NaNoWriMo Pre-Update: Under Pressure

I am starting to panic.

My throat is tightening at the thought.
And yet every day. There it is. One day closer.
November.
Holy cow, what was I thinking committing to Nanowrimo? Really? Why hasn’t anyone tried to talk me out of this? Instead, you’ve all been so blindly supportive that I thought, no problem. I GOT this.
Now? With only 6 days separating me from November 1st? Freaking out a little bit.
In all honesty, I’m not totally clear what I want to write. Probably not a good sign, huh? I have some characters in mind. I have a general premise. But plot? In need of one. Background? Might be nice to have one. Setting? Cluelessville.
And so I’ve started to panic.
I really don’t know what’s going to happen in November with this self-imposed challenge to bang out 50,000 words in a month. I’m not sure how to physically fit it in considering the challenge starts during one trip and ends shortly after another. I have no idea where to start. And instead of being proactive and seeking out advice, getting some research done or jotting down some outlines and ideas, I’ve been focusing on Halloween and trip preparations, cleaning out my closets and organizing the desk.
I have to admit, part of me is enjoying the panic and is excited by it. I’m curious to see what will happen. Will I sink or swim? Will magic happen? Will it be completely painful every minute? Will I finish? The fact is, I haven’t done this before and the whole point of this exaggerated exercise is to force myself to find out what it’s like, where my weaknesses are, how I work, what my process is.
And the other part of me is screaming into a pillow: WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?!
So thank you for all your encouragement and support both here and in person. It means a lot to me, your unconditional faith. I will try not to let you down. I will try not to let myself down. Let’s just say, at this point, I will TRY.
Now where did that pillow get to?

Bad Mommy Moments

I have mentioned before that I am a Stroller Strider. Make no mistake, this is no stroll. The trainers here mean business and as much as I vocally complain during class, I totally love it for the camaraderie, the fitness example I can set for my children and the less jiggle in my jeans than would otherwise be there post babies.

During a recent class, we had several new moms to the group. The day’s trainer came up with a fun way to distract us from the push-ups and step-ups and lunges and ab work by asking an endless number of get to know you questions. We spent the class learning each other’s favorite junk foods, movies that make us cry, trend we just can’t pull off, teen heart throbs and list toppers (you know, that list?).
Towards the end of class, she benignly asked, “What’s your worst mommy moment?” The answers started with some of the moms of the youngest babies. Cute answers emerged like, “I totally scratched my baby putting him in the car seat.” Or “I forgot to change her diaper and then wondered why she was upset at dinner.” Or “I let him cry in the exersaucer for a few minutes so I can check my email.”
I shot a look to my friend who has two kids about the same ages as mine and with whom I share my truly bad mommy moments and we giggled to each other quietly, “Just wait.”
Just wait until you yell at your child. In public. Just wait until your child is choking on a grape you gave him and you’re on the phone with 911 waiting for the paramedics to arrive. Just wait until your 5 month old falls off the bed while you’re trying to put your older child in time out. Just wait until you snap at both your kids that mommy needs quiet time. Just wait until you wonder if all your mommy moments are bad mommy moments.
But they aren’t. They happen. To all of us. And we survive them. More importantly, our children survive them. We aren’t perfect, as much as we strive to be. Our children, as much as we wish they were or expect them to be, are far from perfect, too. And that’s okay. If everything was so perfect all the time, would we laugh as hard at the malapropisms of a four year old at dinner? Would the slimy, squished avocado all over a naked baby belly and elbow and cheeks and hair be as endearing? Would the moment of quiet that descends on the house after bedtime be as peaceful? Would the glass of wine taste as delicious as it does after one of “those”days?
I like my life a little messy. I’ll own my bad mommy moments and try hard not to repeat them. God knows there will be plenty of new ones to meet me down the road.
There is a reason that people don’t pull you aside at your baby shower to clue you into the sheer number of moments you’ll feel like bad mommy. It’s because the good mommy moments are that much sweeter because of them.
So all you new moms who are feeling guilty for accidentally clipping that pesky baby nail too short or not checking on that weird cry in the middle of the night only to find your son covered in dried vomit the next morning, don’t worry. It gets worse. And it gets oh so much better.

Thank You, Thursday

Thursdays, the Peanut stays at school until 2pm. I can’t even begin to describe how much I love those extra two hours once a week. Part of me feels guilty for feeling this good, but it’s less about Peanut not being here and more about relaxed, one-on-one time with one child. Admittedly, one child who is a lot easier to entertain with a wooden spoon and stainless steel bowl than the other is. Not having to rush after Pumpkin’s morning nap to make carpool doesn’t hurt my goodwill feelings towards Thursday, either.

So today, I had a second cup of coffee, did some online research for that pesky November project, surfed eBay for some vintage hardware I’m in need of and cleaned up the kitchen. And that was only during Pumpkin’s morning nap. Once he was awake, we read some stories, picked up some toys, put Little People in a bus, took Little People out of a bus, put Little People in a bus…, had lunch, played with a ball, giggled, watched the curtains move in the breeze.
I can’t afford a nanny or regular babysitter. I don’t have a cleaning lady. Shoot, we don’t even have our yard service anymore. What I do have is lunch bunch every Thursday afternoon to give mommy a little breathing room. And it is worth each and every penny.
The bonus? Once we got home, Pumpkin went down for his afternoon nap and Peanut’s having some rest time…even more time for mama! Did I mention how much I love Thursdays?

Running My Own Race

I recently had the opportunity to see Secretariat*, Disney’s newest inspiring true story movie along the lines of Miracle and The Rookie. Now, I’m no movie reviewer, so if you want a real review of the movie, I would trust this guy.

I did, however, like the movie. And not just because seeing such beautiful creatures as race horses on the big screen is a sight to be seen, or because the movie managed to make suspenseful a story line whose outcome you already knew, but because it was a story of a dream realized. A dream realized for many involved with this magnificent animal, but mostly, a dream realized for Penny Chenery.
Penny Chenery. A mom. In the early 70s. Who recognized an opportunity and fought for it. A woman who seemed to live simultaneously in Denver and Virginia to keep the family farm alive for the promise of this one horse. A woman in a man’s world who simply went about her business, and kicked a little tail in the process.
As I embark on this journey to write a novel in a month, a scene from the movie keeps coming back to me (I suppose this is a spoiler, but probably not a surprise based on the fact that it’s common knowledge Secretariat won the Triple Crown in 1973 and this is billed as a feel-good, family movie): Just before the Belmont, the final race of the three, Penny (played by Diane Lane) is joined at the pre-race ball by her children and husband. Within the excitement of the moment, you see how very proud her children are of her, of what she has accomplished, of what is to come. Despite the fact that the journey was a hardship on her family, that it took her away for days and weeks at a time, that it strained her marriage, it was recognized in the eyes of her children. Recognized, honored and celebrated.
I watched my own mother go back to school when my younger sister started kindergarten and saw her struggle to fulfill her many roles as wife, mother, student. I saw her start a new career and will always be proud of all that she has accomplished, especially because I never considered her a working mom, she was just mom. I watched my father put up his own shingle, straining our family resources and dynamic as the once traveling businessman was soon working from home, expected to shuttle my sister and I to orthodontist appointments and practices. Despite our teenage angst, he managed to carve out a successful business and I am enormously proud of all that he has accomplished.

Attempting to write a novel in a month is less about writing the great American novel in 30 days and more about the journey, of showing my kids that with great risk comes great reward. They may be too young to remember it, sure, but I will always have the experience to share with them. And, hopefully, the road will fork into new words that need to be written, opportunities and dreams.
Because one day, what I want is for my kids to be proud of their mom in the same way I am proud of my parents. I want them to feel a part of the woman I am and am becoming. I want them to see that reinvention, challenge, hardship and risk are what create their character and are to be invited, learned from and cherished.
We will never own a Triple Crown winner, but it doesn’t mean our ending will be any less happy. As long as we remember to always run our own race.
*In the interest of full disclosure, I did receive free passes for me and a guest to an advanced screening of Secretariat thanks to Disney and BlogHer.

Gulp

It’s so easy, as a parent, to let time slip through my fingers. At the end of a long day, it’s entirely too tempting to just throw on the sweats, crawl onto the couch and fire up the DVR.

The problem is that I am increasingly frustrated at how I tend to wear myself out for everyone else leaving me not only empty, but lacking the energy to do the things that fill me up. I’m tired of saying how much I want to write, yet doing very little of it. I’m tired of putting it off. I’m tired of making excuses and wondering what if…
And so, with great anxiety, excitement and a dash of crazy, I am announcing that I will be participating in this year’s National Novel Writing Month. What does that mean? For the month of November, I have no more excuses. I will write something that resembles a novel before November 30th. 50,000 words. Come hell or high water.
I am confident that I will write a lot of crap. I am certain there will be a lot of tears. I am positive that there will be a lot of frustration as I try to find the time to do this. But, I needed a kick in the pants. A deadline. Accountability.
Yes, I’m scared to death. There are a lot of new what ifs that enter the picture and a lot of personal discomforts to endure. But, it’s time. Time to take a risk. Time for mama.
So have some patience with me in November. I may be writing here more or less depending on how it’s going. I do promise to update this space with my progress: the good, the bad and the most certainly ugly.
*Deep breath* Here we go…

Let it Be, Part II

Parenting is all about the moments. The moments you stop doing the dishes to read a story with your child. The moments you hold a hurt child in your arms. The moments of laughter. The moments that shine.

Today, my little man asked me to dance. We’d been playing an intricate game of cement truck, fire truck and police car that had more plot twists than the final season of Lost, while listening to the Beatles. As “Let it Be” began to play, he looked up and said, “Mommy, let’s dance.” And so we did.
We stood, holding hands while we swayed, spun and dipped. I lifted him up on my hip and held tight to his little boy body, so different from the baby I once rocked to endless loops of music in the late afternoons. I showed him how a gentleman dances with a lady. I rested my head on his bony shoulder, breathing in the promise of the man he’d become. I felt his little hand on my back, the giggle in his throat as we turned.
The song played on. The afternoon sun slanted through the playroom windows and, for a moment, the whole world shone.

Pinball Thoughts

Peanut was about 10 months old when I started this blog. He had finally settled into a predictable routine. I was settling into my role as a stay at home mom while the fog of his early infancy had cleared leaving me with the mental need for an outlet and the time to devote to it.

Three years later, Pumpkin is in his tenth month (yes, I’m in denial at how quickly that 11 month mark is approaching since the big bad first birthday is quick on its heels. Sniff.). He’s finally settling into his little routines. School’s back in and I have found a little mental breathing room in my life again.
As a result, I find my head is in constant action as a variety of thoughts, ideas, plans ricochet their way through my brain. I can’t turn it off. Some of these ideas downright inspire me. Some scare the crap out of me. Some require more rumination and research. All demand more physical time than I seem to be able to conjure up and that, my friends, frustrates me no end. The time I *found* when Peanut was this age just doesn’t exist this time around with an older child’s demands.
My brain desperately wants to latch onto one of these thoughts/ideas/plans and dig in, get dirty in the execution/research/completion. Unfortunately, my physical self can’t commit.
Am I rushing into it? Attempting to add more to my plate than my stomach can hold? Or am I afraid? Afraid of starting something I may love, something challenging, something time consuming that may make my short term uncomfortable but could pay off in the long term mama happiness bank?
I wish I knew. Unfortunately, Curious George is almost over and, therefore, so is my break time. One of these days I’ll have it figured out. Won’t I?

Attention, Attention

Peanut is back in preschool leaving me and Pumpkin three hours together on M/T/W and five whole hours on Thursdays. I’m newly inspired to accomplish all this nonsense on my to do list with only one child underfoot. It’s amazing how much I can get done, suddenly. Until I remembered that I should be inspired to pay some individual attention to my youngest.

So, last week after dropping Peanut off at his first day of school, I sat on the floor of the playroom across from Pumpkin, surrounded by toys and attempting to engage him. He, apparently, couldn’t care less. He was much more interested in rolling a ball around the floor to chase after, independent of anything I was saying or doing. Hm.
I realized in that moment how much Peanut dictates the tempo of this house. I wondered what in the world was I doing with Peanut all day long when he was this age? I questioned whether I was short changing Pumpkin.
Then we picked Peanut up from school and Pumpkin’s eyes lit up once the second car seat was filled with the exuberance that is his older brother. I saw how during afternoon play time, he eagerly wanted to play with Peanut, crawling after him, pulling up on the train table to see what was going on, searching out Peanut’s toys to experiment with, imitating him at lunch time, squealing with delight when Peanut popped into his room after nap time.
Although Pumpkin may not get the same individual mom attention that Peanut did, he doesn’t lack for actual attention. The example that Peanut sets, the silly things Peanut does to make Pumpkin laugh, the attempt Peanut makes (sometimes) to play with his little brother all give Pumpkin a level of attention and care that I couldn’t possibly provide alone.
That doesn’t mean I won’t still try to play with the roly-poly goodness of my second born, it just means I’ll relax into the moments more, not feel guilty for filling the dishwasher while Peanut’s at school and look forward to the beauty of their reunions each day during car pool.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

The blank page can sometimes be an evil thing. It stares at you, the cursor blinking, practically daring you to put thoughts to font. Then there is that delete button in the corner. Easily accessible to wiping out the babble, the bleh, the bad. Back to a blank page. Empty.

Somehow the clutter in my mind has manifested itself as a blank page. If only I could put that delete key to work in my brain. There has been a constant flow of thoughts, words, lists and tasks bumping around in my head. The result is a constant noise. An exhausting cacophony of to-dos, what ifs, not dones.
And so it is that I realize I haven’t written in more than a week. More frustrating is that I haven’t had that burning idea come to me in the shower that rattles around in my head until I just have to share it. And it’s not for lack of things going on. Peanut’s back in school this week. I’m tackling a side project. Pumpkin’s cutting his third tooth and learning how to clap.
Maybe that’s it. The busyness of life has clogged my thought process. Maybe. For now, I’ll take small comfort in the words I’ve put down today. I’ll work hard to fill another page tomorrow, or maybe the next day. And hopefully quiet the chaos enough to hear my own voice again.
That is the greater truth, isn’t it? That we mother’s are so busy listening for the cry on the playground, the bad dream whimpers in the middle of the night, the lack of sound when a toddler and a crayon might have been left alone too long, the yawns before nap time, that we often forget to listen to ourselves. And we need to hear ourselves. We need to hear the solutions, the dreams, the voice of our self. The self that isn’t mommy. The self that isn’t the speediest grocery shopper this side of the Mississippi. The self searching for words to put on a blank page.
So I’ll take this rare new moment of quiet in my house while Peanut’s at school and Pumpkin’s napping to take a deep breath and listen. What will you hear?

A Battle I’m Going to Lose

It’s not often that the hubby and I disagree on parenting issues or techniques, thank goodness. We tend to agree on how to handle the kids, the discipline problems, the outings, the TV time. And it makes life a lot easier. Or at least more consistent for the kiddos.

We have, however, come to an impasse.
Next weekend is the Chick-Fil-A Kickoff Game here in Atlanta, featuring my North Carolina Tar Heels against the LSU Tigers. It’s been a long time since our football team has earned such national recognition and we’ve been pretty excited about the game since it was announced. Of course a lot of that excitement stemmed from the fact that we can go see our beloved Heels without having to drive six hours to Chapel Hill with two screaming kids in the car. To top it off, my lovely parents are going to come down for the holiday weekend and watch the boys while the hubby and I go the game. Bonus!
So far, so good. No issues here.
Until we began discussing other activities to take place over the weekend. I suggested that we could take in a bit of the Decatur Book Festival on Saturday morning. I even found out that Anna Dewdney (author of one of some of our faves, Llama, Llama Mad at Mama and Llama, Llama Red Pajama) will be leading a Pajama Parade and reading Saturday morning. I suggested we could go with the boys and my folks that morning, be home in time for nap time that afternoon and then we can head out to the game.
I was then informed: “Honestly, I’d rather take Peanut over to the College Game Day stuff that morning. I mean, it’s the Heels.”
Books vs. sports. My first love vs. the hubby’s. *sigh*
Somehow, I know how this one’s going to turn out.