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Friday, February 29, 2008It's Leap Day, After All...And I suppose that's reason enough to blog. One can imagine the claptrap that's out and about today, though -- 29 of this, 29 of that, 29 forever. Ad nauseum. So in an attempt to be slightly more creative (emphasis on "slightly"), I offer you the following list: 29 Reasons To Have A Baby And Pursue A Writing Career After Forty 1. Unless they stand too close, people will assume that I'm much younger and more energetic than I really am. 2. I have two built-in excuses for maintaining my mostly-hermit existence: "I'm nursing a baby" and "I'm a writer." If one of them doesn't cut it, I can fall back on the other. 3. Folks look at the baby in my arms instead of the gray at my roots. 4. Afternoon naptime is a perfect time for getting some writing done. Unless I'm the one who's asleep. 5. Two words: Older. Siblings. Two other words: Built-in. Babysitters. 6. When I'm not having a productive writing day, I can blame the baby. 7. When I'm not having a good mommy day, I can blame it on the writing. 8. Having a cleavage again after 40 is a boost to the feminine ego. 9. Except when nothing fits right. Which is a perfect excuse to buy new clothing. 10. Posting a picture of the baby counts as having blogged for the day. 11. People feel like they need to admire me. Which, though misguided, is their prerogative. 12. I don't feel quite so old when twenty-something puppies land big book deals. 13. I may actually have a picture book in print by the time my baby's old enough to read it. 14. And if that doesn't happen, I won't have to wait too much longer to read it to my grandkids. 15. When I shop at organic food stores, nobody thinks it's weird that I have a baby. 16. I have a husband who's mature enough to regularly help out with the baby. This time. 17. When the World of Publishing makes me feel like going sociopath, I can cuddle my baby instead. The World -- all of it -- goes away. 18. Spit-up working its way deep inside my keyboard is a viable excuse not to write on any given day. 19. Any moment now, a publisher is going to snatch me up as the next hot Amazing True Story Of My Life author. 20. I haven't gotten this much reading done since I nursed my last baby eight years ago. 21. I didn't have any taste in clothing until I was about 39 years old. Now I can shop at Old Navy and buy baby/mama matching clothes. And I'm old enough not to care if someone thinks it looks stupid. (No, really.) 22. We have one more dependent to claim. So I can continue not making a salary as a writer and still say I've contributed to the family income this year. 23. My dad has one more thing to brag about (he's already been bragging about my writing for years). 24. I can watch old family videos without crying about the days-gone-by. The whole diaper-drool-baby-laughter thing is still going on here. 25. I can share baby advice with Very Young New Mommies and they won't automatically assume that there's no way I could possibly remember what it was like when mine were little. 26. It doesn't matter if I smell like baby-stink. I can write in the privacy of my own office. 27. I have acquired a real "business voice," which I can flip into at a moment's notice. So I'll be ready when that Big Phone Call comes. 28. Unless I can't hear my cell phone ringing over the cries of a hungry baby. 29. In which case I will console myself with fine wine and organic chocolate, because I'm old enough to know that they're both good for me, and wise enough to find any excuse possible to ask for them -- like, being over 40, having a baby, and aspiring to be a widely read, beloved, pre-geriatric children's author. Wednesday, February 27, 2008Seven SentencesThat's what I've written today. I'm not complaining; I'm rejoicing. That's seven more sentences than I wrote yesterday. It's seven more sentences than I've written in a long time. And I owe it to my thirteen-year-old daughter. "You're going to write today, Tiny," she said. (Yes, she calls me "Tiny." It's short for "Tiny Mommy.") "Oh, Sweetie, I can't. I can't write today." "Yes, you can. And I'm going to open Google Talk while I'm writing, and we will send each other messages to encourage us while we're writing!" I insisted that it wasn't possible. Why, I was behind on the laundry. There was too much to do between Molly's feedings. I simply couldn't write. It wasn't going to happen. But that's been the story of my life lately, and my oh-so-clever daughter knows it. With wisdom beyond her years, she didn't press the issue. She didn't have to. Her words had already pierced my heart. Had reminded me that I am, after all, a writer. I am a writer! And writers...write. Right? I didn't say a word. I crept up to my computer, opened my (dusty? crusty? moldy?) Word document, opened Google chat. Waited. The chat box sprang to life moments later when Maggie discovered me. Her words? TM!!! You good girl! I'm so proud of you!! And you know, that's all I needed. Affirmation really does work both ways. Mother to daughter. Daughter to mother. Writer to writer. Thank you, sweet daughter, for the gift of seven sentences. When this chapter is finished, you'll be the first person to read it. And when the novel is complete, you'll be the first person I'll thank. Friday, February 22, 2008Bright Eyes
 I want to look at life this way. Alert, expectant, filled with wonder. Ready to smile at what you show me. Eager to embrace everything I see, touch, experience. Unconditionally loving everybody who loves me. With daily sunshine like this, do I ever have an excuse to be grouchy or ungrateful? Any reason to let my heart wander into sad and empty places? I think not. Oh, the sweetness of Molly. I'm wrapping it round myself like a fuzzy blanket. Who knew I'd have this huge, tiny blessing at this stage of my life? I think God is chuckling at me -- enjoying my surprised delight. Have a blessed weekend! Thursday, February 21, 2008Another "Kitchen Ditz" MomentI'm not sure I should even tell this story. You may lose any shred of respect you might have had for me. Ah, well. What's life if not a vehicle for making others laugh at me? So. I decided to roast a turkey breast and mash some Yukon Golds for supper. Naturally, turkey isn't turkey without some homemade gravy. And since Spencer had specifically requested the gravy, I poured the fats and juices from the roasting pan and mixed together some cornstarch and milk so that my thickening agent would be ready as soon as the gravy came to a boil. As I've done dozens of times before, I began to slowly drizzle the cornstarch mixture into the boiling liquid, stirring all the while. It doesn't take long for gravy to thicken, and cornstarch makes it nice and smooth -- not lumpy like flour sometimes does. Funny, though. This time it wasn't thickening quickly. In fact, it didn't seem to be thickening at all. I added more. Stirred more. A full three-fourths of the mixture had been added and my gravy was still thin as milk. That's when I got just the tiniest bit suspicious. "What's wrong?" Eric peered over my shoulder. "Ur. My gravy's not thickening. I'm wondering..." I picked up the cornstarch container. "I'm wondering..." "It's not cornstarch?" I wasn't looking at his face but I could hear the smirk in his voice. "I'm not sure." I peered into the container, shook it around a bit. Sniffed it. Then I dipped one nervous finger into the white stuff and touched it to the tip of my tongue. "Oh, no." I put down the container and closed my eyes. It was powdered sugar. "Let's go have a glass of wine," Eric said. He was still smirking. Having a glass of wine wasn't going to solve the problem of my having used up every bit of turkey drippings for the gravy-that-is-now-a-meat-flavored-dessert-sauce. But upon taking those few minutes to compose myself, I came up with the brilliant plan of adding some flour to thicken the gravy and serving it up, anyway. I mean, who would know? So I thickened the gravy and slopped it into the gravy boat. "Hey," said Spencer as we filled our plates. "The gravy tastes sweet!" "Oh, does it?" I tried to look casual. "Yeah! But it still tastes good." Oh, good. Then it was Rachel's turn. "Does the gravy have sugar in it or something?" Okay, I had taken my children for a pack of palate-less fools. There was no way I could pull this one off and get away with it. I was fried. So I came clean. Told all. I could see Jonathan's brain storing the information for use against me later. And Eric was still smirking. That's what I get for not labeling my Tupperware containers. Gravy, anyone? Monday, February 18, 2008From the White House To the Grocery StoreYesterday, I saw Al Gore. No, really. Eric and I were enjoying a small lunch at Whole Foods. The lunch bar faces the rows of check out lanes -- not very scenic, but certainly fun for people-watching. And oh, we writers love to people-watch. I wasn't paying too much attention, though, at the moment when Eric called my name. "Jill." (He never calls me "Jill," remember? So this was already a bit weird.) "Jill, look." (Why was he speaking in undertones?) "Look, it's Al Gore." That caught my attention. I looked up, and there he was -- Mr. Gore himself, with his wife by his side and nary a bodyguard to be found. Well, unless they were inconspicuously dispersed through the crowd wearing their best hippie clothes. If only I had had time to jump up and trip Mr. Gore, or maybe fling my bottle of artisan water at him -- then I might have seen some action. As it stood, the Gores simply strolled out of the store, grocery bags in hand. Nobody noticed them. Nobody pointed at them. Nobody fell at Al's feet and thanked him for inventing the Internet. Nope. They simply walked out of the store like two normal human beings. Then it struck me. I had just watched a former Vice President of the United States and Nobel Peace Prize winner walk by in a crowd of people. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance -- he was overweight, graying, ordinary. He was, in all appearances, an "everyman". He still had the distinct ability to produce instant nausea, though. Or maybe that was just me. Is this what happens to former political leaders and makers-into-a-three-ring-circus-of-close-elections? Do they simply glide back into civilian life and go shopping on a Sunday afternoon? I wouldn't know. I've never seen one in public before. It was quite a moment. And despite the vitriol I'm biting back with each word I type, I must admit that it softened me a bit. Al Gore is, after all, a man. He dons comfy clothes and takes his lovely wife to the grocery store that's known for using only one hundred percent recycled paper bags instead of plastic. (At least he's consistent.) He didn't do anything to call attention to himself. He was just living his life on a Sunday. Just like I was living mine. So. Perhaps I deserve a prize for self-restraint. Or perhaps I'll do something more exciting than stare the next time I see a Big Name Person at the grocery store. Like mention how nice the unseasonably warm weather is. Okay, I'll stop now. That was my weekend. How was yours? Labels: life Friday, February 15, 2008Jill?Yesterday we had our Boehme Valentine Celebration. It's a close second to Christmas around here -- the big Valentine box sits for two weeks on the buffet table, and everyone sneaks love notes and little presents into it. Then, on Valentine's Day, the treasures and treats are distributed and opened. It's quintessential Family Time. I was busy nursing the baby while everyone was opening their valentines, so I was pretty much on my own when I got to my pile of homemade cards. The ones marked "Mommy" were the most endearing, of course, and the ones marked -- well, never mind what Eric calls me. I was a bit confused, though, when I picked up an envelope with "Jill" written in cursive handwriting. Eric doesn't call me "Jill" (unless he's introducing me at an office party) and he doesn't know how to write in cursive. My sister calls me "Jilly" and prefers printing, and my parents' card came in the mail addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Eric Boehme." So, unless a secret admirer had slipped in overnight and deposited the card, this one was a stumper. I opened the envelope. Nestled inside was a jewel-bedecked card marked "Mommy." The card was from Spencer. Which leads to the obvious question: Why did he write "Jill" on the envelope? I didn't realize I was on a first-name basis with my eight-year-old. I thought of asking him about it, but the possibility of a Very Strange Answer has put me off. Maybe my new, organic, all-natural, anti-vax, drug-free childbirth, chlorine-free diaper lifestyle warrants my being known as "Jill" to my offspring. Sounds kind of "hippie" to me. "Hey, Jill, can I have the car keys?" "Jill, will you check my math problems?" "Jill change Molly's diaper?" I can just see my parents' faces. No, thank you. I think I'll just add Spencer's informal Valentine to my ever-growing list of Spencer Oddities. And next time, I might actually blog about one of my other children. Unless Spencer provides me with fresh material. Which is highly likely. Thursday, February 07, 2008Vinegar Milk"Mommy," said Spencer over breakfast this morning, "on New Year's Day we should have had vinegar milk." Silence. It pays not to respond too quickly to odd things. For one thing, Spencer tends to be a bit sensitive. For another, it's likely I've not heard him correctly. And since I had absolutely no idea what he meant, I didn't say anything. Maggie came to the rescue. "Vinegar milk?" "No, I said vanilla milk." I smiled. "No, you said vinegar milk." "No, I said vanilla milk." The words were spoken as if they were straight from the Gospels. No arguing. No negotiating. Spencer hath spoken. "Spencer, we both heard you. You said vinegar milk." "I said vanilla milk! You're contradicting me!" Love is patient, love is kind. I took a deep breath. "Spencer, it's okay. Sometimes our brains think of one word but our mouths say another. It happens to everyone." "I. Said. Vanilla. Milk." "Spencer, you said vinegar milk!" "I-said-VANILLA-MILK! You all need to clean your ears out!" "Spencer, Mommy and I both heard you say vinegar," Maggie joined in. Spencer growled, clenched his fists, rose from his seat, and ran away from the kitchen table. "I said VANILLA MILK!" he called from the stairs. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. "CONTRADICTORS!!" It took a valiant effort not to backsnort my coffee. Not having been the least bit chastened by the derogatory title (which sounds like it could be the latest action film), I was in the midst of belly laughing over the scene that had just unfolded, when Spencer suddenly reappeared in the kitchen. Sotto voce: "I said vanilla milk." I turned to my left, where Spencer had silently approached. He stood, jaw taut, eyes piercing mine, holding a ballpoint pen with locked arms, like an impotent assault weapon, two inches from my nose. This was getting weird. There's passion, and there's absurdity...and then there's blatant disrespect of one's elders. So, upon pain of a day-long grounding, I put an end to the vinegar/vanilla debate. Note to self: Pick your battles. Saturday, February 02, 2008
 Hello, my name is Molly Rebekah.My mommy thinks I'm cute, distracting, and all-consuming enough to use as an excuse not to spend time writing stories. I don't know. I kind of like stories. I wouldn't want to be a deterrent to her success as an author, you know? Still. My siblings tell me that Mommy smiles a lot more since I've been born. That can't be a bad thing. And I've been letting her sleep through the night for over three months now. Maybe it's time she gets back to work. I'm sure she'll drop everything the moment I call her. I mean, that's the way it works, right? When you want something, you make a really cute sound and everybody comes running. Yeah, I like that. Go for it, Mommy. Write your stories. I promise not to poop until you're at a good stopping point. Unless Daddy's home. Labels: baby |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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