and straight on till _________. Just wait until __________ get's home. And here's what Tim said... I'd know that butt anywhere. This is the last time I'm going to put up with fascists. Why is all the salsa gone? Second cell to the right, and straight on till the electric chair. Just wait until Elvis get's home.

I haven't been silent about my opposition to Betsy DeVos' confirmation. I do not believe she's a qualified candidate for the position of Education Secretary, and many of the people I know--Republican, Democrat, and Independent--agree with that statement. So when I shared a meme I found on Facebook the other day, I wasn't making a political statement: I simply found it funny. It said, "Ms. DeVos, We're here for the IEP meeting," and it showed four brown bears lumbering down the street. (I'm sure you can find the image out there somewhere.) If you've kept up with the senate hearings and all the hullabaloo about how DeVos' hearing went, you'll know what the meme refers to. (If not, key in "bears betsy devos" and you'll at least get half the story. Better yet, watch the senate hearing and get the whole story.) Of course, someone commented with the following: "Ok, so what is the problem with Betsy DeVos? She supports sch

Space. It was something Karen always wanted more of now that she'd managed to give birth to five children in the span of seven years. Space at the table. Space on the counter tops. Space in her own bed, even. Just an inch or two more really, enough to keep her entire leg on the bed all night. Was that too much to ask? And she wanted that space free and clear of anyone and anything, including her husband, Randy. His mouth always turned upside down when she said the words, "I need space." He knew when she said those words that she wanted to be free of him as well, and he couldn't understand it. "What about me isn't to like?" he said each time she asked for space. Karen shook her head. She knew Randy didn't get it and probably never would. He didn't need space, didn't crave space like she did, like she had to have it as much as she had to have air. Or water. Or chocolate. Hell, he needed so little space, they'd ended  up with five ki

I've been relying on this a little too much lately. And that's all I'll say about that right now.

I could have gone my entire life without tasting SPAM. Seriously. As in, on my death bed, "not having tried SPAM" wasn't even going to make my list. But a week or so ago, one of the girls came home with an assignment. Zoe: Mom, I need to eat SPAM and turnips for two days. Me: SPAM and turnips? That's it? Zoe: Yes. Me: Breakfast, lunch, and dinner SPAM and turnips? Zoe: Yes. Me: Snack SPAM and turnips Zoe: Yes. Me: Why? Zoe: It's for extra credit. Me: What the heck? Who assigns something like that? Right? Which teacher in their right mind sends out an assignment like that? Apparently, it was for history class. Zoe went on to explain that they were covering World War I and that during that time soldiers could only eat SPAM and turnips. Something didn't sound right there, so I turned to my phone and looked up when SPAM was invented. And when was that? 1937. Well beyond the WWI years. Zoe: I know when World War I was, Mom. 1914 to 1918. And I know we'

On Saturday night, we hosted two members of the University of Michigan Men's Glee Club . Tim took the older kids to the concert and then brought the young men back here, where they chatted with us, slept, and then had breakfast the next morning. By 9 a.m. on Sunday morning, they were back at the concert locale and probably on the road to Ann Arbor by noon. Both students were freshmen, one a biochemistry major and the other undecided. I'll call them J and A, respectively, for clarity. J has possible plans to attend medical school, while A isn't sure what he wants to do, but he loves to write. I thought it funny that of all the people who could stay in my house for a night, I'd be assigned kids who shared my two passions of science and writing. I listened to what both of them had to say about school, their families, and their plans for the future, and what stuck with me the most was A's outlook on his writing. "I know what I'm writing now will be able t

Yesterday, a post from Dana Gould came across my Facebook page: And while I agree with what he says, I became annoyed. Because I don't like calling people names, and I do my best to not call anyone a name if I can help it. (Of course, I can't lie: behind closed doors, without little ears around, I have honestly voiced my opinion about many people.) So I posted the following on my timeline: I will never refer to Trump as "Cheeto-colored" because that's not the type of person I am. But I work in a very diverse place--one that hosts all sorts of opinions, all sorts of people, all races, genders, and cultures. And yesterday, I walked behind a woman who was on the phone, talking about the "happy dance" she was doing now that the Obama family was exiting the White House. She used very colorful language to describe the Obama family, words that would have hurt them had they been present, and words that I found completely offensive.  This post reminded

I'm focusing on the positive this wonderful Saturday morning...

Yesterday, I informed my four children that I am not against Republicans. After all, I want to raise them to make up their own mind, and to figure out what they believe in, after accessing the facts. "I was raised by Republicans," I said. "I have voted for Republicans. While I do tend to lean toward the Democrat side of most issues, I don't have anything against Republicans, per se." The kids looked at me and nodded. "What I am against is a person like Trump." But I have said before that sometimes, other people's words are better and more effective than mine. And in this case, John Pavlovitz does the job. If you haven't read his post yet, you can head on over there and do just that. Me? I'll be sitting here, trying to figure out how to not shed a tear at noon today. So much is in the balance...

Two weekends ago, a post popped up on a Facebook group page I'm a part of. It said, "I just upload my first book on amazon." Not trying to be harsh, but the lack of correct grammar did have me hesitate. So I clicked on the link and went on over to Amazon, where I found the book and the description. It looked a little like this (but not exactly, as I don't really want you to find it): Six young children get abducted by men. Follow their journey. Are they escape or not? Yeah, more worry. And then, I did the unthinkable. No, I didn't buy the book. I simply looked inside the book with Amazon's handy little feature. I cringed at the first sentence, which seemed amateur, at best, but then, I made my way to the dialogue. "Do you have to do your makeup right now?," I asked. She stopped applying foundation on her face as she gave me a hatred look. "What?," I asked. Gasp. Sputter. What? I started to write a simple post on my Facebook time

"Don't you know yet? It is your light that lights the world." ~Rumi

The other day, I posted a link on Facebook to a very informative article about Planned Parenthood and the funding it gets. Someone I went to high school with--we were never friends, per se--commented. He said he read the article and felt sick to his stomach, which I found odd, considering the word abortion only came up once, in this sentence: "To really understand what federal funds pay for at Planned Parenthood, you first need to know that federal tax dollars don’t pay for abortions." So what was he sick about? I'm not sure. But I didn't want a battle on my hands, so I felt that my response was pretty innocuous. This prompted an email from said fellow. He wrote, Christina, I apologize in advance if my questions are too personal for your comfort, but I feel compelled to ask. Have you abandoned your Catholic/Christian faith? What experience or experiences have you had that have shaped or caused you to turn away from Christ? I'm obviously making some assu

In this divided country we live in, I think it's always a good reminder that someone, somewhere had a dream to bring us together. I have a dream today!  I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."2 This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.  With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.  And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's chil

Let me say this: Someone who says that anyone can write a book is just plain wrong. Because even if you write the book, every time you open that file on your computer, you think, "What can I do to make this better?" and you're sucked into a vortex or time warp and hours pass and then, you have a new version which could be better, or maybe you actually made it worse, but you can't know for sure until readers actually read it; and even then, after you've gotten fabulous comments from friends, you must find an agent, relying on one little devil of a query letter. You wait and hope and pray and get comfortable with rejection and ask yourself, "Why in the hell am I doing this?" and the only answer you have, because you don't have a published book in hand, is that you love it, love it, love it and can't see not writing, ever. And I think if you don't love it, it's harder to go through all of that and not fold like the proverbial house of cards.

I've had a ton of fun taking writing prompts from over at S.B.'s website, and just yesterday, she'd posted the following: What's in a Title? The labels under the post read: fill-in-the blank , new titles , one line and sci-fi, probably because the titles come from sci-fi books. Here's the list of titles to fill in... A Brief History of __________. The ______ My Destination. Journey to the Center of _________. The Invisible ________. The _______ in the High _________. ______________ Player One. The Moon is a Harsh ___________. War of the _______. ____________ New World. The ____________ Guide to ___________. I decided to ignore the sci-fi non-requirement and filled the blanks in with a word that came from my week. Because I'd heard of all of these titles save two, it was somewhat hard to fill these blanks in...I kept wanting to go back to the original title! A Brief History of Influenza. The Call of My Destinatio

I found this picture on Twitter yesterday. I think it sums up my point of view pretty nicely. I'm not sure where the photo originated, but this one came from   here , I think.

A friend of mine, (Ami, not her real name) who also participated in NaNoWriMo this year, sent me a text the other night. A friend of hers from college had requested to read what Ami had written in November. While Ami was slightly hesitant to send the piece, she plucked up her courage and sent it over to her ami, er, friend. (I'm cracking myself up here...) In response to having read the piece, Ami received the following reply: I'm at Christmas when the mom is away and it nearly made me cry. The imagery is great, sparked something in my mind. Ami I'm completely serious. THIS IS PUBLISHABLE. I wouldn't say this to you if I didn't really believe it. The text made me a million times happy, and it wasn't even my work that had been read. I'll be curious to see when and if Ami pursues publication. (I hope she does.) The things I like about this scenario, and the reason I'm posting about it, are these: Ami overcame the fire in her gut that urged her t

Classes started this past Monday, and as usual, I explained to the students that having a Ph.D. doesn't mean I know everything. "I have been trained as a research scientist. I can form a question. I know how to find an answer to that question. And, I know how to get help when I cannot find an answer. No one knows everything, no matter what the person might claim or how many letters they have behind their name." Some of the students nodded, and a few sent appreciative glances my way, as if they were relieved to know that I didn't think I was infallible. I've always said I don't know everything, but even when I think I don't know much, I can surprise myself by what I do know. I know that tension among friends can bring down relationships and that honesty, while possibly causing some hurt feelings, is the best policy. Writing a blog a day for 365 days is going to be a weary task and yet, I know that it will energize my creative process as well. Peo

"The dragons will stop this nightmare." The words left Aaron's mouth as if he couldn't open his lips, like they were sewn shut with invisible thread. His eyes, glowing in the light of the moonbeam that peeked between the curtains, dilated then narrowed. "The dragons will stop this nightmare," he said again, the turned and padded across the carpet and away from me. I sat in my bed, astonished, back against the headboard, knees up, supporting the book I was reading. I had been entrenched in the novel — a little ditty about a crotchety old man who, up until now, had done nothing remarkable — when Aaron had interrupted my thoughts. He'd been put to bed two hours earlier (Aaron, not the man) and I had thought he'd been sleeping. And maybe he had been...perhaps he'd gone back to his old habit of sleepwalking and sleeptalking. I guess I'd never know. I flipped back to the last page I'd read in the book, but my rhythm had been destroyed by a

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Hello           , she said, as she waved me in. The name sailed by my ears, and almost flew on by, out the door and down the hall. But instead, the sound stopped and tapped at my eardrums.           ? My jaw fell. My heart stuttered. My feet stopped and started and stopped again. For one moment, I stared at her. I thought about saying something, anything, about her behavior. She'd shortened my name without asking me if it would be okay. I don't call her by her truncated name, even though I know her friends do. And that word says it all: friend . She is not my friend, and she never will be, since she asks too much from me and gives nothing in return. So while I will allow others to use a nickname or a pet name for me, it's because I invite them to do so. That one? She'll never know the real me so she doesn't get the privilege of  shortening my name without my permission. And so next time, if she pulls the same

I realize that I haven't addressed the goals for this blog yet. And the first Saturday in January is the perfect time to do so. What I've come to understand over the last year or two is that blogging each day--and getting that time in the morning to do so--is the way I grow best as a writer. Now, the blog posts might not be that great, but just the act of putting a few words onto a page and sending them out to the universe not only gets my creative juices flowing, but it also helps me make my writing better. So this year, just like in 2015, I'll be blogging each day. With an increased teaching schedule, my time might be limited, but my goal is to have a blog post each day, no matter how small. That could mean I post a picture. It might be a short story. I could post a rant. You all know me rather well by now, so I'm sure you'll not be surprised by what you come across. What does that mean for you, FRN? You know what it means. Go back to checking in on me earl

On a normal day--one in which she goes to school and I go to work or I sit at my computer and edit or write or grade--I accept her help with a smile on my face. Her little fingers are welcome on those days to do what she thinks is necessary: to push my papers into a pile, to add more milk to my coffee, or to bring me a tissue when I sneeze. But on a day when she's been out of school for almost two weeks and so have her siblings and I'm tired of the questions, the comments, the bickering, and the only thing I want to do is to sit and compose a blog post, then no thank you, ma'am, but I do not need her to take out my tea bag because the tea was getting dark, considering I like my tea stronger than she does. Nor do I need her to eat the legs off of my gingerbread man cookie. She knows that I like my small sugary treat with my morning cup of coffee or tea and that tiny man--he was mine. While I'd take those legs back if I could, I think I'll just get myself another cook

(This blog post comes from a writing prompt I answered at a Tuesday evening meeting. It is a work of fiction, just so you know.) I stumble from the bed and stub my toe on the corner of the bedpost. "Sorry," I say to the wooden frame, and then place my fingers to my lips. "Day two," I mumble. "Day two and you've already broken the promise you made." "What?" My husband rolls onto his back, and tries to open his eyelids. "Did you say something?" "Oh. Sorry. Did I wake you?" Shit. I'd done it again. "Nothing, honey. I just stubbed my toe and I was apologizing to the bed post. You know how it is." “Yeah, I do." He runs his fingers through his beard and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "I think you need to stop that." "I know, I know. I said I would. It's one of my resolutions..." "Then stop saying you’re sorry, okay?" He rolls back over onto his side and pulls the

Back in 2003, we moved into a 2496 square foot, 4 bedroom home from an 832 square foot, 2 bedroom apartment. I looked around online last night and found this floor plan of the old place. I remember the living area fondly: we had plenty of space to put all the books, CDs, child toys, stereo, and television. The kitchen and bathroom? They were both a bit small, considering we shared the bathroom with two children and two cats. The thing I most remember from the move, though, was how empty the living room of our new house looked when we first moved in. All the toys we had in the old apartment basically fit in the family room of the new house. We could do whatever we wanted with that living room. And so we did.  And over the next few years, the living room became the play space for two children, then three, and then four. It housed kitchen sets and bookshelves, bins of blocks and bins of dinosaurs, a kid piano and a regular piano, bean bag chairs, Barbie houses, and rocking chairs

The second time I ran into Terry, she hugged me close and whispered in my ear, "It's so good to see you." And by the twinkle in her eye and the curve of her lips, I believed her. It wasn't long after, though, that I realized she spoke those same words to each person she encountered and that I--her friend for years--really wasn't that special. My heart hurt when I thought of all the times we had spent together. The conversations about our children as we swirled milk into our tea, how we spoke about husbands--current and ex--while we watched our children splash in the pool. I'd see her at school, pull her to the side, and chit-chat for minutes, making us late to our respective appointments. She always had a smile for me. She always had a hug. She always made me feel as though she and I had an extraordinary friendship. I should have known. The signs were there. A missed luncheon appointment. A text and an email that went unanswered. She defected from our b

Editing is a tough gig. As much as I enjoy giving feedback to my writing group partners and my colleagues at Literary Mama, as much as I love to say "Wow! This is awesome," or "Great characterization!" I loathe having to write a paragraph that basically says, "Start over. You need to begin this story elsewhere." But last night, as I sat in front of my computer, I typed almost exactly that. Not only did I suggest starting the story somewhere else, but I also suggested that the author chuck the last paragraph of the story, among other things Big changes are what I asked her to consider. And I felt awful asking her to do so. Isn't that the job of the editor, though? Isn't that what we, as writers, ask the editor to do? Yes, it is. But I'm much more comfortable being on the other side of feedback, even when I know what I'm saying is true. So any of you who I ask to edit my work? Feel free to tell me like it is. Speak the truth. Let it rip

For the past three years, I've begun the first day of January with a set of words that mean something to me. In 2014 , the words spoke about goals; in 2015 , they talked about how each person you meet has a role in your life; last year , the words spoke of the fact that your personal destiny depends on you . This year, I'm planning on focusing on the positive even more than I do already, which means I need to remember one thing: When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. ~Helen Keller Happy New Year to you all. I hope this year is one of the best for all of us.