I am NOT a Morning Person

I am not a morning person. I am a night owl and often stay up until the wee hours of morning. Good thing too, because that's the only time I can get in uninterrupted writing time. Unfortunately, my children do no understand that Mommy needs her beauty sleep. Or any kind of sleep. Especially uninterrupted sleep.

Ryan is a morning person. He wakes up at the crack of dawn, wide eyed and bushy tailed. (For the love of God! The cliche's!) Ryan has always been a quiet child, except for when he's bossing people around. Nothing like rule breakers to crack a kid out of his shell.

In the last month or so, Ryan has blossomed. He's still shy with people he doesn't know, but lately he's become chatty with the law abiding inhabitants, too. Ryan has also discovered singing. Maybe he's seen too much Glee , or maybe Mommy's impromptu singing and dance numbers have finally had an effect, but the boy loves to sing.

This morning, I was Tired. (Yes, with a capital T.) Who comes bouncing down the stairs at 7:10? (I was up at 6:45 after staying up until 1:30 watching miners jump out of capsules.) Ryan. Shouting. And singing. What could be better that shouting and singing at 8:00 a.m.? Bossing your little sister around. That's right You Get the Best of Both Worlds.*

* I have sunk to new lows, invoking a Hannah Montana song title when she's not even part of the blog.

There's not enough coffee to handle this in the morning.

Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen or in This Case an Emma

I'm taking a week break from writing. My house is a disaster and I'm feeling domestic. This afternoon I decided to bake.

I used to bake. I used to bake a lot, but my kids don't eat baked goods and I end up eating them all. But baking makes me feel good-- homey, comforted, useful. So today I baked. Two apple pies, two loaves of sandwich bread and a loaf of cinnamon bread. From scratch. My Little House on the Prairie roots were showing.

Emma had a great day at preschool and came home to "help" me. While I mixed the flour, sugar, yeast, and milk, Emma made her own concoction.

Her ingredients? Flour, water, sugar and a stolen half can of Diet Coke. Yum.

But that got old, so when Mommy wasn't looking she moved to Mommy's side.

Oops.

Uh oh.

(Why, yes. That is half of an apple on the floor.)

What's this, you ask? Emma has moved the bar stool to access the water dispenser. Never underestimate the power of water added to a floury paste mess. What the camera fails to capture is the standing water spread across the floor. The puddle I slipped and fell in. Sorry, no cameras around to capture the special moment.

Fifi is doing better today. She is falling less so the steroids must be working, but she's not all there either. The only thing we can do is wait. Thank you for all your kinds words and prayers!

Priorities

She's just a dog. A stupid dog.

When she was young, around one or two, she liked to bolt out the front door and we'd have to chase her down until we finally gave up. I'd tell her if she didn't like living with us she didn't have to come back. But she always did.

After she got older, sometimes she'd run off into the woods behind my house and be gone for hours, coming back covered in mud and cockleburs. I'd curse and yell, and wash the chunks of mud down the drain, cut out the thorn branches stuck in her hair. I told her if she wasn't careful some wild animal would eat her. I fenced in my yard.

She stands at the back door wanting in and out, in and out, worse than a kid and annoying the hell out of me. Or she barks at nothing at all, even in the middle of the night, until I tell her to be quiet. Once, she knew there was mouse under our house and shredded the carpet and the baseboard trying to get to it.

Five years ago she was attacked by a German shepherd. She was in bad shape. She almost didn't make it. But I insisted we fix her, spending more money than we had, more money than a person should on a dog.

But she's my dog. That's what I told Darrell that Sunday morning in the Emergency Clinic. She's my dog. We have to fix her.

This weekend, while I was gone, something happened. She started walking into things. Sunday night she fell down the stairs. Twice. She continued falling down, her legs on her right side giving out. I thought it was her back, which was injured when she was attacked. Why didn't I know better? Yet, I did.

The vet sent me home this afternoon with a pharmacopoeia of medicines. Predisone, muscle relaxers, pain pills. The vet said it could be a pinched nerve until I mentioned she went to the neighbors house, thinking it was ours. Then she leaned heavily to a neurological cause.

Brain tumor.

I left, shockingly numb. It wasn't definite. It could still be a nerve, but it a nerve didn't fit. I spent the afternoon in denial.

I've watched her get worse and worse all afternoon and evening. She can hardly walk. When she tries to stand, she falls until she finally gets her sea legs and stumbles around. I just took her outside and watched the wind knock her over and over, until I was sure she was done and carried her in. I set her in front of her food and water and waited, the shield I erected around my heart crumbling every time she slipped and fell on her side, smacking her face on the hardwood floor.

All too familiar feelings wash through me. Foreboding hovers over my head. A cloak of grief I know to well.

I have lived this before.

I asked myself, when I allowed myself to release the tears-- how many times will I lose the ones I love? Will I always feel so helpless?

She's lying at my feet now, waiting for me to finish this post. She's always near, waiting. I call her my shadow, but I can feel the darkness slipping in, the fingers of death creeping close to do what it does best. Steal.

She's a dog. A stupid dog. But she's mine and I love her.

The Latest Accessory

I've made no secret of the fact that Ryan has some OCD tendencies. He likes things neat and organized. He likes to arrange things just so.

So it should come as no surprise that his latest accessory, that one item you just can't leave home without would be--

Go figure.

He carries that bottle EVERYWHERE (except school, I'm not sure they would allow it at Pre-K). He even uses it. Sparingly. Guess what he's getting for Christmas!

One kid down, five to go.

Part Two: Who ARE Those Kids?

I am the single mother of six children. Some people are amazed by that fact. To me, it's just who and what I am. My oldest moved out last spring, so I only have five children living at home.

Yes, I can SEE you shaking your head at my use of the word only.

My three oldest children are biological. My three youngest are adopted. Three are boys and three are girls. Yes, I have my own Brady Bunch. *snort* Hardly. Otherwise I KNOW I would have an Alice. And a Mike. For the record, at this point I'd prefer an Alice. I hate housework.

If you want to know the story about HOW I became a single mother read this.

Some of you know my kids from when I wrote before. Others are getting introduced. After this post, you'll all be up to speed.

Trace

My oldest, Trace, is twenty-three now. He moved out last spring and into a condo with his girlfriend Cody and her four-year-old son Gauge. Trace works full-time at a pizza restaurant and is finishing his last semester of collage. He is eager to get out of the food service industry and begin a career.

His girlfriend Cody is the owner/creator of LuandEd She makes the cutest monster bags and tutus. Be sure to check her store out.

Ross

Ross just turned twenty. He lives at home and splits his time between working as an assistant manager at a convenience store and going to our local community college. His major is still undivided. He currently has a girlfriend. Ross lives in a man-cave, otherwise known as our basement, where he happily resides with the 50" plasma screen TV he bought last spring. Needless to say, I don't see a lot of Ross, but he often bring me Starbucks mochas. I think I'll keep him.

Julia

Julia is thirteen and now an eighth grader. Julia is into everything drama, whether it be in real life or on a stage. She just found out she got the lead role as Millie in her school musical, Thoroughly Modern Millie. She is in Show Choir (think Glee) and Honor Choir. Julia has a heart of gold and loves children. She is a much coveted babysitter. If only she liked watching her siblings as much as she enjoys watching other people's kids.

Jenna

Seven-year-old Jenna is a second grader. A product of the Disney Channel, Jenna is hip and sassy, but is actually more sensitive than I expected. She's a girly-girl through and through and would rather play with her American Girl doll than kick around a ball. Jenna is very social and love her friends.

Ryan

Ryan is now four and in Pre-K where he gets speech therapy. Ryan was born with a cleft lip and cleft palate, but they were repaired in China before we adopted him at two and a half. Ryan likes things neat and tidy. He loves nothing more than to boss people around and tattle on them when they don't follow the rules, which explains his nickname: Officer Ryan. When Ross isn't around (most of the time,) he is the only boy in a sea of estrogen. God bless him.

Emma

Three-year-old Emma is the baby. Since the day I met Emma at three months, she has always had a strong will. A character trait to be admired, most of the time, but not when you are battling over the appropriate place to poop-- the toilet versus your panties. It's her very stubborness that helped her survive malnutrition in a Vietnamese orphanage and a case of RSV when she was four months old that left her on a ventilator for six days. While her tenacity can be annoying at times, I wouldn't change it for anything.

Part One: Where'd You Go?

It's no surprise I fell of the face of the earth last winter although it might be a surprise I came back.

Last November, I wrote a novel. It was okay. It had some good parts but it had a lot of bad parts. A LOT. It is unedited and sits on my external hard drive where it will spend eternity. Some might consider it a huge waste of time but I call it an incredible learning experience. I learned that I write pretty decent characters that have great chemistry, but I needed to work on realistic plots.

So I wrote a paranormal thriller next. Wait. Wasn't I supposed to be writing a more realistic plot? Here's the amazing part. I did. I love Chosen. The first half was written in a near panic-attack, sure there was no way I could pull it off. But I kept going and before I knew it, I had a completed and edited novel. It only took me five-and-a-half months. I began the query process, the part when you start sending a query letter about your book to agents. I'm ashamed to say I only sent it to seventeen agents. (Ashamed because its an embarrassingly low number) One agent requested to read the full book. Another requested to read the first fifty pages. The partial turned it down, but the agent who requested the full LOVED it. HOWEVER. She didn't think she could sell it.

It was a very sad, soul-searching day the Saturday in June I received that email.

The problem was I didn't know WHY she didn't think she could sell it. The only explanation I could come up with was it's a paranormal book with a romance. There's a glut of them in Young Adult right now, even though Chosen isn't YA.

So two days later I started another book. Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes. A mystery. I call it a cross between the humor of Janet Evanovich and the sweet-southern of Sarah Addison Allen. I love this book too and I think it's more marketable. I am finishing up a round of revisions on it and plan to pitch it to an agent at a writing conference in Denver this weekend.

All of this to say, I stopped writing my blog because I put so much time and energy into my novels I felt like I didn't have anything left to write a decent blog post. Along the way, even though I would think "This would make a good blog post," I was smart enough to know I couldn't tease my readers. Either I committed to writing this blog or I didn't.

In the end, I committed. I STILL had readers email and tell me they missed it. My kids missed it. But the bottom line was *I* missed it. I missed telling funny stories about my kids, our crazy life, and pontificating my crazy views on things. If I write this blog, I want to do it right and not half-ass. If you take the time to read it, the least I can do is make sure I post a half-decent quality blog post. Hopefully better.

I want to thank those of you who still love me and my kids, even if we "abandoned" you. You have no idea how much I love hearing you missed us, because let's be honest, everyone wants to feel loved. Next week, I plan on doing giveaways to show you all how much I love YOU.

Thanks for being patient with me. I hope I was worth the wait.

Tomorrow I'll give you an update on the kids.

Here's the book trailer I made for Chosen. I STILL love this thing. ;-)

(Little known secret-- that's Ross' arm with a Sharpie marker tattoo.)

Cutting the Strings

Today, Emma started preschool. For a couple of weeks she had told everyone she encountered that she was going soon. Her enthusiasm for school put her older siblings to shame.

Last week, was Meet the Teacher Day. As we pulled up to the school, she practically squealed with excitement, something that Ryan couldn't relate to. (Ryan started his Pre-K year a couple of weeks ago with the school district early childhood center.) Emma marched right into the school and her classroom. She eagerly sat at the table with her folder.

Because, hello! Who doesn't like candy?

Emma's class is The Stable Room. Amazingly enough, she wasn't tested before her class assignment to insure the proper room placement. Talk about serendipity.

Emma and Ryan explored her new room. Ryan was very hesitant at first and Emma led the way.

Her favorite area was the Home Living Center. Notice the folder in her hand. She wasn't about to let that go!

Fast forward to today.

Not so happy.

I think Emma figured she did her 20 minute stint of preschool, it was fun while it lasted, and it was a done deal.

Uh, no.

The only thing she got excited about was her lunch box. Actually excited might be the wrong word. Let's try POSSESSIVE. All of my children have their first day of school pictures with their backpacks. Emma's is lying on the ground. She's got her lunch box looped over her shoulder.

Toudee and Foofa came along to make sure she got to school without incident. She still has her lunch box.

On her way to class. The fact she is walking on her own two feet was progress.

Toudee and Foofa had to rest in Emma's backpack while she went to class. Convincing her of this was fairly easy. Giving up the lunch box? Not so much.

Then it was time for me to go and my baby cried as though I was never coming back. After six kids, I'm supposed to be immune to such displays of hysterics.

Someone forgot to tell my tear ducts.

I walked away in tears, wishing I'd had time to give her another kiss. That I had reminded her to tell her teacher if she had to potty. But I didn't. There wasn't time.

It occurred to me that this is really life in a nutshell. I sent Trace to college and drove away wishing I had warned him to not wash his darks with his whites. To eat less Ramen and more veggies. Then Trace moved out into a condo with Cody last April, and I wanted to tell him to change his furnace filter every three months and try not to park on the street.

The truth is when you are in the moment of separating from your child there isn't enough time to tell them everything you think they need to know. Honestly, they're not listening anyway. As a parent, we're still clinging to them and they are ready to be set free. As it should be. Sure they might cry, or scream as in Emma's case. But they need to be set free.

It hurts like hell, but that's our job. It's not to cram the information we think they need to know at the last minute. It's to teach them along the way.

When I picked Emma up from preschool, she was exactly how I expected her to be. Happy.

But her teacher told me when she asked the class who wanted to come back on Thursday, Emma was the only one who said she didn't want to go.

Guess I still have some time to teach her about those air filters.