Here is a list of things I bought today on my way home from work:


-a box of Pot of Gold chocolates

-a case of 30 fudge pops. For supper.

-a bag of Doritos

-a jar of salsa

-a case of Diet Pepsi Lime (yes, I too, am addicted to the racist pop. But it's OK cuz I'm over 18 so my kidneys can handle it. If you have no idea what I'm talking about read yesterdays post for clarification.)

-a bottle of Motrin

Aaaaaaaaaaand....


-a bottle of rat poisoning to sprinkle on Geoff's toast in the morning.

Just kidding about the rat poisoning. That stuff is not easy to find anymore, let me tell you.

Anyways.

That is all for now.

And in case you haven't gotten it yet, I'm feeling premenstrual and bloated and ick so good night and good riddance to this day.

It's that thing when

I'm very well schooled in feeling inadequate as a parent, but just in case you aren't, I'm going to define it for you. It's that thing when...

...When your daughter has a day off daycare and you have to take her to school by yourself. Having no idea what time Kindergarten actually starts at, and being unwilling to phone the school and ask "What time does school start?" midway through the school year, you arrive at twelve forty five, hoping for the best. You stand around for fifteen minutes. You feel relieved when other parents start trickling in, but then discover that they are part of some exclusive Kindergarten Club, and they huddle around each other discussing their kids various allergies and recipes for no nut banana nut loaf. (And I mean, honestly, I don't even know why you would need a recipe. JUST LEAVE THE NUTS OUT. Take whatever recipe you have and scratch out the part that says 'add 1/4 cup of walnuts' or whatever. Or don't even scratch it out if you don't want to. Just make a mental note of it.) But I think I was just feeling annoyed, because my kids don't even have any allergies, so I felt totally cheated. Like, what is wrong with them? Don't they know that I'd fit in better with the other parents if they could be allergic to something. Is it too much to ask. Anyways, I stood back, unsure at times whether I was in or out of the conversation. I nodded and chuckled at one parents comments.
Apparently I was out.
You know. It's that thing.

...When you take your toddler to your older child's ball game and a parent tells you that "no kid under 18 should drink black pop" when you let him take a sip of your Diet Coke. Apparently, she tells me, from her experience as a clerk on a dialysis unit, black pop causes renal failure. I wanted to tell her "well from my experience, as a NURSE, I see a lot of people DROP DEAD from being a FREAKING WHALE, lady. Which isn't entirely true because I haven't seen anyone drop dead, per se. But that doesn't mean there's not a correlation there. But I didn't say anything, because I try not to use my nursing powers for evil. I just smiled and nodded and thanked her for her information. I thought after that it would have been effective to tell her that I considered the remark to be racist and therefor offensive. Because you can always win any disagreement by saying that. They will pretty much apologize to you, NO MATTER WHAT.
Anyways, who cares, because you could see quite clearly that my kids were perfectly healthy. Alex was sitting there eating his carrot sticks and drinking his water.
And by carrot sticks I mean Cheezies.
And by water I mean banana Slushie.
Ya. It's that thing.

....When you go to Wal Mart to buy a side rail for your babies toddler bed and then find out that they cost SIXTY fricking dollars. I try to remember something, ANYTHING, from my high school physics class. Force times velocity times something something. What I'm trying to discern is "how bad, exactly, could he get hurt if he fell?" Cuz, see, the beds only about a foot from the ground, and the carpet is a deep pile. Plus we usually have some blankets and/or clothes on the floor. So even though I'm not very good at Physics, and I couldn't produce the exact formula that I used to arrive at my conclusion, I conclude that, in the scheme of things, he really couldn't get hurt that bad.
And so ya. It's that thing as well, as you lead your kid away and buy him a Popsicle instead.

Rejection

Rejection can be difficult, which is a bad understatement. Maybe even more so than this: "Childbirth may be uncomfortable."

Let me see how many rejections I have to date: 20

Well, that plus literally every agency in Canada.

Which sounds pretty bad but there are only like seven agencies in Canada who rep. my genre so it really isn't that bad. And one of those rejections was on the full manuscript, so at least I got somewhere. But alas, apparently in Canada we are freaking serious about our books. I might have had better luck if my genre was "a brief history of the floundering flounder industry in Nova Scotia during 1993-1999", although I'm pretty sure that's not a genre, strictly speaking. But in any event, for some reason I am ill inclined to write about that.

And yes, I am inclined to use the term 'ill inclined', since I used it as well in my last post.


Anyways. Today I got an email from an agency, which was another one of those "you forgot to send your sample pages" (Really, Randine?? Really??) Although, in my defense- once again, an ambiguous website and my philosophy is when in doubt- query only. Sending sample pages is a formatting problem and if I don't think I need to send them then I don't.) So that was a releif. At least it wasn't rejection.
Yet.

But there's always a moment where I see the message in my inbox, where I'm both hopeful and terrified. Today, in that instant, I wondered what I was really so afraid of??

Another rejection?

Well, kind of, I guess, but not really.

Sometimes I think that I'm just as afraid of success as I am of rejectin. It means putting myself out there and making myself (and my work) vulnerable. Not to mention the amount of work that goes into editing and revisions and then of course, the next book. But I guess I'll just cross that bridge when I get there.
If I get there.
No.
Let's say when and leave it at that, in keeping with my new favorite slogan "What would Donald Trump Do" which I stole, blatanly, from this website: http://jennybent.blogspot.com/

And by the way- I know nothing of the flounder market conditions so please don't quote me on that. So far as I know, it is flourishing.
But don't quote me on that, either.

A Conversation With Geoff

Geoff: "Why is it always so hot in the house when I get home from work?"

Me: "Because I turn the air conditioner off after you fall asleep at night, and leave it off until we get home from work."

Geoff: Heavy silence

Uh-oh. This shit's about to get heavy.

Me: "Well. It's just that you know that when the kids are sleeping they kick off their blankies and then I wonder if they're toes are getting cold and maybe even turning purple a little bit, so then since it's not like it's hot outside, I turn off the A/C off. And since we're gone at work all day, I figure we don't really need it. And besides that, it's only 24 degrees outside, which isn't even that hot."

Geoff (forced calm): "Yes, but the problem is that the house doesn't really cool off until bed time."

Me: "Which is perfect because that's when it really counts. And it's a money thing. You're the one who always says that we should save money."

Geoff: "Just. Don't. Touch. The A/C. If you get cold, you can put a sweater on. If I get hot, I can't put a sweater on."

Me: "Well, technically, you could, but I think it would be kind of a stupid thing to do. It would only make you hotter. Which would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it??"

Geoff: Evil Glare.

Me: "Don't judge me. You don't know me. I just killed six mosquitoes tonight. In self defense. Possibly seven. I don't really know. That seventh one, he was just kind of hanging on. I actually kind of feel bad for him now. I messed him up but good."

Geoff: Heavy sigh.
Of resignation.
BOOYA. I win, asshole. There is no come back for that shit.
Except for I kind of lose anyways, because I don't dare turn off the air conditioning anymore in the night.

Anyways. I finally got around to cleaning my floors this weekend, and I just have to say that the new Shark steam mop is the best thing since my dearly departed Slap Chop (RIP. It was good while it lasted. And while we're on the subject, I have a sneaking suspicion that Geoff broke it accidentally on purpose, on account of the fact that he was jealous of my relationship with Vince. Because I did love his nuts.)

Life's Too Short.

It's a cliche. I know, and I apologize for that. But it's true, and even though we hear it all the time, I don't think that it always sinks in the way it should.

In my job as a nurse I have the honor and the privilege of sharing with people in their lives. I still remember being a student and realizing for the first time the unique position I was in when a woman started crying. And not just tearing up. I mean full out, wracking, sobbing, snot all over the place kind of crying that you don't hardly ever see, even on TV. I mean, shit, people probably don't even cry that much for their psychotherapists. "I can't lose him," she said of her husband, who lay in the bed connected to oxygen and tubing and pumps. I wondered what made me qualified to bear witness to this. I was a first year nursing student. I wasn't married myself. I hadn't had much heart ache or tragedy in my own life. I had never met this woman before. I didn't know what to say or do. But that didn't matter. At least not to her.

And sometimes, seven years later, I still don't know what to say. But what I've learned since then is that sometimes the only comfort you can give is your physical presence. There are no words. And sometimes that can be okay.
Anyways, seeing people at their most vulnerable had always left me feeling very humbled.
Today at work I had a similar experience. I cannot write about it, because I could sued, and/or fired. But what I can say, and what I will say, is that life's too fucking short.
It's too short to complain about your neighbors lawn.
It's too short to worry about that five pounds you've been meaning to lose.
It's too short to work overtime on the weekends just to pay off some stupid bill from some stupid store. (Although you should get round to paying them at some point. They really do seem ill inclined to philosophical discussions about the brevity of life. Trust me. I mean, they might, might - indulge you, depending on who you talk to- Vic from Capital One is really nice if you can get him ever-- and listen to you for a little while, but all they seem to care about, from what I can tell, is getting their money and getting it now. Motherfuckers)

Anyways. Here is a list of what I did on the weekend:

-went to a Tom Petty concert.
-passed out at a Tom Petty concert
-slept in on Saturday morning (well, tried to. Geoff and I have differing views on what the term "waking up with the kids" means.)
-Took my kids out for lunch (well, and the dentist, but that's OK cuz they like the dentist. Well, sort of. They did get laughing gas, so that makes it fun.)
-Went to my cousins 3rd birthday party
-Made a big breakfast for my family on Sunday
-Had a picnic in the park with my kids
-Rode the merry go round and choo choo with my baby (he didn't like it, and frankly, looked kind of terrified at the prospect, but that's not the point here.)
-Took my kids swimming
-Celebrated Fathers day with my husband
-Took a long bath at the end of the day.
-Sat on the deck and read a book.

Here's a list of what I didn't do:
-Clean my bathrooms
-Wash my windows
-Get caught up on my laundry (I did put a dent in it, though.)
-Mop my floors
-Worry about work
-Go grocery shopping (we ordered pizza on Monday, went to a community BBQ last night. Tonight we're kinda screwed but we'll deal with that later.)

My bathroom is in a bit of a shamble, but I'm OK with that, barring that no visiting dignitaries decide to pop by. The chances of that, I have to assume, are slim. I have always asked myself "what will my kids remember most when I'm gone?" Will they remember "She always kept the floors really, really clean" or will they remember "She played in the sprinkler with us on her days off"
What do I want them to remember?
And of course, it's always going to be the latter.
Always.
So enjoy your day today, whoever you are.

I received this (sort of) rejection letter today:

Dear Ms. Sorowski.
Thank you for reaching out to me. I do ask that a sample accompany all queries. Please feel free to resubmit.

First of all- I'm surprised that this isn't a straight out rejection, since I evidently failed to read their submission criteria properly, or even at all, possibly, for all she knows. I'd probably reject myself on that basis alone. Although in my defense, on their website they say "we do not accept unsolicited material", and I thought that meant sample pages, maybe. I didn't know.
And then I thought, wow, I really like the tone of this- "thank you for reaching out to me."

But then I thought- shit. What did I send her, exactly?? Did I somehow, inadvertently, drunkenly, send her the draft of my suicide letter??
Just kidding.
There is no draft.
I just plan on winging it when the time comes. Off the cuff. More real that way. More raw.
Anyways.
That is all for now.

TMI: How much is too much?

Again, I have been thinking about this blog and how much of myself I should share on here. Instinctively, being an open person, I want to share it all- the good, the bad and the ugly. Although, mostly the bad and the ugly, because frankly, it just seems more interesting than the good. And also, at this point, it seems to outweigh the good by about four to one, so...

A similar issue has come up at work. Yesterday a co worker of mine suggested that I might consider moving my pictures of my kids to the staff room, or some other such neutral territory. Because "You don't really want the patients to look at your kids, do you?"

Uhm.
Well, actually, yes.
I think it's kind of nice for them to see that I'm a mother as well. They often ask about my kids, how old they are, etc. It invites conversation, establishes common ground, helps build rapport. I know that it kind of blurs the boundaries a bit, but I think that sometimes blurred boundaries are good.
Mind you- not sleeping with your patients blurred. More like wearing jeans to work on Fridays blurred.
The point is that I don't want to come across a starched and sterile nurse who is virtually unapproachable. I want to try to make the interaction casual and comfortable, not like "I'm the expert here. I can ask about you but you can't ask about me."

Although I did think that one patient took it too far when he asked if all my kids had the same father. First of all: what kind of a question is that? Why would you ever ask that of someone. Anyone. And secondly: even if the answer were no, I'm pretty sure I would lie to you about it. You wouldn't exactly be the person I would confide in.
That, I thought, would be TMI to share with a patient.
Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that there is a fine line between exposing just enough of yourself to endear yourself to others, and exposing so much that you alienate them or overwhelm them or turn them into stalkers or what have you.

On a different note: I was thinking of sending a picture of my bedroom to this website: . shitmykidsruined.tumblr.com

The theme in my bedroom is Dora the Explorer turned crack whore. Dora toys are strewn about amidst general dissaray,carpets which were once white, or maybe (hopefully) off-white, with various stains- some biological substances, some unknown substances, candy wrappers and spatter of some sort on the walls.

But alas- they ruined my camera.
Isn't that ironic?

Hard to Genre-alize...

Did you see what I did just there?? It's like the word 'generalize,' but it's not.
Clever, isn't it??
Anyways, I have been having a hard time lately with ascribing a genre to my manuscript.
I have been calling a romantic comedy, which, strictly speaking, isn't exactly a genre.

It's all very confusing because, for example, some literary agencies say they do not represent romance. Personally, when I think of romance I think of this:



"Betsy, trembling, looked into Hugo's eyes- a deep sea of azure desire. They were imploring her to kiss him. Her heart thundered wildly as she pressed her fingertips to his lips- so perfectly sculpted they were."



This is not what I write. Well, except for that. But as a rule, this is not what I write, nor what I read. First of all, it sucks. Secondly- who puts their fingers to someone's lips before they kiss them? I think I would probably start laughing. Just me, maybe, but still. Thirdly, the one and only time my heart has ever 'thundered wildly' was the time that two stray Rottweilers chased me home. I dont' know what that says about me or the state of my marriage, but... Anyways, my book does not have any such scenes of cheesy melodrama. So when an agent says that they don't represent 'romance' I don't know whether my writing would fall under that umbrella or not. I mean, my definition of 'romance' is fairly narrow, but maybe theres is broader and includes all of it's sub genres?- romantic suspense, rom-com, paranormal romance.

I could also categorize my book as chic lit. Which is confusing as well- because there is also womens fiction. Some say they represent chic lit but not womens fiction or vise versa. My take on it is that 'chic lit' is lighter and breezier where 'women's fiction' tackles more serious issues. Although I am not exaclty sure.

I think I'm just going to call it commercial fiction.

Rough Day at the Office

I was having a pretty good day, up until about 3 pm.
A good day = no rejection letters.
Actually, it had been over 48 hours since my last rejection letter, which I was beginning to consider a lucky streak.
I know- pitiful.
When I first starting querying, the lack of responsiveness just drove me crazy. I thought I would rather get rejection than no response. A simple no. "Hell no" if you want. I don't care. But just answer me.

But then the rejection letters started to trickle in, and then pour.
Now I am actully pretty content with no response. No response means no rejection- although after a period of time goes by, you sort of have to take it as rejetion anyways. But still. It's not outright rejection, and in some ways, that seems kinder.
But when when I checked my inbox a few hours later: two rejection letters. Polite, courteous, to the point. But rejection all the same.
Rough day at the office for me.
But that's okay. One I had pretty much written off as rejection anyways, having not heard back from her for several weeks after my initial query.

Oh well. Life does go on.
And there are many more agents out there, and with my new and improved query (see it under the "Having Grace" tab, I think it kicks ass. I think if it were in prison all the other query letters would be its bitches.)
As another query tracker member said (wrote) to me "You'll going to get rejection, but don't let the rejection get you."

True dat.
Good night.

Creating an Online Presence

For some reason the term 'online presence' sounds vaguely menacing to me. Like it's some mystical, dark force that stalks the Internet at night... and... what? Destroy peoples crops on Facebook??
I think I have read too many Stephen King books.
But speaking of Facebook- I am getting so tired of my news feed constantly being about peoples farms, or fish tanks, or bistros or their high new score in Family Feud. I am also tired of uninspired status updates: "TGIF-LOL". I mean, yes, I am glad it's Friday, but why we're supposed to laugh out loud about it, I have no idea.
Even worse is the vague status update. Like "Today's the day. Fingers crossed."
No I'm not going to take the bait and ask. I didn't care about you when you sat behind me in tenth grade and I certainly don't care about you now.
I don't try very hard to be a nice Facebook friend.
But anyways. That's not the point.

The point is that literary agents recommend creating an online presence while trying to get published as an author. Which is good news because I already have one- in the form of this blog (such as it is). But the bad news is that they suggest that they keep your blog clean cut, strictly professional- as in-- no ranting about your husbands snoring or dogs vomiting, presumably.

They didn't expressly mention dog vomit, but I think from their tone it was implied.

But what, pray tell, is left for me to write about then?? I could write about the querying process, but honestly, I'd rather not go there. Not right now at least.

And so I pondered this.

I mean, I can see the point of keeping it clean and professional. I can. There are a lot of good things about that. And OK, maybe, in retrospect, not everyone needed to know that I had a (legitimate) concern about my husbands vasectomy when they told us that it would take twenty ejaculations before we were "all clear". My husband and I looked at each other, didn't say anything, but I think we were both doing the same frantic mental math and reaching the same conclusion-- that could take six months to a year!! And OK- maybe I shouldn't have rehashed that, being that it's now buried deep in this blogs archives, and maybe no one would have ever known about that unless they were totally looking for it. But that's my life. My real life and I don't think I should have to sugar coat it. Honestly, I don't really want to sugar coat. It's quite demanding- and yes, at the end of the day I go to bed TIRED, nothing more- but that's okay. That's the way it is sometimes when you have three kids, two of which sleep (part time) in your bed, pets, laundry, bills and a full time job to top it all off.
Well. That's how it is for me sometimes. I guess I shouldn't speak for everyone, but I am hoping that I am not alone in this. And I guess that's what compels me to write in the first place.
So, I probably won't change what I write about, but I will try to write more frequently.
The key word here- TRY.
We will see how it goes.

On a different note- Payton's wiggly tooth fell out today. Finally.
She was so excited, she came running at me full speed ahead with tooth in hand. It was a picturesque moment in time: her closing the distance between us, arms outstretched, smiling a wide, showy, toothless grin.
And then she tripped, sending the tooth careening across the lawn at the daycare. She was down and crying. I was down, searching for the tooth in the grass. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack, I thought.
But alas, I found it- that's the power of mothers. If it were Geoff, he probably would have thrown up his hands in defeat, saying "Well, we'll probably never find it now. But the tooth fairy will pay you double if you can't find it", which would have worked just as well, I suppose.
Now it is safely tucked away under her pillow, where we will await the tooth fairy's arrival.
Which means me, so I should be going.
Good night.

Karma Anyone??

On Friday I was tired. It had been a long day. A long week, I daresay.
The only thing I wanted to do was go home.
The last thing I wanted to do was stand outside in the rain, on a shabby street corner where, I was pretty sure- a drug deal was unfolding before me. But after a plea for a house call from a young mom on the brink of tears with no transportation and four teething kids, there I was, against my better judgement.
What are the chances, I wondered, as I pulled into someone else's parking spot, that this person would come home at this precise moment?
Slim, I thought, pulling in.
The parking lot for the entire low income complex was vacant, completely vacant (note- low income people not prone to expensive cars. Or any cars.) Hence, I chose a spot at random and hurried inside.
I felt warm and fuzzy, despite the drizzling rain, to be going above and beyond the call of duty. To be helping out a young mom.
Sort of like Dr. Quin, the medicine woman. Parking my trusty steed outside and entering the building to impart my wisdom (well, mainly my infant Tylenol samples) to a damsel in distress.

That feeling was short lived.
I emerged from the complex mere moments later to find a beat up Thunderbird parked right behind me, and I mean right behind me. I mean- you could fit maybe a pencil between our bumpers.
Maybe.
I looked around. I thought briefly about going into the apartment, maybe ringing up Mr. Thunderbirds comlex, but then decided against it.
What was I thinking??
That he woud come down, apologize for the misunderstanding and move his vehicle?? When he was probably up there cursing about me right at that very moment, probably hoping for it to come to blows? When I'm in the middle of gang cenral? Being a white girl with a slight frame and a pair of keys for a weapon, I didn't like my odds. And besides that- if a beat up Thunderbird doesn't spell raging testosterone, I don't know what does.

So I spent several minutes inching my way out of there, sweating it the whole time.
Karma, you bitch, I thought. Where are you now?? I did a good deed, you should have my back!
That's the last time I decide to do a favor for someone else.

But then a few days later, I saw another client from work at Safeway. She smiled sheepishly at me, the way clients to when I see them out of context. She commented shyly "you have cute kids," remarking on my Payton and Alex.
And then, suddenly, I felt better.
I realized, truly, it doesn't take very much to make someone's day, or weekend. Or break it.
So pay it forward people, not backwards.

Which pitch??

All right, reader participation day.
I have been sending out query letters to agencies with disappointing results. I have revised it to play up the rom-com angle (that's romantic comedy for those of you not in the biz. Not that I'm in the biz, either. I'm so far out of the biz that I'm...well, actually I'm not sure where I was going with that particular metaphor. But you get the point. Anyways.)
Let me know which version you like better:
Pretend you are at a book store reading the back cover of a book. Which pitch appeals to you most:

Pitch A

Dear (Agent),

A flutist, a mediator and a controversial birth plan figure into this plot about a young woman who acts as a surrogate mother for her boss. Kristina Hoffman, 23, finds herself wading in a mountain of credit card debt after a break up with her fiance. Her boss, surly and tempermental Cynthia Jacobson is facing a crisis of her own: infertility. When Kristina learns of her boss's desire to hire a surrogate, she ponders the question: what's a mere forty weeks in the scheme of things?

As she learns, forty weeks can be a long time indeed.
Cynthia, difficult at the best of times becomes all out neurotic in the role of mom to be: demanding a coffee ban, strict bed rest, random drug screens and a natural childbirth.
And then when Mr. Right enters the picture at precisely the wrong point in time, it begs the question: can true love really conquer all. Even an ever expanding waist line and extreme irritability?

Having Grace, a romantic comedy, is complete at 80,000 words and available upon request.
Thank your for your time.

OR,

Pitch B

Kristina Hoffman, 23, is single and pregnant by choice. Spending most of her days either vomiting or in bed, or a combination of both, she isn't exactly looking for romance. But romance comes looking for her when sweet and sexy PhD candidate Devon Miller moves in next door. Initially, she is forced to to stand on the sidelines and remain "just friends" while watching (and sometimes hearing) his blossoming relationship with sculpted yoga instructor Liana.

That was bad enough.
But when Devon confesses that his true feelings lie with her, she must make a confession of her own. Not only is she carrying a baby, but she is carrying it as a surrogate for her boss, Cynthia Jacobson- who happens to be difficult at best and neurotic at worst, demanding a ban on coffee (among other things), strict bed rest and a natural child birth.

Having Grace, a romantic comedy, is complete at 80,000 words and available upon request.
Thank you for your time.

And you better give me some input on this because I have spent my entire "lunch break" (let's go with that) retyping this from a split screen on my computer because this program won't let me copy and paste anything.
I have an idea of which one I like better but I would like to see what you think.
Thanks.
Have a good day.

Torn

When Alex woke in the wee hours of Thursday morning several times vomiting, I lost a lot of sleep. Some because I was worried about him. Some because I was doing laundry. But even more than that, I felt almost sick myself when I realized that I couldn't take him to daycare.
The dreaded phone call. I thought about it in my head several times, how I would phrase it. "Alex was sick all through the night, so I can't come in today..."
Even as legitimate as that sounded (as it was, is--what am I saying 'sounded'?), I felt anxious about it.
Times like these, I thought, it would be really nice to have a nanny. But a nanny is a luxury we can't afford, as we're barely making the daycare bills (ie- read "Banking Roulette" for more info.)
Finally I fell asleep, telling myself that things would (maybe) be okay in the morning. Maybe it's just a twenty four hour thing, I thought, although, okay, it had only been twelve, but you never know, right?
Wrong.
I got up and got dressed as though I would be going to work.
Delusional much??

Finally, unable to prolong it any longer, at eight o'clock I roused Alex.
Promptly, he vomited on me. He had a temperature of 38.8
I looked at the clock. 8:00! What a time to phone in sick! An hour before my shift begins!
I looked at Alex, limp and sickly looking, pale and gaunt.
I looked at my outfit. Covered in vomit.
I have no choice, I told myself, steeling myself for the phone call.
My boss's reply was clipped and professional sounding, not outwardly hostile but I could tell she was annoyed- heck, who wouldn't be?? And in her defense, I don't think she was annoyed with me, more the set of circumstances.
You're replaceable, my husband told me (reassured me-- was that meant as reassuring?? I think so maybe but somehow it wasn't) while I was cleaning up vomit. They'll manage without you. I wasn't so sure.
But they did.
Barely, I'm sure, but, they limped through.

Anyways, Alex is spending a few days with his grandma getting some grandma love so I can continue to work this week. I have been missing him a lot, am happy that he will be back tomorrow. I took the opportunity tonight to take the kids to Shrek Ever After, and it was really, really good. I was thinking when I was there about how it doesn't seem so very long ago that we took Gage to see the first Shrek (remember, mom?) and I had to stand out in the lobby with him for most of the movie because he was scared of the dragon. Or the time I took them to the third Shrek movie and I spilled Coke all over my crotch, and we had to sit in the front row and I think I got a form of motion sickness from it. And then I got a parking ticket. What happened during Shrek 2, I cannot say. Don't recall that so it must of went smoothly, how that happened to me I do not know. It was just kind of weird that Gage was there, now going on 13, and we were just having a normal convo- just like two people out at a movie.
Shrek through the ages.
And incidentally, I did get another parking ticket.
At least some things never change.
Anyways. Whatever.
Have a good night.
And whoever you are-thanks for reading.

Airplanes and loose teeth and other info.

Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?
I can really use a wish right now...

The lyrics to another song which has been running through my mind all day. Actually ever since the first time I heard it vis a vis my twelve year old sons blaring Ipod.
Catchy song, nonetheless. And the lyrics really, really appeal to me.
Yes, we can pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars. I LOVE that idea!! In fact, I really wish I would have thought of that earlier.
I, too, could really use a wish right now.
What is plaguing me? I don't know. I just have this sense of discontent that I can't seem to shake.

Of course it doesn't help when:
at 1500h the daycare phones me and tells me that Payton is laying on the floor crying with some kind of a stomach thing...
at 1600 I ditch work early to go get said kid. Go and get Payton and then proceed to Alex's daycare...
at 1630 Arrive at Alex's daycare where I find him laying on the kitchen floor ("Your baby just threw up all over the floor," Tasia says by way of a greeting.)
Maybe I'm under cooking their meat, was my first thought, as I recalled the chicken fingers I hastily withdrew from the oven last night so that we could make Paytons' 6:30 ball game.
at 17:00 I get home, withdraw a frozen lasagna from the freezer, thinking this will simplify my life and I can get dinner cooked in a hurry. I read the instructions, which call for baking at four hundred degrees for one hundred minutes. I do the math and put the lasagna in the oven with a heavy sigh.
Spend the next twenty minutes looking for AA batteries for the automated Bubble Blower that Payton insisted on. Rifle through several drawers but turn up nothing but various USB cables and corkscrews. Now, if I were actually looking for a USB cable, I am certain that the batteries would have presented themselves instead.
In this midst of this search, practically salivate over a discarded toy that has four new AA batteries in it. Try to secretly dismantle the toy while the children are not watching.
Spend the next twenty minutes looking for a screwdriver to remove the battery compartment of said toy.
Abandon that search and begin searching for an improvised screwdriver- knives, scissors, etc.
Give up on the bubble toy. Tell Payton that she is just going to have to blow bubbles the old fashioned way. Deal kid.

At 1800- Payton (suddenly- suspiciously(?) is feeling better. She ducks outside to play with her friend.
Ten minutes later said friend is wailing at the door holding his left ear. "The dog bit me," he sobs.
Spend the next ten minutes applying polysporin to his ear and trying to apply a bandaid. (Note: the human ear not designed for band aids.)
Spend the next ten minutes drafting a note to send home with said friend (Beginning with "Dear Theresa" and ending with "our dog has had her rabies vaccinations, etc."
At 18:30 Alex has a temper tantrum, demanding his monkey blanky, which is currently in the wash due to daycare related puking incident.
18:40 Put Alex to bed (the lasagna still isn't ready but whatevs.)
18:50 Alex still crying hysterically. Peek in on him to find him covered in vomit.
1900: Bath Alex and do the laundry.
And so on and forth.


Not to mention that this querying process is really starting to get me down.
I think I'm just going to quit.
Rejection is really hard to take, no matter how much your try to tell yourself "writing is its own reward."
The whole situation is slightly reminiscent of my pregnancy test addiction. You do the pregnancy test, so hopeful, knowing that in the matter of mere moments your whole life could be changed forever, for the better. When I hit the 'send' button after writing a query, I feel that same mix of emotions: anxiety, excitement, hope and fear.
The problem is that with pregnancy tests you get an answer in two minutes.
With querying there is a lot more waiting, and what answers you do get are usually negative ones "Thank you for sharing your work with us, however..."
It's hard not to take it personally, for some reason.
Anyways.

The other major news around here is that Payton has a loose tooth.
I wiggled it last night and was completely freaked out about it. I realize yes, that this doesn't exactly make her grown up and halfway out the door- she hasn't exactly packed her bags yet- but still. I found the whole thing bittersweet.
Of course, I find everything bittersweet. Literally everything. For example: "this is so sad we're throwing away this toilet brush. This is the very first toilet brush that I bought when we moved into our first place. Remember that toilet??"
But the fact that my daughter's shedding her baby teeth means that she's shedding her babyhood, which I might have suspected when she announced during brunch on the weekend that she was breaking up with her boyfriend so she could focus on her studies. But as her mother, I still cling to this belief that she is still my baby. I guess she will always be, loose teeth or not.

Already, I can't even deal with the fact that we have a high chair in our kitchen which has sat, unused, for about four months. "Do you think we should put this in the garage?" Geoff asked, tentatively, knowing that this could full well precipitate a break down- being the virtually last vestige of babydom we have left. I looked at the high chair. "I think we might still get some use out of it." Geoff looked doubtful but didn't push me. Never mind the fact that every time I try to put Alex in it he screams at the top of his lungs "NOT A BABY" and arches his back so that you can not physically sit him in it.
Oh well.
Issues for another day.
Have a good night.