Top Five Reasons I Haven't Blogged in a While

I’ve neglected this blog. Sorry!

Here’s the top five reasons I haven’t been blogging.

1. My new book. I’m a third of the into my first draft, despite having started it in January with all of its post-holiday interruptions.

2. The bathroom redo. In my office (heretofore known as Ariel’s bedroom—Ariel is currently in grad school), there is small bathroom that was formerly a closet. Yes, a real life watercloset. But it was skanky. Hot pink sink. Hot pink toilet with an oh-so-attractive white toilet seat, water-stained wood paneling, no functioning lighting—you get the drift. So I decided to spruce it up. It didn’t want to be spruced. After I redid everything, ending with painting the walls, trim, etc., and buying a new rug, the sink drain pipes decided to leak. And I became a plumber… There will be a whole blog on this in the future along with pictures, so watch this space.

3. Book reviews. I just finished reading The Secrets of Life and Death for Publishers Weekly/Crown Publishing Blogging for Books program. Click here to read my review.

4. Being a mom. I know what you’re thinking. “You’re kids are grown. How can being a mom be so hard?” My kids are grown—this is true. But what no one tells you is that once your kids are grown, you don’t stop being a mom. You just have to be more self-controlled. And such self-control is draining. You can’t say to your adult child, “Dude, stop whining and clean up your room.” Instead, you say, “I’m so sorry that your friend/professor/boss/officemate/lab partner is an idiot. That must be super frustrating.” You might be tempted to give advice here. DON’T DO IT! Unless said adult child specifically asks for it. They don’t want your advice, they want sympathy and an understanding ear. (Husbands, take note this applies to wives too. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, click here.)

5. New robotic vacuum. You’d think that the robovac (Neato botvac) my kids and parents bought me for Christmas would save me lots of time. It vacuums my entire house (even under beds, couches, etc.) and does a much better job than I would. So it should be a huge time saver. Except, I like to watch it because it’s really cute. It makes happy singing noises. And it teases the dog. Not intentionally, of course. But Jezebel (our black Lab) does have a very hairy tail, so botvac likes to vacuum it. Jez is not amused. She views it as a demon-possessed object that ought to be destroyed before it kills us in our sleep. I’ve explained to her that botvac is our friend. But Jez keeps a wary eye trained on it, waiting for the day it turns to the dark side.

Those are the top five things filling my time, what about you all?

See, isn't botvac cute?!

Our Five Star College Resort

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you know that we live very near a major university and have been blessed with having our kids live at home as they attend classes (thereby saving everyone a lot of money). My husband, who thinks the kids are getting a great deal, refers to our home as the Five-Star Keller College Resort. However, having four independent, strong-willed adults under one roof is sometimes…interesting. Such things are best handled with humor.

Lately, a student/resident lodged a complaint with the management about the winter temperature of the resort. I think the phrase “Our house is an ice pit” may have been used. I believe I responded, “Wear more clothing.”

When I realized that breathing formed clouds, I bought one of the residents a space heater.

This is the note I left in the room of our guest:

“The Keller College Resort has noted the current heating problem and has taken steps to remedy the situation. We hope this will allow us to maintain our current five star rating. Sincerely, The Management”

I found this note later on my bed:

“Resident Keller would like to remind the management that they currently only have three stars. However, he is still thankful for the snazzy new heating element that resident Jacob will be jealous of.”

I love my kids. 

Why I Wear a Ratty Cardigan

My house has zero storage space. It was built in the twenties when people had two sets of clothing. Work clothes and Sunday clothes. What else did you need?

Now it’s pushing the twenties again and we have very different ideas of necessary clothes. But that need hasn’t changed the closet space. So I try to weed through my clothes at least twice a year. Last spring when I was packing away my winter clothes, I put a ratty, nearly buttonless cardigan on a throwaway pile. My 18 year old son saw it.

“You aren’t throwing that out,” he said. It was a statement not a question. It turns out that the very sight of that cardigan comforts him. I wore it a lot when he was little (we were really poor and I couldn’t afford one—this one had been a gift) and spent hours rocking him. He was pretty severely autistic and when the suffering was at its worst, I’d rock and hold him.

So he handed the cardigan back to me and asked me to wear it more often. My heart melted (of course). And I promised to wear it. So if you see me wearing a raveling, late-eighties-styled cardigan that only has one button remaining, you’ll know why. I love my son.

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The Author Got Dinner on the Table Early

If you’ve been following the blog, you know that I’m in the midst of editing book three of the Screwing Up Time series. Editing is always a very focused, intense time. I’m looking for the last of the errors, polishing the prose, and hunting the typos.

The other day, I was smoothing out a fight scene when this sentence popped up in the middle of the action, “Raise Matthew’s allowance.” And I laughed. Thankfully, my kids are older and usually don’t feel compelled to hack my computer any more. Years ago, I password protected my computer when I found out that my daughter was reading the endings of my books before I’d printed them out. (A great evil!) Anyway, the kids thought the passwords were a challenge and took to leaving notes in my text to prove they could hack my system.

Honestly, I do miss the notes in my texts that said, “Jacob loves Mom.” On the other hand, this recent foray into my latest novel has revived nightmares that after a book is published I’ll get an email from a reader that says, “In chapter 25, it reads ‘Mark got bit by a zombie and stabbed Miranda. They both died and the author got dinner on the table early.’” 

Friday Five, Why I'm Not in the Kitchen Today

Yesterday I was in the kitchen. Today I’m steering clear because my children are cooking. Keep in mind that these are adult children. This is what I’m hearing.

1. “Uh, Mom, I was supposed to separate the eggs and whip the whites. But I’ve already mixed the eggs in. What do I do?”

2. “What does soft peaks mean?”

3. “Can I immerse the wafflemaker into the sink to wash it?”

4. “Hey, I can fix a measuring mistake by using modular arithmetic. Cool.” 

   (FYI: I use math when I alter a recipe too, but I call it “addition and subtraction.”)

5. “Uh, Mom, I was making crepes, and, well, looked at the wrong recipe. I’ve got a bowl full of flour tortilla dough.”

Driver's Education and Me

Our last child is learning to drive. Actually, he’s learned. We just haven’t given him the okay to get his license because…teenage boys and insurance, that’s a wallet shocker. So he has to wait until we need him to drive.

I don’t teach the kids how to drive, Cal does. (In our state, parents are responsible to teach their kids to drive.) I started out teaching the kids, but then during one outing, I screamed. I guess there’s nothing more freaky than having your mom scream. (Nearly driving into a large ditch will do that to me.)

I’ve been known to reach over and honk at some other car. (Yes, I believe in punitive honking, but only when my kids are driving.)

I also stomp the floorboards of the car, slamming an imaginary brake. I still do this even to my fully-licensed, driving-for-years kids. But now I pretend I’m stretching my legs. Sadly, they are not fooled.

And there are all the times that I’ve done backseat driving. Cal is the official teacher, so I sit in the back. I really try to be quiet. But, well, no one in our family believes in braking. So I tell them when to brake. And I do it forcefully. I’m just trying to protect our health and well-being. But no one else sees it that way. So I get glares and heavy sighs. Now I just grab the seat in front of me and tighten my knuckles. And the driver says, “Mom, chill!”

BTW, I’m author of the week here. 

The Five Benefits of an Office

Last week was swamped. My daughter Ariel moved out. And after we settled her in her apartment, I turned her bedroom into my office. Yeah, I know, I probably should have waited a week or two so it didn't seem like I was eager for her to move out.

The truth is that I’m really excited that she’s moving to the next phase of her life…and hey, I’ve never had an office before. The most I’ve ever had is a writing nook, a section of kitchen counter and a chair. Don’t get me wrong, it was great. It taught me to focus. You can really get a lot done when you learn to tune out the “Mom, we have nothing to eat.”

But having an office is awesome. Here are the top five benefits.

1. No distractions. The microwave isn’t running. I can’t see a pile of dishes that need to be washed. And did I mention that no one is complaining that we have nothing to eat.

2. A couch of my very own. What can I say? I lounge when I write, and I don’t have to nudge hairy teenage legs off my space.

3. Room for papers. There’s nothing as frustrating as editing when you can’t leave your stuff out for fear of getting food spilled on it. Or worse, having your pages knocked on the floor and only when you pick them up do you realize that none of the 250 pages have been numbered.

4. A bathroom. Ariel’s bedroom has an attached bathroom, which she zealously guarded from the boys. Now I see why. I love my boys, but now I don’t have to bang on the door and say, “Hurry up—we have to leave in five minutes and I haven’t done my hair or put on makeup.”

5. Security. No bored child decides to hack my computer password and insert random phrases in my novels. No longer will I snort coffee through my nose when I’m editing and read, “Mark put on a skirt and did the conga” or “Mark was so hungry he ate dirt, twigs, and pond scum—hey, mom, could you buy some good snack food?” On the other hand, I won’t find “I love you, Mom!” insert into my texts either. Hmm. Maybe I should have waited on the office.

Here's a photo.

The Real Reason I Had Kids

This morning, my son Luke is taking his last final exam as an undergraduate. (It’s in advanced inorganic chemistry—better him, than me). My daughter took hers yesterday. I now have two college graduates who will soon be leaving home. (Though, of course, in the intervening days, I have plans: please help Matthew study for the math section of the SAT, help me plant the new hedge plants, scrub and re-stain the deck, etc.)

And soon they’ll be moving out. Luke moves out in June—to starting working at a university lab where he plans to begin his PhD in organo-metallic chemistry in the fall. Ariel will move out in August to start her PhD work in mathematics at Emory.

A dear friend took me aside the other day to tell me that having two kids leave at the same time is extra hard. (My friend had twins.) I’m trying to prepare myself by reminding myself of a promise I made to myself sixteen years ago—that I’d be truly grateful.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that I have an autistic son. And at the time he was diagnosed (and we were told he might never learn to speak), I heard several mothers complaining about how sad they were that their children were leaving home. While I understood their grief, it seemed to me that they were missing something huge. That they should be celebrating too. Our children don’t belong to us—not like some kind of possession. God merely gives them to us to raise. And if all goes well, then they begin lives of their own, which is as it should be.

Soon half of my kids will be gone. (And, yes, I’m sure I will cry.) But I will be cheering them on in their new lives. And I’ll be trying to figure out how to get them to visit—I’m guessing roast beef dinner and laundry might do it. And when they’re here, I’ll hand them a paintbush—after all, the deck needs re-staining. And one of my kids will say, “You had us just so you could have slave labor, right?” And I’ll say, “Absolutely.”

Photo by Chenspec, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

BTW, today is the last day of 99 cents sale for Screwing Up Babylon.

Parental Exit Evaluations

Whenever our children complain about something my husband Calvin and I have done that they don’t like, Calvin always says, “Okay. So include it your exit evaluation.” In other words, just like they get to evaluate a professor at the end of a class, Cal says that they can give us a parental exit evaluation when they move out. (They don’t think it’s funny, but Cal and I think it’s hilarious.) But I’ve been thinking about it, here’s how I’d evaluate us.

1. Food. A serious lack of junk food. When my kids complain that there’s nothing to eat, I open the fridge and say, “Eggs, cheese, milk, meat—protein! Ooo, look veggies and fruit too!! ” My kids give me a fake smile. When we visit my parents’ house, my mom always has chips, cookies, pizza, etc.  When we have grandkids, I’ll buy lots of junk food.

2. Entertainment. We watch no movies that will give me nightmares. Sorry. Cope.

3. Laundry Service. Your siblings have to fold and put away laundry. This explains why your sister’s bra shows up in a pile with your manly shirts. Too bad.

4. Slave Labor. This occurs when the-house-is-too-messy-for-mom-and-she’s-losing-it. Then I yell, “Slave Labor,” and it means you are my slaves until the house is clean. My sanity is valuable to me.

5. Pest Control. When there is a gross/stinging/creepy bug, a parent (or non-freaked-out sibling) is supposed to come and kill the offending insect that has escaped from Hades. Sadly, I’ve been known to say, “I’m busy writing. If it’s not hurting you, ignore it. It’s only a wasp.”

Cal and I are hoping we're only one standard deviation away from the parental effectiveness mean. If not...oh, well.

Just Call Me "Flo"

My kids have been sick. They’ve had nasty fevers, coughs, and aches. So I tried to be Florence Nightingale. I dosed medications, took temperatures, and even short order chef-ed, all the while reminding myself that I won’t be able to do this much longer. Soon they’ll be gone.

But I’m sure my kids think I’m a poor copy of Ms. Nightingale. I brought Kid One a bowl of steaming ramen. KO sipped a spoonful.

“Mom,” KO croaked, “did you make spicy chicken?”

Me: “Uh, yeah. I thought you like spicy chicken.”

KO: “This burns my sore throat.”

Me: “Sorry. What do you want me to do?”

KO: “I guess I could just eat the noodles.”

Me: “Sounds great.”

Kid Two: “Can you take my temperature?”

Me: “Sure. Put this under your tongue. And remember it takes a while.”

Some time later KT is groaning. I return. KT mumbles around the thermometer, asking if it’s been in his mouth long enough. I check the clock, swallow guiltily, and say, “Yep. Fifteen minutes will give a really accurate temperature.” Sorry, Kid Two.

Kid Three is older and less sick. And would prefer being left alone (not inundated with “drink this tea” and “take this Aleve”) and really would prefer not being mentioned on my Facebook updates. Sorry, Kid Three. Now all of my friends and our relatives know you’re sick.

Yep, I’m more like Flo than Florence Nightingale. But when they’re on their own and get sick, I’m betting they’ll miss Flo. 

(Scroll past the photo of Florence for information on a Blog Blitz)

This public domain image of Florence Nightingale is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

One more thing.

DL Hammons of Cruising Altitude 2.0 blog is hosting a Blog Blitz. Here's how it works. Sign up on the linky list below, making sure to record your email address, and you'll be instantly included as a member of the Blog Blitz team. Then from time to time, he'll select a blog (belonging to a blog blitz team member) and a specific date. He'll email all the team members the information and on the date blitz team member will visit the blog and leave an encouraging comment. Imagine having 100+ comments in one day!

Sticking It to the Man

Now that my children are adults, I admit that I take perverse pleasure in seeing them deal with the craziness of the grown up world.

I’ve heard them rail at the ridiculousness of the tax code. My response, “Yes, my dear child, it’s convoluted mumbo jumbo. The government doesn’t want you to understand the IRS forms—it supports a whole industry known as H&R Block.”

I’ve heard them deal with telemarketers. “No, we really don’t need ADT. We have a dog.” After hanging up, I’ve heard a particular child mumble, “That person claimed that you could incapacitate a dog with hairspray—how stupid is that? Don’t they know that (chemicals A, B, and C) won’t bother a dog?!” Yes, dear, telemarketers lie.

I’ve had to have them sitting next to me so I could talk to the financial aid department about my tax returns—they have to get on the phone and give permission at every step so the financial department doesn’t violate their right to privacy even though it’s about my tax return. Yes, dear, this is a waste of your time. Sorry. Cope.

One of my college seniors thinks the exit exams are ridiculous. I pointed out that the exams are just another hoop to jump through in the bureaucracy of life. This particular senior contemplated marking all the answers “C.” My husband said, “So, would that be your way of sticking it to the man?” I burst into peals of laughter. “Sticking it to the man? Seriously?” My husband and I fist bumped and laughed until tears nearly streamed down our faces.

Our kids are now convinced that Cal and I are insane. I suspect that they’re wheeling and dealing to see who gets stuck with the crazed parents. Poor Ariel, I’m afraid she’s going to get the short straw.

Goodwill, Grad School, and Vampires

It’s been a whole week since I’ve blogged. I don’t know if that’s ever happened before. Even when we go on vacation, I usually post pictures.

The good thing is that nothing bad has happened to me. Things have just gotten even busier than before (didn’t know that was possible). Here’s what’s been going on.

1. My parents are moving, so I’ve been helping them pack and thinking how grateful I am that it’s not me who’s moving. Though I’m jealous of the opportunity to cull:

My mom: Do you think I need to keep this?

Me: Have you used it in the last year?

My mom: No.

Me: It gets packed in the going-to-Goodwill box.

2. Luke and Ariel are preparing to visit graduate schools. Next weekend, Luke’s visiting University of Tennessee, Knoxville, and Ariel’s visiting Emory. Now I have to explain to people what my kids are going to study.

Me: Luke, are you studying those cage things that tie things together?

Luke: You mean ligands?

Me: Yeah.

Luke: No.

Me: Oh…

Luke: I’m studying organo-metallic catalysts.

I turn to Ariel.

Me: Ariel, so when people ask what you’re studying…

Ar: Math.

Me: Right. So I can say complex analysis.

Ar nods.

Me: Are there any practical applications?

Ar: I hope not.

3. I’ve been editing my third novel in Screwing Up Time series. Why is it that even though I know it’s the first edit after the first draft, I still hope that nothing needs to be changed? I find myself muttering and blaming my characters. Hmm...When my kids go to grad school and people ask what their mom does, will they say, “She grumbles and talks to herself”?

4. And last of all, I’ve been reading The Historian for my writers’ reading group. Normally, I’d never choose to read a vampire book. In fact, I’d usually view it as a literary punishment akin to reading James Joyce, but I’m loving this one.

Subliminal Messages and Editing

Yesterday, I began editing my latest novel. I printed the whole novel up and sat down with a ream of paper. I was going to begin by dealing with all the notations in the novel. When I’m drafting, I don’t want to get caught up in anything that will slow down the pace of the writing. So, I leave myself notes like: find a name for this character, add a beat, figure out where item/character X is, and fix—this is horrible.

But I decided that it might be a good idea to at least read the first couple of chapters since it’s been three and one half months since I last looked at the chapters. I told myself that I’d just read through it. No editing. So I curled up on the couch and began reading. I didn’t get far.

I read the first sentence. I stopped. I read the sentence again. I swallowed. It was the worst sentence I’ve ever read. Truly horrible. As in someone must have inserted this sentence into my manuscript as a joke horrible. (And my kids often do that. They’ll crack my passwords and randomly insert sentences.) But I couldn’t blame this on them. Their insertions are more transparent—Buy Jacob a car. Raise Matthew’s allowance.

In any case, I couldn’t let the bad sentence pass. I picked up my pen and rewrote the sentence over and over. I think the only thing left from the original sentence were a couple of  “the”s and an “a” or two. And once I got started…well, the red pen is a hard thing to put down. (When I was in college, the rumor was the longer you could keep the professor from picking up a red pen, the better your grade. It was actually true. We got docked a letter grade for every spelling/grammar error.)

By the end of my writing period, I’d edited two chapters. But, sadly, I didn’t come across any pleas for new cars, money, steak dinners, or vague threats about what would happen if I put onions on homemade pizza again.

I wonder what the next few chapters will bring…

Falling into a Hamper

I have a college senior who’s preparing for grad school. This particular very bright child (who will remain nameless) said, “When I finish grad school, I can’t take any more classes.”

Me: Uh, yeah, that’s sort of the point. You teach.

Child: But I want to take more classes.

Me: Why?

Child: Because I want to learn more.

Me: I believe you can sit in/take classes at the university where you teach.

Child: Really?! Could I get another degree?

Me: I suppose.

Apparently, this child wants to be an eternal student, which I sort of understand—we should all want to learn more and more, to the point of becoming autodidacts.

Of course, this is also the child who (just last night) sat on an open hamper, fell in, and had to be rescued—so maybe a course in common sense would help.

BTW, if you’d like to see the cover of my new novel, visit here.

Winnie the Pooh

Last week, I put Winnie the Pooh (the new one) on our Netflix queue. And I told the kids it was coming after the DVD was in the mail. (My queue has been known to alter mysteriously when the kids aren’t interested in what is up next, especially when it’s a documentary.) At any rate, my announcement was greeted with horrified faces all around.

When the kids were younger, Friday night was movie night. I make homemade pizza and the kids would take turns picking a movie—the boys got a good exposure to chick flicks when it was Ariel’s turn. I assured them it would make them more sensitive husbands. Yeah, they didn’t buy it either.

But now that the kids are older, if they’re not interested in a movie, they do homework. They don’t want to use precious study breaks for “lame” movies. And I get that. So I figured that Cal would be the only one who’d watch Winnie the Pooh with me. And I figured he’d sleep through part of it. (He did.)

But I was wrong about the kids. I don’t know if it was nostalgia, boredom, or the indescribable charm of Pooh, but they watched it and enjoyed it. They laughed out-loud. It was a charming movie. It didn’t have quite the animation of the old classics, but the storyline and textual playfulness were all there. I loved how Pooh took letters from the text to build a ladder so he, Tigger, Owl, Rabbit, et al. could climb out of a pit. If you’re a Pooh fan and haven’t seen it, I’d suggest adding it to your queue.

Which reminds me a friend recently shared a Russian version of Winnie the Pooh. After watching it, I think I understand Russian culture much better. No wonder Russians write depressing novels--Pooh the existentialist...

Here’s the Russian Pooh.

BTW, tomorrow I’ll be releasing the cover art for my YA novel Screwing Up Babylon. You can see it here.

A "Vintage" Home

I’ve been blogging since May 2008, and I’ve decided to take you on a tour of our house on and off over the next few weeks. (Okay, that means that after four plus years, I might be running low on blog topics—but bear with me, I’ll try to make this fun.)

We have/had a hedge of roses, which now have rose rosette disease and have to taken out and destroyed.

Yeah the trees need to be trimmed, but I've been busy with the new book.

First off, this is what our house looks like. It was built in 1940. At least, that’s what the paperwork says. A friend who’s a contractor laughed when we told him the age. Apparently, the city didn’t keep records back then—so they made up the build dates for houses. Ours has been rounded, generously. It was built way before 1940, which would explain some vintage art deco touches, crystal door knobs, and honeycomb tile.

Given that we aren’t restorers and old (vintage) homes are known to be money pits, why did we buy an old house? Aside from aesthetics—old houses are beautiful—at least until something rots, explodes, or dies, we bought it for the square footage. We have a menagerie of a black Lab, a bird, hamster, and four kids.

We have four kids very close together in age—the oldest was five when the youngest was born. It’s kind of like having spread-out quadruplets.  They are all in each other’s business, each other’s rooms, and “share” their rabid opinions on everything. It’s managed chaos—it also meant I spend my entire child-bearing years in sweats and a ponytail, hoping I’d find time for a shower by the end of the day.

BTW, watch your step as you climb the porch steps—because the house is so old, there weren’t a lot of zoning/building regulations, so the porch is concrete and brick on top of wooden supports. (Can you say dry/wet rot?) Though apparently the porch has been shored up.

Welcome to the living room. Yes, we have a very cool fireplace that functions. However, the flue doesn’t close anymore, and occasionally a bird will fly into the living room. Not to mention the heavy rain that splashes down the chimney and leaves soot stains on the brick work. But it’s really pretty.

 When I have grandkids, I’ll tell them how their parents did homework in front of the fire. Of course, my kids will ruin it by explaining that the reason they did their work in front of the fire wasn’t the romance of it all, but the fact that I keep the heat set too low. I tell my kids to put on a sweater—65 is all the heat I’m willing to pay for. Of course, the limited insulation does make it a chilly 65…

But, hey, check out that gorgeous crown molding—yeah, those are divots in the wallboard. When we first moved in, there was a cockroach infestation, and the boys shot cockroaches with their airsoft guns. Only the shells were too hard and the pellets wouldn’t crack the chitin. The boys learned to ricochet the shots so the pellets would hit the roach underbellies. The roaches would split and fall to the floor. And then I noticed the pock marks in the walls.

Oops, sorry about the roach guts. Instead, notice the cool front door with semi-circle top and the beveled glass—which is beginning to show its age as the panels separate. And, of course, they don’t make doors like that anymore. So I’m going to put some long screws into it to hold it together until I’m willing to auction a kidney on eBay to afford a replacement.

But, really, we love it. I love knowing the house has settled (some friends had their new house settle—but it didn’t settle in the same way as the front porch, which has now separated from the house). I love the plaster walls, the built in bookcases, the wood floors, the memories, and even the cockroach pocks.

BTW, tomorrow (Tuesday) I'll be posting the blurb for my new novel Screwing Up Babylon on my book blog. Be sure to check it out.

Naked Chicken

The last few months, I’ve been working hard to get my YA novel, Screwing Up Babylon, ready to be published. And normally, I plan out my responsibilities pretty well so there’s no disruption to my family.

Last night was an exception. I’d planned on baked herbed chicken thighs for dinner. I was going to rub a combination of lemon-pepper, garlic, and fresh rosemary on the chicken.

But I was a little late getting the chicken out of the freezer. Normally, I take it out first thing in the morning. Instead, I took in out right before Matt’s piano lessons—about five hours too late. Then, I didn’t have time to defrost in the microwave because I ended up getting home late from lessons—the van stalled while I was making a left turn and I was without power steering or brakes (very scary).

Anyway, when I got home and went to put the thighs in the oven, they weren’t quite defrosted enough to properly rub. So I cranked the oven, put the chicken in, and made plans to rub the chicken after it had been in for twenty minutes. 

In the meantime, I’d edit. My editing was going really well. Then college student number two asked me when dinner was going to be ready. I said, “Five o-clock.” She said, “Uh, it’s after five now.”

So we ate. Everyone sat down, and I served the thighs. Finally, someone said, “So what kind of chicken is this?”

I said, “Naked Chicken.”

Child: “What does that mean?”

Me: “It means I was busy editing and forgot to season the chicken.”

Child: “Um, we’ve never had plain chicken before.”

Me, taking BBQ sauce and sweet and sour sauce from the fridge: “Now you have.”

Child, taking a bite: “This isn’t so bad.”

Then my youngest child began squirting different condiments on his plate and said, “This is customizable chicken!”

Yep, that’s it. Customizable Chicken. Think about the marketing opportunities!

The Answer is...Food

Exam season has started at our house. Matt preps for the PSAT. And the other three are taking college exams. We have standard well wishes for the students leaving the house.

Me: “Take this bag of trail mix so you can eat it right before the exam for a quick burst of mental energy.”

Matt yells out, “Nervousness is the key to failure.”

Cal says, “The answer’s two.” (If it’s not a math/chem/physics exam, then he says the answer’s “C.”)

Generally, the response is an exaggerated eye roll. Then the other day, Ariel was on campus. And a friend told her, “Ariel, the answer is two.”

Ar said, “That’s what my dad always says.”

Ar’s friend, “That man has a great sense of humor.”

Cal thinks his coolness factor has escalated. Now I need to increase my coolness factor. I’m considering offering a mug of French-press coffee, Gatorade, beef jerky. But in either case, I don’t think I’ll escape the my-mom-who-was-raised-by-a-European-thinks-food-is-the-answer-to-everything. 

Friday Chaos

It’s Friday, and I almost forgot to blog. Things have been chaotic all week.

• I finished the line edits on Screwing Up Babylon, the sequel to Screwing Up Time. I should be tossing confetti. Instead, my stomach gets queasy when I think about it. I only have one final read aloud and a final proofread. Then, I send my baby out into the world. Ack.

•  This morning, child number three has his first exam in college (a physics/engineering class), which necessitated pancakes this morning. And I was out of pancake mix. I hate pancakes made from scratch, especially the “quick pancakes” recipe I found. Instead of pancakes, they were more like weird-paper-thin-dough-like-substances. Child three and husband ate the pancakes. I ate Cheerios.

• I’m helping child number four with physics. Not my strongest subject. If child number one is home, I say to child four, "Go ask the resident physics expert." If he’s not, I say “Oh, honey, I’m sure you can do this. Just plug the numbers into the right equation.” Which works unless the child needs to derive an equation…then I take a deep breath, pray, and hope I know what I’m doing.

• Last but not least, I’m surviving the heat. It’s so hot and humid that the heat index is predicted to reach 105 to 110 today. Seriously. It’s September. I want cool breezes. I want to leave the windows open at night and crawl under a down comforter. But for now, I’ll crank the air conditioner, print up my manuscript for a final read aloud, buy pancake mix, and try to figure out how to use a TI 38 plus for physics—this scientific calculator does everything. Except I still haven’t figured out how to “clear” it. And what is “syntax error” supposed to mean?

It’s going to be a long Friday.

The Pot of Gold

When your kids are little, they seem to go from one thing to the next making messes. A knocked over plant here, and spilled orange juice there. Not to mention the laundry, the toys strewn everywhere, and fights. You tell yourself that eventually, they’ll be helpful. But you’re not sure if you believe it.

I’m here to say, “It’s true!” While Luke and Ariel had summer jobs doing research, Jake and Matt were part of the unemployed masses. (Gone are the summers when jobs for teens were available to anyone who applied.) So Jake and Matt worked for me. And even though they didn’t get paid, they worked hard. I even heard, “Is there anything else I can do for you?” I almost passed out when I heard that.  (Of course, the quid pro quo between computer game time and chores done might have contributed to their willingness.)

Here’s what Matt and Jake did. They mulched, replaced bathroom caulk in two bathrooms, washed mildew from wallpaper, cleaned bathroom ceiling, raked and bagged yard waste, sanded and painted trim, cleaned/organized tool shed, scrubbed and repainted the deck, scrubbed and repainted back porch, and washed blinds. Thanks, boys! (Yeah, they’re glad the summer is almost over.)

Out of thirty projects I put on a list, they’ve finished all but three. Weeding, pressure washing the carport, and painting the carport.

So there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Just seize it while you can. Before you know it, they’ll be gone.