I thought I’d sleep in this morning since I went to bed last night at 1:15 a.m.  However, after dropping off my daughter at school and crawling back under the covers, the phone rang.  It was our accountant with some tax issues that needed correcting.

Fortunately, the error was not ours, but the payroll department’s . . . and even more fortunately, the money we owe for taxes is much less than I had feared.  Still unpleasant, but not devastating.  I hate taxes.

Still.  It was hard to fall back to sleep after having that rush of adrenaline course through my veins.

I spent my morning trying on a variety of outfits, trying to decide which made me look the least fat.  (I am going to a conference on Friday.)  Only those of you who have experience the joy of gaining weight will understand the disheartening experience of trying to clothe a body you hardly recognize.  If you see me next weekend at Mt. Hermon, please do not look at me.  Pretend that I an invisible.  Thank you.

No, seriously, that was fine.  What can you do?  (I can’t lose thirty pounds by Friday morning, unless, of course, I have one leg amputated.  Well, maybe both legs.  And an arm up to the elbow.)

Then I picked up my daughter from school and returned home to clean up the kitchen and work on laundry.  I worked my usual eight hours today–split shifts, ending at midnight, and now I have two full days before I leave for California.  I have distilled my goals into two things:  1)  Clean out fridge so I don’t have to throw away moldy food when I return and 2)  Wash, dry, fold and put away all laundry.  Everything else can wait.

I’m at that curious stage of conference preparation where I shake my head and wonder what in the world I was thinking.  Why am I going again?  I can hardly remember.  I wish my passion were for something easier, like . . . well, tending the lawn or giving myself manicures.

I am going to sleep now.  If I am very lucky, I will be sound asleep by 1:00 a.m.  If I am unlucky, I will not.

Last week taught me something important.  However, I may have learned this lesson too late.

I learned that I could have been a damn fine emergency medical technician.  I could have been an excellent nurse.  I may have even been a super-dee-duper doctor.  I am pretty sure I would have been good at Crime Scene Investigation, too.

I know this because when my mother telephoned me on Thursday afternoon–just an hour after picking up my 6-year old daughter–I calmly advised my work-mate that I needed to leave my computer.  I told my boys I’d be back soon.  And I drove to my mother’s house to help her up–she told me she had fallen and was stuck–without my heartrate accelerating at all.

When I arrived in the driveway, my daughter burst into tears.  I put on the emergency brake, hurried over to offer her a reassuring hug and then turned to assess the situation which was worse than I had expected.

My mother was lying on her stomach near a photinia bush.  She held a striped hand-towel to her bleeding head.  Blood covered her neck.  I saw drips on some leaves and a puddle on the driveway.  Head wounds bleed so much.  And my mother has limited mobility.

After several failed attempts to help her kneel, I suggested we roll her over to her back so I could pull her to her feet, taking advantage of the steep angle of the driveway.  I told her that as soon as we got her up, I would put her right into my van and take her to the doctor.  Once she was on her feet, I wiped the blood off the back of her jacket and helped her get into the front seat.  I tried not to alarm her, but the wound on her head looked very bad.  I folded up her wheeled walker and put it in the back of the van.  I retrieved her purse from the house, placed the garden tools on the porch, locked the front door.

“ER or Urgent Care?” I said from the driver’s seat.

“Urgent Care,” she said.

The Urgent Care receptionist advised us it would be two and a half hours.  I helped her get signed in and then realized I needed to retrieve her cell phone from her house.  I left her at the doctor’s office, holding the towel on her bleeding head.  While driving, I assured my daughter that everything would be fine.  She was so brave–she saw my mother roll down the driveway backwards on her wheeled walker.  She saw her collide with the photinia bush.  She saw the blood.  And then she retrieved the phone so Grandma could call for help.

I telephoned my sister, my supervisor, my boys, my neighbor, arranging my life around this crisis.  I found her cell phone, picked up the children from school, delivered them at my house, and took the phone to the Urgent Care office.  My mother now had an ice pack for her head and some gauze.  She said she’d be fine–that she would call someone to take her home–so I left her at the office and returned back to my life.

Is that odd that I left her there?  She told me she’d be fine.  And she was.

After three hours, the doctor finally cleaned up her wound and stapled it closed with ten staples.  She came by our house later than evening to show my daughter that she was fine.  And she was, remarkably enough.

The next day, we stopped by her house to bring birthday gifts.  We also checked out the scene of the incident.  She showed me where she thought she hit the bush–but then I pointed out the blood drops.  We looked closer and then I saw a bunch of her gray hair hanging from a thick branch.  We totally recreated the scene–she’d turned sideways and managed to land perpendicular to the driveway.  The branch gashed her head–and while it was scary and bloody–that bush probably saved her from hitting the cement road or driveway with bone-breaking force.

The weird thing is that at no point during this entire event did my heart race or did adrenaline course through my body.  I was completely calm, objective, undeterred by the sight of the side of her head coated with blood.

So, we did good.  My mom handled the whole accident with grace and good humor–after the initial pain and shock passed.  My daughter was a trooper, following directions and managing not to freak out in the aftermath.  I turned into an excellent EMT for a second there, following by a brief but successful stint as an accident investigator.

And we all lived happily ever after, even though I know now that I missed my career calling.  Alas.  You could have called me Dr. Melodee if only I’d made different choices.

1)  Edit, rewrite, edit, rewrite, fiddle, fret and send off articles/novel (ha ha) for review at conference.  Must arrive Tuesday, March 30.  Hello, Overnight Mail.  [NOTE:  Hey, who messed with my calendar?  March 30 is MONDAY, not Tuesday!]

2)  Attend new membership class at church tomorrow morning beginning at 8:30 am.  IN LESS THAN EIGHT HOURS.  And it’s an hour’s drive to get there.  Kill me now.

3)  Become a Morning Person.

4)  Cook meals.

5)  Get hair cut.

6)  Work extra hours on Sunday in preparation for being away at conference next weekend.  Then work all week.

7)  Freak out about being fat.

8)  Find newly purchased lost lip pencil.

9)  Clean off desk.

10)  Launder clothes.

11)  Plan wardrobe for writing conference next week.  Freak out about being fat. Consider eating cookies.

12)  Download information required for writers conference.

13)  Go to bed immediately.

14)  The end.

15)  I mean it.  Go to bed.

16)  Me, not you.  GO.  TO.  BED.

Yesterday was rather exciting.  I realized that I would make an excellent EMT!  Also, my 6-year old is handy in case of an emergency.  Here, in the words of my mother (who turns 66 years old today):

* * *

In the New Testament, it says the older women are to teach the younger women.  (Titus 2:4)  But my words of wisdom can be of benefit to guys, too.

Okay then; here’s the scoop:  When you are about to turn 66, don’t – and I repeat – DON’T sit on your walker (with 4 wheels) at the top of your very steep driveway with long pruning sheers in your hand, and proceed to roll backwards, down the very steep driveway!

BUT, if you do decide to do this, holler this prayer:  “Oh God help me.”  (That’s the most important thing to remember……….)

When God helps you, it might be by turning the 4 wheels off the driveway, into the one remaining bush prior to the metal mailbox, the road, and the steep drop-off on the other side!  When you feel the very strong, sharp branch puncturing your skull; you throw the (very dangerous thing to do, by the way) pruning sheers over your head and find your 4-wheeled walker bent, and gone; your bottom is on the ground, deeply embedded in the bush, you’ll know you were kept from a more serious fall, perhaps, and your “fling” at having a birthday celebration of a special kind will be ended.

I’m sure most of us could think of some more merry way to do the celebratory thing in advance of the big birthday day!  However, since this is how I did it, I can now offer further words of wisdom – pointers, perhaps; guidelines so you’ll be prepared…………….

1.  Don’t be alone when you decide to do this stunt!  (You’ll probably need some help.)  However, you might not want the other person to be your six-year old child or grandchild.  Seeing you in this position in the bush, with blood causing your hair to streak red, may not be the best bed-time memory your child or grandchild needs.

2.  You ought to have at least one person’s phone number memorized.  You ought, also, to know where your cordless phone might have been left, so you can send the other person to retrieve the phone.  Having the phone underneath a stack of papers where only you will remember to look for it, doesn’t count.

3.  Wear a coat before starting this venture.  (Adventure, really!)  This will help retain some body heat as you lie, shaking, on the wet, cold, hard ground/bush.

4.  Live where you have neighbors who might be able to see you, or hear your screams for help.

5.  When someone comes to help you up and out of your bush, if they ask “do you want the ER or critical care clinic”, let them take you to one or the other – even though you wanted to just go back inside the house.   Perhaps their view of your bloodied head is better than how you view your situation.

6.  After three hours wait and a shot in each arm; when the doctor is finishing putting 2 shots and 10 staples in your head and tells you red streaks in your hair are very fashionable, thank him.  He then will thank you for having such a good attitude.

7.  Look in the mirror – often!  P.S.  You will look SO CUTE with a one-inch wide band of white around your head, putting pressure on the golf-sized ball of matted red hair, staples, and swelling.

8.  Later, when you are taking the antibiotics (so you won’t get infected from the bush) and the pain medicine for the huge headache you might be having, be sure to return to the place of impact so you can say, “Thank you, God, for helping me.”

Those are my pointers.  Hopefully, you won’t need them.

Find a much simpler way to celebrate when it is your birthday.  Find a noise maker.  Eat a cupcake, or two.  Fill the moments with memorable events.

Remember this – “it is appointed unto man (woman) once…” a year, to have a birthday.  So, when it’s your day, celebrate in a real special way!

* * *

Thanks, Mom!  Glad you’re all right!

Is it odd to have a favorite local news reporter? I don’t know.  All I know is that I love Deborah Horne of the Seattle station KIRO 7. I watch the 11 p.m. news on channel 7, as a matter of fact, because I love Deborah Horne.

So, that sounds a little like I’m a crazed stalker, but I’m not.  At all.  I’m just a fan.  (Also, while I’m at it, can I just say how much I loathe standing newscasters?  Or newscaster men who don’t wear a tie?  Hate it.  Please, sit down to report the news!  Don’t stand.  Don’t stroll.  JUST SIT BEHIND A DESK.  Unless, of course, you’re reporting live from the scene.)

That is the backstory.  Here is the story.

Friday night my husband drove up to Seattle to sit in the audience of a debate held at our church, Mars Hill.  Pastor Mark Driscoll and Annie Lobert were debating Deepak Chopra and Carlton Pearson–and it was filmed for “Nightline.”  (The debate will air on March 26.)  (Topic:  Does Satan exist?)

He (my husband, not Satan) was standing outside the church, waiting for the doors to open, when who should appear?  (Not Santa and his tiny eight reindeer.)  Yes, it was my favorite reporter!  Deborah Horne, KIRO 7 Eyewitness News!  She interviewed him for the 111 p.m. news–and he actually appeared on the newscast.

But when she approached him, he was shocked and said, “MY WIFE LOVES YOU!”  And after the interview, she posed for a picture with him.  (I would post it, but my blog is supremely uncooperative when it comes to photos!)

I don’t know if Deborah Horne KIRO 7 Eyewitness News has a fan club, but she should.  She totally rocks.

The end.

I’m going to a writers conference in a few weeks but I have been stricken with a sudden case of “Who Am I Kidding?”  I have a portion of a novel written and even though a week ago I thought, “Hey, I can do this; it’s not bad,” recent days have left me convinced that it is boring and stupid and bad. Who am I kidding?  (Not me.  I am not fooled by myself.)

Listen.  Anne Lamott says you have to write a “shitty” first draft (her word, not mine, but it is the perfect word for the occasion).  I repeat that to myself.  But I wonder if I can even do that.  As an alternative, I think a memoir would be just the thing . . . and then I think I am delusional.  And then I want a cookie and a nap.

I am bracing myself for a hard slap of reality, accompanied by a big dollop of rejection.  I am a pessimistic person by nature and now I am drowning in a sea of gloom.  I’ve got to snap out of it!  Or eat more cookies.

I was at a dinner party recently and someone had to mention that  I am writing a novel (which is not entirely accurate–mostly I am avoiding writing my novel because I am paralyzed with terror) . . . and someone said, “Tell us what it’s about,” and I had the good sense to say, “No!”  Everyone laughed.  I was off the hook and the conversation moved on.  I am embarrassed to be writing a novel because it seems foolhardy and insane.  It’s like telling someone you are building a house with your own two hands when you don’t even own a hammer.

But in a couple of weeks, I need to be able to answer that question (“What is your novel about?”) in a tidy paragraph.  It would be helpful if I came up with a title.  Calling it “Novel Ha Ha” is not going to cut it.

I think I’ll bake some cookies.

I spent several minutes today looking for a small brightly colored pad of Post-it notes on my desk.  I searched under and around my laptop computer, finally decided that those kids stole my Post-it notes.  They steal from me all the time.  That is why I can never find a roll of tape (duct or Scotch), or scissors or garden tools.  My dust-pan is always missing and I have no idea where the milk goes.

And then, just now, I glanced up from my computer where I finished my recent shift and the Post-it notes are in plain sight, sitting on top of the AT&T bill which is visible so I will remember to call and ask why I am being charged per text message instead of the other rate like my husband has.

Post-it notes!  Where were you hiding?  Were you being held hostage?  Did I pay a ransom and not know it?

Nevermind.  I’m just glad you’re back.  I needed you.

May those who love us love us,
and those who do not love us,
may God turn their hearts,
and if He cannot turn their hearts
may He turn their ankles
that we may know them by their limping.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Two years ago, at the prompting of Barbara Curtis, I attended Mt. Hermon Christian Writers Conference, which takes place every Palm Sunday weekend near San Jose, California.  I loved the experience so much that I went back the next year and will go back again in less than three weeks.  (Imagine:  Four days full of workshops and classes, excellent conversations, great friends–I met both Sarah Markley and Annie Downs last year, and Linda Vujov the year before–not to mention tasty food and the most gorgeous setting–majestic Redwoods and flowerbeds full of spring flowers in bloom.)  Oh, and you meet agents, editors and fellow writers face-to-face.  Very cool, indeed.

So, if you are a writer or wanna-be-writer, you should go, too.  And this year, if you sign up now, you will get $200 off the fee.  (I also get $200 off the fee for referring you, so if you do go, be sure to write down my name and let me know!)

Here’s a link with all the information you need.  (Hey, you never know.  It’s worth a mention!)

My daughter has not adjusted to Daylight Savings Time.  Couple that with the fact that she is still recuperating from the virus that plagued all the kids and that explains this morning.  She came into my room, fell back asleep in my bed and when I prodded her to take a shower to get ready for school,  she demurred and I compromised and told her just to get dressed.

She did, but then came to me rubbing her eyes, beginning to cry, telling me she had a headache.  I doubted her, yet doubted myself.  Maybe she really did.  However, school is only half-day kindergarten and surely she could get through the day?  She missed four days last week.

So, I said, fine, stay home, but you’ll have to rest and then we dropped the neighbor boy off at school.  Our ride home was silent.  I went back to bed, figuring my morning full of errands was shot.  She went to her room and then reappeared in mine five minutes later.

“Mommy, can you take me to school?”  And so I did and signed her in late.

After school, her teacher said she didn’t complain once.  (Sometimes my daughter calls me from school, telling me she misses me and asking if I’ll pick her up early.  I always say no.)  I mentioned the headache and the teacher said she didn’t once mention it.

Later, I asked Grace, “Did you really have a headache or did you just want to stay home?” and she admitted she just wanted to stay home.  However, she also admitted that she had fun at school.

You’d think that after being a parent for over fifteen years, you’d know exactly how to handle every situation.  Yet, after all these years, I’m just muddling through, hoping I’m doing all right and that my children won’t have long-term relationships with therapists.

I am faking it.  Don’t tell the kids.