Grin and bear it...

'Twas a good weekend. Busy, but pleasant. There's something wonderful about being able to do you own thing on your own time.

We painted the family room and kitchen this Memorial Day weekend, we put new holes in the walls for a few pictures to hang, and we gave the basement a good airing-out. Grocery shopped, too. The pantry is now very well stocked -- which is obvious to all as the door has not yet been put back on.

Gavin's about to lose another tooth, top left this time. It's just hanging there, still too attached to fall out and just loose enough to give him a cute little snaggletooth. Being that all things dental are often paired with the word "phobic" in my life, that's where the comparison to "cute" ends for me. I'd rather deal with his getting a shot, with watching the docs put his feeding tube back in (from those crazy NICU days), or with just about any other small child trauma then with a loose tooth.

You see, loose teeth have to come out. If my luck holds, I will never be alone with Gav when that time comes. I will be -- preferably -- at work, at the store, or anywhere where he and the tooth are not. While I love my son more then life itself, I do not think that it is advisable for him to see his mother collapse in a dead faint due to the fact that she has either tried to or did manage to pull out the loose tooth.

So bent am I on not passing my phobia on to my boy, in fact, I refuse to take him to the dentist's office. That's his dad's or his grandma's job. Right now, he thinks it's fun to go to see Dr. Frank, and I'd like to keep it that way.

I can only hope that it will fall out tomorrow under his grandmother's watch and not mine.

THAT will make it a perfect weekend.




(By the way... I'm not exaggerating on the dead faint. Just watching him wiggle it makes me a bit lightheaded. Given that the one and only time I ever fainted was at the dentist's after a baby tooth was pulled, I'm not willing to find out if there will be a second time.)

Remember when?

Chantel's lovely Penny inspired today's blog. Seems that the little one paused from her world domination plans to celebrate with her dolls. Fun Mom Chantel paused in her own right and helped Penny with the arrangements.

Those are the sweetest moments in a mom's world -- the ones where fun is fun. Period.

Days where Gavin and I could snuggle on the rocker are pretty much gone thanks to yet another growth spurt and the fact that he is now all elbows and knees. However, days where we can make up silly lyrics to all of those traditional childhood songs are just beginning. His sense of humor is still developing, but he's already showing promise.

Hey mom! Why did the cat sleep in the sink? 'Cause it wanted to!

We're getting there. The husband would tell you that Gav's jokes beat mine... but I simply remind him that he married me in spite of the three-hour-long brick-and-poodle joke, so he lacks room to talk.

I learned my lesson last spring about playing "spin until you fall down," but it hasn't stopped me from racing Gav up the steps when the mood strikes me. I still tackle and tickle, still hold my finger an inch from his ear and chant "I'm not touching you," and am now starting to punk him. He's gets me back, though, so don't worry about that.

One night, as we were getting ready to head to the store, I spritzed some perfume on. A few minutes later, Mr. Smarty-Pants innocently (ha!) announced that there was a skunk outside. Smart me fell for it.

"Really? Are you sure?"
"Yeah. It's wearing a pink sweater..."

Laugh all you want, readers. I sure am.

So in the previous post I mentioned that Chaos still hurls himself to the floor when he doesn't want to do his homework. It's probably due in part to the fact that he doesn't like homework that he deems "preschool work."

Seriously. He thinks some of his homework is for babies. Especially the counting pages. He knows how to count, he tells me. Given his perfect papers, I trust him on that one.

Still make his do his homework though.

So what isn't "preschool work," you ask?

Well, um, medical terminology. You know, all those big words that doctors spout? Yeah. Those. Seems that Chaos comandeered my med term text (used for a writing gig, not for my own personal studies) about a year ago. Conversations now go something like this:

"See that, mom? That's a third-degree burn. That white stuff is the person's bone!"
"Uh-huh," I reply, trying to look like I'm looking at what I'd rather not look at.

"Ohhh... mom! Look at the skin graft!"
"Uh-huh. Sweetie, there's a reason your mom has sticky notes covering some pictures. Can you leave that there?"


"What's this say?"
"Pancreas. Do you know that that is?"
"What I pee from?"
"Um, not quite, honey..."


"How did the baby get inside the mommy's tummy?"
"Wow. Hey, look at the time, Gav! I think Spongebob's on!"

To date, he still loves the pics of burns and grafts, he now knows just what a pancreas is, and he still thinks babies grow in tummies because the mommy and daddy kiss.

(We're going to keep it that way for now, thank you.)

All Grown Up

Every mom has that moment -- the one where she realizes her baby is no longer her baby, one to keep and cuddle all to her heart's content, but a distinct human being who's learning to navigate the world without her.

Mine came this past March with Gav's first trip to the eye doctor.

Gavin sat in the chair and confidently answered every questions the doctor asked. I was simply there to take up space. It was the first time a doctor didn't look to me for the answers, and the first time Gav didn't look to me for help. How odd it felt to not be needed. How odd to realize it, too. (I suppose you can say the moment was bittersweet, though I'm learning more towards sweet much more than bitter. How can I even begin to resent his independence when that has my goal since day one has been to raise an independent thinker?)


This Easter, just a few short weeks ago, while in church, I looked at all of the little girls in their Easter best and found myself longing for the days of new dresses, white straw hats, and pretty little purses with a fancy hankie tucked inside. None of that for this particular mom, though, whose little man was beside her in his Easter best: navy pants, button-down oxford, and clip-on necktie. His brand-new shoes, fresh out of the box that morning, were already scuffed thanks to a gravel parking lot and a little-boy urge to kick every single stone possible.

He chose that same outfit to wear to the funeral home just recently. "These are better clothes, mom," he announced with authority, placing them on the ironing board and negating my choice of khakis and a nice polo shirt.

We go out to eat after karate each Friday, and he orders his own meals. Most times he says please and thank you with little prompting. When we shop, he picks out his own clothes and thinks about what will match.

So he really is turning into a little man, but don't worry -- he's still Chaos. When he's not sending his mom into shock because he remembered his manners, he's busy tearing around the house pretending to be a dog, driving his Match Box cars up my walls, and trying to talk me into baking insanely complex cookies just before bedtime. He continues to fall off of the kitchen chair and fake sleep when we do homework.

Yeah, he's six. I could be all mushy and say "where did the time go" and get all teary-eyed, but that's really not me. I know where the time went and, being that every day is a new adventure, how can I waste time getting weepy? I'm having too much fun to spend time wishing he was a baby again.

Everything He Needs to Know...

In the spirit of Facebook's "25 random things" and in the ancient Robert Fulgum wisdom of kindergarten, I offer you the wisdom of a boy and his reluctant cat.

10. Cats do not like pacifiers. Ever.

9. You cannot and should not make numbers lowercase by writing them backwards. All that does is make mom visit the teacher.

8. You can't get out of homework by throwing yourself on the kitchen floor and faking sleep.

7. Pruning Mommy's plants with safety scissors means a very early bedtime.

6. Fuzz the Cat will run at the first sign of a hair dryer.

5. Lunch ladies get upset when you and your friend hit each other with your lunch boxes.

4. Soft-sided lunch boxes are not to boxing gloves.

3. No one thinks that making (stuffed) "pets" fly down the steps is funny.

2. (Note to self: Don't make pets fly when someone is at the bottom of the steps.)

1. You won't get in trouble if you don't try to give Fuzz a bath.

Captain Chaos Strikes Again

Chaos is moving into helpful mode as of late.

He likes to toss laundry into the washing machine. Likes to unload the dishwasher. Loves to run the vacuum. Loves. As part of this new mode, he has taken it upon himself to help care for Fuzz the Cat. It's a nice change from earlier this summer when he was chasing her with his Williamsburg, VA, authentic rifle. Being that Fuzz is going on 13, she likes this new version of Gavie much better. She like Gav 5.5 so much that she even lets him pet her on occassion -- without my having to hold her still. (Always a perk.)

Never a particularly bright cat, Fuzz is prone to eating and puking up my houseplants. The rubber tree is her favorite. Over the years, I've perfected the art of getting something -- such as newspaper -- under her before she actually spews.

Gavie has learned this art vicariously. The other day, I was upstairs trying to get ready for whatever event we were running late for, when I heard his small voice bellow: "Mom! Fuzz is making that puking meow again!"

"Just watch her for a moment, I'll be right down!"
"Okay!"

Thinking he'd simply corral her in the kitchen, which has a linoleum floor, I finished putting on my make-up before heading downstairs. Since he hadn't yelled since the original announcement, I started thinking that it might have been a false alarm. Those happen sometimes.

"Are you still keeping an eye on her?"
"Yes!"

Wouldn't it be a scream, I mused, if I went downstair to find that he covered the whole kitchen floor with newspaper? I smiled at the mental image and finished my make-up. I even went so far as to ponder how that might translate into a blog.

"The resourceful Captain, faced with the threat of Fuzz hurling, called upon all prior knowledge to defeat the evil tummy-upsetting plant that she'd ingested..." but I dismissed it in the end because, really, what were the odds that he would do that?

Um, well...
Pretty good, actually.

Knee-bees

Gavin, as you know, spent 32 days in the neonatal intensive care unit. Thirty-two days of leaving the hospital with empty arms, comforted only by the knowledge that I at least had a son to someday take home.

Some days, though, I was able to carry home a quilt, made by some wonderful anonymous quilter who wanted to give some comfort to the moms and dads of those tiny babies. I have three, all of which were used liberally and are now packed away carefully. On those days, I felt less... adrift. I don't remember the first 32 days beyond traveling to the hospital, holding Gavie, coming home, going back to hold him some more.

Somehow the house was kept to a minimum of chaos and the cat was fed and the big guy and I functioned as normal humans, but I just don't remember how those things actually got accomplished. So adrift probably needs aimless in there, too.

I never met any of the women who made those wonderful quilts. I never will. But I got to meet one who does the same in her hometown, working with her fellow quilters to make not only quilts but also tiny funeral gowns.

Alice wasn't part of the rowdy four in the carriage, and I fear I lack a picture, but she and I met up in Indy as well and enjoyed an absolutely lovely time, having a late breakfast and then heading to the local museums, escorted through it all by her charming husband. Alice has edited my last three writing projects (God love her) and has put up with a good many of my quirks (again, God love her). She is the bee's knees, gang, not only because she's waded through what tallies to 800+ pages of my writing over the last six months but also (more importantly) because she's a quilter queen bee who gives NICU moms and dads something to hold on to when we can't hold our babies.

Sex and the City, the Next Generation

Last fall I was invited -- INVITED! -- to attend a colloquium on economics, liberty, and freedom. What followed was an absolutely brain-exhausting trip to Indianapolis, IN, this past June. It was glorious.

The best part, even better than the intellectual over-stimulation and five-star hotel (complete with limo ride to and from the airport, thank you), was that I was finally able to meet Caron, Heidi, and Carol. These three women are amazing writers and astounding people. Despite never meeting face-to-face prior, I felt no compunction creating a scene in the hotel lobby with hugs and (in the case of Caron) hugging and jumping up and down.

I've been lucky enough to work with Caron and Heidi so far. Carol and I haven't teamed up yet, but if my writing keeps rolling... who knows?

Myself, Caron, Carol, and Heidi taking a buggy ride around Indy.

A Kickin' First Week...

Gavie started kindergarten this week. He now possesses two very important pieces of information, guaranteed to help him through pretty much everything in life:

1) You can count to 100 by tens.
2) If you kick hard enough, you win.

Um, yeah. You read that second one right.

Four words: four-boy kicking match. They started it. He finished it. My tall, quiet son apparently has no tolerance for foolishness.


All I can say is thank God we haven't started karate lessons yet...

I Don't Know

Don't ask me what I just did to myself, but I signed up for a three-year Doctor of Science program at Robert Morris University in Moon Township, PA.

After the thumping headache of terror passed Monday morning and we got into the meat of the program, I think I made the right decision. Aw, hell, no. I know I made the right decision.

Now, with seven days under the belt, eleven books to read, and a stack of handouts enough to fell a small forest, I'm counting the days until our next meeting... and hoping I can managed my time enough to get everything done before said meeting...

We are a group, I suspect, of quiet talents. We are understated when we speak of ourselves. Perhaps that is a paradox for a group of alphas, but perhaps not. We shall see, I suppose. There are twenty-two of us in Cohort 10. We are not particularly loud. Yet. We have not put holes in walls. Yet. We haven't gone around the mental bend, either. Yet.

Don't hold your breath on that last one.

We have now discovered several truths and we now live in anticipation of Fred's stories that seem to go with everything and wonder when (if?) we'll become a part of them, we now wonder if we're paying enough attention to the world and if Skovira has shirts that aren't blue, and we now live in horror of accidental plagiarism. (A dubious thank you to my profs for adding to my alpha-personality-induced neurosis.)

We have also discovered that this is a journey that we cannot take alone because, well, to paraphrase the wise philosopher Buffet: we don't know.

(First posted on the RMU Cohort 10 blog.)

Guest Post: Four Fingers Speaks

After reading each posting in the past few days, from the sentimental to the irreverent, allow a rookie’s perspective…

Things I learned on my summer vacation:

• The term “vacation” is used very broadly and is sadly misunderstood.
• Weeks are counted as years.
• Filters – mental, physical and verbal, are left at home for “The One True Week.”
• Four fingers – I can’t remember, but it was a good night.
• Polmounter is, in fact, a person -- and I feel personally responsible for her well being (rookie over-achiever though she be).
• Golf is a lot more interesting than I would have imagined.
• Much can be said with duck tape plastered on one’s face.
• Plumbers can leverage ridiculous ads for profit.
• RONA is not a person – but can be a nightmare for the ill-informed.
• “Your worst nightmare” can be a teddy bear in disguise (thank you for your reassurance, Kevin).
• Kids take their roles very seriously.
• Vincent is wise and committed – or should be.
• Sleep … um… I forget what that is so don’t count on it!
• Nicknames are, usually, a compliment or accurate description.
• Trial by fire is a mixed blessing and rookie is neither age nor gender specific.
• Not taking oneself too seriously is a blessing – and necessity.
• “Behind the scenes” means that the sunrise and sunset are possible!
• Junk can be useful in its final hour.
• The “real world” is disguised as a simulation.
• Winning is not the prize it’s cracked up to be – it can be “the kiss of death” predictor of things to come.
• For week III “The one true week,” one can be whomever they wish to be - and get away with it!

Thanks for the memories, the humor and the education and thanks for letting this “rookie” play.

“Stelle” a.k.a. Four Fingers

TOTW, explained... sorta

Week III is known for its tendency towards volume, for its creative use of the English language, and for its absolute lack of comportment that makes lesser "weaks" cringe. We are as cohesive as any other "weak," but we have a longevity that surpasses.

We call ourselves "Week III, The One True Week."

We gather every night in the hospitality suite and drink a little and laugh a lot. On Friday night, some of us went to the Cell Block, as dance club two blocks away from the hotel. We danced a bit and drank a few. I officially doubled the number of shots that I've drank in my life. I'm up to four. Total.

Before leaving, two of us opted to have a slice of pizza and to watch the crowd from the third floor. (Let me tell you, after watching the hook-ups, the gyrations, and the preening, I was once again reminded of how glad I was not to be in the chaos of single-hood.)

We ate our pizza (which was rather good) and spent our time analyzing the dancing going on below.. and giving a running commentary of mating habits of the various human beings.

Todd and I were also wondering if we could run fast enough should he drop the "necklace" of neon glow-stix (made from the stix that were in the shots the lot of us downed) on some hapless soul below. It was pretty likely that a game of ring toss would not be appreciated.

It was a good end to a great week.

The e-mails are already flying from computer to computer as we rehash and remember the PFEW 2008's One True Week. We talk about how we really do have trouble articulating it. For that, I offer this public reply...

Dear Fellow Week III'ers:


Actually, gang, we CAN put it all into words... the problem is that it always sounds like a week of debauchery, creative profanity, and behavior which is so far from proper comportment that the Holiday Inn keeps moving us father and father away from the other paying guests.

And yet we keep coming back (and they keep LETTING us come back) for more... must have been the kool-aid.

I can't stop smiling down here. Even as I was greeted by seventeen binders on my desk, a stack of evaluations, and 30 term papers, I couldn't stop smiling. When I was told that I looked happy and relaxed, I said thank you. When asked where I was for the last week, I said econ camp. Man, does that end a conversation quickly! Gets you funny looks, too.

Econ camp and relaxing are not words that one would put together in the same sentence. Somehow, though, we manage it. To that end, we rock. No wonder we're the One True Week.

The One True Week

Well, readers, just spent the last week at Pennsylvania Free Enterprise Week. For the last few years, I've been trying to find just the right words to explain just why I give up a week of my life to go volunteer at what is essentially econ camp. If I stop to think about the vacation days, the drive, the money, and the time spent, I can't quite figure it out myself.

But that's logic speaking, and -- frankly -- logic doesn't seem to get me very far sometimes. Particularly when it comes to this week.

I could tell you about the friendships and how these men and women are some of the most amazing people that I've ever met, but it all sounds hollow because it doesn't do any of them justice.

I could tell you about the kids I had this year: seventeen teens that, just seven days ago, I never heard of let alone met. Those seventeen young adults are the best of the best in this state. They are the ones who don't need adults to guide them, not much anyway. These are the ones who just need the examples set and the occasional kick in the right direction. They'll go to college, they'll be successful. What they don't "get" now, more than likely will be "gotten" later as real life kicks in even further. But that sounds too teacher-ish, and "teacher" is certainly not what I'm aiming for.

I could even mention how this week centers me, grounds me, and reminds me of why I'm here. I could talk about how healing it was to return in '06 after I buried Dad. Somewhere, too, I could slip in mention of how Junior Achievement changed my life and that this is how I return the favor. But how might I do that without sounding maudlin or cliched?

Time after time, it's not enough.

You see, it's not about what is done. It's what is experienced. It's about being with people who are exactly what they are, no pretense.

On Wednesday night, we honored those volunteers, a.k.a. company advisers, who had reached their ten- and fifteen-year marks. I sat there and watched the crowd, taking in the old faces as well as the new. As always, I marvelled at everything that this week does for us, perhaps what it does to us.

It's the group, in truth. A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but PFEW Week III by any other name simply isn't the same.

So this time, rather than try to sum it all up in quasi-brilliant prose, I'm going for truth: I have, I believe, grown up immeasurably since I first drove to Williamsport, PA, as a twenty-five-year-old first-year teacher fresh from the trenches of a public high school. At dinner this past Wednesday, Witmer joked that the Week III Company Advisers have watched me grow up emotionally. It gained a chuckle from the group and conversation moved on, but he was rather accurate. I think so anyway. For certain, readers, the nervous little girl I was a decade ago is no longer anywhere to be seen.

It was a remark that gave me pause, and I've been mulling it over ever since and turning it about in my head alongside the question of just why I am so illogical when it comes to PFEW Week III.

Then, finally, the so-called illogical reason that I come to PFEW finally hit me: I go to PFEW because I leave PFEW wanting to be a better person. I like the woman I am when I'm there.

It's something that I affectionately blame every single one of my fellow Week III'ers for that.

Did you hear the one about the missed deadline? (Part II)

Okay, Caron, this Part II is so your fault.

And, for that, you are my hero.

So you all know from the previous post that I was promoted to Senior Lead Teacher at my current workplace. With a few months under my belt, I can safely say that I have a clue and am glad I made the jump when I did.

What you don't know is that Caron, a friend of mine from a long-ago writing job for Pittsburgh-based EDMC, is quite busy with her writing and found one job too many on her plate this past May. Enter moi. The end result is that I found myself writing an on-line course on medical terminology for a publishing company.


Well, that's not really the end, as I'm writing a second course for them now and -- if the gods are kind -- more in the future. It's actually rather enjoyable since I have this rabid need to learn everything.


Oh, yeah.... one more thing... Robert Morris University and I have joined forces. I'm in the August 2008 cohort for the Doctor of Science program in (hold onto your hats) Information Technology and Communication Systems.

Maybe I should be the one holding onto my hat. I just signed away three years of my life for that piece of paper!


As for Killing Julie, I found a new-and-improved ending and am (finally) writing that query letter.


For those wondering about my little Captain Chaos, rest assured: he's out and about and creating an amazing amount of chaos -- particularly with his new Colonial Williamsburg toy rifle. He keeps chasing the cat. (I'll leave the rest to your imagination.)

Tiny Kickers and tiny kickers

I don't do rain. I don't do soggy fields. I don't do mud.

Not if I can help it, at least.

At 9:30 one Saturday morning this past May, I was delightedly watching the rain come down. "Looks like it isn't going to let up," I remarked (rather hopefully) to the big guy. "They might cancel soccer today."

"Only if there's thunder and lightening," came the reply.

I returned to the window and listened with all my heart for thunder. None came. Gavie joined me at the window.

"Raining, mom. Maybe they'll cancel soccer." He sounded as hopeful as I felt. Soccer was a great idea before he found out that there were rules involved and -- worse -- that you had to follow them.

No such luck for either of us. We were at the field, and he was sopping wet just 30 minutes later.

(Gavie doesn't do rain any more than his mother, just for the record.)


The final Saturday was worse -- yet heartening. 'Twas as soggy as could be and there we were: all three of us on a field with eight thousand other parents and Tiny Kickers, all ready to play in the mini-tournament.

Poor Gav. He's cursed with my genes when it comes to soccer. Three twenty-minutes games are very, very long. Especially when he's on a team with a bunch of really motivated teammates. Gav would rather find worms than practice. He just wasn't into the game of "clean your room," which was a euphemism for "keep the ball away from the goal." Practicing control by playing "sharks" wasn't much more interesting. Though he did like playing "kick the coach."

(No, it wasn't personal. I just like the irony of the name and Gav's lack of interest in the overall game. This practice was a free-for-all where the kids could kick the ball towards the coaches. Not at. Just towards.)

The heartening part of the last Saturday was seeing that my kid wasn't the only non-soccer fiend in the organization. While Gavie did get into the game for three nano-seconds and chased the ball in the right direction, he preferred the idea of gathering tadpoles in the giant puddles created by the park's watershed. Guess what? My kid wasn't the only Tiny Kicker distracted by the tadpoles. A good dozen or so from the teams immediately next to the puddles found these other tiny kickers much more interesting than a silly soccer ball.

At least I can take heart that he didn't abandon his goalie position for the sake of baby froggies.

As for me, the non-Soccer Mom, well.... I'm just a total let-down to this stereotype (yeah, like most of you didn't see that one coming). For starters, I don't own a minivan. Peg me a loser and give me the raspberries on this one, gang. I have to side with Gavie in this one: tadpoles are way cooler than soccer.

We'r going to try basketball this fall.

Did you hear the one about the missed deadline? (Part I)

Well readers... it's time to confess.
I'm not making the May 30th deadline.

I've two reasons, one is below.

The second is Caron's wonderful fault and has everything to do with writing... well, writing everything but Killing Julie. (But that's Part II to this entry and coming later this week when I have a moment to breathe.)
________________________________________________

INTEROFFICE CORRESPONDENCE

Date: May 16, 2008

To: Western School of Health and Business Careers, Monroeville

From: Thomas Contrella

Subject: Organizational Announcement


I am pleased to announce that effective today Michelle Louch has been promoted to the position of Senior Instructor of our Monroeville Campus. Reporting to Mr. Butler, Michelle will be an integral part of the education team at our School. Two of the most important focus areas for Michelle will be that of Student Services and Academic/Faculty Development.

Michelle brings over 12 years of educational experience to this position. In addition to her work at Western, she is an adjunct instructor at Seton Hill University and a freelance writer.

Michelle is currently in process of selecting a Doctoral program at a local university. She earned her Masters of Science in Leadership and Business Ethics from Duquesne University, and a Bachelors of Art in History with secondary education certification from Seton Hill University.

Please join me in congratulating Michelle and supporting her in her new role.

Thank you,
Tom

Update

Today, I finished the revisions. Today, I closed Killing Julie -- again. True, it was finished a month ago, but today I finished smoothing out the lumps and bumps. Today I finished cleaning up the small details, such as consistency and clarity.

The query letter is drafted, I 'm working on formatting details, and my readers are promising feedback by the end of the month. All that's left, then, is to edit in my own proofreading as well as their suggestions.

Whew.

New deadline: May 30.
New goal: boxed and ready to send to potential agents.

Wish me luck!

The Last Lecture

"We cannot change the cards we are dealt, just how we play the hand.”
--Randy Pausch

When Randy Pausch, a computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon University, was asked to give a "last lecture," he didn’t have to imagine it as his last, since he had recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer. But the lecture he gave — “Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams” — wasn’t about dying. It was about the importance of overcoming obstacles, of enabling the dreams of others, of seizing every moment (because “time is all you have... and you may find one day that you have less than you think”). It was a summation of everything Randy had come to believe. It was about living.

-- from the Hyperion website for The Last Lecture.

Click here to read about The Last Lecture.

Dr. Pausch will be on ABC tonight, talking to Diane Sawyer about it all.

Happy Birthday, Gavie

Was it really five years ago that I went shopping and bought the wrong groceries? Went to the ice cream store and ordered a sugar cone, which I never have and never will like? Went home and remarked on how the cat was acting weirder then usual around me?

Was apparently going into labor and didn't even realize it?

Was it really five years ago that I woke up at 1 a.m. and said to the big guy that my back hurt? I remember laying in bed, looking at the clock, trying to figure out if I should worry about the strange, minor pains that were coming with odd irregularity: one minute, five minutes, three minutes, ten minutes...

If it hadn't been for the small dot of blood on the bed sheet, I might have rolled over and tried to go to sleep.

After all, I was only seven months pregnant!

But the small dot was enough for the big guy to put his foot down and drive me to Magee at 1:30 in the morning.

My water broke just fifteen minutes after our arrival. Gavin was born at 4:59 a.m.

One wonderful squall came from my son before his lungs collapsed, but I knew nothing save for the fact that he was alive and had screamed as babies are supposed to and that the doctors had him on the crash cart and were taking care of everything. My husband and mother were there and neither gave any indication that something might be wrong.

It might have been five minutes later or forty, I've no idea, but when he was stable again I got to hold him -- forever, my memory will be of the fact that the first thought into my mind was that he was wrapped up like a little bowling pin. I could only hold him for a moment and it wasn't enough, but at four pounds and only seven months a moment is dear.

Just this week I read, again, that premature babies face a larger number of health risks, developmental issues, learning delays, etc. etc.

Someone, very fortunately, forgot to tell my son about the article.

Just yesterday, for example, Captain Chaos climbed the hill in our backyard and began throwing rocks down it to... well, I'm not sure why really. Maybe he was testing the theory of gravity. Then, because he thought it would be interesting, he tried to pulverize a deer bone (found in our backyard, our property abuts state land) with an ancient gardening spade. After that, the rocks he tossed down the hill were moved to his new pile of dirt that is half-on and half-off of our stone patio: seven pots of dirt that once held vibrant annuals were sacrificed to make a nice pile for his Tonka trucks.

"Look how strong I am, Mommy," he called, lifting the rocks and moving them to his miniature construction site. "Look!"

Ferocious mother-love welled up, and it took all of my strength not to turn into a mess of tears right then and there. He has no idea how strong he is -- nor does he know how his simply being mine gives me strength to fight for what I need.

Loose ends

I feel rather at odds, readers. With Killing Julie finished and in the hands of others, I wonder now what to do (intellectually).

The truth is that I always feel this way when I wrap up a project. Doesn't matter if it's my own novel or state exam questions for a high school competency test. It's all about the work and the high that comes from the act of creation.

So what now?

Return to writing Tigers, I assume. Begin to scrapbook again, perhaps. It's time to think about cleaning out the basement and setting up the workspace that my sister-in-law and I keep dreaming about -- space for my stamps and space for her clay. We can get ready for next Christmas and the craft shows we'd like to take part in.

I could work on ChickLit, which is Selina's story. I'm not quite interested in her anger/angst at the moment, though. Also, the more I think about it, the more I want a feminist bend to things -- and that demands a few refresher readings on woman and wolves. (Remember, I did go to Seton Hill when it was 96% female!)

A third tale is bouncing around in my brain, untitled but fully plotted: a small town and a few celebrated murders, a girl's coming of age, and a minister who fancies himself a successor to Father Karras (The Exorcist) and is quite -- shall we say? -- hellbent on proving it to his followers.

A fourth is beginning to take shape a well. A simple love story, one that is 180-degrees from everything I've ever written. No murders, no aliens (yes, I used to write sci-fi!), no mysteries beyond when the first kiss will take place. This is the murkiest idea right now -- which is ironic given my addiction to romance novels! I suppose the whole problem is what would make it different. Two leads who fall in love isn't the most exciting plot, you know.

Ah well, we shall see!

In the meanwhile, I guess I'll just turn up the iPod, open up my collection of Yeats, and go to the Lake Isle of Innisfree for a bit...