Thoughts of a Crazed Author and Working Mom

Special thanks to four special women, even if they have no idea why

2011-04-28T21:55:00.000-07:00

I first want to say that this will be, by far, the longest blog post I will ever write (at least, for as long as I can foresee because frankly, I’m exhausted!).

Second, although recent blog entries have been about my experiences as a mother, I have no intention of turning this into a ‘Mommy Blog’. There are enough intelligent and compassionate Mommies in this world who fill their blogs with wisdom and humor. I don’t even want to try and compete. But the reality is, I’m a mom. So when I have an experience, such as I had tonight, I want to share it.

There are four women who turned my night from one of dread, to amazing and the funny thing is… they have no idea.

Admittedly, I haven’t been looking forward to this night – public school Kindergarten orientation for my 5 ½ year old son Quinn. Most parents dread it because it means their ‘baby’ is moving into a new stage of life, and their lives will change with it. But that’s not why I dreaded tonight… Quinn’s actually already in Kindergarten (a private one associated with our daycare center).

So why are we going through this again?

That’s easy– he’s going to repeat Kindergarten. Not because he isn't intelligent; in fact, in some regards he’s scary smart, a trait he inherited from his father. And not just because he's young for his current class (he'll be old for this one) and physically smaller than other kids his age. But because Quinn has, well, ‘quirks.’

I dreaded tonight because while these ‘quirks’ make him special; they make him more aware of the world around him, giving him an unusual capacity to sense others' emotions and physical presence, allowing him to share what an incredibly caring and empathetic person he is. But these 'quirks' also present noteable challenges in his educational future.

Of course, at first I didn’t realize his ‘quirks’ are what actually make him so special. In the beginning, all I saw was a kind, giggly, affectionate boy who'd turn into a raging, angry, emotional kid at the drop of a hat. I didn’t understand what we were doing wrong. None of the Super Nanny tricks worked; Time outs? Whatever. Counting to 5? Meltdowns worse than the problem itself. Why does my son hit? Why does he scream and cry at nothing? Why does he bounce around anxiously when other kids approach? And why does he cover his ears at the slightest sounds?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not embarrassed. I mean, seriously, why waste energy worrying that we’re not a perfect family - perfect families don’t exist. But for years my husband and I were beside ourselves; I read books, listened to other parents, watched television shows, and tried different disciplinary techniques… nothing worked. We even discussed the possibility of Aspergers, but his doctor ruled it out telling us it was a phase or simple social immaturity (common for boys).

We felt lost. No... more like desperate.

How can we help our caring, intelligent, compassionate, child overcome his ‘quirks’? Would he ever fit in? And what if he didn’t overcome them before he entered the public school system? Would he be labeled ‘that kid,’ passed from teacher to teacher with a record hanging over his head?

The first woman who made this night amazing was Quinn's incredible Pre-K teacher. When he was 4 ½, she saw Quinn struggling, wanting so badly to be good and fit in, but not knowing how. She saw beyond the explosive tantrums and recognized what a unique child he is. So she brought in a professional who observed him. This professional affirmed what we’d known, including that he was one of the sweetest little boys she had ever met, and referred us to a clinic. After a few more tests and evaluations, we finally had our answer.

And with that answer, came an invitation; a welcome into a community of people who ‘got it.’ The second woman who made this night amazing is Maria, Quinn's occupational therapist. She understands my son, she understands our struggles and she confirmed we’re not insane or bad parents.

Quinn's ‘quirks’ have medical reasons behind them. He has a Sensory Disorder; something I’d never heard of until 8 months ago.

Sensory Disorders are hard to describe (without going into another 1,000 really long and important sounding words). In essence, my son doesn’t hear or feel the world the way others do. Noises are heightened; even the softest sounds can seem jarringly loud. His body doesn’t move or signal him the same way others’ do. When people touch him, he jumps, and, adding the absence of impulse control, he acts out, pushing or hitting as an immediate reaction, not one out of anger. For Quinn, touch lacks the same sensation, he feels pressure differently. In a way, he’s kind of numb to the world around him.

For a child with a Sensory Disorder, and no words to express how they feel, they do what comes natural… they seek external stimulation. They hit, bang their head against hard objects, spin in circles and when they hug, squeeze with such ferocity, it actually causes pain. He doesn’t understand consequences; he doesn’t make the connection between action and reaction. And when external stimulation fails, emotions take over - his world falls into chaos.

Children running around, kids screaming and laughing loudly, clumsy friends bumping and falling into each other, activities that create challenges, boys enthusiasm about wrestling, and girls just wanting to hug… all this causes Quinn anxiety. His mind can’t handle the stimulation; it overloads, scrambling the signals.

As you can imagine, a classroom (especially Preschool and Kindergarten) is my son’s personal hell.

So why did I just spend so much time trying to explain my son when I actually started this blog talking about an amazing experience?

Well, as a parent of a child with ‘quirks,’ the thought of forcing him into his personal purgatory, every day until he’s 18, is downright cruel. And, in all honesty, I viewed the public school system (not its staff) as the 7th ring in Quinn’s hell… one that wouldn’t understand him. One that would think I was an overbearing parent just trying to get special treatment, one that would label him a trouble maker or undisciplined, one where he and the Principal became very familiar (not for good reasons), and one where he had little hope of success.

So I went into tonight worried. What are we embarking upon? Will Quinn come out unscathed?

Then fate stepped in.

Around 5:30, my neighbor and I happened to arrive at the orientation at the same time. We stood in line, got our materials, and went to the first room (of three) on the list. But it was absolutely packed with hyper kids, loud parents, and cheery teachers (my son immediately started showing signs of sensory overload). I turned to my neighbor and she agreed to go against the grain - we headed to the last room on the list - with fewer parents and kids, though just enough to occupy the teachers full attention. We did the small assignment, allowed the kids to play a little, then headed to the next room, then the next (some more successful than others).

When we arrived at the last room – the first room on the list – only the teacher remained. After a pleasant chat about developing handwriting skills, we got ready to head home. But then my neighbor stopped me and pointed out the Principal - she happened to be walking out the other door, alone. Without bothering to ask if my neighbor would watch my son, I quickly ran after the Principal.

I don’t remember the Principals name (yet) but what I will never forget was the way she stopped, looked me in the eyes and listened to what I had to share. I tried to be eloquent; I had even rehearsed what I would say so I wouldn't create an immeditate, negative impression of Quinn. But instead, it all just tumbled out of me. And as I talked, I was surprised. I saw no judgment in the Principal’s eyes, no irritation, and no disbelief. She asked thoughtful questions, answered my random ones, and told me she understood. She explained the programs and resources they have available, talked about personalized pictorial schedules, weighted vests and even how they'd show him the least noisey bathrooms. She told me about headphones for assemblys and a quiet room (NOT in the Prinicpal's office) where Quinn can go when he needs a "break." Then she asked if I wanted to see the sensory room they set up specifically for other kids, just like Quinn.

Just. Like. Quinn.

When my eyes filled with tears, she assured me that we weren’t alone, they were our partners, and they’ll do everything in their power to help Quinn be successful.

And I believe her.

But I mentioned four women made this night amazing. That last one is my neighbor. We’ve known each other for over six years and have experienced the highs and lows of our kids growing up together. She probably doesn’t see anything special about what she did. But to me, her actions were a silent, selfless, loving act of support.

She knew I was anxious about this next phase in Quinn’s life, and she recognized the one person I really needed to talk with. For 20+ minutes, without once questioning the effort or time it took, she followed two, 5 year olds around a classroom, picking up after them and redirecting their obnoxious amount of energy. Then she walked with me and the Principal to the Sensory Room and stood by my side as I exposed one of my family’s biggest vulnerabilities and fears. And she did it all without hesitation or a single hint of judgment.

Quinn is special and tonight I learned there are people, some who just met him, and some who have known him his whole life, who truly care about giving him every opportunity to show what an amazing person he is.

That’s a gift I will treasurer, forever.

Oh, and a little something extra for my Quinner: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QGJuMBdaqIw

My secret crush on Sheldon Cooper

2011-04-25T20:03:00.000-07:00

First, did you notice I’m actually keeping to my Blog promise? One a week, I’m right on pace! Yay for me!

Okay, now on to the actual blog itself. Though, admittedly, I’m having a hard time because my husband is watching one of our favorite shows… Big Bang Theory. Why do I love this show so much? Because, at least once a week, I get to fully embrace my inner Geek; the piece of me very few people know. The part that loves playing Trivial Pursuit, reading/watching/talking about Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, The Matrix, and Star Trek (well, the Next Generation and the movie with Chris Pine).

I always find the reactions of others so amusing when they learn about my quick, and frankly twisted, sense of humor. You should see their shocked faces when I rattle off an inappropriate – though usually well-timed and suitably subtle- joke, the plot of some off-beat sci-fi story or finish the lines from movies like Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz (no, that’s not an ‘adult’ movie), Airplane and Monty Python (yes, sometimes I attempt them with a British accent, and yes, it’s brutal).

I’m not sure why these characteristics throw people off, but I have suspicions – and they have to do with stereotypes.

Now for the deep part of this blog… for good or bad, everyone falls into a stereotype. But in today’s world, this phrase has become loaded. It’s almost always accompanied with descriptions of race, wealth, religion, and geographic location. And we use them to define a person, judge without getting to know or understand who they are.

But in reality, not all stereotypes are damaging (especially if you can laugh at yourself) and, frankly, they add a little spice to life.

Take me for example. Upon first impression, I’m really just a grown up version of who I was in high-school /college (ok, maybe softer and wider, but my personality is pretty much same) – a bubbly, excitable, smiley person who loves to joke around and have fun. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever surprised anyone with the knowledge I was a athlete, cheerleader, in student leadership, and the ‘teacher’s pet.’

But when my dark humor slips out, or when I accidently bestow some bizarre, random piece of trivia that really no one should know, they pause. You can see it on their face: “How could this short, hyper, blonde marketing manager, with an obnoxious amount of energy, know THAT!”

Gotcha…

But, in all honesty, I didn’t truly understand this until just recently. I just kind of thought, well knew, I was weird. Then I participated in a long, spirited conversation with a few co-workers on the intrinsic qualities of a Geek, Dork, and Dweeb. So who we're we... really?

Thankfully, someone already took the time to research the topic, saving us, and my fellow Geeks, countless hours researching, arguing, and gathering useless data we would have found fascinating.

So, after a little digging and a lot of inner reflection, I can honestly announce… I AM A GEEK and I’m absolutely proud of it.

But the real question is… what are you? http://www.buzzfeed.com/scott/nerd-venn-diagram

My Official Induction into the Hall of “Those People”

2011-04-18T20:51:00.000-07:00

Minnesota winters are endurance tests for parents. Sure, we want to spend our weekends enriching our children through culturally valuable activities, helping them grow into mature adults who give back to society. But the reality is, after 5 months of being stuck inside, you end up watching “Ice Age – Dawn of the Dinosaur” three times in a row as you negotiate a third bag of fruit snacks for just one slice of apple.

So this winter, we chose to get them out of the house with gymnastics. Yes, it provides valuable instruction on coordination and balance. But it also completely wipes them out, resulting in long naps.

This Saturday started like any other; my loving, thoughtful husband rose with the kids, fed them, got them dressed, and then took Lily, our daughter to her 9:30am toddler class. I enjoyed a little extra sleep, a steamy shower and cleaned the kitchen (hey, I’ll trade a dirty kitchen for extra sleep any day).

But everything was about to change… Here’s how it went down.

11:00am: Caring husband approaches. “I’m gonna run to the store to grab stuff for the slow cooker. Can you take Lily with you to Quinn’s class and I’ll pick her up on my way home? I’ll be right behind you, 10 minutes tops.” I agree, he disappears out the door.

11:05: Argue with Lily to put on her underwear and pants, and with Quinn to wear tennis shoes instead of flip-flops (it had snowed).

11:20: We’re late; I bribe them into the car with fruit roll-ups.

11:28: We pull into gym parking lot; 2 minutes to spare.

11:29: Quinn must make a monumental decision… which, out of the 100 empty cubbies, should he place his shoes and coat in?

11:30: Pick up the three cubbies worth of items Lily has pulled out and replace them, hoping I got the right combination of clothes and shoes.

11:31: Enter gym to find Quinn’s class – the one with four, 5-year old boys in a room full of 75+ giggling pre-teen girls. Instead, Lily finds the area of her class.

11:32: Lily melts down… she wants to play. I pick her up, kicking, screaming, and dodging the hair pulling. We then find a gym employee who reluctantly takes Quinn (who is, of course, disrespectfully late) to his class in the back of the gym.

11:34: Distract Lily by sitting her in front of a cartoon in a cheap plastic patio chair (you know, the kind you buy at Walmart for $4.99).

11:40: (The “Ten minutes, tops” deadline): Lily stands and starts dancing. I reach for her just as she tips backwards, tumbling to the ground. Cue 2 year old shrieks (out of fear, not pain as she landed on her tushie).

11:44 (4 minutes past “It’s okay, he’s probably caught up” deadline): Comforting Lily’s tears when Mommy instincts kick in; I hear another familiar cry, this one belonging to Quinn. I turn and see him being led by his teacher with blood dripping down his chin. (He slipped and bit his lip on the parallel bar).

11:47 (7 minutes past “Where is he” deadline): I peel Lily off and sit her back in the cheap plastic chair. I pick up Quinn and set him in the other cheap plastic chair. I begin comforting Quinn with a paper towel and ice pack, fending off Lily who’s clinging to my arm.

11:52 (12 minutes past “Ten minutes my butt” deadline): I convince Lily to watch tv show again, son not calming down.

11:55 (15 minutes past “I swear, if you don’t get here soon” deadline): I hear “Mommy, I stuck.” I turn; Lily attempted to slide under the arm rest and is now lodged in the chair. Quinn is still crying. I try to push Lily out. Quinn is now sobbing. I try to lift Lily up. Quinn is now yelling because I’m not holding the ice pack.

11:56: Lily begins crying because she finally realizes she’ll probably spend eternity stuck in a cheap plastic chair.

11:57 (17 minutes past the “this is not going to be pretty” deadline): An angel appears, “Miss, you look like you could use a little help.” Then an obviously caring, patient, and kind father (who’d never leave his wife to fend for herself during a gymnastics class with two children) wedges Lily between his legs and twists the chair over her head.

11:58 (18 minutes past the “This better be the best slow cooked dinner in history” deadline): Quinn finally calms down, bleeding has stopped, and he decides to return to class.

12:00 (20 minutes past the “oh, you are so asking for it” deadline): Lily has to go potty; there’s no foot stool. Meltdown in echoing bathroom initiates. She finally goes potty, then wants to wash her hands; there’s still no foot stool. Meltdown in echoing bathroom recommences.

12:05 (25 minutes past the “I totally relate to a Praying Mantis” deadline): Lily walks out of the bathroom to find a vending machine -it’s like the Willy Wonka Factory just appeared in front of her. Her shriek for treats re-ignites.

12:10 (30 minutes past the “You’ll be lucky to survive the night” deadline): Cell phone rings – “Took me longer than I thought.” Husband says casually, “why don’t you just keep both of them and I’ll meet you at home?” Me, as at least a dozen ‘Parent of the Year’ recipients watch, gives him 5 minutes to get to the gym.

12:15 (35 minutes past the “Don’t look, speak, or even breathe in my presence” deadline): Husband picks up daughter and leaves.

12:30: Son’s class ends.

12:31: As the doors to the gym close, I hear a collective sigh and know that sound means we’ve just been inducted into the Hall of “Those People.”

Under Pressure

2011-04-17T14:14:00.000-07:00

Wow! It’s been a long time since I posted a blog entry… way too long.

There are just so many excuses I could toss up… you know, the whole “give me a break, I’m a full-time working mother of 2 young children who’s trying to get her first novel published while finishing the second book in her trilogy but getting sidetracked by a new, totally unrelated Middle Grade novel, while juggling swimming lessons, gymnastics, and soccer schedules.”

Never mind, maybe I won’t finish this - the laundry just buzzed and the oven just dinged… seriously, I need a nap.

Anyway, I could give you those excuses, but they’d be lies.

While I do find it hard to write during the week, the real reason I haven’t posted a blog entry is that I’m worried about sounding stupid and not having anything of value to say. I think I’m just trying too hard to be prolific - to put some idea into the world that will change a person’s perspective or impact them in ways they weren’t anticipating. I’ve read lots of blogs, those of friends, authors, politicians, you name it… they’re everywhere. And every day they put their thoughts into the world, making it look so easy and sounding so smart. It’s intimidating… and that’s saying something considering I’m not typically one to be intimidated (challenges usually just bring out my Type-A, over achiever instinct).

But then I was walking, well limping due to my recent knee surgery, around Costco today and I realized something; I may not be the smartest person in the world, but I’m certainly not the dumbest (even though, yes, I did buy a case of diet supplemental drinks, then placed a cinnamon-sugar Churro right on top. And no, I don’t feel guilty about this… at least not super guilty).

Then I filled my SUV, which now resembled a low rider on the strip, put my iPod on random, opened the sunroof, and cranked the volume. As I drove out of the parking lot, the first song came on: Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie. That’s when it hit me… I’m putting way too much pressure on myself.

I have something to say… and it’s time to start saying it.

So today I made myself a promise… I’m going to write at least one blog entry a week – and work up from there. The posts may not be culturally relevant, emotionally impactful, prolific, or even funny. Heck, they may not even make sense depending on when I write them. But I might as well start talking. I mean, who knows? Maybe they’ll be worthy of deep, thoughtful conversations. But I’m guessing more often than not, they’ll be random thoughts on things that make me laugh, cry, shout for joy, or simply tilt my head and go ‘hmmm.’

Isn't it awesome - sometimes inspiration comes from the strangest, most random places - like an iPod shuffle… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtrEN-YKLBM

My Daily "Toddler Talk"

2010-09-09T19:28:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite parts of the day is picking up my children from daycare. Now, you’d think this is the case because their faces light up as they shriek in pleasure, then they sprint into my arms and give me lung (well, neck) crushing hugs and slobbery, snotty kisses.

Okay, maybe this is the best part.

But the second best part is pulling a little colored piece of paper off my daughters’ hook… the Toddler Talk.

This brightly colored paper gives me a rundown of Lily’s day; what she ate, how she slept and generally how she feels, giving me wonderful insight into how my night is going to go:

Slept only 30 minutes = tantrum before bed
Ate ‘some’ of her meals = tantrum before dinner
Today I felt… Happy/Sad/Sick/Tired/Quiet/Other____ = at home she’ll feel the opposite, turning her teachers into absolute liars.

Luckily, today Lily slept 2 hours, ate all her food and was “Other - Thoughtful.” Huh?

Anyway, I started to think… wouldn’t it be totally awesome if I could walk through the door and hand my husband my ‘Toddler Talk’.

So here we go:

Name: Tawn Anderson
Date: 9/9/10
Teacher: (More like boss… though I refuse to name anyone as a means of job security)

Today I Ate:

Breakfast: All, and felt tired and bloated for hours afterwards cause I really didn’t need that bagel.
A.M. Snack: All, and yes, I’m considering my Chai Latte a morning snack.
Lunch: Some, wolfed down my sandwich, but was late to a meeting so my fries went cold - probably shouldn’t have ordered fries anyway.
P.M. Snack: All, but to give me some credit… how doesn’t one finish a handful of Tootsie Rolls and a few bite size candy bars?

Toileting

Wet___ Dry___ (We’ll just skip this part, but have no fear, I’m trained.)
Tries___ Successes __15+__ (Okay, I'm going to look at this a little differently. But if I counted all my ‘tries’ and their outcomes, I’d probably never try anything again. So I’m choosing to only count success (outside the loo). There, my deep moment of this blog.)

Today I felt:

Happy (for the most part), Sad (when I missed my friend) and Tired (after a day of being in the corporate world with corporate people going to corporate meetings.)

At Nap I slept:

Nap? What’s a nap? I think that must be the same thing as ‘free time,’ a concept I’ve heard of, but never actually experienced since becoming a Mom.

Skills I practiced:

Fine Motor: Typing endlessly on a computer
Cognitive: Ummmm, I know I must’ve done something where I had to think.
Gross Motor: I actually walked 2 blocks to get my Chai Latte
Other: I rolled my desk chair all the way to my co-worker's cube without standing up!

Something special about my day:

I came home to a wonderful husband, an energetic Kindergartner, a giggly toddler and a ton of slobbery, snotty, kisses.

Now that’s special!

Finding grace in difficult places

2010-08-07T08:37:00.001-07:00

Just over 4 years ago, a young man frantically slammed his brakes as his 1996 Camry accelerated out of control, reaching 90 mph. A moment later it crashed into another car killing a father and his two young children.

Desperately the man pleaded with authorities; he wasn’t drunk, he hadn’t been driving recklessly… he tried to stop.

But no one listened.

He begged the jury stating with conviction over and over again that he didn’t panic; he hadn’t mistaken the gas pedal, and he pressed the brake with all his strength.

But no one listened.

The young man was sentenced to 8 years in prison for criminal vehicular homicide, leaving his wife without a husband and his 4 young children without a father.

I remember this accident. I’m not sure why, but I recall wondering why no one believed him. He passed the Blood Alcohol Test and he seemed to be a decent person and a family man. But no one listened. I felt sympathy; what would I do if I professed something I believed to be true and no one believed me? There had to be more to this story, something the public wasn’t being told.

Even so, if my family was destroyed as quickly as this one, would I be able to see past the anger and grief to find truth and forgiveness?

I don’t know.

Just over a year later, Toyota recalled millions of cars for sudden acceleration.

Today, I woke early with my son. In the quiet of the house, I retrieved the morning paper and tossed it unceremoniously onto the kitchen table, then went about preparing breakfast. As I placed my son’s food down, my eyes caught the headline…”A Free Man”

It took another year, but the evidence is overwhelming… he tried to stop. But his attorneys failed him. They didn’t call an expert witness, didn’t uncover growing evidence on sudden acceleration, didn’t explain the lack of skid marks (anti-lock brakes), and declared, without consulting him, that he admitted negligence.

Yet it was the car that failed him, and the family who lost three loved ones.

I started to read and for a brief moment, I paused when the article said the victims’ families attended the hearing. My immediate reaction was: “Even now, they’re going to fight this?”

But I was quickly shamed.

They weren’t there to fight for his continued imprisonment… they were there because they believed him, they always had. And they wanted this young husband and father to be free. They’d found peace with the horrible tragedy, and wanted the world to be right… for every innocent victim, alive or dead.

I’m humbled.

I’m also filled with hope that in a world filled with such sad news, there is still beautiful grace. And it’s found in the most unexpected places.

Four years ago, three people lost their lives… this week, a young man found his again.

Tawn

LeapFrog for Adults...

2010-08-05T19:59:00.001-07:00

I’m probably not the smartest person in the room, unless I’m alone and even then it’s questionable. And I hope I’m rarely the dumbest, though, if you handed me a calculator with anything other than the four basic math functions, I’m in serious trouble. But what I do have is a drive to gather just enough information to be dangerous. And… I’m a really good faker.

So, in my pursuit of being a ‘real’ author, I decided to get dangerous and subscribed to an online newsletter about publishing. I figured I might as well learn the ‘language’ in case I’m ever called upon to fake it. Some articles are interesting, some require in-depth industry knowledge, and some are downright dry. But the other day I saw one that made me pause (a feat considering this is generally not in my vocabulary). It was an article about the new “Enhanced eBook.”

Now, I admit I haven’t really embraced the eBook revelation… yet. Heck, I just got my first iPod a year-ago and I’m scared to even touch my friends’ iPhones. But eBooks? No, I don’t have anything against them; I mean they are fairly environmentally friendly. But I still find magic in turning a page, frantically searching previous chapters for a clue I missed and, to my husband’s dismay, sometimes skipping to the end. So a regular ol’ eBook seems rather ‘enhanced’ from what I’m used to.

Anyway, I had no idea what an “Enhanced eBook” was so I emailed a friend in the industry. She told me it’s basically a new gadget that provides additional things, like video clips and interactive applications.

Yeah, I guess it would be fun to watch author interviews and see pictures of the world they’re painting. And if a publishing company approached me saying they wanted to distribute Providence in “Enhanced eBook” form, I wouldn’t turn them away. In fact, I most likely would squeal with delight.

But is an “Enhanced eBook” just LeapFrog for adults? And isn’t my imagination the most interactive application I have?

Maybe I should be more open minded, and maybe someday I’ll regret posting this because I made a writing career in selling “Enhanced eBook” stories. But for now, I’m going to log off my computer, climb into bed, and snuggle up with my 10th Nancy Drew mystery of the summer… excited to turn every single page.

Tawn

Everyone has weird habits... right?

2010-08-01T13:26:00.000-07:00

Everyone has weird habits… right?

Some habits are quirky, like all my food must be cut into bite sizes pieces before I start eating (and yes, this habit formed before I had children). Some habits are annoying, such as my husband’s insistence in hitting the snooze button 5 times before getting up. Some habits are boring, like the order in which someone puts on shoes. And some habits are out of a simple necessity to survive, such as giving my children snacks as bribes to just [fill in the blank].

Normally I don’t notice my habits, but today I went to the gym. I will now pause to give you a chance to stop laughing.

Okay… can I continue?

So today, I noticed my gym habits and decided to spend some time thinking about them. I’m not sure why I’m sharing them, but here I go…

I always do three things:

I go to the side of the gym opposite the pictures of all the impossibly beautiful and unattainable bodies lining the walls. Seriously, I feel fat enough already. I don’t need a constant reminder that there are people in this world who can run without having every part of their body jiggle. I mean, why can’t they show pictures of us more ‘insulated’ folks, wishfully dreaming as we sweat our tushies off just to get into the ‘average’ size pair of jeans!
I pick a treadmill near someone who’s actually jogging (but not the skinniest one there, cause that would just make me feel worse). I have to admit, I love the look on some of their faces as I start… walking that is. With the uber fit -you know, the ones who wear spandex shorts with sports bras and their little iPod armbands wrap around twice just to stay up - there’s often an immediate, involuntary judgment on their faces when they see someone like me. No, I’m generally not the least healthy person in the gym, but I definitely don’t fit into “their club.” So why do I do it, I guess it’s because I’m hoping some of their energy (or maybe just the feeling of guilt) rubs off and I actually push myself a little harder. And, odd as it sounds, it makes me feel more satisfied knowing at least one person is leaving the gym with a sense of accomplishment.
I always run the last five minutes… even if it’s at the same speed I was just walking. I do this for a number of reasons. First, let’s be honest, five minutes is the maximum I can do right now (well, I could probably do more if I really, really tried but it’s all about the baby steps… right?). Second, I’m already sweaty, so if I at least run the last part, maybe the person who just came up to the treadmills will actually think I ran the whole time (and that I must be incredibly motivated and have outstanding athletic ability). And lastly, I’m hoping to increase that number each week. The only way to do that is to start somewhere.

So there you go… a fascinating (well, maybe not fascinating), look into some of my odd gym habits. The others I won’t share, I don’t want you to think I’m any more strange than you already do!

Tawn

I dreamed of being an astronaut...

2010-08-01T13:23:00.000-07:00

When I was young, I dreamed of becoming an astronaut. Yeah, so I was scared of flying (still am), I hated the dark (um, space is full of it), and you have to be really, really good at math (strike three). But none of this mattered. I wanted to be an astronaut. I mean seriously, what 5th grader wouldn’t want to eat freeze-dried ice cream, have floating pigtails, or run, well maybe float, around in an outfit that’s the equivalent to the Michelin Man! But alas, there’d be no space walking for me (the motion sickness bag industry is eternally disappointed). Somewhere along the way, my dreams changed. I can’t even tell you when.

But I never dreamed of becoming a writer.

Sure, I’ve always been relatively good at writing. Papers in school came easy and I currently spend my days crafting and editing brochures and other various forms of communications. But I never dreamed I would be a “writer.”

Until I had a story.

For me, this journey started in church. I know, I know these days that’s a miracle unto itself (don’t worry… I’ve made peace with the big guy upstairs). I was listening to the passage of the day when Kenley, Trigg and Bryn first flitted into my mind, and right back out.

I didn’t have a story.

A few minutes later, they came back. And this time, they stayed. I started to think about where they lived, what they looked like, and who they were. Soon, I was obsessed. My mind started racing so fast, I dove into my purse searching for anything to write on. Nothing, so I grabbed the first thing I saw, a donation envelope. I scribbled notes all over the back, flipped it, and covered the front. I carefully ripped open the glued seems and filled every space on the inside. And when I ran out of room, I grabbed the next one. As my husband watched, utterly confused, I quickly filled ten envelopes – and remained seated for the closing hymns.

I had a story.

On the way home, my husband asked what I was doing. I was too embarrassed to say. Instead I asked if I could “just have an hour to try something.” He said yes - it was a moment that changed my life forever. I quickly got into a comfortable pair of sweats, grabbed my laptop and started typing. Several hours later, I was staring wide-eyed at the first chapter of Providence.

I had a story!

And a new dream.

Tawn

My life in constant edit...

2010-08-01T13:19:00.000-07:00

I’ve finished, at least I think I’ve finished… wait, I’m not finished.

I keep telling myself to be done, to stop modifying, to stop changing. But I can’t settle, I can’t find that place where I feel complete. I’m in constant editing mode.

But it’s not just Providence I’ve been editing.

I have days where I just can’t decide what to wear – pants, a skirt, or a sweater.
I blow dry my hair straight, then curl it, then pull it up into a clip.
This week it’s low carb. Next week it’s low fat. The week after it’s Weight Watchers (by the way - I’m about 300,000 points in the hole).

I’d like to think of myself as a relatively happy, content person. I have a wonderful husband (who I certainly don’t tell him this enough). I have amazing children who are loving, full of laughter, and always find ways to make me smile. My family is supportive, my friends are fun, and my day job has small victories that keep me going.

So why can’t I stop editing… everything?

Is it because I’m too much of a perfectionist? Is it because I tend to hold myself to a different, more stringent standard? Is it because I want to be great? Or is it because I’m worried that if I stop editing, stop changing, stop moving, that I won’t be?

In my ‘day-job’ I work with incredibly creative, intelligent people. But sometimes we all hit that spot; the place where we can’t find the perfect idea, the perfect photo, the perfect word. I’m always ready to jump in, help them walk away, to simply stand back and breathe. And when they do that, it’s amazing how everything just snaps into place, an idea materializes, and a direction becomes clear.

Why can’t I do this?

Last week, I told my husband he could read the latest draft of Providence when I finished ‘this round of edits.’ However, I haven’t finished this round because when I reached the end of the novel, I started over again. When I reached the end of the section I wanted to ‘take another whack at,’ I started from the beginning. I’m in a constant editing mode.

So today I stopped.

I saved my latest draft, emailed it to my husband, and let go. Instead of working on my book after the kids went to bed, I booted the computer, opened a blank Word document and wrote this blog entry.

I may be a horrible blogger, but I feel better… and to think, I only edited this three times.

Tawn

Today was full of but(t)s…

2010-08-01T13:17:00.000-07:00

Today was full of but(t)s… well, I guess really my whole is life is full of but(t)s.

From the ongoing cycle of pulling out seasonal clothes that don’t seem to fit as well as they did last season, to being the mother of a four year old who’s discovering the infinite humor associated with the body, as well as the power of words. But today was full of my own ‘buts’ and they had nothing to do with my jeans or son.

Sunday is my favorite day, my ‘to-do’ day. I pick up the house, I do the laundry, and my husband and I plan our week. I enjoy the feeling of Sunday, knowing my house is in order means I can start the week off right.

Since I’ve started writing the Madigan Trilogy, Sundays have the bonus of finding a few hours alone to write. ‘But’ today, it didn’t work. Not because I didn’t have time, not because my husband’s ‘to-do’ list over-powered mine, and not because my children weren’t their normal cheery, playful selves. It was because of another ‘but’, my ‘but’.

“I’ll start writing in two minutes, ‘but’ I need to change the laundry.”
“I need to revise that paragraph while the idea is fresh, ‘but’ I need to send that email first.”
“Okay, one kid napping, the other at a birthday party. I have two hours to myself, let’s get this going.”

‘But’ it just didn’t happen.

As a writer, these are the moments I find incredibly frustrating. When you have every intention to focus on your work, ‘but’ nothing comes out. It isn’t clicking, your mojo is off, the flow of creativity is disrupted and just bumbling along. Granted, I’m sure the other distractions didn’t help, ‘but’ I really had some ideas that I couldn’t formulate. I really wanted to lose myself in my story, to find new ways to express my thoughts, and to smooth transitions. I really just wanted to write.

‘But’ it wasn’t working. Even though I know these characters and this story so well, and even though I knew what I wanted to accomplish, I couldn’t get myself going. My brain felt like a turtle, okay, more like a snail.

I probably should give myself a little latitude. ‘But’ on days like these, I feel guilty… and sad. Because I know Monday means that I return to ‘normal’ life. I get the kids to daycare, I work at my ‘day-job’, we squeeze in family time and a meal, and then I’m too exhausted to do anything else.

Sundays are my day to be a writer, and for right or wrong, on days like these, I feel as though I fail.

I guess sometimes we have to understand the ‘buts’ and realize we’re only human.

Maybe someday, I’ll take my own advice.

Tawn

Wow! My first blog ever...

2010-08-01T13:15:00.000-07:00

I've read a few of blogs in the past. I’ve read my close friends and relative’s blogs. I've read the blogs from other mothers, politicians, and nutritional experts (though you'd never know it by what’s in my cupboards). I've even read about blogs. But I've never thought of having one myself.

Sure, I wrote a novel, well, actually I'm hoping to write at least three. I can whip out a long-winded email or in my 'day-job' a marketing brochure, training, or a news article in no time. But to sit down and actually write about my thoughts... now that's intimidating.

What could I possibly say? Better yet, what could I possibly say that someone else may care to read? Is the world of a thirty-something mom with two small children who works full-time while chasing a dream to be a writer really that interesting? Is blogging narcissism at its technological best? But then again, is it about the readers, or is it about myself?

So today I’m starting a blog. Why? For two reasons:

The first is because, as I look back on the ten months I've spent getting to know Kenley, Trigg, Bryn, and Caelen, I realize that I regret my failure to document this journey. Sure, I have 130,000+ words showing the results of my effort. But I've thrown away the first burst of ideas I scrambled to write on the back of church donation envelopes that January morning when the Madigans first came to life. I can't find half of the barely legible notes I scribbled on the back of clothing receipts dug out of my end table in the middle of the night (thank goodness for computers). I've forgotten many of those moments I struggled to get one more paragraph written as my son screams for another SpongeBob episode, my daughter is tugging at my pants to be picked up, and the oven is dinging to tell me dinner is practically on fire. And I’ve certainly drastically underutilized the two most important words, ‘thank you,’ to my husband and countless others who have supported me.

The second reason is because I want share this journey with others who may have a dream on-hold. Not because I have any real wisdom to share, but because I know I’m not alone. Others have dreams that have been set aside due to careers, family, or simply because taking the first step is more daunting that having the dream in the first place.

You're dream may be very different than mine, but is the journey itself? While mine is to be an author, the challenges I've overcome, and the hurdles that lay before me, aren't about writing a novel. They're about the limitations I've placed on myself, my fears, my insecurities, and my secret lack of confidence.

Some of the obstacles I face in the future are out of my control, but many of them are not. I hope that through this blog, I have an opportunity to share with you who I am, and in the process, learn more about myself.

Care to join me in this journey?

Tawn