Mom

Fall, Fell

Okay, I’m busy cleaning house (again – amazing how once is never enough with a three year old around). All of us in the house are feeling better and looking forward to houseguests this weekend, thank goodness! So I’m just going to do a quick and dirty list here.

Reasons I Love Fall:

1. Long Pants. On a toddler. I have spent the last three months chasing down a screaming kid who’s just skinned his knees (again), wrangling him as he screams even louder three inches from my ear because he doesn’t “want me to touch his boo-boo,” liberally applying antibiotic creams (more screams), and applying cartoon character bandaids to make it all better (none of which ever stay on long enough for anything to actually heal). While cooler weather doesn’t mean he won’t keep kissing the ground at top speed, it does mean that there’s that all important layer of fabric between unforgiving concrete and too-forgiving skin. (I don’t even want to talk about how my knees weep in sympathy to watch his joints tangle with every solid surface. That’s another blog.)

2. Jackets. I’m what you might lovingly describe as “all woman” – as in, shopping in the Woman’s section of department stores. And while I’ve really come to grips with most of my body issues (who has time to obsess when bandaids have to be reapplied?), summer is not my best fashion season. There are lots of people in this world who look really good in shorts and a tank top. I am not one of these people. But give me some well-cut trousers and a structured jacket, and I’m ready to take on the town!!! (and yes, I love “What Not To Wear.” Love it!)

3. The Impending Death of Mosquitoes and All Their Blood-Sucking Relatives. Oh, I know, they don’t really die, they go into some cruel form of hibernating stasis, because they have to come from somewhere on that first day the temp hits 70 in the spring. And they all come to me. This year was spectacularly bad with all the flooding on the Mississippi (Second only to the Great Flood of ’93, by less than an inch) (Have you donated to the Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund yet?). Seriously, it was 60 degrees out last night, I talked to my neighbor putting up his Halloween decorations for five minutes, and got two mosquito bites. Plus, they discovered the toddler this year, so we were both miserable. Nothing says “hot” in a tank top and shorts like open sores that itch. And yes, it was that bad.

4. Halloween. Yes, they started putting out candy three months ago, before even the back to school sales got really going, but now it’s time to get serious. And serious is the toddler insisting he’s going as a “construction ghostie” this year (a tablecloth with holes a la Charlie Brown, but jauntily topped off with a hard hat I found at a yard sale for a quarter.) It’s like Bob the Builder died and came back to haunt me this year, and I can’t wait to share that with the world. And I can’t wait for the toddler to share some of his candy with me. (Oh, come on. You know you do this too – rifle through your kid’s loot. You spy your weakness – mine’s those big Reese’s Peanut Butter cups – and unilaterally declare that you’re kid isn’t old enough to eat the big kid candy. And then you eat them all before that poor kid notices you swiped five of them.) (You do too!)

5. Fall Color. This is an obvious, obligatory mention, but I really do groove on maples that explode in reds and oranges over night. And then I rake the leaves with the ‘help’ of a toddler who’s none-to-clear on the concept. And then I throw him in the leaves. And repeat until bath time, because by then, we’ve both got leaves in our underoos.

So there you have it. Reasons to love fall.

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Fun, Fun

Let me tell you, there is nothing like mixing pleasure with illness. I say this as I slowly wait for the snot to drain out of my head. I’ve been waiting for four days now and alas, minimal drainage has occurred.

This started on vacation. Actually ON vacation.

So the hubby and I loaded up the toddler after dropping the wiener dog off at the dog hotel. (Which we HATE to do – he is a rescue dog, after all, and definitely doesn’t like being left behind. You’d think after all these years, he’d figure out we’re coming back to get him, but no. Who knew a three-legged wiener dog could dish out the guilt so effectively?) This is the first hotel-based vacation we’ve taken with the toddler since my sister Hannah got married two years ago in Denver.

The toddler was 1 1/2 then, and I was only packing his little tush onto a plane once, so we went a week early and made a vacation out of it. I think the most consecutive sleep we got in the whole 9 days was 4 1/2 hours. The night staff at the swanky hotel we stayed at knew us by name before we left, because I was usually down in the lobby around 2 a.m. where the toddler could scream a bit more freely without waking up the hotel.

See? There’s a good reason it took us another 2 years to try the hotel thing again.

So we headed up north to Minnesota to see one of my oldest friends, Erik (he of the wedding story) and his lovely wife and baby. Our kid is older, so we did the driving. The first night we made it halfway up Iowa and stopped at a hotel with a pool.

I grew up with a swimming pool, but man, I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see one as I was that Thursday night. The toddler, completely stir crazy after 4 1/2 hours in the car, kicked around that pool (with alternating parents holding his head above the water) for a solid 45 minutes. I got tired just watching him. Then we went to dinner at some Texas Road/Steak house thing – the one with buckets of peanuts on the table – well, that was a huge hit. Then we headed back to the hotel and did something the toddler’s never gotten to do – watch TV in bed.

I love TV. I don’t understand it, but I love it. We watched the grown up version of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood called How Stuff Is Made, and then an American rip-off of a Japanese game show called Hole in the Wall – doofuses in silver spandex body suits have to contort to fit through a cutout in a foam wall or be pushed into a green pool of water. Silliest thing I have ever seen, and the toddler loved it. We’d only been on vacation for 7 hours, and already the toddler was having the time of his life.

It only got better. Next morning we bought donuts and ate them in the car. Even the toddler started saying, “We’re on va-ca-tion, Mommy!” We made it to the Mall of America by 11, and then the real fun began.

They’ve got a new theme park in the center of that mammoth mall based on Nickelodeon characters like Spongebob, Blue, and Dora. In his shoes, the toddler was 42 inches tall, so he could go on all but 4 rides with Daddy, because Mommy sure as heck was going to spend that time shopping. After all, the Mall is about 8 times the size of our local mall (with 8 times the number of Hat Stores. Seriously. 8 different hat stores?)

Needless to say, the boys had more fun than you could shake a stick at. Just look at the expressions on their faces on the log flume:

What? Can’t see their faces? Trust me, they were having the time of their lives. The log flume was the toddler’s second favorite ride – believe it or not, my three year old enjoyed shooting “ghosties” in the haunted house most of all – he even went by himself while the hubby rode the “big kid” rides (seriously – the Spongebob Squarepants Rock Bottom Plunge? Most terrifying thing I’ve seen in a long time.). The third place went to Big Rigs, a small loop with cars that looked like – you guessed it – Big Rigs. Big Rigs with Bicycle horns. He had a blast. And I got a totally awesome pair of jeans. The mall was a big success all the way around.

After another hotel room with TV first thing in the morning (Oh, the toddler loves vacation!) we headed up even farther north to see Erik and family. They live in a cozy little house near a lake (I know, hard to imagine in Minnesota). One of the problems with being friends with a guy as opposed to a woman is that, in 8 months, I’d only gotten one picture of his baby, the birth announcement. So I was dying to see this kid – and, frankly, see how Erik was handling Fatherhood. (Answer: Wonderfully – except for the part where he sat the baby on the ground and told him to eat leaves. The baby was only too happy to oblige. This is how outdoorsmen get started, I understand. Eating leaves. The kid’s got great things ahead of him, no doubt!)

Erik and his lovely wife showed us all the sights – the Festival of Foods grocery store, the Mighty Thirsty liquor store, and the local lake, where the toddler walked around in 2 inches of water chasing ducks who were clearly too old for this kind of thing. But mostly we hung out, got caught up, and ate Mexican while all that fresh Minnesota air settled into my sinuses.

Yes, the perfect way to end any vacation is an 8 hour drive with a squirmy three year old in the backseat and a rising tide of sinus miscreance. But I got us home.

We stopped in Charles City for lunch (really – just outside a windfarm – the toddler LOVED the big windmills.) If you’re ever in Charles City, you have to find the vintage park tucked up behind Dave’s restaurant (great fried chicken). Vintage 1960s swings and merrygorounds. Weirdest swing I’ve ever seen there – a diamond shaped humpty dumpty with two swings attached, and the whole thing rotated like a tetherball. Needless to say, the kid loved it. It made me dizzy (which was sort of the point, I gather).

We are still recovering from this vacation. Both the hubby and I are muddling through our snot, and the toddler is struggling to come back down to normal reality. At least the dog has stopped turning his butt to me. He even jumped back on my lap last night. Only took him three days.

But the vacation was a success. The toddler slept in hotel rooms through the night (and stayed dry to boot!) we did tons of fun things (the hubby strongly recommends the Air Bender ride, whatever that is), and had a superb time with old friends. Can’t really ask for much more than that. Except another box of Kleenex. I’m all out.

This entry was posted in Mom.

The Three Legged Wonder Wiener

So, I gathered from everyone’s responses last week that the How I Met My Hubby story went over real well. Darn it all, I hate it when my sister Leah is so right all the time.

But I thought I’d keep the quirky story thing going this week by talking about my dog, Jake.

Jake the Three Legged Wonder Wiener.

That’s right. Three legs.

This is Jake’s story. Everyone has one, even the dog.

So Jason and I had gotten married and bought a house. And you know what that means for young professionals on the fence about starting a family right away – yup. A dog.

I grew up with wiener dogs and wanted to get one. Jason didn’t care a whole lot one way or the other, but he wanted veto power. My mom’s wieners were a handful back in the day (known as the terrorists from the family we adopted them from) and Jason didn’t want to be sued by people who’d had their ankles broken by a tiny dog with an size complex. And being a frugal bleeding heart liberal, I didn’t want to pay $500 for a purebred when there were plenty of perfectly good dogs in shelters.

Thus, the quest for a dog began. We lived in Chicago, which had a dedicated dachshund rescue organization. But for every wiener profile I brought home, Jason found problems. Not good with kids (pretty common for wieners). Antisocial. Kills bunnies in the yard. (Although, Jason fondly thinks of Red Fred, the dog who killed bunnies, when Jake sits 10 feet from a bunny and has no idea it’s even there. What he wouldn’t give for a bunny hunter these days.) Every dog was not right for our family.

So I broadened the scope of the search. Wisconsin wiener dogs. Indiana wiener dogs. Missouri wiener dogs. And Jason found problems with each and every one.

I kept searching. I enlisted the help of my sister Hannah. Hannah has the unique gift to find the most pitiful animal available and fall in love. So she started trolling Petfinder.com, where she’d gotten her high-strung cat, Dulcie (Love you, Dulc!). And I got an email from her. “He’s so cute!” she gushed. So I clicked on the link, and saw a cute little red wiener dog.

With no left front leg.

“He’s missing a leg!” I wrote back.

“But he’s so cute!” she repeated.

So I printed Jake off and took him home to show Jason. And the man went, (and I quote), “Awww.”

Problem was, Jake was in Tennessee, and this was December. So I contacted Jake’s keepers, Jerry’s Rescues, and they agreed to hold him until April (our vacation) if we paid $125 to cover the two for one cost of leg amputation and neutering. Oh, and we had to have a home visit to make sure we were appropriate people for a wiener dog.

Jason still rolls his eyes at that. We had to be interviewed by other wiener dog lovers to make sure we we’re some sort of deviant wiener dog fanatics. Although he did make them cookies. . . I love that man.

Anyway.

Vacation time approached. We planned our vacation around a trip to Tennessee. A few days in Nashville, then on to Lewisburg where Jake was at. We ate pralines and saw Little Jimmy Dickens do his thing at the Grand Ole Opry. And then we left the touristy parts behind and headed for the hills.

Literally. Lewisburg is a small burg, famous only for the Tennessee Walking Horse Hall of Fame, which is an actual Hall between the lobby of the National Tennessee Walking Horse Association building and the secretary’s office. A hallway with pictures.

And we had a few more hours to kill. We spent them in the Piggly Wiggly. And then we drove out to The Middle of Nowhere.

Cue freaky banjos playing ominously in the background.

Jerry’s house was way out in the hills, several miles from paved roads. No one but about 100 dogs were home when we got there, and they were all barking. Jerry apparently subscribes to the never-throw-stuff-away philosophy, popularized during the Great Depression, because there was stuff everywhere.

The banjos got a little louder.

We waited for an hour in our little car, rain pouring (of course rain was pouring). Finally, Jerry showed up. Picture Grizzly Adams holding a chihuahua, because that’s what he was.

“I’ll go get that Jake for you,” he said after we exchanged nervous pleasantries. “You don’t wanna come in the house . . .”

Somehow, I figured. I didn’t even want to imagine the carpet stains.

So he directed us to what looked like an outhouse with a shower curtain. “You stay here, out of the rain.”

I swear to all that is holy, there was a chainsaw in there. I knew we were agonna die, all for a three legged wiener dog.

But we didn’t. Jerry came out with a mildly nervous 12 pound wiener dog and told us the story.

A church secretary had found him tearing into the garbage behind the church, his leg dangling useless. He was on the verge of starving. She kept him for the day, but then took him to the city pound. Now, I’m not saying the pound people are heartless, but they have a job to do, and a mangled, half-starved wiener is not high on that to-do list. He was going to be put down that night because he was in bad shape.

Enter Jerry. “I stop by the pound every night to see if there’s someone who needs savin'” he explained as I only mildly quaked in terror in the shed with the chainsaw. “And, boy, did this one need savin’. Figure he only had another 15 minutes on that clock.” As you might have gathered, Jerry is one big softy beneath that Grizzly exterior.

Yup. 15 minutes. That close.

Jerry’s vet took off the leg – “jes’ a dangling by a tendon,” Jerry explained as my stomach turned – and tossed in the neutering, and three days later, put Jake’s picture on the web. Hannah found him two days after that.

It seems that Jerry had found Jake’s original people, but they didn’t want him back. I’m not sure if they dumped him at the side of the road, or if he ran off after the UPS truck (because let me tell you, he’s got it out for the UPS guy, bigtime), but he’d been hit by a car.

I like to tell the kids who say, “Hey! Did you know your dog’s missing a leg?” that he forgot to look both ways before he crossed the street. For the younger ones, I toss in how he forgot to hold his mommy’s hand.

Jason likes to respond by gasping dramatically and saying, “He is?? OH NO! Where’d it GO!” But he’s funny like that.

Every year, we send Jerry’s Rescues a Christmas Card and a check for saving our dog. They’re good people doing good work.

Now some of you might think I have a predilection for those who might be termed “special.” But it’s not just me. My sisters have dogs (and a cat) that all belong on a far shorter bus than Jake does, but we love them anyway. And just because he’s special doesn’t mean he doesn’t get tortured. Just look at the things I have done to my poor dog.

He drives.

I love his ears. The toddler does, too.

His ears get cold in the winter. I tried to keep them warmer. He hates it.

And this is my favorite picture of my dog. 12 inches of snow can be pretty daunting for a pup who’s only 8 inches tall.

We love Jake. My son calls him “Jakey Wiener Dog” and will stop mid-stride to hug and kiss him. Jake’s pretty okay with the kid, too, if only as a primary food source.

But there was one time he almost didn’t make it. And this just drove home the fact that Jake was lucky to have us.

Being purebreds, wiener dogs are suseptible to a variety of genetic flaws. They have a lot of back problems, what with being long and low. And we accepted that Jake’s problems might be worse after the accident and missing leg thing.

And true to form, he slipped two disks. Couldn’t walk, couldn’t stand, couldn’t even pee. I was 3 months pregnant and not exactly rational, but I refused to let them kill my dog. He’d come so far, I just couldn’t do it.

So we plunked down the $3,000+ smackers to have that dog fixed. So much for vacation that year. And you know you’re screwed when the surgical center has a 10,000 aquarium tank and marble countertops.

But they fixed my dog. And left him with another scar.

Jake’s probably about six, maybe seven now. He’s mellowed as he’s aged, unless someone rings the doorbell or the UPS guy drives by. (Nothing beats the UPS guy ringing the doorbell, in Jake’s opinion.) I don’t know how much time he’s got left. Maybe he’ll live to be 10, maybe 13. But I knew that going in – his time was shorter than a puppy’s might have been.

But that’s okay. Because he will have spent that time with us.

Nothing Beats New Crayons

Oh, I love the smell of new, untouched crayons. Remember the pure pleasure of something brand new, just for you?

You may have guessed, but I was one of those kids who mostly LIKED going back to school. Not always, but mostly. And the best part was the new school supplies. If you read the Frugal? Or Cheap? post, you probably figured out that I didn’t always get the newest, trendiest school clothes every August. (Which, in hindsight, was just as well. Being in the height of fashion back in 1987 was quite a travesty of style. Frugalness saved me from some of the worst.)

But school supplies? Brand new pencils? Mead Trapper Keepers that no one else had ever trapped anything in? Oh, those folders with the built in three-ring brass thingies (guaranteed to shred your paper, if you bothered to try and use them?) I loved them all.

Even today, my hubby has to restrain me when the back-to-school flyers start hitting just after Memorial Day (seriously, it’s earlier every year). It can be a little touch and go – now, I have my own credit card and car. He’d never know – at least, not until the bills came due.

This year has been hard, because I’ve been setting up my own little Virgina-Woolf-room-of-my-own office for months. I can actually justify the trip to Staples by saying, “I need more paper – that last book was 635 pages!”

Now, honestly, I do not need a new ruler/protractor/compass combo, no matter how cute they are in new designer colors. Hell, I never needed them in school, but I got them every year anyway. And I want them now.

Blissfully, I have gotten a little help out in this. The toddler is in a new classroom, the three-year-old room – love the teachers, and they sent home a school supply list.

God bless those daycare ladies – a reason to go school supply shopping!

I bought poster paints and tape, pencils and scissors, markers and crayons. The toddler could have cared less, until we got to the crayons. Then his little eyes lit up, and he wanted multiple boxes. And heck, they were only 20 cents, so I bought four.

He colored with his aunts. He colored at the restaurant. He colors before story time. And now, he’s not even peeling the wrappers off like he did last year. When I broke one (on accident, people!), he told me the other crayons were sad.

Maybe by next year, I can show him how to color evenly on all sides to keep them pointy.

Smell the Testosterone

So, not done with the Emersons, per say.

I’ve spent the last three days bouncing between two different heroes. My sister Leah is editing The Best with an iron fist. It’s not the slaughter I had on my hands when she did Marrying, but it’s a little messy as I work in some better backbones for Bobby and Lily in the early going. She makes my books better, so it’s worth the pain.

Simultaneously, my Mom is doing the first reading of A Part – “Engrossing,” she called it, but as I thought it was, the setting is weak. And as I work in better descriptions of the land and try to get a better handle on a Lakota mindset, I’ve been in Jacob’s head a lot.

And it’s not easy to shift gears between 1960s sweetheart and 1990s noseless cowboy, especially when I lack the requisite testosterone.

So last night, I went about getting some.

That’s right, we went to a demolition derby at the Adams County Fair.

Ah, the smell alone – ancient boats of cars leaking gas and coolants, wet mud mixed with the distinctive scent of pig, the collective sweat of a crowd eager to see some serious destruction blending with funnel cakes and corn dogs – was, well, smelly. In a manly kind of way.

So we ate carnival food – the toddler LOVES corndogs – he eats all the corn part first, dog part second – and sat to wait. Occasionally, a few tractors would move some dirt, which was just enough toddler entertainment to keep the tantrums at bay, but we got an extra 40 minutes of quality people watching as crowds filtered in and back out for more fried foods.

It’s good to do some people watching, even if you are endlessly waiting for cars to crash. I tend to see the same seven people every week – Hubby, toddler, coworkers, boss, daycare ladies. Seeing every manner of human – teenagers trying too hard, farmers with their overalls unbuttoned on the side (why???), thugs smoking directly under the no-smoking signs, beautiful people, ugly people, kids hyped on candy and lurching carnival rides, and the fashion choices everyone makes – gives me a better worldview from which to base other viewpoints.

And then the cars rolled in.

There’s no better way to get in touch with sheer masculinity than to sit next to the hubby – the man who makes the best damn chocolate chip cookies in the world, who does the dishes and spends time with his son – the perfect man, in other words – and see him transform into something more essentially, elementally male before my eyes. The harder the crunch, the deeper the rumbling “Yeah!” that sprung forth his chest until it was little more than a primeval growl of satisfaction. I swear, if I looked hard enough, I could actually see the testosterone levels increasing. Fists began to pump, and when a car caught fire, he actually stood and howled with the crowd, toddler in his arms, yelling with him.

The most dramatic part of the evening was after the red flag was waved for the flaming car. One car either missed the 8 red flags waving or purposefully ignored them, and, backing up, t-boned two stopped cars at full speed. The crowd held it’s breath for a moment before it erupted, torn between cheers for the solid hit and boos for the new bad guy. Both drivers of the other cars climbed out, and we nearly had a brawl on our hands. One of the refs mucked through the mud as fast as possible to head off the fisticuffs, tearing off the offender’s flag to disqualify him for unsportsmanlike conduct, but the crowd’s reaction was classic.

The women, almost to a female, cheered heartily at the disqualification.

The men were doing their best to egg on the fight. Hubby included.

Distinctly manly.

And then we came home and he read the toddler a story and tucked him in. The perfect man.

So, after blending with a broader cross-section of humanity, I’m going to spend the afternoon in the heads of the men I’ve created. I think I understand them a bit better. And if not, there’s another demo derby the next county over on Friday night.

The Bookworm

I have a dirty little secret to confess.

I don’t read very much.

Before you all faint in despair at what the world is coming to, let me explain. I am a born and bred bookworm. I distinctly remember the taunting, snide comments from the kids on the middle school playground as I slowly walked out the door, reading. Slowly walked to the benches, reading. Read the whole recess. Slowly walked back in, reading. Reluctantly had to put the book away to listen to the teacher explain something I already knew. Cynthia Voight, Scott O’Dell, Madeline L’Engle, Margurite Henry – I devoured them all. I even tried Uncle Tom’s Cabin. (Tried, but even a fifth grader had her limits.)

Needless to say, I loved the gifted teacher who also taught 5th grade history. My parents are history teachers, and she knew I already knew more than any other kid in the school about the American Revolution. She let me keep reading, God bless her.

Like I said, born and bred. You can guess where this led me, right? Bachelor’s in English, and on to Ohio State for the Master’s (where, if you remember, I was known as the Queen . . . aw, go read the post yourself).

But two things happened in grad school. One: A love of books wasn’t enough. I also had to love theory, and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I will never forget the day the post colonial professor looked at me as I interrupted an argument about what it meant that Friday didn’t have a tongue in a retelling of Robinson Caruso to demand to know where it said in the book that he didn’t have a tongue.

“You are such a literalist,” he sneered. And I knew I didn’t belong any more.

The second, more important thing was that the OSU Masters in English didn’t require a thesis. Nope, it required an oral exam, on a predetermined list of the 75 or 125 or some arbitrary number of the greatest literary works ever written in English. All your major players were there, your Beowulfs, your Canterbury Tales, your Hamlets. But there were others, some I’d never heard of.

I had three months of no classes to read. Three solid, uninterrupted months to read. The only distraction was the 7:30 a.m. Comp II class I taught. Then back to read some more.

Finally, back in my comfort zone, I mowed through the books. You know Dickens, right? Dickens, who never met a word he didn’t use (sucks to have bills and be paid by the word). A Christmas Carol may be short, but just about everything else tops out at about 800-900 pages.

I read Bleak House, quite manageable at 598 pages, in one day. And, just because I had time left, I started another book, and read another 175 pages before my eyes began to cross.

Yup. Born and bred bookworm.

But 90 solid days of reading can wear a person down. I already knew I wasn’t going to continue. I passed the oral just fine, and began packing to come home. I packed up all the books, the ones I loved. Boxes and boxes of books.

And they sat. For months in my parents’ barn. For more months when I got my next apartment. I didn’t get them all unpacked before I packed again to move in with my soon-to-be-hubby. I unpacked and repacked when we bought our house. It was the first time I’d touched them in years. The only time for years to come.

I didn’t read another book, a novel, a piece of fictional literature, for almost five years. And I didn’t miss it.

I read the paper voraciously, and all the business magazines my hubby got. I still read, just not books.

Slowly, I eased back. I did a condensed novel in the ESL class I taught. I started reading Dave Barry’s humor column collections, and then read his novels (hilarious, of course). Big Trouble was the first real book in nearly six years.

And I read it in less than a day. It was good, and it only took about 4 hours. But it was the only one for months.

I’m reading again. I like to pick up a book when I’m stuck on my novel because, whether it’s good or bad, it kick starts my brain again. But I’ve been stuck a bit on how to get to what happens next. So I read two books in less than two days. I read Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight in less than six hours, and that includes dinner and playtime for the toddler.

And that’s the problem. When I’m enjoying what I read, even just a little, I want to keep going. But now I have a life that demands my attention. I really cannot read more than one book a week, because otherwise it turns into a time-suck, and suddenly it’s one in the morning, I’ve got to get up in 4 hours, and I haven’t written a damn thing, more or less picked out the kid’s clothes for the morning.

It’s not easy being a bookworm.

How much do you need?

So here’s the question. How much support do you need to follow your dreams? (Yes, that sounds cheesy, but stay with me here).

Listening to Debbie Macomber and Eloisa James, and talking to other writers at the conference recently, I was struck by the different levels of spousal support. Debbie told everyone at the Gala dinner that, back when she was starting out, a stay-at-home mom with a passel of kids, she was taking money out, and her hubby (Wayne, if I remember correctly) said she needed to put money back in, but when it came down to her dream, he said go for it. (Obviously, he’s the hero!)

Eloisa James said that her hubby supported her career because they had too much debt, and they couldn’t have another baby until they got rid of the debt. Books erased that debt and led to her daughter (an amazing story in and of itself).

On the conference loop, people discussed spousal support – someone said they were bringing their spouse, because the more he was involved, the better it was for the writing. Another poster replied that, the more her spouse was involved, the worse it was.

Now, my hubby is pretty right brained. He’s all about buying technology – very involved in the new laser printer purchase, happy to debate the merits of usb ports, etc. for the computer. And he went with me to the conference, because he goes to a lot of conferences.

Backstory: I stayed home for 17 months after the toddler was born. Then I got a job as an editor, which I mostly love. But this winter, economic downturn and whatnot, my hours were cut. By 40%.

I’m using the time to write, but it’s come down to money. If I want a patio before 2010, I need either another part time job, or a new full time job. Or to get a nice contract, which won’t happen today or tomorrow, maybe not for months. I’ve had a few interviews, and I’m waiting to hear back about a possible full-time position. And I can’t decide if it would be a good thing or if it would be terrible.

The hubby thinks that, if they offer me the position, I should take it. It’s a rock-solid company, with great benefits. And he has a point. Good jobs in an economic downturn should not be lightly discounted.

But I think I finally figured out what I want to be. I love writing in my little office that looks out onto the magnolia. It’s very Virginia Woolf-ish, but I have a room of my own, and I’m doing something I love. Is it a coincidence that I’ve lost almost 20 pounds since I started this? Perhaps I don’t need the food as much to fill the soul. Writing about my people does that for me.

Some days, I feel like he doesn’t support my writing. But I have to keep reminding myself that he does, in a pretty typical guy way. His support is measurable (bigger hard drives, bigger jump drives) and concrete (new laser printer!). Not so much touchy-feely, you-go-girl stuff. And I love that he keeps his finger on our financial pulse. I don’t have to think about it because he does, and he does a damn fine job.

So my question is, what support do you need? What support do you get? Is the compromise enough?

Team Anderson!

First, let me begin by saying I love spring. My daffodils are blooming, and the magnolia outside my office window is stunning. I waited all winter for this riot of color. Plus, it’s so rewarding to see all my hard work coming to fruition as the gardens return to beauty.

Now, on to business!

A new short story is on the website – “The Girl With the Coal-Black Eyes.” To quote a friend, it’s saucy, so don’t read it at work, people! Plus, it’s the companion to the final book in the Emerson series. Some things won’t make much sense until you’ve read the book. But if you want to see what I’ve been up to, check it out. Sometimes you’ve got to go where your muse takes you. Mine spent a few weeks in Vietnam.

The hubby and I will be leaving for Chicago and the Spring Fling conference in a week. I have been frantically revising Marrying the Emersons on the optimistic hope that an agent or editor will request pages at the conference. I want it ready to go. All while the adorable toddler had the tummy flu. It’s been a weird week, but it’s getting better.

My critique team has been putting in some overtime too. The good news is I think I’ve finally got an opening I can stand behind. But it was a long week and a half as the team members wrangled with the best way to start this danged book.

Writing is, at times, a solitary event. But getting published is a group effort. Anyone who tells you different is lying.

So I’d like to introduce Team Anderson. Without the love, support, and occasional smack down these generous people provide, I’d be spinning my wheels.

Critiquing is what these people do best!

Mary D. – Technically, Mary is my supervisor at the day job. But she’s a darned fun woman, and tolerates my babbling about adorable toddlers and plot twists with surprising grace and humor. She’s a primary source – a farm girl, born and bred, and is more than happy to share such valuable information about everything from baling alfalfa to plucking chickens to outhouse construction. Plus, she knows more about grammar than Strunk AND White combined.

Leah Lucas – My sister, if you must know. But Leah has an unwavering grasp on how things SHOULD go and sound. If it ain’t right, she’s perfectly happy to get nasty on my manuscript when everyone else says it’s fine. The new opening is mostly her iron-fisted editing in action.

Pauline Friday – Truthfully, Pauline is good for one thing. Sex Scenes. If you want to know why, read her blog yourself at adatebyfriday.blogspot.com. But don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Mom – A history teacher, Mom and I have frequent arguments about including the exact number of people who died in the Spanish Influenza epidemic, and how much radios cost back in 1937, and whether or not I need to mention FDR more. Everyone should have a critique member who frequently strokes their egos, and Mom does it for me!

Dad – Well, sorta. He read an early draft, and I’m not sure he ever recovered from the sex scenes. But he had some good points – I just had to listen to them. Eventually. He could say I told you so if he wanted to, but he’s just not that kind of Dad.

But Team Anderson is much more than a Critique group.

Other valuable Team members:

Hannah Clampitt – My other sister, she’s a PR goddess. I haven’t had much use for that yet, but the day will come, and she’ll be all over that. Welcome back home!

Craig Clampitt – As I mentioned last week, he’s my Web guy. I’ve got an amazingly beautiful website, http://5nl.b69.mywebsitetransfer.com/, that’s all him. Plus he’s got a house by a lake. Hello, three day weekends!

Leah Hanlin – Some of us are just lucky enough to have a dear friend who is a hyper-talented graphic designer. Letterhead? Check. Business Cards? Check. Bringing her kids over to play with mine and just hang out? Check. Plus, she picked out pretty decent bridesmaids dresses. The girl’s got taste!

The Passionate Pen – Run by Jenna Peterson/Jess Michaels, The Passionate Pen is my unofficial mentor in the world of romance writing. She’s kind, gracious, and helpful. I can’t wait to meet her in Chicago!

Friends who listen to me babble: Mary D., Melissa, Leah H., my whole family, Uncle Doug, my Hubby, and countless others who nod and smile. Some of my best ideas come when I’m bouncing them off others.

There you have it. As I’ve entered this new phase, these people have done everything they could to help me make a go of it.

I couldn’t do it without them!

Self-Promotion Run Amuck!

This is somewhat ridiculous.

I don’t have a book out. I don’t have a contract. I don’t even have an agent.

But I do have a website. And now I have a blog.

The theory is that this self-hype will somehow show agents and editors that I’m a Serious Author. I’m Committed to my writing.

Personally, I feel just a bit like being committed.

I could use the rest.

So let’s review the basics. I’m got one book finished, Marrying the Emersons. I have the remaining books in the series, A Part of Her and The Best They Could, about half done.

I have a damned snazzy website, www.sarahmanderson.com, designed by my sister’s father-in-law, Craig Clampitt.

I’m going to the Spring Fling Conference in Chicago in less than three weeks.

I have a part time job as a writer and editor for an educational publishing company (which is enough to get me a newly remodeled bathroom, but not quite enough for a new patio).

I have a son who will be three in less than a month.

Somehow, I’m supposed to be ‘getting my name out there,’ ‘getting eyeballs’ to look at my stuff. I’m supposed to be blogging (check!), posting comments on Amazon, writing articles, filming book videos, winning awards, designing promotional items for librarians, writing queries, getting contracts, and fielding offers from Hollywood actresses looking to win an Oscar for portraying my heroines.

And don’t forget the actual writing!

On about six non-consecutive hours of sleep.

Let me explain.

My son, who shall henceforth be known as Thomas (see, it’s not that I don’t trust you all, but at heart, I’m a little paranoid, and would prefer that his adorable visage not be out there for everyone to fixate on) doesn’t sleep. He’s a great kid, all boy (except for the cooking thing, but let’s give a shout out to Alton Brown!) and going to three in a month.

But he doesn’t sleep. And when he don’t sleep, I don’t sleep.

Nightmares, night terrors, phantom night poops, you name it, he doesn’t sleep. Some days, it’s not so bad. He got me up at 1:45 last night, and my hubby at 5:15 this morning. Not bad.

But night before last? No sleep between about 12:30 and 4ish.

Oh, he’s asleep, but he screams in his sleep. And the moment I get vertical, my brain kicks on. So even after I’ve tucked him in, I lay in bed for twenty, thirty minutes while conversations between my people play out, or I agonize over what to wear to the conference.

And just as I finally, FINALLY, drift off, he screams again.

It’s a conspiracy, I tell you.

So, there you have it. I’m trying real hard to be a Writer. I’m trying real hard to raise a happy, well-adjusted boy in today’s over saturated world.

Will these two goals be able to coexist?

Join me as we find out together.