That Time Time Flew

So I started this post last week. Seven days ago! And I had every intention of proofreading it, adding jazzy images, and doing all the little niceties that come with crafting a sweet blog post. Then life happened. Or rather, I got sucked down the rabbit hole of end of year activities that has me crashing into bed each evening chanting, “Just a few more days, just a few more days. . .”

What is happening? Seriously? The days piling up stacks of schoolwork excavated from the children’s desks. V’s 4th birthday has come and gone. Her last day of school was yesterday –eep! The Mother’s Day cards and graduation cards at Target have been swapped out for Father’s Day cards, 4th of July paraphernalia is cajoling customers to wrap themselves in red, white and blue.

It’s Friday again, a day of the week that I usually am happy to see, but it’s the last one of May of 2016 and I’m looking around like,”What is going on?”

Me looking at iCal

I can clearly remember setting up for Christmas. I was outside pounding pavement Christmas Day, starting my training for the Monument Avenue 10K that was months away in April. It was 70 degrees that day!

A few weeks later, we had Snowmageddon 2016. The snow fell fast and furiously, piling up like concert goers for port-a-potties. We had snow. We had the fireplace going. We had snow days that were kind of tolerable (and I will deny I said that if anyone ever calls me on it). We had a snippet of winter, which I won’t complain about, but we haven’t really had a spring. Last week, the weather was hovering in the 50s and I was still wearing a North Face jacket like it’s November.

Then, Mother Nature got her act together. She brought summer temps with a ferocity, jacking up the mercury to hover around 88 over the last few days. All of the short that I picked up at the end of February (proper prior planning) are finally being put to use. My winter body was hanging tough, but miraculously, this year’s booty fits into last years summer gear.

Last week, the girls came home with their yearbooks. Their YEARBOOKS! That meant there was only one more full week of school before the closing programs. You know closing program? When you get up and get dressed like a regular school day, drop them off at 8 for the final assembly that starts at 8:30, only to then pick them up at 8:54 and then they look at you like, “What’re we going to do now?”

What is happening?

A few week-ends ago, when the rain was so exhausted from falling for 40 days and nights that it took a day off, I cleaned the shed. I organized the pool toys and the beach toys. I inflated the tires in the bikes and detangled the jump ropes. I bent the hula hoops back into shape and I made sure all of the bubble wands had bubble juice in them. I pulled out the trunks for camp, started sorting all of the necessary items into hers and hers piles. The pool notices for Memorial Day kick off flooded my inbox and because I have a can do attitude, I put into effect an article I read about how to clean the grill by firing the burners on high, closing the lid and letting it melt off the gristly bits for 20 minutes. The house is still standing and I still have my eyebrows. Next time, I’d rather just get a new grill.

End of the year means my chits for the fall are being called. Things that I planned in the wintry doldrums are now popping up like, “Hey, girl! Time to execute this plan.” The calendar pages keep updating, despite my best intentions to stave them off. It’s like I’m standing on the shore, a tidal wave bearing down on me and I’m holding a paper parasol that would better suited pinning a maraschino cherry into a Mai Tai.

My poor little neglected blog! With the exception of V’s birthday shout out, I haven’t been doing much. It’s not that I haven’t been writing at all — I’ve been putting in work on my novel concept, aiming for at least 500 words a day. I’ve got 75 pages of somewhat coherent and connected thought. I was telling a friend that at this juncture, I’m just trying to get the ideas down as fast as they come. I’m beading a necklace, I told her, and sometime the beads look good together and sometimes they don’t. So, I pull some beads off, rearrange the patter, put some new beads on and keep stringing. I’m not quite Etsy shop ready, but there’s potential.

Today is the last full day of school for M & C. This week-end is Memorial Day, the official start of summer. Unsurprisingly, the calendar is freckled with activities that will carry us to the second week of August where the hub-bub drops off precipitously. My hope is that me and the warriors three will make the best use of that time. There will be cook-outs with ketchup stained paper plates and hikes over to the neighborhood ice creamery for dessert.

There will be sidewalk chalk race tracks and scooters zipping around the driveway.

There will be bubble juice and every conceivable contraption to make bubbles.

There will be sprinklers, slip-and-slides, and new bathing suits.

There will be trips to the pool and the playground.

There will be Popsicle stained mouths and dirt stained knees.

There will be bug bites and lightning bugs trapped in jelly jars.

There will trips to Alleghany, the Vineyard, to the grands.

There will be tank tops, flip-flops, and tan lines.

There will be sun soaked smiles. . .

There will be the last day of May, coming in hot, ushering in all of these summer plans, calling out, “Let’s get started. . .”

Yes, let’s get started.

IN: introspection writing ON: May 27, 2016 BY: Hilary

photography writing

That Time Vivi Turned Four

May 18th, 2012

5lbs. 2oz.

6:50pm

How did we get here?

I went in at 1pm for my 37 week check and was told to come back at 3pm for pre-op formalities because, “we’re having this baby today.” I must have called the Hubs, but I was in such a state of denial, I barely remember it. They had told me my due date was June 12. This was May — what happened to my extra weeks? I don’t think I had even packed a bag. I must have thrown something together, though, because I was admitted shortly after 3pm and was wheeled into that frigid OR at 6:30.

We didn’t know if you were going to be a he or a she, so the anticipation was thick when the doctor held you up.

“Were you expecting a boy?” she asked, just a muffled voice floating over the drape in the operating room.

What? Was I expecting — “‘Cause it’s a girl!”

Our fiesty, funny, full of beans, fearless girl.

Happy Birthday, sweet Vivi girl, my little bunny-bunny.

IN: photography writing ON: May 17, 2016 TAGS: birthday, motherhood, my girls, sharing BY: Hilary

writing

That Time I Wrote A Novel

Yup, I’m writing a novel.

There, I put it out there.

I said it out loud. Well, I said it on the Internet, which is the modern-day equivalent of having it be the front page, bold-faced headline on The New York Times, The Guardian, and possibly, The National Enquirer. The fact is, I’m setting goals. In the past, I’ve followed this Instagram philosophy:

Set some goals.

Stay quiet about them.

Smash the shit out of them.

Clap for your damn self.

My philosophy has shifted a bit. I’m all about setting goals, smashing the shit of out of them and clapping for my damn self. However, I can’t stay quiet this time. I need to be held accountable. Recently I read that people who wrote down their goals were 42% more likely to achieve them than the ones who didn’t. Telling a friend increases this rate to 78%. Of course, I read this on Facebook, so the veracity of these statistics is up for debate. Still, it sounds pretty authoritative, so I’m going to go with it. I’ve written down my goal, signed it and dated it. 42% ahead of the game. Now, I’m telling you and we’re up to 78% — just like that.

Paul Coelho said that “When you want something, all of the universe conspires in helping you achieve it.” Well, I want something. I want to write a novel. I want to write and publish a grown-up novel full of vibrant characters who are steeped in relatability and enmeshed in situations that make my readers say, “There but for the grace of God. . .”.

When readers pick up my novel, it’s because they’re hungry to read. When they move past the prologue and into the meat of the story, they’ve stayed because they’ve liked what they’ve tasted. They keep taking bites, steadily moving through the pages like a fork breaking off chunks of their favorite dish. When they get to the end of my novel, their eyes will linger on the last word before slowly closing the cover. Their fingers will drum across the hard back of the jacket as they recall the experience they have had of growing and changing with my characters.

At the end of my novel, my readers will feel satiated, that having spent time reading my words was the best time they have spent in a long time. They will feel transported and engaged, reflecting on the moments that took their breath away, the moments that had them pursing their lips in disgust at the choice a character has made knowing that it’s the wrong choice. They will look back at sections with fondness, others with incredulity. When it’s all over, readers will feel like they’ve eaten the most succulent, most decadent version of their favorite meal. Those initial bites will have become full on elbows-on-the-table-fork-biting-knife-scraping-sopping-up-the-gravy-with-a-biscuit-open-mouth-chewing-y’all-got-any-more- inhalations of literary goodness. They will continue to roll around my words and scenes in their brain, the way they would run their tongue over their teeth, re-visiting the flavors and nuances they can’t get enough of.

In one of the myriad of writing classes I took throughout my educational career, one of my professors said that the end of a good poem, story, piece of writing was akin to the lid of a box being snapped shut. When you come to the end, there should be the “click” of completion; the piece will have come to its rightful stopping place. As their eyes race from the top of the last page to the final punctuation mark, my readers will hear that firm click. They will lift their eyes from the page, wondering, “How was this exactly what I needed and I didn’t even know it?” They will be full and yet hungry for more.

I want my novel to interrupt the daily routines of those who read it. Responsibilities should be neglected — provided that no one gets seriously injured. Breakfasts, lunches and dinner become cereal. Text messages get ignored. Gym workouts are downgraded to machines that allow you to read while you move. Instagram feeds go unattended, unless they’re snapping artfully crafted pictorials of the book cover perched beside venti non-fat caramel mocha lattes, no whip. They will cancel plans to keep reading and be low-key thrilled when plans are cancelled on them. My novel will have my reader staying up late, “Just one more chapter,” falling from their lips as their eyelids sink shut and their heads bob down to their chests. My novel will be carried with my readers the way they carry their personal effects. When they leave the house, it will be book, keys, wallet, phone. They will read at every chance they get — in carpool lines, in waiting rooms, while pumping gas, in line at Chipotle, during the commercial breaks on TGIT. They’ll read my novel instead watching TGIT. Sorry, Shonda.

I want for my writing to grab you by the collar, toss you onto the page and bury you between the words. You will become emotionally invested in the well-being of the characters. You will root for them to overcome their obstacles. You will discourage them from going down the familiar road in favor of the one less traveled, the one that will force them to grow and change. You will hold your breath as they reach for their goal, fingers grazing it before they either take hold or fall short of the mark. You will look around you only to discover that your familiar surroundings have been replaced with a setting of my creation. By the end of my novel, you will have traveled so far that when the last line, the last word has been read you won’t know what to do next.

Am I setting some high bars for myself? Yup. Whenever I decide to take on any project or challenge, from photography to food to fitness, I’ve got a plan, though.

Instead of waking up at 5am to work out, I’m waking up at 5am to write. The alarm goes off and I head for my office. For an hour, I am committed to any endeavor that is related to my writing. I’m reading books on writing, plot, structure, and character development. I’m taking notes on what novels I consistently come back to and for what reasons. I’m pulling out all of the false starts I’ve ever had from boxes that have been pushed to the far reaches of the attic corners. There are reams of paper, filled with dot matrix printing of yarns that I spun from 1991 through early 2000. There are 3.5 inch floppy disks that I have no way of accessing without calling in The Geek Squad. And as I list off this trove of early ’90s writing relics, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the Little Mermaids song was floating around in my head — look at this stuff, isn’t it neat?

So much paper. So many words. So many ideas. Some of it is such drivel that needs to be redacted, reducing the page to a zebra hide with only the words “the”, “but”, and “okay” visible. Some of it is quality work that makes me wonder how in the world I came up with a particular story line when I find myself banging my head on the wall looking for another word for “nice”.

I love writing. Nothing gives me greater satisfaction. Nothing gives me a deeper sense of fulfillment and achievement than when I put pen to paper and the words come fast and furiously. When the ideas are bubbling, I have to drop everything and go. The words fight for position, spilling out of the pen and onto the page. My hand slides and glides across the lines, left to right. I fall into the rhythm of the motion, almost hypnotized by the repetition of the pen sluicing across the page. When I sit down to write, I’m just filling pages with ideas, notations, names of places and people who may or may not make the cut down the line. I’m flip through books of writing exercises as I stretch the muscles that are going to do some heavy lifting for the foreseeable future. Like I said, I’m setting some high bars, so I need to limber up in order to clear them.

As I craft sentences, stacking them like bricks to create paragraphs which in turn will create chapters, I’m envisioning my novel finding a home in the prime real-estate section of booksellers everywhere: New Releases and Best Sellers.

They say that if you want to achieve something, you have to put it out there to the Universe. You have to speak it into existence. You have to claim it.

This is me claiming it.

Let’s be goal diggers!

What goal are you going to write down and then share with a friend?

Tell me about it in the comments!

IN: writing ON: April 4, 2016 TAGS: honesty, life, projects, sharing, writing BY: Hilary

introspection writing

That Time I Worried About My Parenting Skills

A few months ago, I wrote a post about what I know about parenting. It was a brief post to be sure, you can read it in its entirety here, but there were some highlights.

This shiggity is hard.
If you wonder whether you’re doing a good job, you probably are.
If you have more than one child, you’re going to need more than one parenting style.
This shiggity is hard.

Yes, the level of difficulty that comes with parenting bear repeating. Just when I think I’ve got something figured out, a switch-up ensues. I’m trying to raise kind, conscientious, mentally strong contributing members of society. When they start fighting with each other over who has more Frosted Mini Wheats in their cereal bowl and why it’s not fair they have to wash their faces everyday when they just washed them yesterday morning, I wonder if I’ll even live long enough to see the fruits of my labor. I’m perpetually thisclose to just opening the front door and walking out.

Before you call child protective services on me, I’m not really going to walk out. If anyone’s leaving, it’s them. Kidding!

The truth is, we’ve been having a rough few days. Add to that Spring Break is lurking in the doorways, reminding me that I have no plans whatsoever. On the one hand, I have an old school parenting mentality that tells me it’s not my job to entertain my children. They have each other. They have toys and books and games and outside! Yes, outside! Fresh air and bikes and scooters and balls, bats, and gloves. Go forth, young woman and play!

When they’ve got friends who say, “My idea of camping is staying in a crappy hotel,” they are less than inclined.

On the other hand, I’ve got a more modern (?) take on parenting, where I want for my kids to have what I’ve had and better. In my head, I’ve got a tentative plan that includes a movie day, mani/pedi day, spring shoe shopping day, and a science museum day. We’ll go out to lunch! We’ll hit up Starbucks! We’ll go to Barnes & Noble AND the library! We’ll take #usies and blow up people’s Instagram feeds!

I haven’t shared this with the girls, though, because inevitably what happens is while I’m kind of jazzed by my own ideas, their faces go from bright and shiny to dull and disappointed as I tick off each option. It never fails; whenever I have shared with them what I think is going to be a super-fun-happy-cool time, the words have barely left my mouth before they’re asking me if they can do something else.

This is where I go back to the whole parenting is hard thing. I think I’m cultivating an attitude of gratitude in my girls, but when their response is “meh” or “what else is there?”, I start to question what I’ve been doing the last ten years. When I treat them to something unexpected and they’ve still got their hands out for more, I wonder which chapter in the manual I must have skipped because I’ve done everything else and now we’re here.

I can admit it, my feelings get hurt (insert sad trombone noise). And then I spend my copious free time unraveling the threads of my parenting choices trying to figure out which one created the wonky pattern in the fabric.

I would have loved to have had a week of adventures and day trips with my mom growing up. And did I mention that V will still in be in school while M&C are off for the week? Big Girl/Mommy time is hard to come by. Unless I hit them with 1) Great Wolf Lodge 2)Any Disney theme park 3) 10 days at a Sandals/Beaches/sun and surf all-inclusive resort, they want no parts of it.

God forbid I mention a visit to the grandparents in good ol’ Chesapeake.

M said one of her friends, who is going to Orlando for the break, offered to text her everyday so that, “It would be like you’re right here with me!” Yeah, no, little girl. Don’t do that. I beg of you.

Parenting means making hard choices, right? I’d love to have some sun and surf over spring break. It would be nice to bring the girls along, too. However, that’s not a choice we can make right now (the degree of how hard it is to make this particular choice is moot). What I’m offering is still way more than a bunch of other kids get to experience. I hate that I even have to compare us to anyone else. I have tried to explain (?!) to the girls why we are going to do the activities that I’ve picked out. I’m the adult and I’m explaining my choices to my children. What is happening here?! A parenting choice, I guess. I’m choosing to get into this explanation foray in a foolish attempt to make them — and me — feel better.

Really, it’s me just saying, “This is what we are doing because this is what works for our family.”

Behind those words, I’m really saying, “Look, I know you want to go away. I want to go away, too. But, we’re not going away, so I’m trying to make the next few days as enjoyable for all of us as possible because I’m your mom and I love you and I don’t want you to resent me when you’re older and decide that despite your myriad of success and strengths, you do have an Achilles Heel and whatever it is, it is directly related to the fact that your mother never took you to Beaches to swim with the dolphins when you were 10.”

Whew. I know it’s not true, but that’s what on my heart. I’m doing the best I can and I just don’t want to mess up these little souls that have been entrusted to me.

At the end of the day, I stand by what I said before: If you wonder whether you’re doing a good job, you probably are. There are days when I feel like I’m treading water with anchors on my ankles. I have no idea what I’m doing, I don’t want to make another kid friendly meal. I can’t listen to the Teen Titans Go! theme song any more. I’m about to install a regulation sized boxing ring in the backyard rather than mediate another who-said-what-to-whom or who’s-breathing on-whom-type conflagration. When I’m over saturated with motherhood, that’s when I stop and think, “Am I even doing a good job? How could I be when it feels like I’m in the eye of the storm?” But I have to believe the mere fact that I stop to wonder that, or wonder what I can do in order to survive the storm, makes me think I’m doing okay. And if I need to hide out in the bathroom for 10 or 15 minutes just scrolling through my Instagram feed until I feel better, then that’s what I need to do.

I’m @curly_girlie78

See you in 15. . .

IN: introspection writing ON: March 1, 2016 BY: Hilary

odds and ends projects & DIY writing

That Time We Trimmed the Tree*

December first and we are already decking the halls. In truth, we’re behind. We got our tree on Sunday as opposed to the Friday after Thanksgiving as we’ve started doing the last three years or so. Truth be told, I prefer waiting until the last minute, like the 22nd or 23rd and then going on a decorating bonanza. I’ve been thoroughly outvoted. And don’t even get me started on the girls’ pleas for Elf on the Shelf. To quote Dynamom at the Huffington Post,”Sorry, Kid. Elf on the Shelf is Not Going to Happen.” Dynamom and I must share a neural pathway because her reasons as to why the Elf stays away are the same ones I have. Not to put too fine a point on it, but ain’t nobody got time for that.

What I have done, though, has been a good start to this holiday season. The girls have received Advent calendars, which has led to itchy fingers, ready to pop open all of windows now. I guess they’re getting patience as a gift this year. The nutcrackers are sending sentry on the mantel, our Santa shaped Christmas countdown calendar is hung and we’ve listened to more a Bing Crosby in the last 48 hours than we did in the entirety of the last Christmas season. The Hubs, a big fan of Bing, opens each holiday season with “Christmas in Killarney“. It ain’t Christams without him and the girls dancing a jig around the kitchen like a pack of peppermint scented leprechauns.

I may toss off a few “Bah Humbug” tinged glances here and there as the days peel away from the calendar and Christmas draws ever nearer. It’s a stressful time of year; the girls provide me revisions to the Christmas lists every morning, like a verbal ticker running across the bottom of all of our interactions. Trying to find to find a sitter is harder than trying to get one of Kylie Jenner’s lip kits. There are parties, open houses, brunches and cookie exchanges, which mans investing in either more gym time or elasticized waist bands. There’s the balance between keeping the dream of Santa alive and just giving ourselves a pat on the back in acknowledgement of the good run we’ve had.There’s the holiday card to design and deliver, which I actually enjoy trying to make better each year. There’s securing, then hiding, then stealthily wrapping Christmas presents. There’s the explaining of why we participate in Angel Tree and why we donate to the Red Kettle and why we gave as much as we could for the family in need that our neighborhood adopted this Christmas.

Yes, it’s a stressful time of year, but I’d be lying if I didn’t love it all just a bit more than I care to admit. Okay, maybe more than a bit, because even though I’ll be trying to undress the tree at noon on Christmas Day, I’ll gladly sit down when told, accept a heavily spiced glasses of egg nog and watch my family enjoy it all.

How do you celebrate the holidays? Tell me about it in the comments!

*this entire post was written using the WordPress app on my iphone5.

IN: odds and ends projects & DIY writing ON: December 1, 2015 TAGS: family, fun stuff, holiday, winter BY: Hilary

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Category: writing

That Time Time Flew

That Time I Worried About My Parenting Skills

That Time We Trimmed the Tree*