Addie would not fall back asleep last night. She slept 6 hours after her bottle, so I did get to sleep until around 4:00 this morning. But then she wouldn't go back to sleep. Normally this would be okay--I'd just sit up with her--but today we're headed out after school. That means the girls will nap in the car, and I should probably NOT nap when they do.
So I sat up for a bit with her. While I was rocking her, I read. I'm greatly enjoying On Writing. Today, for really the first (and only?) time, Stephen King gave a writing assignment. He delivered a situation, and then he instructed us to sit and write it down without plotting it. As Addie was falling asleep, I was thinking. Characters were coming alive. Without me plotting it (which is the way I prefer to write anyway), a story was being born.
She fell asleep, but she didn't stay that way. Dear Husband ended up sleeping in the chair and holding her for the rest of the night. He's better at that than I am. They both slept. I slept, too. But then, during my shower, the characters came back. It turns out that the husband (not mine) is not such a great guy after all, and it may not be entirely her (not me or Addie) fault.
The danger is this:
We have a busy, busy day today. How am I to write down what's in my head with no time before bed to sit and do it? How can I keep the characters from moving on without me? How can I be certain that when I do sit down, I'm still as surprised by whom the characters are rather than forcing them to be whom I think they should be?
Of course, I could have started now, but I knew I could blog about it in the five minutes I have before feeding Addie, taking Meg to the sitter, bringing Ellie to school, and rushing to the doctor's office. A story . . . well, I could get lost in that for hours.
So, thanks a lot, Steve. And thanks a lot, Muse. Could you and Addie maybe sleep a bit longer--or pick a less busy day to strike?
Monday, December 07, 2009
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Let It Snow!
For the third year in a row, I have decided to undertake the Kent District Library's "Let It Snow!" winter reading program for adults. It's a bingo board of different genres of books, plus some random things like "Read a book or author starting with the letters 'K,' 'D,' or 'L'." The first year I got about two books read. Last year I completed two full bingos. This year I'm gonna make it!
I've been spending some of my nursing time reading On Writing by Stephen King. It's a humorous take on the craft of writing, and it keeps me up during Addie's 3 a.m. snack time. I'm enjoying it. One of the tools King says every writer must have in her toolbox is a library (at home or at the actual library) full of read books. He says we learn much from "bad" books, perhaps more than we learn from "good" books. So this year I'm gonna make it through all my bingos, even the genres I don't like.
I just finished the second book--my "Award Winner or New York Times Bestseller"--Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy by Gary D. Schmidt (who lives in Alto. What the . . . huh?!). It turns out that I am the last in my immediate family to have read the book, which I borrowed from my parents who, as it also turns out, happen to own a library full of read books. Including, I believe, every book Stephen King has ever written.
When I set out with Lizzie, I wasn't much of a fan. "The Buckminster Boy" happens to be the son of a preacher who happens to be a bigot. Or so I thought. It turns out instead that he is just a scared man who wants, at all costs, to keep the proverbial boat from rocking. Most of the other characters in the book truly seem to be actual bigots . . . except for Turner (The Buckminster Boy), Turner's mom (one may wonder why she married "Buckminster" in the first place), Mrs. Hurd (who paints her shutters and her doors a nonChristian color), and Mrs. Cobb (who reminds me of my grandmother). I hated that preacher even more than I hated his church and town full of bigots. I hated him because he didn't have an excuse. And then I declared that the book wasn't very good and I would finish it only for my bingo.
Then I paused to think about it.
An author, and subsequently a book, has to be at least halfway decent to make me so strongly dislike someone by the third page of the book. And it has to be even better than halfway decent to make me so strongly like him by the end. And besides, maybe the reason I hated him so much was that he was maybe just a bit too much of me.
As it turns out, this Gary D. Schmidt from Alto, MI, can write a book that made me love and hate characters who, in the end, are far too human. And this Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy was a good book after all.
Who knows what other treasures I'll uncover between now and March 31. Two down. Fourteen to go.
I've been spending some of my nursing time reading On Writing by Stephen King. It's a humorous take on the craft of writing, and it keeps me up during Addie's 3 a.m. snack time. I'm enjoying it. One of the tools King says every writer must have in her toolbox is a library (at home or at the actual library) full of read books. He says we learn much from "bad" books, perhaps more than we learn from "good" books. So this year I'm gonna make it through all my bingos, even the genres I don't like.
I just finished the second book--my "Award Winner or New York Times Bestseller"--Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy by Gary D. Schmidt (who lives in Alto. What the . . . huh?!). It turns out that I am the last in my immediate family to have read the book, which I borrowed from my parents who, as it also turns out, happen to own a library full of read books. Including, I believe, every book Stephen King has ever written.
When I set out with Lizzie, I wasn't much of a fan. "The Buckminster Boy" happens to be the son of a preacher who happens to be a bigot. Or so I thought. It turns out instead that he is just a scared man who wants, at all costs, to keep the proverbial boat from rocking. Most of the other characters in the book truly seem to be actual bigots . . . except for Turner (The Buckminster Boy), Turner's mom (one may wonder why she married "Buckminster" in the first place), Mrs. Hurd (who paints her shutters and her doors a nonChristian color), and Mrs. Cobb (who reminds me of my grandmother). I hated that preacher even more than I hated his church and town full of bigots. I hated him because he didn't have an excuse. And then I declared that the book wasn't very good and I would finish it only for my bingo.
Then I paused to think about it.
An author, and subsequently a book, has to be at least halfway decent to make me so strongly dislike someone by the third page of the book. And it has to be even better than halfway decent to make me so strongly like him by the end. And besides, maybe the reason I hated him so much was that he was maybe just a bit too much of me.
As it turns out, this Gary D. Schmidt from Alto, MI, can write a book that made me love and hate characters who, in the end, are far too human. And this Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy was a good book after all.
Who knows what other treasures I'll uncover between now and March 31. Two down. Fourteen to go.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Giving Thanks
I was preparing to write our annual Christmas letter when I came across last year's letter. I closed it with words my dad wrote for a Thanksgiving litany some years ago at the church he pastors. The fact that it is December instead of the fourth Thursday in November should not prevent us from giving thanks for this year that was up as much as it was down.
For all the times we laughed until our sides ached; for all the times we were troubled and friends we didn't even know we had sprang up from nowhere and cared for us; for all the times we could have chosen evil over good but didn't; for all the times we could have been hurt but weren't; for all the times we could have died suddenly and unprepared but didn't; and for what would have awaited us even if we had--O Lord, we thank you!. . . For all persons who love us unconditionally and in whose presence we can drop all pretense and still be accepted; for the one who calls us long distance and the one who calls us "Darling"; for the one who calls us "Mom" or "Dad"; and for the one who will one day call us into eternity--O Lord, we thank you!
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
World AIDS Day
Far from here, though not as far as some may want to believe, a child sits alone. Crying. Longing for a mother, a father, anyone to pick him up and comfort him. But he lives in a family alone. More than 15 million children worldwide face this reality every day. Most of these children live on the continent of Africa, but that has no less impact on us.
Today, may God bless those who have stepped in and adopted one of those blessed children. And may He continue to hold those little ones who wait.
Just down the road and in cities across this country and villages around the world, a woman lies alone. Dying. Longing for a hand to hold, longing for hope. But she has been abandoned. AIDS is the number one cause of death for women worldwide.
Today, may God bless those who have stepped in and held the hand of one of those blessed women. And may He continue to hold those beautiful ones who wait.
Across the world millions will, in some way, mark this day. Living. Remembering. Holding hands and standing together. Gaining knowledge. Getting tested. Will you?
Today, may God bless those who get a positive test result and those whose test is negative. May He bless those who are abandoned by the ones they love and those who are embraced. And may this day be the day that even one person gets informed and stays safe and another person finds a cure.
In 1990, Ryan White was dying, and I was a 7th grader following his story on the front page of every newspaper I delivered. The day he died, I cried. The next year I gave an oral report on AIDS in my English class. My class laughed at me. It didn't matter.
Today is the least that we can do for him . . . and them.
Sites to learn more or get involved:
Product (Red)
CRWRC Embrace AIDS
AIDS Information
What's Going On video
AmFAR
Today, may God bless those who have stepped in and adopted one of those blessed children. And may He continue to hold those little ones who wait.
Just down the road and in cities across this country and villages around the world, a woman lies alone. Dying. Longing for a hand to hold, longing for hope. But she has been abandoned. AIDS is the number one cause of death for women worldwide.
Today, may God bless those who have stepped in and held the hand of one of those blessed women. And may He continue to hold those beautiful ones who wait.
Across the world millions will, in some way, mark this day. Living. Remembering. Holding hands and standing together. Gaining knowledge. Getting tested. Will you?
Today, may God bless those who get a positive test result and those whose test is negative. May He bless those who are abandoned by the ones they love and those who are embraced. And may this day be the day that even one person gets informed and stays safe and another person finds a cure.
In 1990, Ryan White was dying, and I was a 7th grader following his story on the front page of every newspaper I delivered. The day he died, I cried. The next year I gave an oral report on AIDS in my English class. My class laughed at me. It didn't matter.
Today is the least that we can do for him . . . and them.
Sites to learn more or get involved:
Product (Red)
CRWRC Embrace AIDS
AIDS Information
What's Going On video
AmFAR
Monday, November 30, 2009
First Birthday
Today I started (and brought up to date) Addie's first year calendar. I'm late on it because my mom bought it for her "for Christmas" (even the newborns are not exempt from calendar gifts!), and she gave it to me on Thanksgiving. So today I dated the undated pages, placed stickers to mark each month's aging and first holidays, and wrote all that we have accomplished in just under six weeks.
Six weeks is surprising to me. I feel like she's always been here. I also feel like I've been on maternity leave for months and months, rather than just six weeks. In fact, six weeks from tomorrow I was busily finishing our website edits thinking I still had another week. Funny how one day can change everything.
For now her only calendar notes are growth and new visitors. Her "firsts" consist of bottles, babysitters, and church services.
Oh, how that will change in the months to come. I have stickers to mark her first time rolling over, her first attempts at food (which will mostly result in her 80th-100th baths), her first waves, her first words, and her first steps. Oh, the changes between now and her first birthday.
As I filled in the dates and noted the holidays and family birthdays, I found myself longing for a place to note Baby Zion. To prove that the baby existed for more than just those first few weeks with Addison. But there isn't room on the calendar. We received a beautifully hand-decorated photo album for Addie, and the woman who made it thoughtfully left space for the few pictures we have to show that there were twins. There is room in the album. But the days and weeks and holidays and firsts aren't there. No stickers are needed to detail fourteen and a half weeks of existence, despite the lifetime of missing they created.
Oh, the changes between now and Addison's first birthday, which is also the first birthday of the day that we really had to say goodbye to Baby Zion. God willing, there will be many birthdays for Dear Addison. She'll count them down on a calendar and celebrate them all with pictures that she can put in an album filled with her memories. And somewhere, tucked away in our hearts, there will still be room for Baby Zion.
Six weeks is surprising to me. I feel like she's always been here. I also feel like I've been on maternity leave for months and months, rather than just six weeks. In fact, six weeks from tomorrow I was busily finishing our website edits thinking I still had another week. Funny how one day can change everything.
For now her only calendar notes are growth and new visitors. Her "firsts" consist of bottles, babysitters, and church services.
Oh, how that will change in the months to come. I have stickers to mark her first time rolling over, her first attempts at food (which will mostly result in her 80th-100th baths), her first waves, her first words, and her first steps. Oh, the changes between now and her first birthday.
As I filled in the dates and noted the holidays and family birthdays, I found myself longing for a place to note Baby Zion. To prove that the baby existed for more than just those first few weeks with Addison. But there isn't room on the calendar. We received a beautifully hand-decorated photo album for Addie, and the woman who made it thoughtfully left space for the few pictures we have to show that there were twins. There is room in the album. But the days and weeks and holidays and firsts aren't there. No stickers are needed to detail fourteen and a half weeks of existence, despite the lifetime of missing they created.
Oh, the changes between now and Addison's first birthday, which is also the first birthday of the day that we really had to say goodbye to Baby Zion. God willing, there will be many birthdays for Dear Addison. She'll count them down on a calendar and celebrate them all with pictures that she can put in an album filled with her memories. And somewhere, tucked away in our hearts, there will still be room for Baby Zion.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
A Fine Line
Ellie has been talking to herself lately. A lot. The really crazy part is that she is arguing with herself. It's interesting to eavesdrop on those interactions.
Beau asked me if it was normal or if we should be concerned. I told him that imaginary conversations like that are a mark of creativity. He said they are also a mark of schizophrenia. This is true, I said. There is a fine, fine line between creative genius and lunacy.
And there is. John Nash is a perfect example. Albert Einstein once said, "A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?" Many authors and artists have stepped over the line into lunacy, and their art had a price to pay.
I have obsessive compulsive tendencies. I count stairs, and I obsess over things. Fixate on them. I also have sensory defensiveness, which is a sensory-integration disorder on the autism spectrum. I talk to myself regularly, and there is always some sort of imaginary world in my mind. I blame it on being a lover of words.
So what of my children? I'm not saying anything either way about them, but the older two are proving creative beyond imagining. We prayed that they would be. Each of them exhibit some form of sensory defensiveness, though (thankfully) it seems to be much less broad spectrum or severe than mine. What of the OCD and whatever else lunacy may lurk in their brains? And what of the fact that it just may be that all of us are a few hormones shy of being committed?
Who knows. All I can see is that they are creative. And I must note that there is a fine line between genius and lunacy. I'll walk it. But I'll always wonder if I'll be the one to cross it. And I'll always pray that my art--and theirs--doesn't ever pay the price.
May my dear children always be lovers of words and taking pen (or colored pencil) to paper. May they always be creative beyond imagining. And may their grip on reality always be tenuous enough for their art to be genius but strong enough to keep them sane.
Beau asked me if it was normal or if we should be concerned. I told him that imaginary conversations like that are a mark of creativity. He said they are also a mark of schizophrenia. This is true, I said. There is a fine, fine line between creative genius and lunacy.
And there is. John Nash is a perfect example. Albert Einstein once said, "A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?" Many authors and artists have stepped over the line into lunacy, and their art had a price to pay.
I have obsessive compulsive tendencies. I count stairs, and I obsess over things. Fixate on them. I also have sensory defensiveness, which is a sensory-integration disorder on the autism spectrum. I talk to myself regularly, and there is always some sort of imaginary world in my mind. I blame it on being a lover of words.
So what of my children? I'm not saying anything either way about them, but the older two are proving creative beyond imagining. We prayed that they would be. Each of them exhibit some form of sensory defensiveness, though (thankfully) it seems to be much less broad spectrum or severe than mine. What of the OCD and whatever else lunacy may lurk in their brains? And what of the fact that it just may be that all of us are a few hormones shy of being committed?
Who knows. All I can see is that they are creative. And I must note that there is a fine line between genius and lunacy. I'll walk it. But I'll always wonder if I'll be the one to cross it. And I'll always pray that my art--and theirs--doesn't ever pay the price.
May my dear children always be lovers of words and taking pen (or colored pencil) to paper. May they always be creative beyond imagining. And may their grip on reality always be tenuous enough for their art to be genius but strong enough to keep them sane.
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