Dentist

The waiting room had a fireplace and the reception desk was dark cherry wood. The floor appeared to be marble and the rows of patient files behind the woman who politely handed me the stack of new patient paperwork to fill out - were hidden behind cherry wood sliding cabinet doors.

Walking in there this morning, with The Boss and Lila in tow, I felt overwhelmed. Not a kids book or toy or stray crayon in sight. If this was their waiting area, how would their rooms be? Would my two children be able to behave, unentertained, for the entire length of all of our appointments?

All this anxiety quickly disappeared as I signed my name for the fortieth time and looked up to see Lila standing at the bathroom door with her pants and pull-up down around her ankles, exclaiming to the two other families waiting in this beautiful waiting room "I have to poop!"

Of course, she did not have to poop. She and I went into the bathroom, where she sat, hummed for a minute, then announced she was done and would like to wash her hands.

The appointments themselves went off without a hitch. My teeth are better than I had anticipated (or at least, only requiring a small amount of inexpensive work) and the children each listened and opened their mouths wide for the hygienist.

She paused while counting The Boss's little teeth, to see if she could feel movement at all. And when she confirmed she felt the slightest bit of "wiggle" - I actually felt sad. Sure, he's been growing and growing and growing and he's looking more little boy than he is preschooler - but I'm really just not ready for that sort of manifestation of his growing up.

It's funny how we want to hurry them up in some ways (ahem, Lila, please start to use the potty - without dropping your pants and announcing it to the world) and in other ways, we want them to stay just as they are, sweet baby toothed grins and all.

Love

The Boss peeked into our room this morning, smiling brown eyes. He jumped in place and slapped his knees and said, "C'mon, Momma, I have a surprise for you!"

And so I found my first Valentine of the day, in more of an Easter Egg Hunt sort of fashion, with my son pointing and jumping and telling me to reach above the books on the tallest shelf in our living room. Glitter and marker and "Way to Go!" stickers et al, my son's name scrawled in giant letters. It's beautiful.

Lila came out, sleep still in her eyes, to see what all the commotion was about. Before I could bend down to kiss her good morning, The Boss was quick to point out, "Uh, Bean didn't make you one."

I explained that I still wanted to give her a kiss. That construction paper hearts aren't the only way to show someone we care. (Though they are pretty fancy...)

The rest of my Valentine's Day will consist of buying a new toaster, cutting and coloring fifteen little cards for my son's Sunday School luncheon tomorrow, baking cookies and buying sandwich things for said luncheon, baking a Valentine's Day cake to frost and sprinkle as a special project with the kiddo's (who love to be beside me in the kitchen), and then somehow attempting to make a delicious feast of Filet Mignon and Salmon for Vin and I. I may have purchased some fringe ingredients, sorts of things I've seen used on Food Network and such, but that I have no idea how to actually incorporate into recipes. Tonight, we experiment.

Another note from this morning - I received a comment on my writerly blog, letting me know that the first review of The Simplest of Acts is up at Self-Publishing Review.

He noticed the same spacial issues that I had with putting the collection together - the indentation of the paragraphs and the blank pages, which were in part by design and in part because I'm not a book maker by trade. But, overall, it is a fine review and I'm happy that I submitted it for consideration.

Wants

I'm working five days a week now. The job itself pays very well and includes full benefits, even at my part-time status. And it's easy. Monkey work, really. Ok, perhaps a step above monkey. Maybe a trained monkey.

The problem is...I'm in a cube. I've never considered myself to be a "cubie" - as they affectionately refer to themselves here at this company. I'm in a cube, doing something that is completely uninspiring and/or interesting. Which has me thinking...

If I'm going to be spending time apart from my family, I should at least be doing something I'm passionate about. Something that I'd do with or without a paycheck and health insurance attached to it.

And so now I'm pondering the possibility of going back to school...yet again. Because I know that what my heart wants, is to teach writing. To be facilitating workshops and encouraging college students or MFA'ers, to be actually using my MFA degree myself.

What I need is a low-residency or distance learning PhD program that will still allow me to be a mother and "cubie" in the meantime. I've found a couple, have inquired. Will see what's to come...

Baaaa!

Baaaa!, originally uploaded by Mellahaney.

And now that I've shaken the dust off of this blog by dazzling you all with a photo of a child gleefully squealing from behind a cardboard painting of a sheep - let me say, I'm not dead.

I am however, pregnant.

After the initial shock, (which was quickly followed by happiness and then trailed by fear) came the dissolution of my mental capacity, and therefore, my ability to write, either here or elsewhere.

Despite having seen the heartbeat at the beginning of September, last week I was certain we were having a deja vu moment. The doctor ordered an ultrasound, my kids and parents and I packed up our trip to CT and my husband left his job to be by my side.

They did not turn the monitor to face me and when the technician first pressed the wand to my abdomen, I was asked about my other two children. How old are they?

Questions of distraction. Never mind me, don't read my expression, let's talk about the spacing between the children you already have.

I cried, as I knew I would.

But it was at the relief of finally seeing our baby waving, the heart beat flickering. Strong.

So, that's me. That's where I've been. There's more, much more. Trips. Weekends away. Some new writings making their way out to the world. New jobs. But for now, I'm going to settle back in slowly...and hopefully not disappear for another month at a time.

Distraction

Things I know about the novel I'm working on (and I use the term 'working' very loosely, as I am currently battling with a thousand distractions, not the least of which is self-doubt.):

It will involve Food and television.
It will be in the first person
There will be no mention of space aliens or science fiction
It will not involve the paranormal
There will be quirky romance
The main character will not be a young mother of two
She will not be a super heroine,
But she will be quite diggable.

Things that are currently distracting me from utilizing my nap-time wisely:

Scramble (darn you Facebook and your applications and Scramble with your neat little 3 minute games that make you feel like you are only clicking for just a few moments...and then the next thing you know an hour - or two- has passed and you can't see straight anymore and you've wasted what precious brain power you had left on finding the word "fingered" on a virtual boggle board...)

Thoughts of relocation. My husband is going for an interview on Friday at a resort sixty miles north...which, with gas prices as they are, would most certainly require moving.

Worry - which is a complete waste of mental energy and I will stop this. I will.

Exercise - thinking of getting back on the treadmill, deciding instead to sit, then feeling antsy and thinking I should just do another mile or two first...then don't. But still think about it.

The chili I had on my egg white omelet for breakfast. So yummy, but now tearing through my digestive track like a...well. It's bad.

Stress: Defined

In one of the stories I'm working on, there's a father who attempts suicide and a mother who explains it to her children by saying that potential is a burden.

I feel very burdened at the moment. Not helped by the fact that there's an full-page article of me out in my Alma Mater's quarterly newspaper - in which I'm touted as being a somewhat successful writer.

It's a small school, what can I say?

I feel pressure to write more, write better, write longer. Yes, longer. I am again beginning to attempt a novel. A different novel, one that I'm excited about, which is good. But it's certainly more mainstream than literary, per say, and I feel a certain guilt, as though by writing such a novel I would be dumbing down to appeal to a larger audience.

But, considering that literary short stories hardly pay the bills (unless you are Alice Munro), perhaps it's time to attempt something with a larger appeal. Something frivolous enough to be an airplane read, or the book that the women in your office pass between cubicles as they each take turns reading it.

As always, most of the stress I'm feeling is monetary. We're contemplating moving elsewhere, as housing prices are much less in other parts of the country. We're contemplating trying for baby number 3, which means we'll need a larger house, which means we'll either need more money, or a less expensive place to buy.

Or, I could get back to work on that frivolous best seller and we could be set for a little while.

Work is something I am disconnecting myself from lately. It's a source of stress, and more expense in gas than it makes up for in compensation. The only reason I have not yet given my notice is that I have already made travel plans using the wonderful discount that I get at this particular brand of hotel. After seven years of extremely discounted hotel rooms, it's hard to give it up.

They also insist on my coming in on Saturday night, which is poor timing, as we had planned a double date to an arena football game on Saturday night. So I am stressed about that.

Mostly, I'm letting stress itself stress me out. And that is never good.

Back to Life

After spending a day decompressing and visiting with friends down at my in law's house, I'm finally home. My first day back in my old life, post writer's workshop.

The workshop was far less daunting than I'd thought it was going to be. I met some very talented and wonderful writers. Thanks to the encouragement of my workshop group, I even managed to do a reading (which I pulled off to a moderate degree of success, after only skipping over an entire paragraph of my piece...whoops)

I suppose I got what I needed as well, a sign that I'm on the right path and that I need to make revisions to my life, so to speak, to better live as a writer and not just as a mom-who-writes.

Changes I Can Make:

Number 1: Write. On a schedule, I mean.

Number 2: Unplug the internet while attempting to write. (Or at least stop playing so much scrabulous when I could be writing.)

Number 3: Read more good literature.

Number 4: Find prompts in everyday life and stick to them. Even if the work isn't marketable in and of itself, I might stumble across a voice or a character or even just a turn of phrase that could be useful in a different piece.

So far this morning has gone fairly well. I've managed to write a few paragraphs and now instead of stressing over getting on the treadmill while my kids nap, I'm going to see if I can't write a few more.

Almost Home

It's nine o'clock and I'm alone in a hotel room next to Penn State. Had some decent steamed tofu and dumplings and now I'm attempting to squeeze the final drops of creativity from my pores before I drive another 8 hours tomorrow and return to my previous incarnation - Mommy.

(Of course, you'll notice that even having said that, I'm typing here and not on a fiction piece.)

Status

So here's the shape of things. It's nine-thirty on a Friday and I'm working. And by working, I of course mean binging on dark chocolate (PMS), playing Scrabulous online and occasionally hunkering down and taking out the red pen on the never-ending editing project I (stupidly) accepted for way too little money.

Oh, and I check people in. Four so far tonight. No interesting customer's tonight though. No one lingering to talk about anything more than where they can get the best pizza locally, and how late do they deliver?

My son stuck his head in the toilet yesterday, after peeing.

I have no idea what goes through his little mind, how it brings him to these conclusions. I just don't see how, even a preschooler, can come to the conclusion that yes, absolutely, dunking my clean little face into a potty of pee is definitely the most logical thing to do at this moment. And then I'll go and climb up on Mommy's lap and hug her with my damp little hands and tell her all about it.

So yeah. Work isn't so tough. Aside from that editing project. I haven't spoken of it much, won't go into the gory details. But it's there. And it's a beast.

My alma mater is writing a profile about me for their quarterly publication. They contacted me a couple of months ago to ask if I'd be willing to be interviewed, as someone who is successful in their given field. I agreed, quite flattered and feeling a tad like a sham. I gave them the names of several of my close friends, fellow alums, who are just as creative and successful with their gifts than me. Moreso, even.

Still, they emailed the questions yesterday and I spent last night at work agonizing over how to best explain myself and my work. I'm very uncomfortable in the spotlight, much more now than I was when I was a student at this same school.

Even doing this whole 365 photo project on Flickr, I'm having trouble with having self-portraits up there. It's too much focus on me. I toy around with the idea of shutting it all down, daily. This blog too sometimes. Not that I update it nearly as much as I should anymore, but still. It's shadows of my life, out there, open to the eyes of the world. Very vulnerable, I think. Much like those pictures I keep taking. Not that they're all of me, because they're not. I would never do that sort of challenge (though many, many Flickerites do) - but even taking just "a photo a day" often leaves me scrambling at the end of the day for a subject to snap.

And when in doubt, there I am.

So

A guy walks into a bar...

Or actually, a hotel lobby where we sell beer and wine, though he is clearly not in need of either. The only thing he needs is a shower, a breath mint and a good night's sleep. But instead of any of those things, he decides to stand up at the front desk and tell me his idea for a movie.

Fantastic.

It's an hour until the end of my shift and I was stupid enough to tell the man that I have a degree in writing. When will I learn to lie to the people who ask me questions about myself? What's that? You want to know my story? I actually dropped out of high school, have four children and am working fifty hour weeks to pay for my raging addiction to nasal spray.

But no. Instead I stand, smiling until it hurts, and listen to drunk men talk (to themselves mostly), nodding appropriately.

Tonight's gentleman points out his wedding ring no less than ten times and assures me constantly that he has never strayed.

Really? High five, man. You want a sticker? I might have one with our logo on it.

Anyway, he goes on to tell me, in riveting detail, the opening scenes for his movie idea. Which is basically Lost in Translation, only set in New Orleans. And, since he's drunk and my time is just about up, I'm honest with him when I tell him that, Yes, it has been done before.

It's not always like this. There are some guests who come in (and who are generally sober) that I genuinely look forward to chatting with. One such guest came down to the desk twice last night, but was too polite to stick around after he checked on his next reservation, not wanting to interrupt my conversation with sketchfest-here's-my-movie-idea-man.

But enough about work.

Home life has been good. In an attempt to trim my daughter's bangs from dangling over her whole face, I've officially given her a mullet (in case the God given one that she had was not bad enough.) It wouldn't be so bad, if we didn't already live in a part of Southern NH where mullet's are considered a part of local culture. (On a good day in the summer you might even spy a rat-tail.)

Writing-wise, things are going well. The piece that I was asked to rewrite a few weeks ago was accepted. So, that's three pieces coming out in the next few months. Not a bad start to the new year. I'll let you know when things are out (some will even be available online...)

Editing-wise, things are slow. I'm behind on my biggest project, partly due to the cold that tore through my house, but also because I was thrown a couple of curve balls (ok, the same person who requested that I write a letter on plagiarism for her about a year ago, asked me if I could basically whip up an entire thesis for her...due this week. Obviously, this was a no go. But she is family, so I'm trying to help as much as possible, without being responsible for any form of cheating.)

And now that I'm officially rambling - I'm going to stop. Will return with more concise thoughts later. Sooner than later.

Na Na

So, I'm supposed to be working diligently on various projects that require attention to detail and time spent in quiet places with red pens and an editorial eye. But for the first since before the first snow fell, we can go outside wearing only thin jackets or hoodies and it's awfully hard to make myself sit down and work.

I remember rocking my son when he was about six months old. We were still in our condo and it was hot. Sticky, late July type hot. I remember his legs dangling down, his toes bouncing off my hips and thinking how amazing it was that he was so big. How before I knew it I wouldn't be able to hold him like this, like I could wrap him safe from the world in my arms.

I just went in and held Lila who woke from a dream and needed a quick snuggle. She's three times the age that my son was way back when, and her legs dangle down to my sides. And all I could think was, how did I get here so quickly? Not only one, but two children outgrowing me at warp speed.

What's different about watching Lila is that she's growing, in a lot of ways, into a miniature version of me. Stubborn. Headstrong. Loud. Dramatic. Flirtatious. She's a total ham, and she has a wicked sense of style (as is evidenced by the outfit she insisted on wearing today after her bath:)

Yeah, that's my girl.

(Is it wrong that I secretly wish that I could pull off this look myself?)

In other news, I've been somewhat successful at finishing some stories lately. I've had some interest from a local book publisher (nothing to get excited about mind you, but still, interest is nice) and some lit magazine submissions that have been floating out there for long enough that I'm starting to wonder if people might be biting. Had a re-write request tonight from a journal I've submitted to (and been rejected by) in the past, so that was progress. And it was nice to have feedback on my work in general. Another reason why the trip to the conference this summer should be well worth it.

Just Me?

My husband gave me the word that he won't be able to come with me out to Ohio for the writer's conference in June. I knew he wouldn't be able to, not with having just started at his new position. But still, I had hoped. And when he finally came out and said No, my gut reaction was to backpedal and not go at all.

Am I so co-dependent that I can't even face one week apart from him?

Seven years ago, I was wandering Europe - alone - fully convinced that I would never marry and that this would be my life. Bumping around the world, overnight trains, dirt streets, nickle bread lunches from small town markets, muddy knees, worn boots, hands well used.

Yet, here I am. Mortgage. Cars. Kids. Movie rentals in my mailbox, Amazon.com for my shopping needs (why go out into the world when I can buy things with my finger tips and wearing PJ's?) I walk nowhere alone, unless you count the mailbox.

When I first met my husband, I was a different girl. A behind the wheel girl. Literally, I had a car, he did not. That changed in the first six months of our relationship - he got his vehicle back on the road and I've relinquished the wheel ever since. I guess even more than I realized.

So, I'm trying to warm up to this idea: I'm going on an adventure all my own. A plane ride, a rental car, a week of virtual silence (compared to a house with two children) and a laptop (well, not yet, need to purchase one...anyone have one they'd like to sell for cheap? I can't pay much, but I can credit you in the acknowledge part of my first publication. Eh?)

I'm trying to imagine coffee shops and diners and morning workshops and evenings spent maybe even talking and socializing with other writer's - imagine that. No TV. No sounds of my husband playing Halo in the next room. No cat at my feet or kids on my brain. Just me.

It's almost to crazy to conjure such a possibility in the realms of my imagination. Yet it will be here before I know it.

And just now, typing this, I feel a glimmer of excitement for it. A good sign. Maybe it's not too late for that girl yet.

Balance, Persistence and Success

There was more poo last night, but thankfully it took place after my husband was home and able to deal with it. I was too pooped (yes, pun intended) to tackle it myself.

As far as the rejection I received goes, it's just another bump in the road. To quote the ever eloquent Nova, the universe has a way of balancing things and I don't fear that I'll die without having ever found a publisher for any of my full length projects. It's just a matter of finding the right one, at the right time, yada yada and so on and so forth. I spent my morning at work submitting samples to more small publishers, mostly for my story collection, but Phx, have no fear, I've still got Grace on the back burner (and have spruced up some sample chapters to submit as well...)

And now, speaking of both publication and Nova, you should stop over and give her a huge cyber-high five, as she has recently received some phenomenal publishing news. Bigger than anything I'm even aspiring to over here - larger than small presses and lit magazines - this girls going to be a star.

Triple Pooper

(What? Two posts in one day???)

First, Lila dropped one on the floor behind the play house in her bedroom - in a moment of unsupervised naked-time while I was on the phone.

It's cool. I have two kids, I left her in only a diaper to answer the phone. My bad. I get it.

Second, The Boss man decides to fore go using the potty in favor of stinking up his pants, screaming all the way to the bathroom and then pitching a fit when I put him in the shower - not even as a form of punishment, but as a cold hard reality - if you get poop all over yourself, you will need to be cleansed.

Third, I take a walk (if only to get away momentarily from the feces flying in my house) to check the mail, and find my thin little self-addressed stamped envelope. The one I sent off with my short story manuscript two months ago. Of course, it would've been far too easy for it to have worked out so smoothly, and I am really happy that they even asked to read the thing in its entirety in the first place. But still. It's poop.

Writing Schedules and Scavenger Hunts

Just Me 25/365, originally uploaded by Mellahoney.

I've been trying to explain to my kids that I work from home. True, I am not getting paid for the majority of the "work" that I do here at the computer (yet - wishful thinking) - but I have to make this commitment to myself. To treat my writing as though it is a job, a career choice and not a hobby. If there's anything that will separate me from the other would-be-successful-author's, it's my persistence.

I've begun doing some for-profit editing and manuscript critiquing. My rates are ridiculously low, sure, but I'm just getting my feet wet and I don't want to overcharge someone on the off chance that my work is somehow less than they're expecting. Maybe I'll get the hang of it and charge more - or maybe I'll realize while spending my evening hours reading and editing other people's 100K-plus manuscripts, that I should have completed one myself. Something other than a short story collection. (Although, I do so love the medium of short stories - of just capturing enough of a glimpse into another world to satisfy.)

Or maybe I just like the feeling of completing something, and for now short stories are it.

Because the thing is, three year olds don't understand the difference between you working and you ignoring them. So, while he's perfectly capable of playing by himself or with his sister - and does so quite easily whenever I'm NOT on the computer - my son has begun a habit of whining at me and tugging on the mouse to get me away from here.

You can not be selfish and be a good parent. It's just impossible. So I relinquish some of my "me" time while he's napping to do things like draw makeshift scavenger hunt lists or print up activities for him to do at his desk while I'm working on the computer. It all sounded so good in my head - I had great visions of him sitting quietly, or so fervently seeking his plastic dinosaur to check it off of his scavenger list.

So far we've had only moderate success with this. Any activities that involve crayons or glitter or crafty-types of things, requires me to, at the bare minimum, walk over every few minutes and acknowledge the wonderful masterpiece he is creating. And the scavenger hunt is not the independent activity that I had hoped for. Seems my drawing skills are somewhat lacking and he'll wander around the house for ten minutes whining that he can't find the turtle, when in fact, he's supposed to be looking for his plastic dinosaur.

I'm looking forward to the great someday when it's springtime and we have a yard with a fence and he and his sister can play outdoors while I sip coffee and write on my laptop on the deck. Or the even greater someday, when we have a big 'ol house with a farmer's porch and we're in the country somewhere where I can just let them run loose (and we're also independently wealthy and there is world peace...it's really a nice little dream.)

Sweet Baby Girl, originally uploaded by Mellahoney.

I haven't called the preschool yet, even though I told them I would get back to them on Monday to set up a tour of their facilities. I'd like to say that it's because I've been terribly busy and far to involved in more important things to invest the ten minutes of my time that it would take to pick up the phone and dial the number.

But that wouldn't be true. I've done a few things. Babysitting here, cleaning there, snapping pictures of my kids like I'm the paparazzi desperate for the money shot, cooking, cleaning, nothing too out of the usual. Though our dishwasher did break and that did mean that I had to take an additional chunk of my day to wash and dry and put away dishes. It's my least favorite of all chores. There's just something so icky to me about reaching my hands beneath a layer of bubbles and pulling out a sponge or cloth and using it to scrub dried food from people's plates. Trying to clean between the prongs of forks, feeling for any residual caked on food with slipper fingertips. Blech. No thank you.

When we found that the new washer wouldn't be here for two days - I actually asked my husband (like some sort of pampered heiress) "Two days? What are we supposed to do?"

Go ahead, roll your eyes at me. He did too.

Thankfully, I was out of the house today and didn't need to wash a single oatmeal crusted bowl or sticky child-sized spork. Instead, I was at my parents house (oddly enough, also without a dishwasher) where I spent the day with my nephew. And despite being indoors with two three year-olds, a toddler, a cat and a sweatsuit clad Grampy (working from home) - things went surprisingly smooth. The kids listened, the cat slept and my father struck the perfect balance of working and visiting.

And when I walked through the door at 9:30 tonight, there was a sparkly new dishwasher running quietly in my kitchen and a sweet husband who had worked a ten hour day, then came home to install it right away so that tomorrow I wouldn't have to run my fingers over dried on bits of noodles or rice on any of our Fiestaware.

Happy day. Happy night. Hopefully a phone call to the nursery school tomorrow. And maybe even some writing...wouldn't that be great?

Preschool and Blankets and Hammer Pants, Oh My!

I'm working today. All day. Two jobs, until 11. Can you see my megawatt smile gleaming through your monitors? No? Odd.

In protest, I've spent most of my time here (job number one, AKA "the office") working on finding a preschool for my son. Unfortunately, most preschools have a "must be four" by September 30th cut off. And so I'm now considering nursery schools, for which programs are given ridiculous or completely random names. Camelodopheri (seriously), Pisces (other groups include the Little Dipper's and Aquarius...), and most any derivative of Teddy Bear or Snuggle Bug you can come up with.

And some of these places are just ridiculous. Sweet Pea's wants us to fill out a questionnaire, all of us. My son would need to list his favorite foods and colors (as well as name his friends, pets and relatives...) whilst my husband and I answer such subjective questions as:

How is your child special and unique?

What are we? Snowflakes?

When I step back and remove myself from the fact that I'm actually, officially, considering sending my son out into the world to be cared for (and taught by) another human being, I freak out a little and somehow feel as though I'm admitting failure. Which isn't the case. I think that my son is smart and developing well at home under our guidance. I just want to give him an opportunity to socialize (re: get used to not being around me 24/7 - which might allow us to sit through an entire sermon without him screaming bloody murder from the children's church room...)

I went to preschool and wasn't damaged by it, for goodness sakes. I even met my first little boyfriend and smooched him behind the trashcan while at good 'ol Paddington Station (apparently names haven't gotten any better or worse in the past couple of decades...and as for the boyfriend and I - we did actually reunite briefly in junior high, but ultimately his MC Hammer pants and flat top proved to be more than I could handle.)

Still, Mommy guilt is sneaky and it's getting to me a little over this. And worse, it's a double edged sword - I feel guilty for sending him out (for six to twelve whole hours a week without me - the horror), and if I kept him home I'd feel guilty for not giving him the opportunity to be apart from me and learn from other's.

Of course, I've been letting Mommy guilt get to me a little more lately anyhow. It started with the kids not settling easily the other night for bed. When I went in to check on them, my son asked for a glass of water, while Lila was curled in a ball, rocking back and forth, face down on her blanket, moaning "Blanket...blanket..." I delivered the water, blew kisses and left thinking how adorable it was that my daughter is so attached to that darn blanket.

Fast forward five hours. It's after midnight and we're getting ready for bed, before I stand up from the couch, I realize my daughter's blanket is laying on the carpet at my feet. How had I not noticed that? And the realization dawns - she wasn't snuggling with her blanket, she was sobbing FOR it.

And so began a week of feeling inadequate over the all but irrelevant parts of our lives. Though, I do have to say I'm pretty proud of Lila for self-soothing herself to sleep without going into a tantrum for lack of her precious blanket. Not that she normally does resort to tantrums...but she is getting ever closer to the dreaded two's (which started at about 18 months with her brother.) So I worry.

One a Day

One, originally uploaded by Mellahoney.

Because I'm always looking for the next best distraction to take me away from writing (procrastination is part of my creative process, I swear, it's not really a bad thing...) I've decided to attempt to do a 365 photo challenge.

So, on the days when I don't post here, I should be posting at least a small glimpse into my day, there.

Staying Home

It's nice. Today is actually my first day without having to go to work at all, but the past two days I have enjoyed having my children all to myself while working shorter shifts, later in the day.

Today is the first time I've attempted to write something new -- in a long time. I've been stuck in a rut, using the whole 'working two jobs, my husband is out of work, I'm going crazy' thing as an excuse to not be productive. Until I learned last night that another of the stories I've been pimping to a couple of literary magazines has been picked up. Which is great, don't get me wrong. It's a fairly new magazine with a lot of buzz and the selection process for publication was quite competitive. So I'm pleased. But this also means that now I can no longer "waste" time submitting it to other journals.

And so now, it's on the shelf for me. Leaving me with a hole in my day. One less story to try to place. Back to the drawing board, so to speak.

I'd forgotten how difficult this is to do with the kids - fighting naptime and demanding things like diaper changes and lunch. Pshaw.

Even typing this - my daughter insists on squeezing herself between my knee and the keyboard and my son just burst from his room (where naptime has apparently failed...again) demanding a cracker - and now I feel terrible because in response to his plea for carbohydrates and artificial preservatives, I snapped at him with a resounding NO!

*sigh*

I'll be back. Maybe.