"Mommy, Please Leave"

Every Tuesday morning my dad and step-mother watch my girls for a few precious hours, so that I can get out of the house and write distraction-free. It's been a great weekly date for the girls as well, who wait by the front window, watching for their grandparents' car, squealing as they see it park, jumping up and down as Grandpa pulls his banjo out of the back seat and Grandma fetches her coffee and latest book and heads toward the front door.

I try to take a few minutes to chat with my dad before heading out, and sometimes we even get a few words in. Usually, though, the girls are in a hurry to send me on my way. They have songs to sing while my dad plays banjo, or weddings to plan where he will be the groom, or various animal rides to take where he will play the animal and they will play the riders. The visual of my 71-year-old father crawling up and down the stairs with a 40-pound child on his back is priceless, and sometimes I like to take a moment to acknowledge him for his willing sacrifices to his body to keep these little girls happy. The little girls, however, have no time for such sentimentality.

"Mommy, please leave!" they shout in unison, as I try to chat with my dad. One will grab my wrist, the other pushing me from behind, leading me toward the door.

Once upon a time, they were shy about these weekly babysitting sessions. I can even remember early on, I would sneak out when Peanut went down for a nap, so she wouldn't know I was gone, and it would take both grandparents to soothe my separation-anxiety-ridden String Bean as I made for the door. Those days are history, as I try to finish my brief conversation with my dad, try to ask my step-mother what book she's reading now, and try to bid farewell to the girls who shove me so indelicately toward my car.

I get into the car, both girls shouting "Go, Mommy, go!" through cupped hands at the garage door, and smile. I am so grateful for my Tuesday morning alone time. And so glad my girls get the undivided attention of their grandparents for a few hours as well. Catch up time with my dad and step-mom can wait.

Amazed

Well, now I've gone and done it. I've gotten a taste of what I really want, the life I really want to have, and it's going to be hard to go back. I have written 3 3/4 novels over the last year and a half, and about 20 short stories in the last two years. I've polished my discipline, learning to cherish every quiet second I can devote to writing. I've sent the stories out again and again, and now have six of them published in various literary journals. I submitted one of the novels to a battery of agents, a few of whom liked it enough to ask to see the entire thing, before politely declining.

On a whim, I entered that novel in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. I figured: why not? It's a free contest, I qualify, and I have this novel just sitting here staring at me. When I survived the first round of cuts, I was pretty happy. When I survived the second round, becoming a quarter-finalist, I was ecstatic. I mean, it put me in the top 5% of entrants. That's a big deal, right? The semifinalists were announced this morning, and I spent all night giving myself pep talks about getting cut: I made it to the top 250 out of 5000, got three good independent reviews, and a lot of encouragement from family and friends along the way. That's enough, right? I just about had myself convinced that it was when the list was posted, and I was shocked to see my name on it. So, just like that, I went from feeling happy with my quarter-finalist status, to seeing an actual possibility of winning the thing. I'm this close to having every career dream I've ever had come true. That's a lot to carry. So today I've been in a daze, checking the list repeatedly to make sure I wasn't dreaming (yep, I'm still there), and learning to believe in myself in a whole new way. I know winning would be a ridiculous long-shot, and I'm being realistic about it. I'm so glad to have made it this far. Being one of 50 left in the contest that started with 5000, that's a big accomplishment. But I'm also starting to see that this little dream of mine, of raising the best two little girls in the world while writing all day, it might just become a reality some day.

I'll have to remember to share that with them on a regular basis. Keep dreaming girls, and dream big. Because you just never know what's possible until you put yourself out there.

The Big Time

It's been a big week around here. String Bean turned six years old, which is impossible, because she was a fussy, clingy baby that I had to sleep holding all night just yesterday. And I just registered Peanut for kindergarten, which is both awesome (I'm so looking forward to having both girls at one school again), and impossible, because she's my baby, and babies don't go to kindergarten.

I've noticed they've both had major growth spurts lately. String Bean's back to being the tallest girl in her class, and last time I eyeballed the line-up before class, there were only three boys taller than her in her class, too. Peanut's now so long that I can no longer carry her and walk, as her feet kick me in the knees the whole time. This proves they must indeed be four and six years old, but a big part of me still can't accept it. For one thing, I was only going to leave my editing job for a year after String Bean was born, and I still haven't gone back to work full-time, so that makes me a slacker. For another, hubby and I agreed that I could stay home longer in order to raise the kids while simultaneously launching my writing career, and that hasn't fully taken off yet, either. So, time needs to slow down a bit.

I have had six (six!) short stories accepted for publication in the last four months, so that's been a great ride. Not a paying ride, but encouraging, and I'll take that. I'm pretty proud of myself, and hubby is very supportive of this long-term venture, but the best part is how proud String Bean is of me. I'm not sure Peanut gets the concept of writing stories, since she can't really read or write yet, but String Bean is all over this. As I've showed her each acceptance, she's gone into adorable hysterics, cheering and dancing and telling me how proud she is of me. I mean, really, what more could a mom need? Aside from a literary agent and a book deal. And a little more time with my little girls.

Gingerbread Girl

So, String Bean's aunt gave her this gingerbread man to decorate for Christmas, and she really did a great job decorating it. She became a cute little gingerbread girl, with a fluffy white skirt, puffy sleeves, candy buttons down the front of her blouse, and long, flowing icing hair. But then our cat kept trying to eat it (he's 16, and has some issues, and one of them is chronic food-eating without any accompanying weight gain). So I decided that, for gingerbread girl's protection, I'd store her in the oven.

The next day, after a rough stretch of trying to get the girls down for bed, with hubby out of town, I decided I'd earned some cookies for dessert. So I turned on the oven to preheat. Then Peanut called me up to help her find her missing doll that she wanted to sleep with, and String Bean got into the mix by demanding water, a bathroom trip, and extra cuddling time. By the time I left her room, the house was filled with smoke. I told her to stay put, ran downstairs to see what the problem was, and there was poor gingerbread girl, burnt to a crisp in the oven. Oops! I might've been able to hide it, but String Bean just had to come down to see what the trouble was. I apologized profusely, and she might've been okay, if I hadn't started laughing hysterically at the same time. So, so much for my quiet night. Instead I got a smoke-filled house, a crying 5-year-old devastated by the untimely death of her gingerbread girl, and one ruined wooden cutting board. Hurray for mom!

Sister Comfort

We just returned from a wonderful week in Hawaii. This was our first trip without a single diaper, wipe, stroller, or any of those other baby things that make traveling such a pain. It was perfect. The girls entertained themselves on the plane with drawing and coloring and ate real grown-up food without a fuss.

In Hawaii, we tried out every pool, hot tub, and beach in the Waikoloa area. We saw flowers, birds, fish, turtles, dolphins, mongoose, and feral cats. The girls made new friends each day and tried every kind of fruit grown in Hawaii. They built castles on the beach, chased myna birds together, made sand angels, and bickered, about all sorts of ridiculous things. For the first three nights, they shared a room successfully. It was the first time we’ve ever been able to put them in the same room and still get a full night’s sleep. Then, on the fourth night, they kept each other (and us) up half the night.

Peanut got the room, and String Bean was moved to the fold-out couch, and hubby and I holed up in our bedroom after putting them to bed. It was worth it to have a quiet night of sleeping kids and two non-cranky girls the next day. The next night, String Bean had a nightmare, and refused to sleep alone in the condo’s living room, so she ended up back in the room with Peanut, where they kept each other up half the night again. The following night we separated them again, and again String Bean had a nightmare, but this time, instead of coming into our bedroom for comfort, she went straight to her little sister’s room, woke her up, told her about the bad dream, and went to sleep in there.

Last night when we got home, they gave each other kisses and hugs at their bedroom doors and Peanut told her big sister, “If you have a bad dream tonight, you can come get in bed with me.” It was the sweetest moment. I asked String Bean why, when the girls clearly love each other so much, they fight over things like favorite colors and imaginary princess playmates. She shook her head. “I don’t know why we do that. I do like her. Maybe I’ll try to argue less with her.”

This morning they were right back to fighting, over who liked Hawaii better, who was dreading school more, whose waffle had the most strawberries in it. But I still have that little gem of an image, of String Bean waking, afraid, and wanting her sister’s comfort more than any other.

A Princess Doesn’t Wear Socks

It’s hard to reason with Disney-brainwashed little girls. Everything must sparkle, be silky, or otherwise befit Belle, Cinderella, or Ariel. When String Bean wanted to play outside on a 45-degree afternoon, I told her she needed to change out of her Sleeping Beauty dress and into warm clothes. She consented to pants, a pink fleece shirt with crown imprints all over it, and a gold tiara. She drew the line at socks. I told her she’d be too cold outside in her little pink flats, but that I’d let it slide if she put on warm socks under them. She looked at me like I was telling her to play in traffic and said, “A princess doesn’t wear socks.” So there you have it. They also, in case you were wondering, don’t wear jackets, mittens, scarves, or hats. She says they don’t need to, as their long flowing hair keeps their head warm. Also, it’s hard to wear a tiara with a hat on.

The Age of Wonder

So now I have a four and a five-year-old. My girls can swim, plié and chassé, String Bean can read like lightning, and Peanut knows the name of every animal she’s ever seen. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up with their little sponge minds, but I’m loving every minute of it.

String Bean suddenly wanted to learn to write in cursive, so I set her up with a sample sheet of cursive letters and a blank sheet of lined paper and let her rip. She dabbled for a half hour and now is doing her homework in such fancy script that I’m worried her kindergarten teacher will think I’m doing it for her.

Peanut wants to know everything about everything, down to the most intricate details of how long cars are supposed to pause at stop signs and how books are produced. She’s learning to read herself, mimicking her big sister and adopting the same habit of simply memorizing every word she comes across. From the back seat I hear her shout out the words we pass that she now recognizes: “Stop! Guest! Park! Hill! Halloween!” These simple moments fill me with such joy that I cannot believe I ever thought I was happy before them.

Over dinner they ask me to translate endless terms into Spanish and when their dad is traveling we pull out a globe and plot his travels. In this way they now know the names of a variety of countries and continents. They like to try food from the countries he’s in, or at least String Bean does. Peanut wants to see it, smell it, ask endless questions about what makes Chinese food different from Italian, and Japanese different from French, but most nights she sticks closely to her good old yogurt diet.

I’m sure when I was their age I learned the same way, more by the world around me than in school. I have strong memories of sitting with my father while he read the newspaper and asking endless questions about all that we saw in there, and his patience in answering each one. I remember that my mother never used baby talk or simplified sentences, she just talked to me as if I could understand everything she said, and, eventually, I could.

We still have plenty of emotional drama from String Bean and stubborn battles with Peanut’s iron will, but overall, I’m really enjoying this age. The age of wonder and knowledge and the misguided belief that I have the answers to every one of their questions.