Winter get-a-ways are a must!

Our weekend away was a blast. Worth every inconvenience of packing up a family of five for two days. Look at this guy, first time on skis, and he loves it. His favorite part was tumbling down an intermediate hill head over heels.. not sure why that's his favorite part - maybe the adrenalin and excitement? It was just the two of us on the trails after the family ski lesson we all took. After the lesson, Bear and Drama Girl went tubing while Husbear went back to the cabin for a long winter's nap. Turbo and I, we skied on calm, quiet trails, hardly seeing anyone else out there. We weren't great at it, but we had a lot of fun! He made me stop to take a picture of what looked like a den. Then, the mountain views. Then, he told me to slow down. I was zippy...

The place we go is never busy. The cabins are far enough out of the way to make it easier to stay in than go out. There's a lot of stuff to do there, but mostly it's the hang out time and the snow play time. There's great cross country ski trails and snow shoe trails, and a tubing hill.

There's just enough people to make you remember other people exist, but not so much that you get stressed out and want to hide. The family dynamics change when we get away. Everyone is mostly calmer (cue Bear dropping to the ground halfway through the ski lesson to express his frustration by taking a nap in the snow ... because Bear's need sleep... but we ignored him, because... whatever kid) and mostly more tolerant (see kid dropping to ground in melodrama,  hitting his own head with ski,  whining about it, and no one throttling him, though our instructor probably thought we were weird).

At the cabin we got a fire started, and then took turns stoking it, because stoking fires is fun, almost as fun as staring at the burning logs in the fire. We played board games. We chilled. We talked about how we totally tooootttaaallly want to run off and move up here. We were mostly unplugged except for reading and the DS' the boys bought for the car ride. Turbo played the guitar, which he doesn't know how to play, but enjoys playing anyhow. Husbear bought his ski stuff, and decided that downhill skiing techniques may not work quite so well for cross country skiing (cue aspirin for sore shoulder that encountered snowy ground).  Drama Girl did have her phone, and we suspect snuck netflix videos at night, but hey, she tried cross country skiing and had fun.

This is our second trip to our winter get-a-way place, because last year we went, and loved it so much that everyone agreed we should do it every year. We sneak off on a Friday and stay for the weekend., and come back much happier, content, and dreaming of cabin and mountain living. Next year, if I plan it right, we'll be staying for a day or two longer, since everyone wants to do more than can be fit in a weekend, without sacrificing 'hang out in the cabin' time.

Fedoras and pink gingham

We all know that Bear likes pink. He always has. His first quilt, his 'fish dee dee' had a lot of pink and fun bright pastel shades in it. I must have instinctively sensed his color preferences while he was in the womb. Turbo's was far more not pink. Bear had Hello Kitty rain boots at two (and three, and four) pink hat and gloves at six and seven. And eight and nine. Pink pajamas at ten. A bright, hot pink hoody at 11. The cover image on the blog, this one? That is Bear.

We all wish we had his hair. 

We roll with it. It just so happens that the color also looks great on him. We like to think he just truly appreciates color in a way other children don't. He has a good sense of what goes with what. He woke me up once, with a piece of paper smudged with several shades of blue, yelling, "Look, Mom, look how many shades of blue there are!" The pink thing is just a phase he's had since he was, well, two...

This is also Bear. Hippie Bear.

I fully suspect that at some point this spring/summer, my bright pink running hat will suddenly be making appearances on Bear.

Turbo is really good about it. He just shrugs when Bear shows him the things he likes and says 'it's like a girl.' Bear says 'I don't care' and Turbo shrugs back and says 'Lets go to 7-11.'

He also loves the new pastel rainbow shades that are coming out in sneakers and clothes. The new return to the 80s vibe. If pastels make a roaring come back, fashion-wise, he'll do really well. I'm dreading it. I never liked the sparkly rainbow hued fashion themes that hit in the early 80s, and don't think I could handle too much of those soft sweet cotton candy and ice cream shades. I never cared for pastels. That was when I went into my crazy bright neon color phase. I had a long skirt with bright clocks all over it.  It was all the pastels fault. That's when my sister got into Motley Crue and horrid eye liner. We both have our fashion scars...

Right now Bear is running around in neon rainbow printed socks, pink gingham pants and a black fedora.

Because Bear.

Writing Ramblings from a Saturday night

I'm writing and blogging.

Mostly writing but sometimes the words flow so fast I need to pause, absorb them, and then write.
There's a picture, because, everyone knows, blogs need pictures!

This is a piece of my writing desk. It's a bit disheveled. I should clean it. See? I've got a bag of 'old cat medicine' for Bounder's achy joints, a blue bird (it would have been my mother's birthday today, I've been thinking about her a lot. She'd be happy I'm writing this story. Okay, she'd just be happy I'm writing :)...) There's the mini-Lego TARDIS Bear made me, ear buds for running. A fairy in a jar. Rocks collected on a hike. A terrarium from Turbo that's lasted waaaay longer than it should have. Butterfly in a jar. Crystal I bought my mom for her birthday one year. Now it's mine. Rose Quartz. She kept it on her desk for years. A rock with a hear Bear made me. A phone that, since it isn't a cell phone, probably is out of charge.  An old eyeglass case for a kid who doesn't wear the glasses anyway so why is it even here?  A Kindle cord. So yeah, this is the place I write. 

I'm writing a science fiction tale! Traveling Cities in Spaaaaaceeee.... okay, it's what I call it in my head, but that doesn't really explain it at all. It's fulfilling because, for one, I've always wanted to write in this genre.  I wrote a short  science fiction that did well in my writing course, but then veered. Sci Fi were the first books I ever read and loved. I dug into it all. Then dragons and vampires happened. But I've always returned to reading Sci Fi. It's also fulfilling because the world they all exist in is mine, and I love world building.

When I write, I need to have headphones on and music.  But it can't be music with words because I get distracted. So on Pandora, right now, I'm listening to a station called Star Wars film score. I think I created it. The children are behind me chattering away, but the music dulls it so it's not intrusive. I will say, I'm quite impressed that the first thing they grabbed when I said it's kind of a do-it-yourself dinner was the veggie platter. 

I said to a friend that I was teasing this story out, that my main character wasn't the main character at all, and only sort of a predecessor.  It's one of my 'tells' on when I know a character is a keeper or not. If they aren't in my mind, if bits of them aren't slipping into my imagination and if they stop developing personality traits or quirks, then they aren't fully formed and probably won't last.  

It's hard, switching between the two characters. But I have enough of the story teased out that now I feel I'm close to being able to outline and section it, so I can work in pieces in different parts of the story.

No, I'm not a linear writer, but I do create an outline of a timeline.

This happens in the beginning.
This happens in the end.
This happens before that other thing happens, and that after this thing.

It's how I write. 

It's Saturday night. I should loosen up and go a little crazy. Maybe I'll have some Baileys with my writing and Darth Vader music.

Welcome February! Flowers and Mom-Doesn't-Cook Dinners!

Pretty pretty flowers! 

The longest, dreariest, uneventfullest month is over. Uneventfullest isn't a real word, but it should be. I talk about January and the doldrums I find myself in every year. But it's okay, because February is here! I made it! Whew.  Next year's resolution is to find a way to successfully enjoy January. January did see my return to the habit of buying fresh cut flowers for the house. Fresh flowers are never tacky.

There's a lot of reasons to celebrate February. For one, our newest Longmont pub/restaurant is celebrating Stout Month and I love stouts. I'm having one as soon as my pint glass gets properly cold in the freezer. For another, spring is around the corner! Okay, not really, but close enough... 28 days and we can start talking about March showers (blizzards) and April flowers! I can think about things to grow, and start planning my container gardens.

But mostly, because my role as 'the Responsible for Everything Person' has greatly diminished in the last month. For instance, the only laundry in this family of five I'm responsible for, is mine! All my children are now doing their own laundry. I don't even worry about how folded the clothes are when they are put away. Mine are usually sort of just packed in tight in a shelf, and only resemble folding, so I'm not one to judge.  And chores! Drama girl is empty/load dishes girl. Turbo and Bear are 'sweep the floors, trash, recycle and cat food feeding' boys. While the children are doing daily chores I used to do, I mainly flit about, and occasionally giggle at the sheer joy of having a moment and not having a thing that must be done in that moment.

And dinner, ah, I think I've talked about dinner. The greatest thing of all. I only cook on Mondays, and sometimes a Friday or Saturday. Yep, I've decided that the responsibility of cooking homemade meals is a necessity, it's just the right thing to do for your family, however, that responsibility can be shared. Five people 11 and over, means we can spread that burden across five family members! I shared this vision of mine with a few people, but none have been nearly as excited as I have. I decided it's a control thing. I am not particularly picky about dinner, provided it's reasonably good, reasonably healthy, and everyone makes an honest attempt. Some people are probably thinking, kids, can't be healthy, but, surprise! Most meals can be made 'healthier,' but overall, my kids aren't doing too badly. For instance, look at this week's menu. We've got a healthy salad, a yummy chowder, Turbo is doing BLTs, which, okay, bacon, but then, mmm, bacon, we've got a pizza bar on Wednesday with both boy's helping out, terriyaki chicken drumsticks and brocolli and salad by Bear and chicken parmesan on Friday.

Homework, you say, oh, the homework? What homework? I am not the one attending school, pish, I say to that, and posh. Pish Posh.

I have, after all these long years, finally released some of the burden of being the Responsible for Everything Person. It's not me, that's doing dinner. It's all of us. It's not me that has to clean the house, it's everyone. It's not just me. The biggest winner of all, though, is me, because while everyone has seen an increase in chores, responsibilities and overall 'Do It Yourselfness' I have seen a large decrease.

Except, I still am the one who has to do appointments. No one in the house aside from Husbear and I can drive. Still. /sigh.

Lazy days of January

I was thinking about my childhood home. Funny, how the memories were of things. I don't remember the moments precisely, just the view.

Large, soaked maple leaves in a pile on the ground.
A dark stairwell, three stories, to our floor.
Chain link fence.
A dog yipping and running about the grass lawn.
Sunny day, wet ground.
A pale yellow track suit with an eagle on it, running through a field.
Faded, peeling mint green porch.
A front entrance rarely used on a porch we were rarely allowed to play on in the front.
Looking through a telescope at street signs.
Looking at street signs with my father that I couldn't read because I was near sighted.
Riding a bike to the house that leaned out further into the road to a boy waiting curiously, each of us 6 or so, each of us wondering who the other was. My first friend.

Memories are funny sometimes. They just come back when you're not paying attention, and sometimes, the things furthest way seem more real than the things today.  Tricks of the mind I suppose.

I have done some work on my story, and have written some of my plot ideas down on index cards. I'm working on characterization, I believe a strong character is the only thing required to make a story great. If you can get a reader into that person and to relate to that person, well, then, you've won.

This book is a bit more difficult to write than the last two, because I want it to have depth. It's not lighthearted.

I've gotten lazy, though. I had a few thoughts I wanted to write down over the week, but got sucked into a book I'm reading.

A working writer's worst enemy is a really good book....

I've almost decided I need to actually set 'reading times' so I won't read through my writing times. It's a fine line. Some writers don't read while they are writing, but I don't see how I can do that to myself. I'd be miserable. It's also contrary to the other advice, where writers should always read.

There's no winning in the life of a writer.

I blame January, the longest month ever, for my slipping habits.

It's not such a bad January right now, though, weather wise. It's making me ancy to get out and run again.

The roads and paths I run on are clear now of snow, so I'm free to, it's the trusting that I'll be able to maintain it, and, well, not remain too crazy cold.

I'm getting ancy. I need a bunch of runs in the winter to keep me feeling like myself. March is always the hardest running month, though, because that's when we sometimes get walloped with snow, and then I'm stuck between attempting to run through it anyhow, or waiting a few days.

I know I'll head out tomorrow, in the morning before I do anything else.

Oh January. It has to be someone's favorite month.

Traveling cities in spaaacceeee.....

This is what I'm working on today. Describing what my traveling space cities look like. It's so exciting to write things like this. I am going to link to my old friend's (she's not old, it's just that we knew each other a long time ago, that wasn't THAT long ago) when we both wrote stories for an online video game and loved it. She is a romantic at heart, I liked war and plagues. Our stories complemented each other nicely.... She is writing again, and I love it. She is mostly writing on her blog, which I am enjoying. Here is her blog.

The thing is, she is writing for the pleasure of writing right now, and that always is the best sort of writing. Writing is fun. If it's not fun, stop and go do something else. Far more writers work full time jobs and raise families while writing, than stop and write full time as a living. So it has to be enjoyable.

Which brings me away from my romantic friend from not-so-long-ago-really and traveling cities in spaaaceee...

Drama Girl has nothing to do with traveling space cities, but I may use
this picture as an inspiration to some of my characters. Also, people like
pictures in blogs. People like pictures more than words. This kinda makes me
sad, but alas, blogs must have pictures, not just words, so here.

But I have to tell you about my other writer friend, on the West Coast, who also wrote stories with us. She likes apocalypses. I'm going to try to find a link for her. It's kinda her thing for now, and she enjoys writing YA. She actually makes some money off her writing, which is fun to watch and chat about, and, in my case, drill her every now and again when I'm looking for information. She enjoys making book covers, throwing out her ideas, and creating spunky heroines. Spunky is a word my mother would have used, but it fits her characters. Unlike me, she will stay up for hours to finish a chapter. I write in allotted time frames I carve out prior to 9:30 p.m. because I can't physically stay awake after 10 p.m. and barely can think past 9:45 p.m. She's contemplating a new, non-apocalyptic story that I'm half excited about. I'm sure if she chooses to do it, there may be an apocalypse involved. Some loves are hard to let go of. This is her author page. You'll notice on her bio she spends a lot of time discussing how to correctly pronounce her name. It's the natural born teacher in her. Also, her name, easily spelled, is difficult to pronounce correctly for some people.... Sometimes, I think it just makes her a little sad, and lose a little hope in humanity that such an easy name can be so difficult for some to say properly.

Which is why my traveling cities in spaaaaaaaccceeee exist. Because some loves are hard to let go of, not because of any difficulty in pronouncing my friend's name properly.

I'm not writing a comedy, I just can't help drawing out... in...sppaaaaaccceeeee....

I'd like to write a funny book one day. But this isn't that book.

My mother also wrote.  She wrote for the love of the story and lost herself in her created worlds. She wrote fairy tales that haven't ever been written before that all featured young, plucky, spunky heroines. Maybe not plucky. If she had taken some of these stories and wrote them now, they would be published. YA fairy tales with spunky heroines are in now. She liked ghost stories, beach settings and haunted homes and coves. She was a night owl. And an astrologer.

Today I'm giving form and function and character and description to my traveling space cities. I see them in my mind's eye, and now need to translate them. It's exciting. It's part of the world building I love to do. It's the same excitement and fascination and joy visible in my mother when she was creating her haunted islands or mermaid coves or deserted beaches. The same as when my friends write the stories and characters that come to their minds.

I can see them, the traveling cities, inhabited with thousands of people and thousands of stories. Their lives and pasts and shared history are essential to the world I am building for them, but I will only tell the tale of my protagonist and those closest to her. Imagine that! As writers, we can create entire worlds in our minds, establish civilizations and races and breathe life into them, just so we can tell the tale of one character in the whole span of that created universe, one character with ancestors and talents and traits and friends.

I have another friend, she's on the East Coast, and she writes, as well. I've lost track of her writing, but I know she was morphing into fantasy from another, er, genre. She has been published under a pseudonym, and I am going to go find her and ask if she's still writing, and if not, assault her with shocked emoticons. I don't have a blog link for her because she became too busy for one. She worked with us, too, but not writing stories. She had to write press releases and release notes and 'calm down the world's not ending' forum posts. So, yes, she wrote fiction, too.

She's not writing about traveling cities in spaaaaacceeee, that's all me.
Can't help it.

And then there is my OTHER friend, who is remembered by my daughter for the ferrets she had as pets who has written this wonderfully full fantasy tale that I read and re-read and now, now I must assault her with emoticons, and see if it's ready to be sent out. She was part of creating the world we all wrote stories in. A lot of detail went into that world, and it's creatures were linked by the environment they became a part of.

Emoticons are the newest way to convey feelings and thoughts.

I do not think it is an accident that so many of my friends are writers, as yet unknown to the world, sitting in their apartments/homes/offices/coffeeshops/whatever writing, writing, writing... just because... One day, some of us will be known. Some of us won't. My mother was never known, but it did not make her any less a writer. This sort of writing isn't something done solely for pay.

You notice I'm not saying where we all worked? It's not because I'm not proud of it. It was one of the best jobs I ever had, and some of the best friends I know I met through that job. No, I'm not saying it because it's not about that world or that place. It's about writing, and my writer friends, and their works, and why we are all writing.

Why are we writing?

When there are people dancing around your head with fascinating tales to tell of strange and exotic times and lands or even of our own land, and these people have fascinating histories and opinions and goals and purpose, how could you not put it down?

And how, being someone who can do this, could you not find others of the like mind, because, really the only people who can truly understand the mind of a writer are other writers.

Now, I leave my writer friends to their universes and trials and characters, and tend to my traveling cities..... in spaaaaaacceeeee.

Writing is ketchup out of a bottle

WARNING: Since I'm grumpy about my limited writing tonight, and tired, this may be rambly.

The best writing is the writing that flows, the ideas falling onto the page faster than you can type them; the characters practically pushing themselves out of the way to get their voices registered and  their deeds put down on paper. I feel like I say this in almost every blog post. I probably say it on those days when my writing is not at all like that, like tonight, where I got 300 words and that was all, and I'm a little grumpy about it, because I wanted to do two full scenes, not part of one.

Characters in stories can seem real.  As a writer, you are only really a translator.  You want to ask the characters to slow down a bit here, go back there, or maybe have them go into deeper detail for you, to explain it more. The story isn't yours. You are just recording it. The characters aren't stupid, though. They don't want to waste their time telling their tale if no one is going to show up to write it.

So make sure you show up, and actually write, lest all your characters of today and tomorrow abandon hope and wander away.

Or maybe they do show up. I don't know, it could be like trees falling in a forest. The trees fall, the vibrations are there, ready for ears to pick up, but if no one is there, the sound of a  tree falling isn't recorded. I bet every tree that falls leaves a different sound. Maybe they show up and tell their tale, and the stories are in the air, waiting for the ear to hear it and record it. Maybe.

There are times when the words are not pouring onto the page, though, and the characters don't want to talk and it's a trial, I find, to write some nights.  Tonight, for instance, I managed only a part of a scene, a minor note in the entire book. That's all, though. And that's alright, for now, it is. It happens. I'm just grumpy about it.

Writers write, but sometimes, we can only write a little. We can force the mechanics and revise and edit, but in the first draft, it's important to focus on getting the story down, and that happens in spurts and fits and starts. It's ketchup out of a newly opened bottle.  Yes, I'm comparing writing to getting ketchup out. It's valid.

I want to write more on it, but I'm at a turning point. I need to decide what happens next, but I'm not quite sure. Oh, I've got the outline, but the outline is just that. No, my decision is, character-based. Do I let this third character exist with a voice, or exist only in the memory of the story? Is her tale told through bits and pieces of others' tales,  or with her own voice?

I'll have to sleep on that.

Sundays are my favorite days

For the most part, they are.

Today was a taste of warmer weather - almost spring. I am missing running, but I am not convinced the sidewalks are ice/snow free yet, and I don't have good ice-running shoes.

I was having some minor issues with my story, but as with most stories, the kinks work themselves out. I did say I wanted to take on a more ambitious project, one that included some world building, and I did, and it is ambitious. It is also fun.

The days when I'm writing and my story is coming together, those are the days I know exactly why I write.

And, as I worked so much on my story, I have little else to share here!

My mind is not my own, in the midst of a story. It belongs to  my characters, and my concerns mirrors theirs, my wants and desires theirs. The words and worries and stories they are living become real, an entire world in my mind and an entire world outside my mind.

It is very easy to sometimes be caught in the wrong one.

Where I bore you with thoughts on writing

I'm in love with the story I'm writing right now. It's how it always is, though, when I pick the right one. I won't talk about my story, of course, it's too raw and new and only in its first draft, and I'm only in the first pages, but I am happy writing it. I can say it's different from all the other ones, and I find that exciting.

Here's what I love about my writing. I'm a fast writer when I have a scene in mind, and can just write and write and write. I love my characters. I think some are wonderful and some are assholes and some are just malicious, and they are always interesting. Though they are my creation, I never really know for sure who they are going to be truly, and what they are going to do, until it's written on the page.

What I don't love? When I don't have a scene in mind, or I'm at a shaky point in the story where things don't seem to be flowing right, well, then every keystroke is torture. Every word agony. Sentences? Ha. They kill me.  Doubt rolls in. Do I even know where the story is going? Is this an actual plot? Maybe I'm writing the wrong thing! I should have done the other story idea. Did the story reach a dead-end, because there is no actual path for it to follow, because it's the worst idea ever in the history of writing?

The last I toss aside. There's no way I could ever come up with the worst idea ever in the history of writing. There are waaaay worse ideas than mine.

The only cure for when I don't have a scene in mind, of course, is to write one anyway. It's easier with every story I write. Sometimes, if I do hit that dead-end, it's just that I need to go back to an earlier point and move forward, or to a later point, and write backwards. Writing linearly is not necessarily a requirement. I'm one of those writers that don't really believe in writer's block. I think that writer's block is either a lack of discipline in writing, or a need to reflect on the story before moving on with it. Sometimes, before you can write more in a story, if you come to a point you can't move past, you need to let it sit for a week or so.

I just wrote 1700 words, and they are mostly good words, keeper words. It was a good day of writing, today.

Every moment matters, and my mother is February

I couldn't let the dreary obligatory post of the New Year be my only post for the day.

I'm much more contemplative than the list of tasks makes out to be. I've come to a place where I believe that bliss is found in the mundane. Nothing will bring greater joy or contentment than truly living every moment, and finding that moment and realizing it is the most important moment. If you think of it that way, than your entire life is filled with important moments that matter.

Some of you might jump to toilet humor. Every moment? EVERY moment?

One day, when my boys were around 4, they had fully (finally)grasped the whole 'poop in the porcelain bowl' concept.  At around 5 years old, I caught Turbo dragging a stool and a book into the bathroom. I was curious. I followed him, they weren't great at shutting doors and I often had to remind them to. I said, 'what are you doing?' or something to that effect, because he had climbed up onto the toilet, propped the stool in front of him, put his feet up on the stool and opened his magazine,  some  bright child magazine. He smiled the smile of someone who was about to fall into contentment. He said 'I'm going to poop. Can you close the door?"

Yes, every moment.
Though I don't believe you need to enjoy it quite as much as he did. Then again, why not?

There are times and moments we don't want to really live in, though, of course. Death. Loss. Suffering. But those moments are just as important as all others. The day to day. The once-in-a-life-time trip. Meeting the love of your life. Eating at a great restaurant. Moving in to a new home. But the big moments are made more so by the appreciation of all of life; and loss  and suffering and struggle are easier to bear, I believe, when you have a history of remembered and lived moments rather than a history of wasted ones.

I think of my mother often, as those who've lost their mothers do. I have a history of lived and cherished moments with her. My son brought home a plastic bluebird from something, a party or found on the ground, it is just a whistle. My mother came pouring back into my mind, a gentle, steady downpour after a drought. She loved bluebirds. The bluebird of happiness was her thing. So this plastic bluebird whistle sits on my desk now, a placeholder for the blue glass bird figurines she had when I was a child, sitting mostly unnoticed on windowsills or counters but always somewhere bright, and prevalent enough that I remember them.

I dreamt of her as well. I dreamt of my mother and February and blue and snow and brightness.

Blue is my color for her. A true, deep blue. The primary color blue, bright and deep. Blue butterflies. Blue birds.  I can't say why I chose blue for her, but I did. I have a wreath that I made a few years ago. Every time I see it, I think of her, which is funny because I didn't make it with that in mind. The wreath is February, like my mother is February. The bright, stark month that comes and goes too swiftly. The wreath is covered with frosted snow, like the white strands that salted my mother's dark hair. A delicate butterfly lands precariously but surely on one of the twigs. My mother was like that, delicate and strong all at once. Easy to pass over  as nervous and child-like, but filled with desire and strength and dreams. Red birds on the wreath because spring will be here soon. That' February's promise. The winter passes and spring is almost here. My mother lived her life like that - every season passes. Nothing stays the way it is, everything changes. That is the only constant.

She's been in my thoughts a lot lately, ever since she came with the bluebird my son brought home. She is blue and bright and February and every moment I look at the little figure I see dark hair, quick eyes and delicate hands.  Every moment I see it I hear her tsks and laughs and sharp wit.

They are good memories, of moments cherished and valued, and they all took place in the everyday. After school. In a car. A Saturday morning. So I have lost her, but I still hold her because she did not waste too many of our moments. She believed her favorite saying, don't forget to smell the flowers. She always did. Brightness in the dark. Light, silver linings and hope. Our lives are built on moments.  Memories default to moments. That is why they matter.

2015 is just a number change

Even though the New Year is for all intents and purposes a celebration of a calendar turning over, it still represents a new start. It's silly really, a new start can begin any time a person chooses to head in a different direction.

Still, it's a good time as any to make a holiday of it, and to reflect on it with friends and family and drinks and for those who still stay up past midnight, watching the clock turn to midnight.

I'm not a resolutions person. More like a goals person. But I have my list for 2015 already.

More of the same as the past few years, with some tweaks. So here's the obligatory 'what resolutions/goals do you have.'

• I want to pick up trail running this spring. I wanted to last spring, but for some reason I never did. This year, I'll be able to.

• Writing daily. Increase it to a daily habit. I'm beginning work on a second story,  something different, something bigger. The one advantage to not being a published author is that I can play in whatever genre I want. (See? See how I turned around not being a published author into a good thing?) I don't have to use the book that sold last as a guide to what book I should write that will sell next. 

• Finish painting the last of the house. I anticipate that once this is done, we'll end up moving. We've never lived in a house we've completely painted much longer after it's painted.

• Aside from the writing, I'm insisting on time for other things I want to do. Photography. Finishing a quilt. Attempting to sketch. This week I'm going to go for a walk and take pictures of things I think are interesting in my neighborhood using my wide-angle lens. I haven't used it nearly enough.

My two weeks of off-work has almost come to an end.  I managed to spend a week of it resting because I had a  crazy crazy cold, and this week getting a few projects done that I wanted to complete before January. Not really looking forward to going back to work (a common problem, I assume), but I have a resolution around that as well, so we'll see.

Christmas Day Ponderings, or Pontifications…

Something different for the holiday tree pic!

The boys are 11, and Lauren is 18. To put that in perspective, we moved to Colorado just yesterday, when Lauren was 10 or 11. Tomorrow, Lauren will be 25 and the boys 18. We've been in the same house for 8 years this April. That's a record for us! It's not the biggest house we've ever owned. Actually, it's the smallest, but it's the one with the most living done in it. Each and every home we ever lived in has its memories, its moments and its special times, but this house, by virtue of time, claims the right of 'childhood home' for the kids. The boys ran through these walls since they were in diapers. Lauren was able to find a place to settle after years of move after move. We turned down an out of state job to preserve their childhood, to give them a hometown, a place to say they came from. Roots.  This is where we've spent the last 7 Christmases. 

Christmas for us is a slow, month-long celebration. A time when we decorate the whole house out and spend more time together. Over the past 8 years, without realizing it, we've developed traditions here. They weren't intentional, as all the best traditions aren't. They came out of the routines and yearly things we did that took on a meaning for everyone.

This is us. Aren't we all adorable. It's not a question.

It all starts the weekend or so after the boys Dec. 1 birthday, because I'm adamant their birthday not get sucked into Christmas. We decorate the tree, and it's a special night. We have sugar cookies with sprinkles or frosting depending, and music playing or a Christmas show. Then the tree and lights go up, oh, the lights… always the lights - check, do they work, check, are there enough, check, why do we have 12 strands? Then, the children each search out their favorite ornaments from over the years, each with a memory associated with it. There's a lot of 'do you remembers…' and 'oh this is my favorite… and 'mom mom this one's yours…' It becomes a wonderful night of light-hearted conversation, story-telling and walks through memory lane. There's always the picture by the tree after, with the three kids always looking so pleased with themselves.

Then there's finding a place for the nutcrackers, changing the table cloth to a Christmas tablecloth which, I know, it's a small thing, but we all notice, and putting up the outside decorations. It's one of their favorite nights. This year there was some grumbling, so we did a second night later with hot chocolate. I don't want everyone being all like 'remember that one night where everyone argued?' even though holiday memories can't really be complete without some memories of the holiday squabbling. During this time of year, we play more board games and eat dinner at the table more. This is because the demands of work and school let up, or maybe we stress less about it, and find more time for each other. Sometimes we see the holiday parade, but sometimes we don't. Then it's Christmas Eve. This year, we didn't make it to the grandparents,  too many sneezing, coughing germ-laden kids on our end to visit the one set, and a grandfather recovering in surgery in another state on another set, and a third grandfather filling in as Old Man on the Mountain in New Hampshire, so this year,  we had a Christmas Eve dinner of bibimbap, the most amazing Korean dish ever, and a huge family favorite. Turbo described it as 'exciting.' I could do an entire post on bibimbap. Another day. Look it up, though, it's amazing.

The children hate being out late on Christmas Eve, so even when we go to the grandparents' we don't stay too late.  They are still at the age where they can't wait for Christmas Day. An age that too soon will fade.

Holiday Fireplace!

Today is Christmas Day, and the children are scattered about occupying themselves with their presents. Turbo is playing on his Nintendo 3DS, Bash is building paper crafts from a paper Minecraft book, and Drama Girl is trying on her hair extensions. I'm lounging on the couch thinking about making another pot of coffee, wishing it'd make itself.  The Holiday Fireplace is playing on our TV. Soon, I'll make stew, our traditional lunch/dinner for Christmas Day, and tonight, I'll partake of my own tradition, watching Doctor Who's Christmas Special. 

I'm watching the children now, Turbo in a chair, chattering incessantly at his game. Bash, quiet and focused on his project, popping up every ten minutes or so to show us his latest creation. Drama Girl teasing her hair. There will be so many Christmas' to come, and so many more of these Christmas Days, but not much more when the boys can be called boys, when Drama Girl is still living with us, and when the magic of Santa gives way to the reality of Santa Mom and Santa Dad. 

The one thing I know I'll take into next year, though, the gift of this day, is the gift of remembering. I remember how these days fly by so fast, how children grow too quickly, all these moments we live become the memories they take well into their lives.  They should be worthwhile memories, then. Warm memories that will get them through whatever days they will one day face as they explore different paths. I'll let the stress of work and school fall off in favor of dinner and tea and board games and walks and bike rides and conversation. That is my resolution for 2015. To pay attention to what matters: the children, the moments of the seasons  the work I crave to do, the dreams they start to follow, and let the rest fall away to nothing. 

Sunday Quick-List

Writing:  Finally Chapter Ten of Book Two. Then going to take some time to write out some character traits so I don't forget them.  I have my storybook outline out so I don't stray too far. This is just the first draft. After I write it, I have to go over and revise.

Music: Bear McCreary. I feel so cool just typing that, but it's true. I've been listening to musical scores mainly from BSG. Great music. Have to, because music with words distracts me. I start singing and stop writing.

Shopping: I finally had to click away from the amazing all-the-things websites because I want all the things.

Drinking: Diet coke. I know I mostly quit, but I'm sooo tired for some reason and need the caffeine kick.

Life decision: If I ever make it as a published author who can afford to write at home all day, I'll have to buy better quality lounge-wear for when I have to venture out. Got a few strange looks with my indoor/outdoor clogs, my son's jacket and old knit pants. Knit. I don't even know why I own knit pants.

Next: I'm dying to start my next book, which is very different from these two, and the first one I ever wrote. I can't wait. I found out Santa is getting me a new journal, and it's going to be the idea/dream book for this next project. I don't mind they are all different. I'm growing as a writer and exploring different genres and themes.

Procrastinating: Chapter Ten of Book Two. But I'm on it!

Surprise: The score from Cowboys and Aliens is on. I loved Cowboys and Aliens.

I am reading this great book about goals and happiness, and it comes down to it's really about the journey, that success is great, but the real joy is in the pursuit, the doing, of something. The achievement is wonderful, but for sustainable happiness, you have to be constantly doing the thing that you love. So I'm just having fun with writing, and only writing in the genres and themes that make me happy, because the last thing I want to do is end up being trapped writing in a genre that I don't want to write in. For when I"m successful and all.

Back to Chapter Ten!

The Tale of the Freeing of the Z

There was once a 1991 300Z that lived in a garage. It was a sad 300Z. So sad. It's owner loved him, but could not take him out, for his tires were flat and his battery dead. Ages passed. The car sat. Through toddlers climbing its hood, a plague of dead flies dropping on its valued, intact white paint job, and bicycles precariously passed along its doors, the 300Z sat, sadly, a heart of vroom vroom and silent screams, unable to voice the need, the desire to go fast, loud and screaming out of these four walls. 

The owner wanted good things for the 300Z, but could not provide them, and did not truly enjoy working on wild beat-cars. The toddler boys grew, and they themselves felt confined, a heart of choo choo and build build and quite-loud cries, voicing their need for space - a build space, a train space, a no-sister space, space space... aaahhhh. 

And so the owner, who loved them all, went to the Great Queen. She was a grand queen, in turquoise pants of the finest fleece found in all the land, the Tar-get Fleece. She was ever-so-smart and brilliantly clever, and much loved, and supreme in her knowledge of all things, wise and kind, yet firm, handsome in a beautiful way, and tall in attitude. She had already heard the cries of this poor 300Z, though no friend to it was she. She knew such wild throaty things had no place in her palace. So she searched the whole of the land for a good knight. It took a mightly long time, a good whole two days, to find her hero. And thus, the 300Z was loaded onto a trailer and transported beyond the plains into the great mountain lands where the Knight Hero lived, and would be able to care for, and bring back the vroom vroom and the fast, loud screaming 300Z. 

Things will be better I think when the kids have the garage. I think they will be in there a lot. They are excited about the space, and the garage isn't really big enough for my truck, so they get it. There are already plans. Some of them mine! A pantry shall be placed in said garage! For rice, beans, cans, lots of dried goods, so I don't have to shop so much. There'll be an entire shelf just dedicated to diced tomatoes! The table for the trains and build table we already have. It's just cleaning it up and moving them out there over break.

In other news:

•  I'm trying to live in the moment and not just mentally brush past Christmas like I often do. I always want to get over the holiday and January part of it and move straight into the New Year, when all my plans for spring can begin again. This year, I"m trying to 'be' in the moment. I do think I'll resurrect flowers on the table, though, I rather enjoy  that.

• I'm going to actually try to bake custard and other Christmasy things! Okay, probably just custard. And fruit tarts. Those are easy. I've already done two batches of sugar cookes with sprinkles (Thank you, Dough Boy) and have one tube left.

• I'm the worst secret santa ever. :) Seriously. Worst. Well, no, the old gym teacher was, but in his defense, he didn't know me well. Nail polish? Really? Me? I always sign up with this ridiculously optimistic hope that this year, THIS year, I'll get it right, I'll be a great Secret Santa. Ummm....

• I need to winterize the image on this blog. I've got another four and a half months of winter!

• I had this idea to write a short story adventure, so I"m writing the idea down and letting it sit, along with this other beautiful YA novel. It's good to have the ideas, because we never know which one will stick! I don't see how this one will stick, but I LOVE the premise. It could be a great, fun adventurous YA novel. I do think I need to return to the YA theme, or the New Adult theme, because that seems to be where some of my ideas come from.  But I do have difficulty with that age.

Sunday thoughts

My story is in a snarl, so I'm letting it rest, but I want to get words on the page. Writing, writing, must always write... :)

I'm going to a Holiday Tea Party this afternoon at the home of one of the women who went to boot camp with me over the spring/summer. She had to stop going, but we've done a couple of non-workout events together. I'm going for five reasons:

1) Holiday Tea Party. I love tea parties. I'll be greatly disappointed if there is no tea.
2) I like the woman.
3) It's a small gathering - I do not usually enjoy large gatherings.
4) I am trying to be more social - I'm an introvert. Like many introverts, I can be socially awkward. That's an introvert thing, right? The thing is, I know that before I can spend time with anyone on a sort of closer level, in this case, actually going to their house, I need to know them first. I'm actually surprised she invited me. I figured I was too weird for her.
5) A couple of the other boot camp women are going, and I like them, too, because they are interesting characters with interesting lives. (Yes, I occasionally get fascinated by people, and then I have to hang around them to figure them out... it's a strange hobby, I know...)

Because blogs need pictures:

This grove is proof that magic is real. Fairies run in it,
disguised as squirrels.

I took this picture on a run yesterday. It's the grove behind my little ole lovely townhome. I ran yesterday because I knew today might be snowy, and while I will run in the winter, I won't run in a snowstorm unless desperate. It's Colorado, I can wait a day. Turned out it's not so snowy as melting flakes today.
I took the pictures because I love being out on the last days of a season, knowing the landscape can change overnight. I love a hike before the first cold day. A run before a snowfall. Being out the last days of winter.
I took this picture, and another, posted below, because as I was running by, sweet memories of earlier days and seasons flooded my mind, and I wondered at how many wonderful things have happened over the years. Yes. I wondered at. You can totally wonder at things.
I also took the photo because partly on the run, too many times, my mind kept drifting away where I didn't want it to go, just ruminations, we all have them. Those intrusive thoughts that keep us from being in the moment we are. What you could say, what might happen, whatever.

So, instead of being grumpy about it, and locking myself in this ridiculous rumination (alliteration!) I ran and did the 'state the obvious' game, my best escape from drifting mind syndrome. The pavement is clear. The creek is running low but fast. The air is cool but the wind is a cold sting.  My breath is perfect for this pace. The mountains have snow on them. I am running on the trail I've run for years. The dirt is packed hard. There are bicyclists. That's an old man with a long beard and long shorts.

Anyhoo, it works. It pulls me into this place where I'm thinking about what I'm doing, and then I'm running but more than that, I'm truly running and my mind is where I want it to be and I'm where I want it to be, and my mind is not making up absurd scenarios or stories in my head simply because it's trying to devise strategies for scenarios that never would happen in a gazillion years. That type of mind wandering is best left for my stories, and frankly, even then, my mind doesn't just go rambling. It presents a coherent vision.

Drifting minds, man... they suck. But my strategy works, as it always does, and the rest of the run was enjoyable. There's the large evergreen tree that holds a tiny cave. The artist faces used to be up here. There's the fish water bubbler and the red bench. The bridge under the path. The newly repaired bridge over the creek. My breath is awesome, one breath, three steps. Woot!

I know, I got the parking lot, but there's a lot of green behind it! When the boys
were toddlers, they played on this yellow set, and the swings. Such happiness.

Then, I turned the corner and passed the park the boys played at so many times, in the pool that's no longer there except for in memories. I remembered this one moment with the boys when they were toddlers and we had just moved here. I was going on a walk to explore a different park, and was pulling them in the red wagon, because it was too far for them to walk all the way to. I wore a rust colored dress that I loved. I had few friends, because we just moved here. (Okay, no friends..)  It's one of my favorite memories. I remember the sun, the heat, how happy we were together, seeing the mountains in the distance and noticing and being amazed by it as only someone new could.
Then I passed my friend's house and remembered when she was in a different house, even closer than the whole block away she moved. I remembered the friend who's off having a wonderful time in the Northwest and our trail runs and hikes. I remembered kids playing and adult badminton and my neighbor/friend who doesn't read my blog but whom I love anyway... and I wanted to take the pictures while I had the moment and the memory.

It was one of my best runs, though not my fastest...

It's why I love running. Most people run to lose weight, or to stay in shape. Or to do marathons and achieve things.

I think people who know me know that I run so I can stay in good enough shape to continue running.

Writery-ness

I love being a writer. Living in that whole essence of writery-ness. It should be a word, writery-ness.  It's not just being an author, technically, as I have not published a book, or had a book published, I'm just a writer. Which is okay, because writery-ness is a liberating stage of exploration and freedom enjoyed until author-dom hits, and the need for a publishable, sellable book has an impact on what is written. I most certainly expect to hit the stage of author-dom in my lifetime, by no means will I be content to live in writery-ness forever! But for now, I'm enjoying it.

I'm enjoying times like this morning when I was getting ready for work, and these words from a shelved character in the recesses of my mind came pouring out. I grabbed my phone and did the voice-to-notes thing while getting dressed because she finally spoke. I knew she was real when she first appeared, months ago, knew she could be three dimensional, knew she had a mind and a voice, but I hadn't heard it. She had come up and then, faded away with nothing more than a thought of what could possibly maybe be. So I placed her in a home, a young girl with dark long hair and acne-pocked skin. And she spoke, and now I know more about her. It will be interesting to see who she becomes, and if she is strong enough to carry forth a novel.

I was absurdly pleased when the working title of the novel I'll work on in January came popping into my head, with an image to match! It's an epic tale, I expect it'll take me the better part of a full year to write, but I'm excited about it.

I love that when I'm wandering through my day, working ho hum working ho hum, lines and images and voices come crashing out that can't be ignored anymore, so I have to write them down. Sometimes it's as simple as saying hey, hey, I'm languishing here in Chapter 7 trying to build something and you've completely ignored what this means to me, I have feelings! Don't ignore the point of what I lost! Or a scene just plays itself out. Or, sometimes, a character bows out, and says, no, this isn't the story for me. Like the falling woman, who I'm sure is real, and needs a story, but not yet, she says. Apparently, I haven't got the drift of her yet.

Writery-ness. The weird place where suddenly, you see things around you differently, because there's a new, unexplored realm waiting for you in your head, but you're physically stuck in a chair, ho hum ho hum... and the mind is off, and the words come tumbling out and you find a page or a notebook or a laptop and there, you've escaped and are free, in the unmapped terrain of your mind. It's there for you, the realm of writery-ness.

Writing - and the shiny reason why I'm behind tonight

I view writing like work. I have to write at a certain time, for a certain amount of time. Sometimes, that time goes longer, and that usually happens on the weekends, or vacation time, or when absolutely nothing else is going on. But I know that every night, at such and such time, I shall write.

But then shiny's come.
And my hour becomes two becomes three and I still have to write.

Which, honestly, I'm going to, just as soon as I'm done explaining why I didn't.

KTape.

Not KT Tape, like I was calling it.

Kinesiology tape.

As sported by many, many, many runners at the Boulder Bolder when I ran it a couple years ago. There were so many different runners wearing so many different colors of KTape in so many different ways, that at first, I thought it was just some strange runner fashion accessory meant to replicate war paint or something. Because, not athlete.

But I ran tonight, and noticed my ankle, which was sore during a workout on Wednesday, performed quite fine during the run, but was a bit sore and grumpy after, because I've been putting a lot of stress on it.  I went to the store to pick up one of those big sports ace bandages from the 1980s or so, when I saw KTape, and thought, what the heck, I've been running a few years now. I run.  I'm a runner. I can pull it off all legit like. 

It's pink, too, so I had to hide it from the one in my house who likes pink that isn't Drama Girl...

Anyhooo...

You have to go to the website to watch a video to apply it right. So I did. And I was jealous, because I didn't think to buy multi-colors... And then,  I saw it could be used for bunions. Bunions! So I had to watch that video, too. 

Then I read the blog...

It's like, a thing...

And then I realized I'm supposed to be writing, and I"m way too easily distracted by shinies, but hey, KTape!

I'd take a pic of me in my pink Ktape, but I think my feet are not photogenic, so I"ll spare you.

Don't talk to runners, we're kinda boring, even us slow ones

But nobody is more boring than a runner who writes, or, a writer who runs. Except writers don't talk about their writing, because well, if we talked about our stories, than we'd have spoken the story and then, we'd run out of words when it came time to write the story... so writers are mostly quiet and hide out in their homes or coffee shops, being silently boring, but not inflicting boredom on others. 

But runners who write can talk. Yes, we can talk! About running! Because it's not like you can talk out a run. And if you're not running, which is the best thing to be doing, that, or writing, you're thinking of running, or the writing. Mainly, though, running.

There's not much more time in life for running and writing. Well, work, but who wants to talk about that? We go to bed early to get up early. We spend at least 45 minutes or more a day running or doing something to make us run better or whining about not running or thinking about running. We love running gear even though we don't need much of it. And. We like to talk about running.

It's just true. Any non-runner who knows a runner dreads when the conversations filled with interesting topics like Benedict Cumberbatch, Walking Dead, and anything else, runs low, and then the runner says something seemingly innocent, like, "I ran this morning."

"Oh?" says the non-runner friend, wary and cautious. This never ends well.

"Hills."

...silent pause....

"Windy out, wasn't it?" Inside, the little voice that's like no, no, don't say anything...tooo muuuchhhh...

"Mm. Windy. I don't mind. Resistance training.... blah blah blah.... 

And the runner is off, on hills, windy runs, cold runs, straights, fart-leks, compression gear, times, races, not races, injuries, where it hurts, cold weather running, running indoors vs. outdoors, cross-training, running with the breath, running without tech, running with the bestest tech ever, shoes, shoes, oh the shoes...

I'm looking at new shoes. My tread is gone. 

Anyhow.  On Thanksgiving, don't talk to the runners.

Soo...

I ran today.

Day 4 of 7 straight days of running 3 miles a day. It's not an epic, marathoner, elite-runner kind of run streak, but hey, it's something to do while my morning boot camp is on hiatus. For some bizarre reason, the trainers all take December off. As if we can all be trusted to go through the entire holiday month eating well and exercising on our own.

Anyhow, I'm not trying for some major streak. Really, it's all part of a clever plan of mine to ensure success when I do this Runners World 36-day-of-running-at-least-a-mile streak, which I'm using as part of another clever plan of mine. By doing the 36 days of running from Thanksgiving to January 1, I'm hoping to spur myself into this crazy mad cold running mayhem for January and February, where I actually go out and run instead of staring out at the cold surrounded by running magazines and books.

I need gimmicks to get me to accomplish my goals.

So three miles every day this week. I've followed it by any of the yoga moves I could remember from yoga class (oh yoga class, how I miss thee) to stretch my poor, tight, what-the-)%TR)#-are-you-doing-to-us muscles.

Because they weren't part of this decision, and my ass has just realized this year that it's actually a muscle, and is expected to do some work.

I'll tell you what though, reader of mine, compression exercise clothing is awesome. You look sleeker, feel stronger, everything's flexed and compacted and you're like, YAH i am SO COOL. Like, Ninja Sleek Warrior Chic... I can RUN for miles, I can LEAP, I can DANCE. I can do TREE POSE for HOURS.... my shadow is thinner than a pencil.

Then you take it off and all of a sudden it's like marshmallows being unleashed onto the world...it's like all your fatty flesh is like 'Freeeeee wwweeeeee arrree freeee"

Seriously, it is.

In running gear: Bad Ass

Out of running gear: Marshmallow Ass

Things to keep in mind.

My sister theorizes that successful blogs, aside from being blogged on frequently, involve recipes and images of food.  In a sad, half-hearted attempt to gain readers and be a blogger blogger, and eat healthy through this perilous, food-laden holiday season, here is my lunch:

Little boats of edamame floating peacefully on a tranquil sea of Edamame-Tofu dip with spiced pita chip shores. All home-made in under 20 minutes.

Looks very green, I know. It's not this green in reality, but I"m going with a Green Grinch theme here. But it's delicious. It's an Elie Krieger recipe. Her image is much better. But it's so very tasty!

A little bit of this and that, the details of calmness

I'm such an unreliable blogger sometimes. I don't like that about me. I'm hoping I've set up an RSS feed, so people can just get my posts :)

I've accomplished a lot lately, a lot of little things that matter a lot to me. Things some people do every day without thinking a thing about it. I envy those people. The ones that get up and are excited about their morning workout at 5:30 a.m., vs. me, the person who fervently truly wishes that a freak thunder and hail storm will occur right as I walk out the door, so I can go back inside and spend the next hour drinking coffee. The ones who are already a success at their chosen profession, instead of, like me, trying to slip in unnoticed, in an unfamiliar world... (Don't mind me, I've been writing forever, just, not for you... here you go, slip it in your accept pile, we'll go from there...)

But the big payoffs have been in the mental switch that I've somehow made. I have scoured mindfulness websites, read everything on simple mindfulness, practiced moving meditations, do some yoga poses, practice all sorts of breathing tricks. It's all in the head, it's all silly little tricks, but, I have become calmer. (Seriously, I have, I know I know, I could be a lot calmer still, but we have to start somewhere...)

I stress less. I accept more. I take slower breaths, longer ones, as habit, not as an effort. I let the noise of other people pass by without taking it in and becoming part of it. I butt out of conversations no matter how juicy or interesting the tidbit. I generally care more about the people I do converse with, because I have more energy for them. I've embraced my introverted-ness. I mean, I've always known I was introverted, but now I'm retreating a bit more, thinking a lot more, and, ta da, writing more. There is just a peacefulness in how I'm living right now. Not that anything has changed, nothing has. It's my view of things has changed. I accept more, and I have more mental energy. I don't get as fired up or wound up, and I am less stressed, and generally less upset-y. Upset-y is not a word, but it is a true state. It's that place where anything can have you spinning one way. Where instead of spending a few minutes logically reasoning as to why it's not worth being upset over, you spend hours being upset. I don't get upset when someone nonchalantly accidentally tosses half a bottle of soy sauce on his plate and halfway across the table, or spills his entire breakfast on the floor. (Full disclosure: My daughter makes me crazy. The other day I stopped the car and pulled over, yeah that's right, P.U.L.L.E.D. O.V.E.R. because she was being... fill in blank... That's not me, though, they say that that is just a thing that happens, so I don't consider her driving me crazy not being calm. I say that I'm a lot calmer than can be expected in the face of seventeen year old girlness...)

What is going on in this calm, peaceful spot of life?
It always comes back to writing, food, kids, and running.

Kids. My boys are almost 11, they are wiry knees and elbows still, they are taller though will never be tall. They have opinions and thoughts and unfortunate tastes in fashion. They are at the age where looks matter, but it's okay to where three-day-old socks. They devour all the food in their path. They are sweet and rude, kind and mean, passionate and misinformed. They still believe in dreams and Santa, but one has discovered, through science and the composition of rainbows, the impossibility of leprechauns. The other hangs on to the belief. They know everything. Sometimes I think of writing for them, or about them, but that isn't what's in me to write just now. My daughter is surviving her last year of high school, with no solid plans for the future. That's okay, though. Who does, really, at 17, have it planned out? I'd just like her to get a license and a job. We can go from there.

Food. What a wonderful thing food is. I'm forcing myself to cook, no matter how tired, on weeknights and weekends, one, to save money, two, see: lost 7 pounds. It's great for both things. There's really nothing to say right now about food. I'll never be able to write about food, not really. I don't have really informed opinions about food, only, this variations of tasting good, and a questionable habit of creating substitutes for missing ingredients.

Running. I'm taking a break from being an epic kinda-runner and doing morning fitness camps. I plan to pick up running next spring. Right now, I run during boot camp, do some swimming, and read running magazines....

Writing. Ah. Writing. I've found my voice. I think I've written that before, fairly recently. It's true, I have. I finally wrote a full short story in it. It's not fantasy, it's not paranormal urban, though I love reading those genres, and experimented it, and have that full written novel in that genre, but it's something else. I won't even attempt to describe it, it is just, sweet. I'd like to say lyrical, but we'll see.

In other notable life events, I've killed my poor plants on the front porch, except the mint, (of course not the mint, it's never the mint) and have to replace them with lovely fall creations that I can't kill.

The 7-11 trip

Yesterday, the boys rode to the 7-11 for the first time, alone, with $9 in hand. The store isn't that far away. It's just outside our small neighborhood, the first store on the corner of a busy street. It has a lot of traffic. I sent the boys off, Bear now comfortable enough to ride his bike outside the neighborhood - the incentive of a slushy helped - after the unfortunate incident two years ago where his bike fell on him, and, as he explained to his young friend the other day, 'my nuts hurt for three days.' Nuts. My ten year old said nuts.

But this isn't about his saying nuts. In fact, two years ago, the bike did flip over and land on his… groin… and cause considerable pain. Looking back, perhaps it would have been nice if I insisted he ice with some frozen vegetables, but I didn't realize how MUCH his… groin hurt…he seemed okay after with the exception of the two-year-long fear of bikes…  I hope he'll still be able to have children…

The 7-11.  The corner store. The nearest store children have access to. For me, it was the Store 24. It's a rite of passage. The first time you have money in your hand and wander off, on your own, alone, to buy something with your money. Some children do it younger. Some older. But there comes a time when you go alone. When I went, I pushed my sister to the counter in front of me because I didn't want to talk to the cashier, because I was shy. I bought a candy bar. She kept trying to push me. In the end, due to my complete ability at that age to never speak if I set my mind to it, I won and she had to. There's a lot of people who would have a hard time believing there was ever a time when I avoided speaking to, well, people, for a great many years. I find myself returning to that time when I was quieter, though no longer due to fear, now, due to a desire for quieter, more meaningful conversation over inane chatter. (Still, I struggle, I love chatting.)

The rite of passage, though, is something that can often go unnoticed. To the boys, it was just 'FINALLY mom is letting us go to the 7-11 to buy something.' And in my head I'm going 'Ohigosh, they are so little, they are tiny, and too young, and it's such a big world, they might get knocked over and then what…' and then I looked up and realized I wasn't looking at my babies, my little toddling chubby-legged sweethearts with pudgy hugs. No, I was looking at bony, lanky dirt-streaked boys almost as tall as me. I was looking at a thin, angled faces, one more marked with freckles than the other. I stared into confident gray eyes that said "we asked Dad if we could go because you're kinda a worrywart and would probably have said no.'

They were loud and sure and running loudly around, one looking for shoes (you can't wear slippers to the 7-11) and pants (no pajama pants either) the other procuring funds from their father.

I wondered if they would be shy. I told them to buy small slurpees so they had enough money. I perceived that their experience would be like mine, and tried to prepare them for the greatest success - go in with enough money, get your goods, flee. I anticipated their anticipation, a little bit of giddiness (freedom!), but no, that was my experience, not theirs. Theirs was full of giddy slurpee-ness joy.  They were all sure of themselves, hopping on their bikes practically running over each other on their way out, and, having none of the reservations I had as a child about speaking, the first thing they did when they got in the store was ask - "How much are the large slurpees? The extra large?" They did some quick math, and realized they each could get a large slurpee, they could get me a small slurpee (how sweet!) and a second root beer. They came home with their bags hanging off their bicycles. They ran outside to show their friends their loot. They have gone to the store, and spent their money. They now know the value of money, the joy of buying precious things.

Thy'll soon have a mall to wander around in bicycling distance. (The advantage of living in an urban area - okay, it's not like, you know, quaint posh magazine urban, but we've got stores, a new mall being built, coffee shops and a fairly decent main street and downtown all within walking or bicycling distance!).

I'm happy they are here, at this stage, and I know two things.
I know they now will desire to have spending money for all the things they can get at the magic 7-11 and other stores - joy for them!
I know now, I can pay to have things done I don't want to do - yay for me!
I"m never going to be able to get away with forgetting to pay their allowance (I'm human!)

It's time to teach them about spending, savings and earnings on a strictly monetary level.
They are going to gorge themselves on slurpees. They are going to become slurpee addicts, and suffer major cold-inflicted headaches. They'll soon have a mall to wander around in bicycling distance. (The advantage of living in an urban area - okay, it's not like, you know, quaint posh magazine urban, but we've got stores, a new mall being built, coffee shops and a fairly decent main street and downtown all within walking or bicycling distance!).

They are growing up.