On shoelaces and Frisbees (or, stuff I wrote other places)

Shana tovah! (I totally made those, too.)

Well, I've been writing. I have. Just not much here. But that's okay, because yesterday I consolidated the different chunks of the current draft of the novel into one file to send after printing, so that I can start rereading and — one more time, with feeling — get a sense of the entire thing, with the idea of finishing by the end of October. AND I have 1,415 words of a brand-new short story. I know I said earlier that I didn't like writing short stories, but actually, I'm quite enjoying this process — it's kind of cool to spend a daily half-hour or hour on a project and have it move forward in a major way, to discover that there is a larger meaning behind my plot. I thought I was writing about one thing, but it turns out I'm writing about memory. And maybe Twitter.

But blahblahblah introspective/cryptic thoughts on writing. What I wanted to say, is that even though I haven't written much here, if you are really jonesing for a fix, you can find me today on VillageQ, wherein I wax poetic punchy on limping through the final days of summer:

It’s a bit of a cruel joke, the scheduling of this school year. I mean, first there was the summer itself, the eight kajillion weeks in which the only routine was change: different day camps each week, punctuated by travel, camping, and — the cherry on top — the past 11 days, during which time we scheduled no formal activities for the kids with the idea that we would “just all hang out” and Rachel and I would each work half-time and “just hang out” with the kids half-time. It’s day 11 of 11, and my day to work, which means that I am hiding out in my office and steadfastly ignoring any and all chaos going on outside my door.

(For the record, my doorknob is busted: if you close the door all the way then I am effectively trapped in this room, unable to get out unless I unscrew the doorknob and manually turn its inner workings with a wrench.)

(I am contemplating closing the door all the way.) ...

And I'm also up at Today'sParent.com,where I talk about being both parentally and Frisbeely challenged by my child:

“Mom, I’ve noticed something about when we come here,” Rowan says to me.

We’re outside at our friend Carol’s cottage, the waters of Hawkeye Lake lapping at the shore of the narrow beach, the sun beginning its slow descent behind us. Rowan has found a Frisbee and has been coaching me on how to throw it. ... It’s exhilarating.

“So,” I say to him as we play, “what do you notice when we come here?”

“I’ve noticed we don’t fight as much when we’re out here.”

Oof. He may as well have thrown the Frisbee, hard, into my gut. ...

So, that's me, this week. Next week, the chilluns are in school full-time, five days, and perhaps All the Writing of All the Words will take on some kind of more formalized schedule. Or maybe not. Like with my novel, I still don't quite know how this one ends.

The Yoga Class Incident, Part II: Karma

For those of you who missed it, here is a small recap of Part I: Approximately eight years ago, when Rowan was an infant and slept not a whit and I was therefore certifiably insane, I threatened our donor, Rob, with grievous bodily harm (well, in truth I threatened his computer, but we all know I really meant him). I threatened this bodily harm — and I maintain that no jury would convict me — after he showed up for a visit, witnessed me and Rachel in all of our sleep-deprived, postpartum sturm und drang, and then proceeded to spend approximately 900 hours on his computer researching the best possible yoga class in the city for HIS OWN SELF to attend, narrating out loud in front of me and Rachel the pros and cons of each studio as we paced back and forth covered in vomit and drool.

Part II — in which karma is a bitch — picks up over at LesFam today. Please go forth and read! Namaste.

photo credit: lululemon athletica via photopin cc

Blogger of the Month

 

Confession: I’ve never been an Employee of the Month. This may be because, with the exception of an 18-month stint working for an abusive boss at a health-policy research think tank, I’ve never really been an employee. This, of course, doesn’t count my stints in retail during high school and university: my very first job outside of babysitting was as a folder at Benetton. Remember Benetton? It still exists, although for me it’s forever locked in the 80s, those rugby shirts one of the status symbols I strove to attain. At Benetton, I was paid four dollars an hour to fold and re-fold sweaters in uniform rows. I would fold for hours, and then some customer would come along and unfold all my sweaters (and not buy a single one), and then I would grit my teeth and fold them all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat. In retrospect, this was great training for being a parent, except that at Benetton at least I got paid four dollars an hour for my efforts.

Yes, I have a point. The point is that, while I have never been an Employee of the Month, all that sweater folding and re-folding and musing about parenthood may have finally paid off. This month, I am Today’s Parent magazine’s Blogger of the Month — yes, that’s me right there on page 14 of the July issue, wonky hair and all.

I’ve been blogging for a few months now at Today’s Parent as “The Other Mother” — here's my latest, on one of big payoffs of having Rob in our lives. It’s a lovely gig, one that forces me to stretch my blogging and writing chops (is it possible to stretch one’s chops, or did I just mix a metaphor there? Don’t answer that.) and think more critically about parenting, and writing, and about writing about parenting.

But between writing here, there, and here, I sometimes feel pulled in different bloggerly directions, trying to remember which one of my very similar but slightly different blog hats I’m wearing that day. Not that I’m complaining. I love my job(s), or lack thereof, just like I love my kids. Even if there are days in both realms where, every so often, it would be lovely to simply fold sweaters all day long. Sweaters in nice neat rows, no one to mess them up at all.