I've started my second novel over from scratch. Given I already had nearly 200 pages on the first draft, this is pretty scary. Well, scary in the sense that I now have six months to write and edit an entire book rather than just the second half, but on the other hand, I think it's going to go a lot faster than the other one was.
You just know when a manuscript is working and when it isn't. When it is, the ideas flow (for the most part), and things seem to fit together before you even try to engineer them that way. When it doesn't work, it's like trying to jam the proverbial square peg into a round hole. I've known for a long, long time that this manuscript was one giant square peg, but I kept hammering away, thinking I could chip the corners off and make it fit. Silly me. Even when you shear off the edges, you still essentally have a square--you've just mutilated it and tried to make it into something it's not, and that's hardly the way to treat a perfectly innocent story.
So today I opened a new document and started afresh. I think it's going well, but I keep getting caught up in the details of the original draft, and forget I don't have to make them all the same in this new version. So what if six years lapsed in the first one? That was an arbitrary number when I first wrote it, I don't have to keep it if I don't want to. Yet when I try to change it, it feels like I'm altering reality, like somehow the reader is going to know I fiddled with things, so instead of going with the flow of the new version, I keep stalling and procrastinating between paragraphs. I think I just need time after each new bout of writing to get used to the new story; hopefully it is slowly replacing the memory of the original.
We'll see what happens.....
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Sometimes 100% still isn't enough
I think I may have mentioned this before: I often refer to myself as 80% Girl. I do not mean that the other 20% of me is not girl. I mean that I tend to only go 80% of the way on things. There are very few things in life for which I will go all-out, no-holds-barred. I lack the drive to complete things. It is a character flaw evident in the many half-completed art and craft projects that I've stumbled across lately--cross-stitch patterns with only one color done, sketches that are missing integral components, boxes of supplies purchased for projects that never even got started. I'm big on ideas and not so big on the follow-through.
Well, almost a year and a half ago I found something that I thought I'd go 100% into: a direct-sales jewelry company that some colleagues at school worked for. It did not appear at first glance to be a good fit for me: I wore the same four pairs of earrings over and over, donned a necklace only on special occasions, and always forgot to put my wedding and engagement rings on after taking them off. But I liked the idea of working for myself, of doing the shows, of running my own little business, and there had always been that bit of me that liked being all dressed up and pretty. It also didn't hurt to see up-close and first-hand the profits some of these women were making. I thought to myself, "I've gotten fairly decent returns in the past for my 80%--just think what I could do if I went all the way!"
So I did. I spent a lot of money, a lot of time, and a lot of effort to get my business off the ground. And when I did shows, I was great. I really was. I had so much fun, and people always told me that I was good at what I did. For once, I was pulling out all the stops, and I couldn't help but dream of how far I'd go with the company.
But I found out that sometimes giving 100% isn't enough, and there isn't anything you can do about it. There are always factors beyond our control, and it turned out that there were too many of them getting in my way. At first I felt really bad about myself--I'd always blamed my lack of success in certain areas to the fact that I held back that 20%, and while I'm sure I could have succeeded more than I did, there's no guarantee I'd have reached every goal I ever dreamed of setting for myself.
So this week I decided to stop being an active consultant. I'm not folding altogether--I'm just not pursuing shows and sales anymore. And really, it sucks. I'd been really excited at the potential the job offered, and like I said, I had a fantastic time. But eventually you realize that your output isn't balancing your returns, and there comes a time to cut your losses.
So yeah, it's bumming me out. But at the same time, I'm glad I figured this out, because someday my kid is going to come to me crying because he/she did absolutely everything possible and still didn't reach their goal, and I want to be able to say to them, "It's okay! You're not a failure!" And it's one thing to say that to someone, and another thing to have lived it and speak from experience.
Well, almost a year and a half ago I found something that I thought I'd go 100% into: a direct-sales jewelry company that some colleagues at school worked for. It did not appear at first glance to be a good fit for me: I wore the same four pairs of earrings over and over, donned a necklace only on special occasions, and always forgot to put my wedding and engagement rings on after taking them off. But I liked the idea of working for myself, of doing the shows, of running my own little business, and there had always been that bit of me that liked being all dressed up and pretty. It also didn't hurt to see up-close and first-hand the profits some of these women were making. I thought to myself, "I've gotten fairly decent returns in the past for my 80%--just think what I could do if I went all the way!"
So I did. I spent a lot of money, a lot of time, and a lot of effort to get my business off the ground. And when I did shows, I was great. I really was. I had so much fun, and people always told me that I was good at what I did. For once, I was pulling out all the stops, and I couldn't help but dream of how far I'd go with the company.
But I found out that sometimes giving 100% isn't enough, and there isn't anything you can do about it. There are always factors beyond our control, and it turned out that there were too many of them getting in my way. At first I felt really bad about myself--I'd always blamed my lack of success in certain areas to the fact that I held back that 20%, and while I'm sure I could have succeeded more than I did, there's no guarantee I'd have reached every goal I ever dreamed of setting for myself.
So this week I decided to stop being an active consultant. I'm not folding altogether--I'm just not pursuing shows and sales anymore. And really, it sucks. I'd been really excited at the potential the job offered, and like I said, I had a fantastic time. But eventually you realize that your output isn't balancing your returns, and there comes a time to cut your losses.
So yeah, it's bumming me out. But at the same time, I'm glad I figured this out, because someday my kid is going to come to me crying because he/she did absolutely everything possible and still didn't reach their goal, and I want to be able to say to them, "It's okay! You're not a failure!" And it's one thing to say that to someone, and another thing to have lived it and speak from experience.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Oh really?
When I spellchecked my "Mysteries of the Freeway" entry, blogger.com suggested I replace "serenading" with "cremating."
???
???
Mysteries of the Freeway
Roadtripped with my mom yesterday to California's heartland--Bakersfield! Over the infamous Grapevine we went, getting caught in some nasty rain and emerging in the other side into a weird hybrid of Midwestern farmland and California mountains. Had it not been for the rocky horizon, we could have been on the highway I used to take from my Chicago-suburb home to U of Illinois--nothing but cornfields and the occasional house. Beautiful land, though.
On the way back, the I-5 took us through the cement jungle of Los Angeles, and it was there that we began to contemplate the Mysteries of the Freeway. With Carole King and Peter Gabriel serenading us, we discussed the conundrums of the highway:
1. With a shoulder merely a few feet wide and the majority of California drivers being borderline homicidal, how does graffiti get onto the side walls? How does one get to the side of the road without getting hit, or at least witnessed by the hundreds of drivers careening down the freeway every minute, since the I-5 is NEVER empty in LA? And then how does one have the audacity to sit there in plain view of thousands and tag the wall with their nonsensical letters?
2. Loosely connected to #1: how does graffiti get onto the overpasses? For the writing to be right-side-up to those of us on the road, the taggers must be writing upside-down, and in some cases, hanging from something, given how far down they write. Again, how do they do this without being seen? I think I'd notice someone hanging over the bridge I was about to drive beneath.
3. Despite my best intentions and most tenderloving attention, I can't get plants to grow. My thumb is beyond black. And yet, against these walls along the freeway that are miraculously graffittied, there are the most beautiful flowers and bushes and vines. What are they spiking their Miracle-Gro with to combat the exhaust these poor plants are constantly battling? Heck, half the time there aren't even sprinklers!
4. This one can also be cross-posted to the "Mysteries of the Grocery Store" list: why does it NEVER FAIL that, the minute I move into the lane that has been passing me at the speed of lightning, the fast lane grinds to a total halt, and my previous lane moves into warp speed?
5. How is it that the most deadlocked traffic can untangle and loosen for absolutely no reason at all? For that matter, why does it get deadlocked for no reason in the first place? It is as though 20% of the cars disappear off the road and no one notices; they just realize, "Hey, things are finally moving!" Buy WHY? WHY are they finally moving? WHAT HAPPENED??
We have no answers. The more we contemplated, the more confused we became. But as the three-laned potholed and littered LA portion of the I-5 gave way to the six-laned clean and smooth Orange Country stretch (gotta love Disney money), we shook our heads and gave up our ponderings and rocked out instead to the live version of "In Your Eyes." I guess some things will never be understood. They are, as my husband would say, mysteries wrapped in enigmas wrapped in bacon. Yum.
On the way back, the I-5 took us through the cement jungle of Los Angeles, and it was there that we began to contemplate the Mysteries of the Freeway. With Carole King and Peter Gabriel serenading us, we discussed the conundrums of the highway:
1. With a shoulder merely a few feet wide and the majority of California drivers being borderline homicidal, how does graffiti get onto the side walls? How does one get to the side of the road without getting hit, or at least witnessed by the hundreds of drivers careening down the freeway every minute, since the I-5 is NEVER empty in LA? And then how does one have the audacity to sit there in plain view of thousands and tag the wall with their nonsensical letters?
2. Loosely connected to #1: how does graffiti get onto the overpasses? For the writing to be right-side-up to those of us on the road, the taggers must be writing upside-down, and in some cases, hanging from something, given how far down they write. Again, how do they do this without being seen? I think I'd notice someone hanging over the bridge I was about to drive beneath.
3. Despite my best intentions and most tenderloving attention, I can't get plants to grow. My thumb is beyond black. And yet, against these walls along the freeway that are miraculously graffittied, there are the most beautiful flowers and bushes and vines. What are they spiking their Miracle-Gro with to combat the exhaust these poor plants are constantly battling? Heck, half the time there aren't even sprinklers!
4. This one can also be cross-posted to the "Mysteries of the Grocery Store" list: why does it NEVER FAIL that, the minute I move into the lane that has been passing me at the speed of lightning, the fast lane grinds to a total halt, and my previous lane moves into warp speed?
5. How is it that the most deadlocked traffic can untangle and loosen for absolutely no reason at all? For that matter, why does it get deadlocked for no reason in the first place? It is as though 20% of the cars disappear off the road and no one notices; they just realize, "Hey, things are finally moving!" Buy WHY? WHY are they finally moving? WHAT HAPPENED??
We have no answers. The more we contemplated, the more confused we became. But as the three-laned potholed and littered LA portion of the I-5 gave way to the six-laned clean and smooth Orange Country stretch (gotta love Disney money), we shook our heads and gave up our ponderings and rocked out instead to the live version of "In Your Eyes." I guess some things will never be understood. They are, as my husband would say, mysteries wrapped in enigmas wrapped in bacon. Yum.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
I got used!
I spoke at my old school's 8th grade chapel this morning. I've known about this for months, yet I waited until this week to really polish up my talk, which I thought was going to be a beefed-up version of a talk I did for the elementary kids earlier in the year. But when I tried to fix it up, I couldn't seem to do it. All these other thoughts--about how they're about to go into the big bad world of high school, how so many of them have been in this small Christian school for their entire school lives, how some of them, even after all the Bible memorization and chapels, still aren't Christians--kept invading my head as I'd try to work on that talk, and it just seemed so inconsequential when they were facing such huge changes. So finally, last night, I wrote a new talk, styling it like a prayer. "God, you know how I'm supposed to do this 8th grade chapel Thursday morning? Well, it's Wednesday night, and I still don't know what to talk about..." Then I devoted a little time to hashing out all the fears and concerns and desires I had for these kids, some of whom I feel rather connected to as they were in my very first class, and laid it out as though I was asking God to tell me which topic to pursue for the presentation. It was way shorter than the talks I usually do, and even after I was finished with it I felt like it was a cop-out. But that's all I seemed to have, so what was I going to do?
Well, God did His thing and it turned out incredible. First of all, the worship set was longer than usual, 5 songs, and the teacher that led it, Doug Harrison, chose the most awesome songs and brought the kids from fun, upbeat worship into contemplative, soul-seeking worship. Then I got up and almost lost it. My emotions have been on ultra-high lately, and between that worship set, the knowledge that my little babies were going to high school, and my fragile emotional state, I had to fight not to burst into tears for the entire ten minutes of my talk. (Actually, there was a rather substantial pause between my opening, "Dear God," and the next line, because I couldn't get myself together.) But I really felt like God was super-charging my words, and that it was going really well, and all was great until the closing line, and then I lost it again.
But then something cool happened. I just started talking. All I could say at first, in a strangled whisper as my throat closed with tears, was "God loves you." And then words kept coming, mostly reiterations and restatements of things I'd said in my talk, but some new stuff, too, and while I don't know if it was my words or the fact that I was sitting there in front of them with tears streaming down my face, I know I definitely had their attention. Heck, I think some of the teachers even got a little teary-eyed.
I wrapped it up somehow; I don't even remember what I said, but when it was over the principal, a really stellar guy, told me it was the perfect thing for them to hear. Some of the teachers told me that, too. I don't know if it really sank in--these are 8th graders, you know--but I know God did something, and as embarrassing as it was to sit in front of them and weep, it's a small price to pay if it planted a seed in someone.
Well, God did His thing and it turned out incredible. First of all, the worship set was longer than usual, 5 songs, and the teacher that led it, Doug Harrison, chose the most awesome songs and brought the kids from fun, upbeat worship into contemplative, soul-seeking worship. Then I got up and almost lost it. My emotions have been on ultra-high lately, and between that worship set, the knowledge that my little babies were going to high school, and my fragile emotional state, I had to fight not to burst into tears for the entire ten minutes of my talk. (Actually, there was a rather substantial pause between my opening, "Dear God," and the next line, because I couldn't get myself together.) But I really felt like God was super-charging my words, and that it was going really well, and all was great until the closing line, and then I lost it again.
But then something cool happened. I just started talking. All I could say at first, in a strangled whisper as my throat closed with tears, was "God loves you." And then words kept coming, mostly reiterations and restatements of things I'd said in my talk, but some new stuff, too, and while I don't know if it was my words or the fact that I was sitting there in front of them with tears streaming down my face, I know I definitely had their attention. Heck, I think some of the teachers even got a little teary-eyed.
I wrapped it up somehow; I don't even remember what I said, but when it was over the principal, a really stellar guy, told me it was the perfect thing for them to hear. Some of the teachers told me that, too. I don't know if it really sank in--these are 8th graders, you know--but I know God did something, and as embarrassing as it was to sit in front of them and weep, it's a small price to pay if it planted a seed in someone.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Random
I was clicking that little "next blog" button I talked about earlier this week, just killing time, and the first eight blogs it took me to were written in languages other than English. For a second I felt like such an outsider. It was weird. The ninth one was English, but, like, some bizarre dialect that I guess the hip kids are speaking these days with all sorts of unidentifiable slang sprinkled through it and words spelled all funky. I took it as a sign that the blog world didn't want me around and went and played computer mahjong instead.
Tomorrow Dad and I are doing a reading, Q & A, and book signing at the local Borders Bookstore. I went through the prologue and first chapter to figure out what to read; funny how little of what is in there is absolutely necessary to the telling of the story. Quite a lesson in editing. I have about 12 minutes of material, which will probably stretch closer to 15 if I read at a slower, easier-to-follow pace. ('Course, it'll most likely end up being more like 10 because I'll get nervous and read too fast.) One funny thing, though: Grace, the main female character, goes to Barnes & Noble. And I'm reading it at Borders. Not sure if I should just say "Borders" so I don't feel guilty for product-placing their competition, or just say Barnes & Noble and apologize...
Tomorrow Dad and I are doing a reading, Q & A, and book signing at the local Borders Bookstore. I went through the prologue and first chapter to figure out what to read; funny how little of what is in there is absolutely necessary to the telling of the story. Quite a lesson in editing. I have about 12 minutes of material, which will probably stretch closer to 15 if I read at a slower, easier-to-follow pace. ('Course, it'll most likely end up being more like 10 because I'll get nervous and read too fast.) One funny thing, though: Grace, the main female character, goes to Barnes & Noble. And I'm reading it at Borders. Not sure if I should just say "Borders" so I don't feel guilty for product-placing their competition, or just say Barnes & Noble and apologize...
Monday, April 25, 2005
Free Your Books!!
This is the absolute best idea I've seen in a long, long time. It's called "Bookcrossing." The basic concept: turn the world at large into one giant lending library. How does it work? Basically, you take a book that you want to "release into the wild," and register it at bookcrossing.com. They give you a unique tracking number for the book, which you write on the inside cover, along with the website's url. Then you leave the book somewhere--at your local coffee shop, at the grocery store, at church, at a bus stop, wherever you want--and when someone finds it, they go to the website, log in using the book's tracking number, and mark where they found the book. Then, when they're done reading it, they do the exact same thing. You can go to the website and look up the book you've released and see where in the world it's gone--you wouldn't believe all the countries where this is happening! From Afghanistan (currently listing 3 books in the wild) to Burkina Faso (I don't even know where that is, but they have 2 books) to Spain (1,389 books) to the good ole' US of A (16,002 books--but we have an unfair advantage since we started the program). You can click on a country and go all the way down to the city level to see how many books are currently listed as being there--here in RSM there are apparently 7 floating around. And guess what?! Two members have "Worlds Collide" listed as being in their possession!
There's a lot more to the site than just this; go take a look so you can see what all they do. For those of us who consider reading to be more important than, say, eating, this is a dream come true. I can't wait to release some of my books into the wild!
There's a lot more to the site than just this; go take a look so you can see what all they do. For those of us who consider reading to be more important than, say, eating, this is a dream come true. I can't wait to release some of my books into the wild!
Tell me who I am!
*It has come to my attention that you can barely see the text in the table I've included--I'm trying to figure out how to change it but so far have had no luck. Sorry!!*
I'm a sucker for profiles and personality tests--it's why I joined eHarmony in the first place, to get that free personality profile! Robin Lee Hatcher had a link to this one on her blog, and of course I couldn't resist. Here are the results of the kind of American English I speak:
5% Dixie, eh? Must be because I admitted to saying "y'all" on a frequent basis. Not even sure where I picked it up. Anyway, this site is great--another fantastic time-eating tool--they have tons of other profiles and quizzes. Knock yourself out!
I'm a sucker for profiles and personality tests--it's why I joined eHarmony in the first place, to get that free personality profile! Robin Lee Hatcher had a link to this one on her blog, and of course I couldn't resist. Here are the results of the kind of American English I speak:
Your Linguistic Profile: |
65% General American English |
15% Upper Midwestern |
15% Yankee |
5% Dixie |
0% Midwestern |
5% Dixie, eh? Must be because I admitted to saying "y'all" on a frequent basis. Not even sure where I picked it up. Anyway, this site is great--another fantastic time-eating tool--they have tons of other profiles and quizzes. Knock yourself out!
Friday, April 22, 2005
More ways to kill time...
First we brought you Artpad.com. Now we draw your attention to the little button in the upper right-hand corner of the screen that says "Next Blog." It's been there since the day I started my blog, but I'd never clicked it until last night. It turns out there's no official "next blog;" it's not like they're in some particular sequence or anything. It just brings you to some other blogger.com blog. Once you're there, you click it again...and again...and again...and see all the bizarre and unreadable (because they're in Japanese, or Dutch, or Spanish, or whatever) blogs that the cybervillage has come up with. I had no idea how international blogger.com was until I saw all the non-English blogs out there; kind of eye-opening. Although, I suppose some of them could have been written by Americans; no reason they should give up their native language when they get here. Anyway, it was really kind of fascinating. Found one by a principal of a Seventh Day Adventist school who posted all the goofy things kids say (rasberries.blogspot.com, I believe) that had me laughing out loud. Found some rather disturbing ones; some really boring ones, and a lot of company ones, which was interesting. Never thought of using a blog for business. A lot of teachers, too, using them to update parents on classroom stuff; wish I'd thought of that back in the day.
Anyway, give it a shot and see what you get. But just so you know, if you hit the back button on your browser, it won't take you to the blog you just saw, it'll take you back to the blog you started on. So, like, if you deliberately come here, and then click the "next blog" five times, then hit the back button, it'll bring you back here. So make sure you're really done looking before moving on, or you may never find it again. (Although in some cases, that's a good thing.)
Anyway, give it a shot and see what you get. But just so you know, if you hit the back button on your browser, it won't take you to the blog you just saw, it'll take you back to the blog you started on. So, like, if you deliberately come here, and then click the "next blog" five times, then hit the back button, it'll bring you back here. So make sure you're really done looking before moving on, or you may never find it again. (Although in some cases, that's a good thing.)
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Mother/daughter tag-team ministering
I'm such a numbskull. I forgot to blog about the coolest part of my day.
THis morning my mom and I spoke to over 100 women who are "spiritually mismatched" in their marriages--married to unbelieving husbands. I was a little unclear as to what I could share--they wanted my perspective, having lived in a family where my parents were unequally yoked, as the lingo goes, but I was only 4 when Mom became a Christian and Dad started his spiritual journey, so it's not like I have a whole lot of vivid memories to share. But the woman hosting the breakfast said that, since my book deals with that kind of relationship, too, she thought I might have something unique to add to the morning. Despite being clueless about what I'd actually say once I got there, I accepted the invitation, because they also wanted me to bring my book to sell, and how can I turn that down?
Well, the breakfast was awesome. God totally spoke through my mom--she's such an introvert that speaking to 20 people can completely rattle her, much less 100. But once the interview started, it was like she does this kind of thing all the time. Not a single "uh" or "um" out of her the whole time. And I used to always think that she and I were equally emotional, but she didn't cry the whole time--got teary-eyed, yes, but didn't choke up. I, on the other hand, was biting my tongue to keep from crying while she talked, and once it was my turn to answer questions, I managed to get to within 3 words of the end of my response before I lost it. And truly, I didn't feel at all inspired; I doubted I'd said anything noteworthy the whole five minutes I talked. But at the end a lot of women came up and thanked me, even when my mom wasn't right there next to me making them feel like, "Well, if I thank Leslie, I really should thank Alison, too." And then we sold our books--mom co-wrote "Surviving A Spiritual Mismatch in Marriage" with my dad a few years back--and signed them for the women, and in the end I sold more than she did. :) 'Course that's probably because the majority of them women already had Mom's book. But still!
I may have even gotten a second speaking gig out of it. One of the leaders of the women's ministry that hosted the event asked if I'd consider speaking to the women at the college ministry. Not sure what on exactly, but she said she'd have one of the leaders from that ministry give me a call. I'm really excited about that. I'm finding that I really love to give talks, and honestly, I think I'm really good at it. Part of that whole teaching thing, I guess. And the head of the women's ministry--the woman that invited my mom and I, and who is actually a really good friend of Mom's--wants to meet with me for coffee next week because she wants to kind of mentor me in this whole speaking thing. How cool is that? Kinda funny how Dad used speaking as a springboard for his writing, and I'm using my writing (limited as it is so far) as a springboard for my speaking. It'll be interesting to see what the next couple years bring for me in these arenas....
THis morning my mom and I spoke to over 100 women who are "spiritually mismatched" in their marriages--married to unbelieving husbands. I was a little unclear as to what I could share--they wanted my perspective, having lived in a family where my parents were unequally yoked, as the lingo goes, but I was only 4 when Mom became a Christian and Dad started his spiritual journey, so it's not like I have a whole lot of vivid memories to share. But the woman hosting the breakfast said that, since my book deals with that kind of relationship, too, she thought I might have something unique to add to the morning. Despite being clueless about what I'd actually say once I got there, I accepted the invitation, because they also wanted me to bring my book to sell, and how can I turn that down?
Well, the breakfast was awesome. God totally spoke through my mom--she's such an introvert that speaking to 20 people can completely rattle her, much less 100. But once the interview started, it was like she does this kind of thing all the time. Not a single "uh" or "um" out of her the whole time. And I used to always think that she and I were equally emotional, but she didn't cry the whole time--got teary-eyed, yes, but didn't choke up. I, on the other hand, was biting my tongue to keep from crying while she talked, and once it was my turn to answer questions, I managed to get to within 3 words of the end of my response before I lost it. And truly, I didn't feel at all inspired; I doubted I'd said anything noteworthy the whole five minutes I talked. But at the end a lot of women came up and thanked me, even when my mom wasn't right there next to me making them feel like, "Well, if I thank Leslie, I really should thank Alison, too." And then we sold our books--mom co-wrote "Surviving A Spiritual Mismatch in Marriage" with my dad a few years back--and signed them for the women, and in the end I sold more than she did. :) 'Course that's probably because the majority of them women already had Mom's book. But still!
I may have even gotten a second speaking gig out of it. One of the leaders of the women's ministry that hosted the event asked if I'd consider speaking to the women at the college ministry. Not sure what on exactly, but she said she'd have one of the leaders from that ministry give me a call. I'm really excited about that. I'm finding that I really love to give talks, and honestly, I think I'm really good at it. Part of that whole teaching thing, I guess. And the head of the women's ministry--the woman that invited my mom and I, and who is actually a really good friend of Mom's--wants to meet with me for coffee next week because she wants to kind of mentor me in this whole speaking thing. How cool is that? Kinda funny how Dad used speaking as a springboard for his writing, and I'm using my writing (limited as it is so far) as a springboard for my speaking. It'll be interesting to see what the next couple years bring for me in these arenas....
Babies, babies everywhere
I co-hosted a shower today for a friend who's due in about a month. Lots of my friends from my teaching days were there, as the mother-to-be was one of us back in the day, so it was particularly fun because we so rarely see each other all at once.
The shower had basically ended, but all we teachers had congregated in the family room where it was more cozy, and were just chatting. Of the six of us in there, four were pregnant. Julie, the woman we were partying for, was obviously the soonest. But then someone said, "Okay, when's everyone's due dates?" And it went: August, September, October. Then one of them, who's been trying, said, "If I am, then I'll be due in December." And November stuck out like a big black hole in the calendar. The month I would have become a mom.
It's a good thing that there never really was a baby in there, because I can't imagine how wrecked I'd be if there had been, given how I can't seem to let this go. Another friend of mine, who miscarried twice before having her first, made a really good point about how the HOPE that is involved in being pregnant is what makes it so devastating when you lose the pregnancy. Your hopes get elevated to an astonishing degree, just sky-high and within an arm's reach of heaven, and then suddenly you're plummeted back to earth and the landing is not at all soft.
I started a journal the day I got my positive test, and recorded all my thoughts, and symptoms (very short list since I hardly had any), the people I told each day about the pregnancy, and I finally threw it away the other day. It was a bit liberating, getting rid of the physical evidence of the hope that had been decimated. Like finally getting rid of the trinkets an old boyfriend gave you years ago, or mementos from years past that conjure the choices you wish you hadn't made. But I can't help thinking that, the next time I get to start that kind of journal, all the excitement will be out of it, because it won't be the first time, and every time I write in it I'll wonder if this journal will last longer than a month.
I checked my new prayer book to see if it had a miscarriage prayer. It doesn't. I wish it did. I need new words.
The shower had basically ended, but all we teachers had congregated in the family room where it was more cozy, and were just chatting. Of the six of us in there, four were pregnant. Julie, the woman we were partying for, was obviously the soonest. But then someone said, "Okay, when's everyone's due dates?" And it went: August, September, October. Then one of them, who's been trying, said, "If I am, then I'll be due in December." And November stuck out like a big black hole in the calendar. The month I would have become a mom.
It's a good thing that there never really was a baby in there, because I can't imagine how wrecked I'd be if there had been, given how I can't seem to let this go. Another friend of mine, who miscarried twice before having her first, made a really good point about how the HOPE that is involved in being pregnant is what makes it so devastating when you lose the pregnancy. Your hopes get elevated to an astonishing degree, just sky-high and within an arm's reach of heaven, and then suddenly you're plummeted back to earth and the landing is not at all soft.
I started a journal the day I got my positive test, and recorded all my thoughts, and symptoms (very short list since I hardly had any), the people I told each day about the pregnancy, and I finally threw it away the other day. It was a bit liberating, getting rid of the physical evidence of the hope that had been decimated. Like finally getting rid of the trinkets an old boyfriend gave you years ago, or mementos from years past that conjure the choices you wish you hadn't made. But I can't help thinking that, the next time I get to start that kind of journal, all the excitement will be out of it, because it won't be the first time, and every time I write in it I'll wonder if this journal will last longer than a month.
I checked my new prayer book to see if it had a miscarriage prayer. It doesn't. I wish it did. I need new words.
For the traditionalist in me
Dan and I were at Barnes & Noble today. I was perusing the Christian section in search of nothing in particular, just scanning the shelves to see if my eye caught anything interesting. And it did. A little red book, hardbound, with the simple title, "My Daily Prayer Book." I opened it to see if I could find any denominational label, then scanned the table of contents to see what all it had. And the more I saw, the more excited I got. Prayers for each morning and evening, prayers for each new week, prayers for each holiday and for special circumstances. I flipped through to skim some of the prayers, and that clinched it. And it was less then $10 with tax.
It kills me that prayer is such an issue with me. I know better than to think anything will be a quick fix, but if nothing else, this will help me to ground my ever-spastic mind while I pray, and guide me beyond the cookie-cutter prayers I tend to pray every day.
It kills me that prayer is such an issue with me. I know better than to think anything will be a quick fix, but if nothing else, this will help me to ground my ever-spastic mind while I pray, and guide me beyond the cookie-cutter prayers I tend to pray every day.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Revelation
I was lying in bed last night, praying, when I had a revelation. I'm not sure if I can put it into words, which isn't good when you're a writer, but in a nutshell, I realized that God is....big.
Now, before you say, "Duh!" here's the thing. Of course I know God is "big," in the sense that he's all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-everything but what's bad, and that gives Him a certain "big" stature to us. We don't imagine someone with all that God is being 4'9". But I think that I've "known" God for so long that He stopped being big to me. When I pictured Him I inadvertantly pictured the Jesus aspect of Him, and that shrank Him to human size in my mind. What's that line from the Genie in the Disney "Aladdin" movie, something about the biggest power in the universe, in a itty-bitty living space. He was kind of like that to me. Lots of power, small package that I could get my head around. But then last night, as I was praying, I got this sudden vision of God being like the sun: so big that, even millions of miles away, He's huge in the sky.
It's a bit like the concept of love. We toss the word around so much that, by the time you find yourself faced with a person you really and truly LOVE with all the facets that the concept entails, the word dribbles, powerless, off your tongue. Suddenly this word that should cause you to swell with emotion, to melt with pleasure, has no more oomph to it than the plainest, most ordinary word in the language, and even though the concept behind it is so intense, you have no way to convey it. So you say it over and over, thinking maybe you can pile it up and increase its potency, but instead you're just exacerbating the problem. Soon you've said it so much it's lost all meaning.
I think that's what happened to me and God. After 23 years of faith, after thousands of Sunday school stories and youth group meetings and Bible studies, God became commonplace. The idea of God creating the universe--did you hear me? CREATING THE FREAKING UNIVERSE-- held no more mystery or majesty. The fact that He managed to multiply two fish and three loaves of bread to feed more than 5 times as many people as attend my church is about as awe-inspiring to me as the fact that dirt plus water equals mud. How pathetic.
So anyway...I'm lying in bed, praying, and suddenly I saw Him staring down at me, patiently listening to my prattling, and I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by His existence. Overwhelmed by His strength. Overwhelmed by the privilege I have to speak directly to Him. This gigantic, enormous, massive power, this God that can speak solar systems into place and call all the stars by name and keep track of every sparrow all at the same time...this God sees me, hears me, listens to me, and speaks to me. And I, miracle of miracles, am allowed to see, hear, listen, and speak back.
Oh yeah, and He loves me, too. Me. Loves me.
Oh boy. Slow down. One mind-bending concept at a time...
Now, before you say, "Duh!" here's the thing. Of course I know God is "big," in the sense that he's all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-everything but what's bad, and that gives Him a certain "big" stature to us. We don't imagine someone with all that God is being 4'9". But I think that I've "known" God for so long that He stopped being big to me. When I pictured Him I inadvertantly pictured the Jesus aspect of Him, and that shrank Him to human size in my mind. What's that line from the Genie in the Disney "Aladdin" movie, something about the biggest power in the universe, in a itty-bitty living space. He was kind of like that to me. Lots of power, small package that I could get my head around. But then last night, as I was praying, I got this sudden vision of God being like the sun: so big that, even millions of miles away, He's huge in the sky.
It's a bit like the concept of love. We toss the word around so much that, by the time you find yourself faced with a person you really and truly LOVE with all the facets that the concept entails, the word dribbles, powerless, off your tongue. Suddenly this word that should cause you to swell with emotion, to melt with pleasure, has no more oomph to it than the plainest, most ordinary word in the language, and even though the concept behind it is so intense, you have no way to convey it. So you say it over and over, thinking maybe you can pile it up and increase its potency, but instead you're just exacerbating the problem. Soon you've said it so much it's lost all meaning.
I think that's what happened to me and God. After 23 years of faith, after thousands of Sunday school stories and youth group meetings and Bible studies, God became commonplace. The idea of God creating the universe--did you hear me? CREATING THE FREAKING UNIVERSE-- held no more mystery or majesty. The fact that He managed to multiply two fish and three loaves of bread to feed more than 5 times as many people as attend my church is about as awe-inspiring to me as the fact that dirt plus water equals mud. How pathetic.
So anyway...I'm lying in bed, praying, and suddenly I saw Him staring down at me, patiently listening to my prattling, and I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by His existence. Overwhelmed by His strength. Overwhelmed by the privilege I have to speak directly to Him. This gigantic, enormous, massive power, this God that can speak solar systems into place and call all the stars by name and keep track of every sparrow all at the same time...this God sees me, hears me, listens to me, and speaks to me. And I, miracle of miracles, am allowed to see, hear, listen, and speak back.
Oh yeah, and He loves me, too. Me. Loves me.
Oh boy. Slow down. One mind-bending concept at a time...
Saturday, April 09, 2005
***insert monosyllabic grunt here***
taxes done. three hours. brain hurts. jaw aches--clenched teeth. deductions income forms publications receipts wages your-return-has-eight-errors why-can't-i-find-the-dmv-payment-for-my-car congratulations-you-are-done. 24 pages printed. 12:30 AM. must sleep.
zzzzzzzzzzz....
zzzzzzzzzzz....
Friday, April 08, 2005
Say that again?
Have you ever thought you knew the lyrics to a song, then found out the real lyrics were completely different from what you thought they were? And the funny thing is, your line makes complete sense to you in the context of the song; it's not like, "Gosh, I don't see where this is coming from, but I guess that's what he's singing!" This happened to me recently with a new worship song. I can't remember where I first heard it, but it was somewhere where I didn't have the lyrics in front of me, so when the chorus came I heard, "Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, your love makes me stay." And I was like, Wow. That is a cool, cool line. Not the kickbacks of being a follower, not the fire insurance aspect of it, but God's love, the full-on 1 Corinthians 13, love-is-patient-love-is-kind kind of love that God has for us, with all its incredible facets and strength. Because, honestly, there are some times when there's very little else keeping me there, you know? But anyway, then the next time I heard the song, the lyrics were there, and I nearly cried with disappointment because I found out the line was "Your love makes me sing." Now, I've got nothing against singing--I'm quite fond of it, in fact, as my friends will tell you--but the line just didn't strike a chord with me the way my version did. So now, when I sing it, I sing my line instead. :)
Now this should be fun. What song lyrics have you misunderstood in the past? You know, there's a whole book of them, called "'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy,"which was the author's version of Jimi Hendrix's line, "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky." My dad got it to use as a sermon illustration one time, and I'm not kidding, I was laughing my butt off at some of them. So anyway, please post them, and tell us if you prefer your version or the original.
Now this should be fun. What song lyrics have you misunderstood in the past? You know, there's a whole book of them, called "'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy,"which was the author's version of Jimi Hendrix's line, "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky." My dad got it to use as a sermon illustration one time, and I'm not kidding, I was laughing my butt off at some of them. So anyway, please post them, and tell us if you prefer your version or the original.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Death and Taxes
April 15th is looming large, and we've still yet to do our taxes. We're a last-minute bunch, I'll admit. I have managed to get my patootie down to Staples to get this year's Turbo Tax programs, and I just finished about an hour of receipt sorting and classification of documents so that, once we crack open those programs, we'll be all set to go. Last year we were so proud of ourselves for wading through it all--I'd used H & R Block or something similar for the previous years, and Dan's were always so easy he could just telefile with the easy form--and then we completely forgot to sign the silly printouts and include our W-2 forms. I totally freaked when we got a letter from the IRS a few weeks later. Nothing like those three little letter to strike terror in the heart of good citizens.
It's truly unbelievable how many receipts and write-offs one can rack up as a writer. The bummer is that, while I can write off tall these great things--printer ink, my computer, novels I buy, the drinks I buy at the coffeeshops when I go there to write--I hardly ever have the money to buy them in the first place. Like they say, takes money to save money.
I started working with a direct sales business in December of 2003 called Cookie Lee (corporate guidelines prohibit me from linking you there, but it's cookielee.com if you want to check it out), so last year was my full year of business, and sadly, I did not plan well for tax season. I was shocked, though, to see what my sales were--way more than I'd anticipated. Still, given all the money I poured into it, I could probably have claimed a loss if I'd better tracked things like mileage. But who am I kidding to think I'd ever keep track of little piddly things like mileage when I can barely keep track of the keys needed to drive the dang car? This year I managed to stay really, really organized--until about two weeks ago. Now there are receipts and stuff everywhere, and the little slips of paper I wrote milage and toll fees and postal costs on are who-knows-where. How I wish I'd gotten my mother's organizational gene. Apparently the "disorganized" and "writer" genes are on the same chromosome, inextricably tied together. Thankfully Mom's genetic contribution watered down my dad's--otherwise I'd have lost my husband under all the clutter by now.
So now my brain hurts. Too much thinking, too much math. I have my freshly-signed Jodi Picoult novel waiting to be read, so I'd better go indulge it and rest the part of my head that deals with taxes. Otherwise I may exhaust it end up forgetting to send them altogether this year.
It's truly unbelievable how many receipts and write-offs one can rack up as a writer. The bummer is that, while I can write off tall these great things--printer ink, my computer, novels I buy, the drinks I buy at the coffeeshops when I go there to write--I hardly ever have the money to buy them in the first place. Like they say, takes money to save money.
I started working with a direct sales business in December of 2003 called Cookie Lee (corporate guidelines prohibit me from linking you there, but it's cookielee.com if you want to check it out), so last year was my full year of business, and sadly, I did not plan well for tax season. I was shocked, though, to see what my sales were--way more than I'd anticipated. Still, given all the money I poured into it, I could probably have claimed a loss if I'd better tracked things like mileage. But who am I kidding to think I'd ever keep track of little piddly things like mileage when I can barely keep track of the keys needed to drive the dang car? This year I managed to stay really, really organized--until about two weeks ago. Now there are receipts and stuff everywhere, and the little slips of paper I wrote milage and toll fees and postal costs on are who-knows-where. How I wish I'd gotten my mother's organizational gene. Apparently the "disorganized" and "writer" genes are on the same chromosome, inextricably tied together. Thankfully Mom's genetic contribution watered down my dad's--otherwise I'd have lost my husband under all the clutter by now.
So now my brain hurts. Too much thinking, too much math. I have my freshly-signed Jodi Picoult novel waiting to be read, so I'd better go indulge it and rest the part of my head that deals with taxes. Otherwise I may exhaust it end up forgetting to send them altogether this year.
Oh, the agony of defeat
Well, I did everything in my power. My family was making fun of my cheering because I was going so nuts. But, alas, it was all for naught: my poor Fighting Illini didn't quite fight hard enough against the Tar Heels and that's the end of that.
Until next season.....
Until next season.....
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Hail to the orange, hail to the blue...
Okay, so my team is in the NCAA final championship game. This is unheard of for the University of Illinois--we're usually pretty good, but not this good! Having graduated in '99, there's not a soul left there that is even remotely familiar to me, although to be honest I was never that keyed into the sport scene when I was there. All my friends were band nerds, though, so I'm used to seeing the familiar faces in the trombone or trumpet section. This is one of the few times I really wish I was still back in Chicago. There would be a lot more people to celebrate with.
Being part of these mass events is one of the things I miss most about college. I loved being a part of something huge. I loved Thursday nights in my dorm, knowing every other TV on the floor was tuned to NBC at 7:00 when "Friends" came on. (The entire floor screamed in unison when Ross and Rachel kissed for the first time.) I loved Saturday mornings in the fall when the football team had a home game; I'd join the throng and march with the band from the Armory to the stadium and go crazy during the pre-game show. (Gotta love band friends--they got two tickets to each game, so I never missed one.) I loved whatever day it was that The Onion came out and everyone was walking on the Quad with their face buried in the newspaper. And I especially loved singing "Loyalty" at the end of the football halftime show, arms around each other's shoulders, swaying and singing, The Chief standing proud with his arms outstretched in the center of the field. (Yes, I supported The Chief; still have the t-shirt.)
So tomorrow I'll just have to fake it. I'll don my Illinois wear, I'll pretend I'm in the dorm, ten floors up above Green Street, leaning against the bunkbeds as I sit on the floor staring at my roommate's 20 inch TV, instead of sitting on the couch in my parents' California living room. I'll pretend the shouts of "I-L-L...I-N-I!" can be heard in the street below and that the sidewalks on the Quad, filled with blue and orange chalk drawings, are just a five minute walk away instead of a five hour plane trip. I'll pretend that I'm still 20 years old and that my biggest worry is midterms and not paying the mortgage. And when its halftime, I'll embarrass my husband and sing "Loyalty" at the top of my lungs.
Hail to the orange, hail to the blue,
Hail, Alma Mater, ever so true! (So tru-ue...)
We love no other, so let our motto be,
'Victory!...Illinois...Var-si-tyyyyy!"
GO ILLINI!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Being part of these mass events is one of the things I miss most about college. I loved being a part of something huge. I loved Thursday nights in my dorm, knowing every other TV on the floor was tuned to NBC at 7:00 when "Friends" came on. (The entire floor screamed in unison when Ross and Rachel kissed for the first time.) I loved Saturday mornings in the fall when the football team had a home game; I'd join the throng and march with the band from the Armory to the stadium and go crazy during the pre-game show. (Gotta love band friends--they got two tickets to each game, so I never missed one.) I loved whatever day it was that The Onion came out and everyone was walking on the Quad with their face buried in the newspaper. And I especially loved singing "Loyalty" at the end of the football halftime show, arms around each other's shoulders, swaying and singing, The Chief standing proud with his arms outstretched in the center of the field. (Yes, I supported The Chief; still have the t-shirt.)
So tomorrow I'll just have to fake it. I'll don my Illinois wear, I'll pretend I'm in the dorm, ten floors up above Green Street, leaning against the bunkbeds as I sit on the floor staring at my roommate's 20 inch TV, instead of sitting on the couch in my parents' California living room. I'll pretend the shouts of "I-L-L...I-N-I!" can be heard in the street below and that the sidewalks on the Quad, filled with blue and orange chalk drawings, are just a five minute walk away instead of a five hour plane trip. I'll pretend that I'm still 20 years old and that my biggest worry is midterms and not paying the mortgage. And when its halftime, I'll embarrass my husband and sing "Loyalty" at the top of my lungs.
Hail to the orange, hail to the blue,
Hail, Alma Mater, ever so true! (So tru-ue...)
We love no other, so let our motto be,
'Victory!...Illinois...Var-si-tyyyyy!"
GO ILLINI!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Books I'm reading
Went on a book rampage the other day. Haven't had anything to read in ages and really needed to fill up the fiction tank. Got seven books from the library, and am planning on purchasing the new Jodi Picoult because she's coming here to sign it next week and I want to bring it in. So I thought I'd share some of the titles I'd strongly suggest you check out:
Eric Wilson's book "Dark to Mortal Eyes" was unlike anything I'd ever read. Seriously. Now, I don't typically read the Ted Dekker, Dean Koontz type stuff, but Eric's a friend of mine, so I checked it out. WOW. I think he's created his own genre, and thankfully he's got a second one coming out in a month called "Expiration Date." I'm lucky and got to read an advanced copy of it, and all I can say is, this guy is creative. And, of course, a fantastic writer. Definitely check him out.
Anita Shreve's book, "The Pilot's Wife," was a one-day book: started it yesterday morning, finished it last night before bed. Very moving, very sad, very surprising. Loved it.
Lisa Samson's new one, "Tiger Lillie" was incredible. I swear, every book that woman releases is just gold. I can't wait for "Club Sandwich."
I started reading Dee Henderson's book "Truth Seeker" this morning. I read "The Healer" a few months back and really liked it, so I have high hopes for this one.
So what are you reading these days?
Eric Wilson's book "Dark to Mortal Eyes" was unlike anything I'd ever read. Seriously. Now, I don't typically read the Ted Dekker, Dean Koontz type stuff, but Eric's a friend of mine, so I checked it out. WOW. I think he's created his own genre, and thankfully he's got a second one coming out in a month called "Expiration Date." I'm lucky and got to read an advanced copy of it, and all I can say is, this guy is creative. And, of course, a fantastic writer. Definitely check him out.
Anita Shreve's book, "The Pilot's Wife," was a one-day book: started it yesterday morning, finished it last night before bed. Very moving, very sad, very surprising. Loved it.
Lisa Samson's new one, "Tiger Lillie" was incredible. I swear, every book that woman releases is just gold. I can't wait for "Club Sandwich."
I started reading Dee Henderson's book "Truth Seeker" this morning. I read "The Healer" a few months back and really liked it, so I have high hopes for this one.
So what are you reading these days?
Go kids, go...
Lisa Samson wrote a great blog on the youth of today. (Sounds stodgy but it's not, trust me; go read it.) She made a great point about how parents today limit their children's freedom so much. Once upon a time, summer meant taking off after breakfast and showing up somewhere around four-thirty in the afternoon, having filled the day with bike rides all over town, hours at the park, quick lunch at a friend's house, and who knows what else. Nowadays parents keep such close surveillance on their kids that they don't get to taste those same freedoms that we did.
Is this true everywhere, or just out here in SoCal? I mean, we have mountain lions and 45mph speed limits through the center of town and major streets absolutely everywhere, which is vastly different from the quiet neighborhood where I grew up and the pokey driving even on the main drag through town. But gosh, the miles I logged on my bike, riding to the park, riding to the library, riding to my friend Sara's house clear on the other side of town...no wonder I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. And it was so much FUN. That's the bottom line. Every day I got up I couldn't wait to see where I'd end up that day. And I just don't think our kids have that same feeling, because they know where they'll end up: the game room, the garage, the back yard, the front yard, or all those things at their friend's house. BORING.
When I was teaching, I saw this protection extend even further than just the physical parameters of kids' free-range areas. Parents were afraid to let their kids fail. Rather than treat a bad grade as an opportunity to learn from their mistakes (didn't study, didn't care, didn't write down the right page numbers to review, so now you've learned your lesson) parents acted like it was the end of the world and freaked out. (Start saving for the therapy now, folks!) I remember my first F. Math, second grade. Did the whole subtraction page in addition. Totally my fault; made an assumption and went with it instead of reading the direction. I got over it. Big deal. And I learned from it, lemme tell ya, because at 8 I was already very conscientious about my grades. Now when you write the letter F on a paper parents get mad at you for dashing their kids' self-esteem against the rocks. Like "32%" is any better.
Parents are also afraid to let their kids fall, both figuratively and physically. I've broken four bones in my body: wrist three times and thumb once. I've fallen out of a tree and sprained my ankle. I've fallen directly on my head and been knocked speechless. (Very weird experience--the words were totally in my head like I was saying them out loud, but my mouth wasn't working.) And everything still seems to be working as it should. But now parents are overly protective because heaven forbid little Johnny have to wear a cast for six weeks. Pul-leeze. You're the center of attention, people wanna sign your cast, it's great social exposure, and then you've got A Story. Kids today don't get stories because they're stuck inside playing SuperMario all day. Figuratively speaking, parents are afraid to let their kids "fall" as in "mess up." I used to tell my fifth grade parents at Back to School night every fall, "This is the year the straight A students will get a C or worse, and the year the angels will end up in detention. It happens. It's not the end of their world. These are excellent opportunities to help them learn from their mistakes, to show them you love them regardless, and to let them be human." And sure enough, the kid who had never "pulled a card" ended up pulling three and having to write an essay on respect. The kid who never got less than an A missed honor roll for the first time. And the kids who were okay with it were the kids whose parents said, "Wow, bummer, huh? What's up?" and not, "What happened!? Let me talk to your teacher about this...."
The plastic bubble is doing more harm than good. We've gotta find a way to let out kids out of the Habitrail and into the real world so they can learn to live their own lives and fend for themselves. I'm all for parental responsibility, but isn't part of our responsibility making sure our kids grow up with a healthy view of life?
Is this true everywhere, or just out here in SoCal? I mean, we have mountain lions and 45mph speed limits through the center of town and major streets absolutely everywhere, which is vastly different from the quiet neighborhood where I grew up and the pokey driving even on the main drag through town. But gosh, the miles I logged on my bike, riding to the park, riding to the library, riding to my friend Sara's house clear on the other side of town...no wonder I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. And it was so much FUN. That's the bottom line. Every day I got up I couldn't wait to see where I'd end up that day. And I just don't think our kids have that same feeling, because they know where they'll end up: the game room, the garage, the back yard, the front yard, or all those things at their friend's house. BORING.
When I was teaching, I saw this protection extend even further than just the physical parameters of kids' free-range areas. Parents were afraid to let their kids fail. Rather than treat a bad grade as an opportunity to learn from their mistakes (didn't study, didn't care, didn't write down the right page numbers to review, so now you've learned your lesson) parents acted like it was the end of the world and freaked out. (Start saving for the therapy now, folks!) I remember my first F. Math, second grade. Did the whole subtraction page in addition. Totally my fault; made an assumption and went with it instead of reading the direction. I got over it. Big deal. And I learned from it, lemme tell ya, because at 8 I was already very conscientious about my grades. Now when you write the letter F on a paper parents get mad at you for dashing their kids' self-esteem against the rocks. Like "32%" is any better.
Parents are also afraid to let their kids fall, both figuratively and physically. I've broken four bones in my body: wrist three times and thumb once. I've fallen out of a tree and sprained my ankle. I've fallen directly on my head and been knocked speechless. (Very weird experience--the words were totally in my head like I was saying them out loud, but my mouth wasn't working.) And everything still seems to be working as it should. But now parents are overly protective because heaven forbid little Johnny have to wear a cast for six weeks. Pul-leeze. You're the center of attention, people wanna sign your cast, it's great social exposure, and then you've got A Story. Kids today don't get stories because they're stuck inside playing SuperMario all day. Figuratively speaking, parents are afraid to let their kids "fall" as in "mess up." I used to tell my fifth grade parents at Back to School night every fall, "This is the year the straight A students will get a C or worse, and the year the angels will end up in detention. It happens. It's not the end of their world. These are excellent opportunities to help them learn from their mistakes, to show them you love them regardless, and to let them be human." And sure enough, the kid who had never "pulled a card" ended up pulling three and having to write an essay on respect. The kid who never got less than an A missed honor roll for the first time. And the kids who were okay with it were the kids whose parents said, "Wow, bummer, huh? What's up?" and not, "What happened!? Let me talk to your teacher about this...."
The plastic bubble is doing more harm than good. We've gotta find a way to let out kids out of the Habitrail and into the real world so they can learn to live their own lives and fend for themselves. I'm all for parental responsibility, but isn't part of our responsibility making sure our kids grow up with a healthy view of life?
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