So, frankly, this has not been an award-winning Authorial week. I do not handle rejection well to begin with, and when it’s something as personal as the world and people I have created . . . ouch. And no, actually, I don’t take a whole lot of comfort from people ‘reassuring’ me that it took X Author Y years/decades to get published. Kind of like saying, Hey! You’ve only got 7 1/2 years to go! Keep at it! Toss in some really unethical FTC regulations of bloggers (please, please see Courtney Milan’s summary of this for how it impacts authors) and I feel like I’m an Author under fire.

But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here for sheer, unadulterated Mom humor.

Hey, I had a long week. Work with me here.

So last Saturday, I went to Jen-up-the-street’s yard sale. I like Jen, but we’re both the introvert kind of mom, so we don’t get together too much. Anyway, she had a yard sale. It started Friday, and Saturday was well into the nippy category.

In other words, Jen was looking to move some merchandise fast.

Oh, did I mention that the Kid went with? And both dogs? I honestly don’t know how happy Jen was to see our sorry little party walk up her drive. But I came to buy and we didn’t break anything, so all was well.

Side note: I love seeing other people’s garages during garage sales. I love the ones where there’s so much crap that they hang up a sheet rather than try to organize. I love the ones when there is NOTHING in that darn garage but neatly organized piles of merchandise. I understand the sheet people, but the nothing people? How do people live like that?

Anyway, back to the yard sale. (Jen’s garage was neat, but there was stuff there. A good blend.) Jen was cold. She did not want to move this stuff back into her house. My kid will grow into her kid’s stuff.

Deal time.

Like when my kid picked up this:

Yes, you are, in fact, looking at a pink Fisher Price digital camera. Jen’s daughter’s old camera. She didn’t have the cords or the software for it, so she gave it to my kid.

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! (Name that obscure Victorian poem!)

Seriously. This kid is over-the-freaking-moon-in-love with his camera. I’m a little miffed–there went a great Christmas idea–but on the other had, did I mention the free part? And I had a compatible cable at home. All good.

I love my kid, but I’m not sure I ever really thought about how the world looks from his perspecitve since that one time I got down on all fours and looked around the kitchen to see if there was anything a new crawler could get into. In other words, it had been a while.

So what does the world look like to a kid?

Mom (me), drinking tea and driving.

Illinois farm land, as seen through the back window.

The back of Dad’s seat in the car.

Jake, mostly.

He took this picture of the toy helicopter his PawPaw made him and promptly pronounced, “Ooh, good one!”

I see great still life pictures in his future. Just not with my shoes in them.

His cubby at daycare.

Can I tell you about daycare and the camera? I won’t post the pictures–as you may have gathered, I don’t post pictures of kids, mine or anyone else’s, but my kid took pictures of all his friends at daycare. And one young lady, “B,” was giving my kid The Look.

Ladies, you know The Look. You tilt your head to the side, bat your eyes, and ever-so-slightly part the lips. The Look that says “kiss me.”

And “B,” the little four-year-old vixen, was giving The Look to my kid. I have proof.

And then my little snot-nosed kid–my baby!–took a close-up of her lips.

No, I’m not kidding. Yes, I am thinking of locking him in his room for another fifteen years.

Moving on:

I like this shot. I don’t know what it is supposed to be, but I like it anyway. Very modern.

So, as you can see by award-winning* shots such as this one of the daycare hallway:

I’ve got a future Pulitzer Prize winner on my hands here. It was a good reminder of why I love being a Mom so much.

Built-in comic relief.

(*not really)

Okay. I’m leaving town in less than five days for the Romance Writers of America National Conference in Washington, D.C. At what my sister Leah refers to as the butt crack of dawn on Tuesday, my mom, my kid, and I are heading east. The kid will only be on the journey for just over two and a half hours, and then he’ll spend the rest of the week with his grandparents, my in-laws. Tractors will be admired. Deer will be named “Bambi.” And toys–oh, you wouldn’t believe the toys!–toys will be played with. In other words, the three of them are going to have more fun than you can shake a stick at.

To say nothing of my mom. She hasn’t been to D.C. in over a decade. The breadth and quality of museums covering the Holocaust, the American Indian, the Korean War, and so much more! have just exploded since she was last there. She’s been chomping at the bit since May for this trip. Just give her a tape of Willie Nelson singing “On the road again!” and her new digital voice recorder (she verbally documents everything. Everything!) and she’s good to go. Better than good. Toss in an awards reception that she gets to go to (hope I win!) and the fact that she’s going to meet Janet Evanovich and get her autograph? Wow. Did I mention she’s been a smidge excited?

And me? At 10:43 this morning, I officially went into panic mode. I barely know what I’m wearing. I have no idea if our room has a mini-fridge. Parking is a byzantine mystery, I have to print my own worksheets, and somehow, I must get to the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. If I’m trying to earn my bread and butter on Cowboys and Indians (and I am), I darned well better pay homage. It’s a Moral Imperative.

And the bug bites?

In the midst of a slow-burn kind of panic (wanna bet money on whether I’ll have dreams about showing up to a presentation without my worksheets? Or my pants?), I have been attacked by at least two (possibly more) separate insects that are chewing the living shit out of me (pardon my French, but it’s true). I blame Jake, the Three-Legged Wonder Wiener. I think he collected some chiggers (or fleas, or something!), took a nap on my jammies, and gave me those bad boys as a parting gift. (Tip: Do not leave jammies on the floor for your dumb dog to nap on. Really.) My torso, back, and face are covered with small, itchy welts.

And that’s not counting the number the mosquitoes have done on my legs. It’s insane, really, but at least the legs are NOT covered in small, itchy welts. They’re covered in HUGE, itchy welts. Big difference. I’ve probably got over fifty bites on me. And counting. I’m going to weep and gnash my teeth tomorrow in the hopes of convincing some sort of medical professional to put me out of my misery. Or at least get me something stronger than benadryl and hydrocortisone cream, because that’s not cutting it any more.

And I love the man, but if I have to listen to him ‘theorize’ that I itch so much because I must be extra-sensitive to the ‘anti-coagulant’ that the bugs use before they . . . well, I’m going to start throwing up and punching him at the same time. I’d even rather hear my Gram repeat for the millionth time in my life how the bugs like me better than everyone else on the planet because “I’m so sweet.”

Welts. Welts! Just in time to meet and greet! Just in time to finally sit down and meet my agent, face to face! Just in time to dress up, real fancy-like, for an awards presentation!

I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND!

Or, at the very least, large chunks of my skin. Man, these things ITCH!

Ah, summer vacation.

My hubby’s on a business trip. My kid’s experiencing the true joy of a whole week of being spoiled rotten by loving grandparents.

And I’ve got the house to myself. Just me and Jake, the Three-Legged Wonder Wiener.

It’s such an odd sensation. For instance, I picked up the living room and even vacuumed. And then – you won’t believe it – I came back down the next morning, and it was still clean!

Parents of small children can truly appreciate how rare and wondrous that is.

So I’ve done some housework, but only a little, because I don’t have to keep doing it. Almost a vacation from clutter!

And the kid? My folks have a swimming pool. They went to see Up. And then they drove the big motor home down to the lake. Boat rides, fishing from the dock, and – kids these days! – a DVD player for when he gets ‘bored.’ You know what I got when I was ‘bored’ as a kid? A swift kick outside, that’s what. He gets to watch movies.

Reports from the field are that he’s having the time of his life. He couldn’t wait for me to leave, frankly, because only Mimi will let him buy circus peanuts. You remember circus peanuts? A “candy” that’s some unnatural shade of orange and has all the taste and texture of Styrofoam? Circus peanuts will never cross my threshold – but anything goes when you’re on vacation.

He only gets upset when he over-thinks, which usually occurs at bedtime. He started crying about how much he missed me long after story time had ended one night – but wouldn’t even talk to me the next day because he was playing with toys. Yeah, that’s where I rank. Just below cars.

The person who’s getting the short end of this stick is my husband. He’s on a business trip, and having to do actual business. He emailed me yesterday that he’d already reached saturation point – and it was only Wednesday. Sure, someone else is cooking his food and making his bed, but he’s still working. Poor guy.

Well, I’m still working too. I’m keeping my normal work schedule. Editing continues, and I had a job interview today to teach a second part-time job – English as a Second Language, which was the job I had when I lived in Chicago. So, I’m actually about to start working more.

It’s been an interesting week. I’ve watched TV – but not BBC World News America or Lilo and Stitch – eaten chicken and pork chops, and slept in late in the middle of the week.

But I miss them. Sticky faces, socks on the floor, dirt tracked everywhere; hugs at story time, conversations with stuffed animals, and the kind of kisses that make a girl want to write romance novels – I miss it all. It’s not being homesick, because I’m the only one at home. It’s being people-sick.

Despite owning the remote, having unfettered access to the bathroom, and not being awakened by snoring or crying at all hours, I’ll be glad when my guys come home.

It’s not home without them.

So, definitely making serious patio progress. See?

And I went today and picked up the steps – those bad boys weigh 83 pounds a shot. My car was weeping as the guy loaded them in. I could hear it sobbing. But I got them out without breaking anything important, so all is well.

Why did we need to go buy steps? Because of my new superpower.

Call me Level-Headed Woman.

My neighbors no doubt think I’m insane. (To be fair, they probably already thought that.) But I’m out there, pacing back and forth over everything from newly dug-out dirt to rock to different rock. I can sense a change in the level. Even tiny ones. So what if I look like a deranged model on the loose? I’m Level-Headed Woman!

So, Sunday, it had dried out enough that I could go out there and dig. The dirt wasn’t too heavy – not light, but moveable. And I’m leveling the ground so that, once we get the four inches of gravel and inch of sand and two-inch pavers, it will be level with the walkway we’ve already done.

And I look down to where we’d ripped out the old sidewalk – where we’d already dug out – where we’d already put down the gravel – and I realize that something is very wrong.

“Honey – that’s not level.”

And I get this lecture on how a little bit of grade is good, as long it drains away from the house … yada, yada, yada.

“No, it’s really not level. Do some math.”

This is how our project has gone. I dig; he does math. I shovel; he does more math. Don’t get me wrong – the math is important (see above drainage point), but let’s just say I’m earning the office furniture I’m going to get with all the money we saved doing this ourselves. (And, to be fair, he’s done some digging too. He also moves my full wheelbarrow for me. I hate wheeling my barrow. Hate it!)

So, he runs some lines, does some math, and discovers that – surprise! – it’s not level, by a whole five inches. Over 10 feet. That’s a whole lot of drop for a 16 by 16 inch paver stone to cover.

So, I ask my boss (an experienced fellow in this department), who, whenever we talk pavers, winds up giving me the “that’s one way to do it – not the way I’d do it, but one way,” look. And he tells me to do a step, where to get the supplies, and the steps I need to take.

Thus, my project today. Steps.

You know, there is so much more going on right now that just the Project That Wouldn’t Die. My toddler is a toddler no more – he turned four on Tuesday. He’s now officially a ‘kid.’ And while I was digging? My hubby made him this:

The kid insisted he eat the wheel first. That was tricky . . .

That’s how we roll. Gender roles don’t really apply at this house, but that’s okay. He bakes a lot better cake than I do. And I level a lot better than he does.

Our seventh wedding anniversary was a few weeks ago. Not itchy at all!

Mother’s Day is this weekend; in a week and a half, I’m turning thirty three.

I have reverse writer’s block – I have entire chapters, down to the commas, written in my head. And I cannot get my fingers to type the words.

So, as you can see, there is a ton of stuff going on. And all of it is overshadowed by this danged patio.

But it’s going to be great when it’s done, right, Jake?

Right.

Ah, March.

It’s only the fifth, but it’s full-on spring around here. Sure, it helps that it’s already 54 degrees at 9:20 in the morning. But to me, spring is more than just temperature.

It’s suddenly not needing to turn on lights to leave the house at seven or come home later than 4:30.

It’s sunlight streaking into my office again, glistening off the magnolia branches that are hoping it’s okay to bud out right now.

It’s the hundreds of bulbs just beginning to push their way up through the layers of still frozen and squishy mud and muck.

It’s the all-of-a-sudden jam-packed schedule of going places and seeing people after a long two months of hermitage. For example, last weekend, the kid and I packed our butts onto the train for a whirlwind trip to Chicago. We crashed at the Lovely Zen-master Becca’s house and spent all day Saturday at the Chicago Children’s Museum before we took the train home early Sunday. Lawsy, it’s going to be hard to top that much fun, but we are going to try.

This weekend, we are headed down to my folks’ house. My sister’s spring play is going on, and frankly, it’s never too early to expose a young boy to musical theater. Balances out the Batman/Spiderman/Superman wars in this house. We don’t brave the fall play, because the fall play has no singing and no dancing. My sister is super de duper excited that my kid will sit for singing and dancing. Plus, it will be a zoo. My mom’s cats, my sister’s cat and dog, my other sister’s two dogs, and of course Jake the Three Legged Wonder Wiener. This is the sort of insanity that the kid thrives on. And he’s hoping to practice casting a fishing line with his Pawpaw in preparation for a summer spent on a lake.

After that, well, another weird-but-fun weekend. Bull riding is coming to town, and the next night, my Gram will turn 94. My sisters and I are taking her out for a fancy-pants formal dinner.

That’s right. Museums, musical theater, bull riding, and formal dining. Maybe my kid will grow up to be the world’s first championship bull rider/Broadway star/chef. (I’d put my money on chef at the moment, frankly.) Keeping our options open, that’s us.

Throw in some swimming lessons, our first organized child activity, and suddenly, winter is gone. I know it’s going to get cold again – it always does – but on a day like today, I can almost pretend that winter is over.

Which means it’s time to write another novel. Bull riding, anyone?