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.

Okay, so it’s been five days or so since I posted here.  I’m going to update by day, stream-of-consciousness.

Friday, March 6: Daughter did not go to school again due to her lingering illness.  I worked eight hours.  Picked up son from lacrosse.   Have absolutely no other recollection of that day.

Husband took son to early-morning lacrosse game.  I woke up early (for a Saturday) to get ready for a day away.  My daughter slept until after 9 a.m., which is the latest she has ever slept.  I dropped her off at Grandma’s house, then hit the road for an hour’s drive to a conference.

However, just as I approached the freeway, I peeked at myself in the rear-view mirror and noticed that my eyes looked strangely naked.  That’s when I realized I forgot to put on mascara.  Nice.  I was trying to look my best, too, and my best includes mascara.  ( I arrived thirty minutes late but I swear my detour to Walgreens for mascara and an eyelash curler did NOT take long.)

A writing friend of mine, Linda Vujnov, was speaking at a conference at Overlake Christian Church.  Linda and I met at Mt. Hermon’s Writing Conference two years ago.  I drove up to spend the day with her–and ended up giving her an afternoon driving tour of Seattle’s most iconic sites (Space Needle, Pike Place Market, waterfront).  The sun even came out for a moment–but it was snowing by evening.  Weird.

I totally invited myself over to Jodie Howerton’s house.  (She and Linda are friends–Jodie used to live in Southern California, too.)  She blogs at Sun Breaks in the Rainy City. Anyway, I have no manners, so I tagged along.  Jodie and her husband, Mike, are super nice people with two cute kids and an enthusiastic dog.

I left home at 9:30 a.m. and returned home twelve hours later.  The last thirty minutes on the freeway were torturous because my left contact lense felt like it had sand under it.  Ouch.

Sunday, March 7: We slept in.  I was so exhausted from Saturday.  When we got up, I took my two youngest kids to the dollar store where they picked out a bunch of cheap things to buy.  We ran into a couple we know and when my phone rang, I handed it to Keith and had him answer it.  Freaking out my husband is not easy to do, so that was quite satisfying.  He was stunned to hear a man answer my phone.  Gotcha!

I went to a movie that afternoon (“Taken” which was quite entertaining), then to Target.   I spent two hours trimming the laurel hedges in the backyard.  Then my husband and I watched television:  “The Amazing Race” and “The Celebrity Apprentice.”

Monday, March 8: Took kids to school, did DVD work-out (ouch, lunges hurt).  My daughter called and reminded me it was her snack-day, so I took snacks to school.  As soon as Grace saw me, she cried and I took her into the hallway to beg, threaten, cajole and insist that she stay at school for the last forty-five minutes.  After school was out, the teacher said she was totally fine.  Worked eight hours today.

Oh, did I mention we woke up to snow today?  How weird is that?

* * *

And that’s what I’ve been doing.  Not exciting or glamorous or anything.  Tomorrow I’m meeting with an ER nurse to discuss some details necessary to the fiction I’m writing.  I am trying to get some “real” writing done, but I’m finding it nearly impossible to find time.  I haven’t even had much time for reading lately, either, which is distressing to me.

But at least I updated this blog.  That’s something.

Since last Friday, my daughter has been struggling with a virus.  She missed three days of school and today when I picked her up at 11:45 a.m., her teacher told me that she was really tired.  Poor kid.  All my kids have been sick and have lingering coughs.  My husband and I have missed the worst of the illness.  We are too busy to get sick.

The main problem with writing a blog at 12:10 a.m. is that I can’t remember what I might have wanted to say a few hours ago when I had an idea.  The topics that come to mind are scattered and just bits of irrelevance.  For instance:

1)  Miley Cyrus has written an autobiography.  Really?  Seriously?  She’s sixteen!  I hear there is breaking news, like the fact that there were mean girls in her fourth grade class.  Oh, call me a waaaaaambulance.  Aren’t there mean fourth grade girls in every fourth grade class?

2)  The Octomom:  How can someone so articulate be so detached from reality?  Fourteen babies.  On the other hand, I don’t want the government to decide who can be a parent.  On the other hand, the doctor who did this?  Unethical for starters and stupid besides.

3)  The stock market.  Stop.  Falling.  Please.

4)  I have crocuses blooming in my backyard.  Spring is coming.  But not without a lot of rain and wind.

5)  I haven’t grocery shopped in any substantial and organized way in a long time.  I keep running in for milk and a “few things.”  Tomorrow I really need to grocery shop, but I fear I will spend my morning napping, right after I mail my tax information to the accountant.

6)  I hate taxes.  Hate.  Cold hatred.

7)  Digital photography means that I haven’t actually had my photos from part of 2007 and all of 2008 developed yet.

8)  My son’s first lacrosse game is Saturday morning, but I am going to be out of town visiting a friend that day.  My husband will be Superdad that day.  Just one of the many reasons I married him.

9)  My husband’s “new” Cadillac has seat-warmers.  Motoring down cold suburban roads with a warm butt is a fine way to travel.

10)  I have started five books this past week, but have yet to get hooked by any of them.  I think that William Zinnser’s book about writing memoir will win, though.  I love his writing.

The end.

My daughter has been sick again.  She falls asleep watching cartoons in the afternoon, then wakes up inconsolable but refuses all medication.  This afternoon, I was rocking her in the gliding rocker in my room, channel surfing for some entertainment suitable for us both.  I happened upon “America’s Best Dance Crew,” a show I like to watch for the commentary by the judge “Lil Mama.”  I can’t tell you exactly what she says or even how she says it, but I am mightily amused.  She’s so un-housewife, so un-suburban.

Also?  I like to watch the dancing.  I could no sooner dance that I could dive to the ocean floor without an oxygen.  I might not have been born without rhythm but what little ability I might have had was crushed out by a religion that believed that square dancing could send you straight to hell.  So, I can clap in rhythm but dancing?  Uh, no.  Never.  I am dance-impaired, much to my chagrin.  (I cannot imagine purposely drawing attention to my body in motion, ever.)

Anyway, so the dancing began and my daughter turns her stinky-sick-breath face to me and said, “Mom, do you have any talents?”

And I said, rather lamely, “Well, I do play the piano and sing.”

I don’t think she was impressed.  I cannot fly-kick or head-spin or shake my booty.  (Wait?  Did I just slip into a past decade of dance moves?)

When your kid has to ask if you have any talents, it might be time to hire a public relations expert to polish your image a bit.  I’m not feeling the love.

Oh, it was awful.

First of all, last year, I was out of town on my baby boy’s birthday and therefore did not deliver cupcakes to his classroom but his friend‘s mother did (they have the same birthday), thus spotlighting my parental neglect.  I didn’t even KNOW that they were allowed birthday celebrations at school anymore, but I learned.  Oh boy, did I learn!

So this year, I fixed my hair, put on my makeup, drove to Albertson’s, bought twenty-nine cupcakes and delivered them to his classroom before noon.  I rock.  (I would have baked them with my own dried-out dishpan hands, but you can’t bring homemade stuff to school, only store-bought.)

When he returned home from school, we’d decorated the kitchen with balloons and streamers.  And he smiled and thanked us.  He was so happy.

We popped by the (boring) Science Fair, then went to Red Robin for a birthday dinner.

He claims to love shrimp and when I noticed it on the menu, I said, “Hey, they have shrimp here,” and so he decided to order Jumbo Shrimp.

I was eating my Cobb Salad when I looked over and realized that he did not love his Jumbo Shrimp.  He gets this “I am trying not to cry” look on his face and I was puzzled.  I must have glanced at my husband because he said, “He’s not getting anything else,” and I said, “What’s wrong?  Don’t you like it?” and I could totally tell my baby boy, the Birthday Boy, was working hard at not crying.

So, my husband flags down the waiter who is apologetic and offers to bring him something else.  Minutes pass, we eat in a somewhat grim silence, broken finally by my husband who is the King of Small-talk and I think, okay, this dinner will be redeemed, we will all be okay, he won’t cry–he’s getting a burger–all is well.  Good.  Right.  Okay.

The burger comes and he fiddles with it awhile (muttering, “I said no pickle and no onion”) and then I understand that somehow the burger is wrong.  It was supposed to have an egg on it.  (AN EGG ON IT?  WHAT?  AN EGG?  HUH?) and I’m all confused and like, “Wha– an egg?  That is so gross!” and my husband flags down the waiter and now the manager comes out and they are all so sorry and apologetic and they say, “Oh, we’ll get you an egg.”

At least, they bring an egg and a bottom bun so his burger will not be contaminated by the dreadful red sauce and it’s evil pickly bits.

Everyone but me and the Birthday Boy were done and so my husband gathers up the other kids, realizing we have two cars at Red Robin, and tells us that he will meet us at home.  Plus–and this is important–our upset boy was growing more upset by the attention and sympathy and questions from the other kids.  So, he thought it best to just leave.

Which it was.  So, my son finished his burger (comped by the restaurant) and we jetted out of there without a birthday song or ice cream.  Instead, we went to Dairy Queen which gave us plenty of time to talk about what happened and I HOPE smooth over his distress and put this Birthday Disaster into some sort of perspective.

Though I may have been a little melodramatic when I pointed out that when I turned eleven my parents were getting a divorce.  (Hey kid, quit crying.  It could be worse.  You could have no feet.)

Really, I felt awful about the whole situation.  He’s such a soft-hearted boy and thought that he was somehow in trouble or that his dad disapproved since he didn’t like the shrimp.  If anything, I said, Dad would be mad at me because I suggested the shrimp.

When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?  Me and my helpful suggestions!

Anyway for next year, I know this:  Cupcakes.  Lots of cupcakes, distributed in lots of places.

And then?  Barbecue at Famous Dave’s and I promise to just zip my lips when it comes to menu suggestions.

Also?  I suddenly thought tonight, “Pre-adolescent hormones?”  NO NO NO.  Not ready.

Up next?  Twins turn sixteen in April.  Stop this bus!  I want to get off.

Well, leaving behind the drama of the birth photographs and heading back to the hum-drum craziness of regular life with four kids . . .

I’m fighting a battle with the slugs–they are trying to mow down my newly growing bulbs.  I sprayed some kind of poison on them, but have had to resort to daily sprinklings of salt.  While I do appreciate all God’s creatures, I draw the line at letting them munch on my flowers.  When the choice is tulips or slugs, the tulips win.

I took one of my teenagers to the eye doctor on Monday.  The whole appointment took 102 minutes–I was counting.  That was long enough for me to read a whole “People” magazine (about Jessica Simpson’s unfortunate choice of jeans and her *gasp* weight gain), read two chapters of Daisy Chain, Mary DeMuth’s new novel (which, by the way, I ended up hating),  download two songs onto my iPhone, and fiddle with said iPhone.  Still.  It was a long appointment-at one point the waiting room was so full that I prodded my teenager to give up his chair for an elderly person.  I hope that’s a lesson that sticks.

Oh!  I am reminded that my daughter is expecting the Tooth Fairy tonight!  Don’t let me forget!  She keeps her little tooth in a white plastic tooth-shaped container that she calls a “Tooth Cabinet.”  She was snooping in my top dresser drawer and found the “tooth cabinet” and so I gave it back to her to use with her newest lost tooth.  I think she still believes in the Tooth Fairy, though she might be just humoring me.  She’s at that age where she wants to believe but is catching on, I’m afraid.

Um, what else?  Oh, my husband gave away our extra van today.  He’s nice like that.  The man he gave it to definitely needs it more than we do.  I have always admired my husband’s generosity and figured it boded well when I married him.  He’s always giving stuff away while I am always trying to hold on to stuff.  I need to let more stuff go and, in fact, do get a thrill when I shove things into black trash bags to donate to charity.  It’s so freeing.  We’ve lived here so long–over 11 years–the longest I have ever lived anywhere–that I need to be more deliberate about ridding myself of the flotsam, jetsam and detritus of life.

Okay, well, that’s all for now.  If I hurry I can slip some money under her pillow and rest my head on my own pillow before 1 a.m.!   I always feel so alert at night and so regretful in the morning.

* * *

I intend to respond to those of you who left comments on my previous post.  Most of you left such wise, insightful comments!  You are the best part of this blog and I am so grateful for you all.  Be patient–this week is super, ridiculously busy, but I will respond to you all eventually.

Please.  I need to know your viewpoint.

Imagine you are going to give birth.  You invite your sister to attend your birth and take photographs for you.  She agrees.  You offer to reimburse her for the film and developing and she declines.

Who owns the photographs and negatives?

Please, if you read this blog, leave a comment and let me know your opinion.  Ask your friends, ask your neighbors.   I need as much input as possible.

I will explain after you comment.   Thanks.

* * *

Thank you for sharing your information and opinions.  You all rock.

You should know several things:

1)  All of the negatives and photos are in my possession.  I gave her copies of about 80% of the photographs and retained the ones I was not comfortable with the general public viewing.  (For instance, that shot she took of my vulva while my midwife was stitching me–I had no idea she did that until I saw it–and the ten shots of me breastfeeding my baby–also, shots I did not authorize.  After six hours of hard labor I looked like a prize-fighter after a fight–and my breasts were exposed–I refused to let her have those unflattering pictures, either.  I’m so vain.)  I wouldn’t have withheld these photographs except that she told me she wanted to show the photos to my uncle and my brother.  If I wanted them to see those photographs of my naked butt with a baby’s head sticking out of it or of me walking across my bedroom with no underpants on,  I would have invited them to the birth.)

2)  This happened pre-digital camera and was all about film and developing.

3)  The incident happened over six years ago.  She told me yesterday that she believes she is the legal owner of the photos and negatives and that I “refused to give them back”–though she never asked for them back.  In fact, until yesterday I had no idea that she believes herself the rightful owner of my birth photographs.  It never occurred to me, in fact, that I was posing for her benefit.  I thought I had graciously invited her to view my birth–I didn’t know I needed to sign a legal contract so she wouldn’t have rights to the photographs.

4)  She is not a professional photographer and to my knowledge, has never been paid by anyone to take photographs. She does not have a portfolio.  She does not have a website.  She does not have clients.

5)  The photos didn’t even turn out well.  Alas.

6)  I offered to pay her repeatedly and she refused, but now says that I did not pay her, even though I promised to.  (I did not originally offer payment–I offered the experience of being at my homebirth.  I offered to pay for the film and developing once she started acting weird after the birth and was pushing me to “choose” which photographs I wanted to have reprints of.)

Apparently, she is the legal owner of the negatives and photographs.  Judge Judy says ignorance of the law is no excuse.  So, I am clearly withholding her personal property.  I say that I will turn over the photographs and negatives, including the image of my bloody vagina just as soon as I hear a compelling reason to do so, other than, “I took those pictures!  They are mine!”  I daresay you would do the same if it were your private parts exposed on film.

So there.  (More opinions welcome, of course.  This issue is not closed until I’m finished haranguing.  That may take days.)

Oh, and for the record, I took photographs at someone’s home birth years ago at their request.  I didn’t keep even one photograph because they did not belong to me.  At my home birth in Michigan, a friend took photographs and video–and SURPRISE SURPRISE, didn’t keep them or even ask OR demand payment.  I live in a universe where people are considerate and kind and reasonable and rational and empathetic and moral.  In my world, I take photos at birthday parties and turn over all the images because I’m nice like that.

I clearly made a big mistake here and I regret it deeply.  Although, sometimes something like this exposes someone like her for what she really is.  And that is the kindest way I can put it.

So, I did the math.  If there are 306,000,000 of us in this country and the government is spending $800,000,000,000 on “The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009,”  that works out to $2,600 per person, or about $15,000 and change for my family of six.  That’s a whole lot of money.

Did the government have this money sitting around somewhere in a piggy bank or an offshore account?  Or is that sort of an IOU and we’ll end up coughing up the cash one way or another?  My family already pays an extraordinary amount of taxes (we never get a refund back, ever and until recently, we paid quarterly taxes–nothing will make you feel the pain of taxes like writing out a large check to the government four times a year).  The idea of spending $800,000,000,000 kind of freaks me out.  And I mean that in a completely non-partisan way, of course.  I would be freaked out no matter who decided to spend that kind of cash.

(I just had to look it up again.  Surely it can’t be Billion with a B, right?  Oh, but it is.)

I have voted since I was 18 and paid taxes my whole adult life.  I’ve never really felt well-represented by my representatives, though, since it seems like they will do whatever they want just because they can.

I am alarmed at this gigantic, basically unread Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009.  I am alarmed by the free-fall of the stock market.

But what can a stay-at-home mom do about all that?  Nothing, really, but sweep the floor and cook dinner and wonder if a more thorough search under the couch cushions might net me $800,000,000,000.   (Yeah, that’s about as likely as the government actually having an $800,000,000,000 reserve.)

And that is my political post for the year.  (I was just about to rant–the site of Arianna Huffington on Jay Leno makes me feel argumentative, but I decided against it.  You’re welcome.)