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.

The Writer-Mommy

The strangest thing about having a blog is the sheer fact that people read it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve run into a friend and started to tell her a funny story about my kids, only to find that she already knows all about it. How, when I haven’t seen her in a few weeks? Apparently many people I know actually read this blog. Which is great, but surprising. And which makes me feel guilty for not keeping up on it more. I’ve been working hard on the writing front, that’s my excuse. Two novels done, taking turns going out to agents, coming back, going out again…like waves on the vast ocean of one possible future. In the mean time I’m submitting a short story to literary journals, working on my third novel, writing a new short story, and revising two old short stories to send out. This business part of writing, the submissions and collecting of rejections, is the least fun part for me, but it’s the part where I’ve always quit in the past, so I’m not quitting this time.

As for the girls, they like that I’m devoting so much time to writing. Sure, when I duck out for a writing night (where hubby puts me up in a nearby hotel, keeps them for the night, and I crank away for as many hours as my weary eyes will tolerate), sometimes they fuss and beg me not to go. But in general, they think it’s cool. They are both book lovers, and the idea that I’m ditching them for an evening of working on something they appreciate seems to make it okay. And the fact that String Bean has announced many times that when she grows up, she wants to be a writer like mommy…well, I don’t have to tell you how proud that makes me.

Baby Book

Two years ago, for a Christmas present for all of the immediate family members, I created a book about the girls. It was 24 pages long, in full color, with big glossy pages chock full of photos and accompanying text about milestones (first words, the age when they got their first tooth, when they took their first steps) as well as little anecdotes about trips they’d taken, their favorite outings, their earliest hobbies. It was a hit with the family, and I kept one archival copy for us (although, to be honest, I have no idea where it is right now).

The other day, as I was cleaning off my desk, heaped with years worth of miscellaneous papers, I came across the final draft of the book, printed on our home printer in basic black toner. It’s hard to make out the fine details of the photos in the dark copy, but as soon as the girls saw it, they recognized themselves. I’ve been reading them that book every night for bedtime for the past few days.

I don’t know about other kids, but mine just love hearing about what they were like as babies, or even just a year ago. They love stories about funny things they did or the quirky way they used to mispronounce certain words (and each other’s names). They both have the book memorized by now, and have developed their own narration to accompany it: “That’s when we were in Hawaii, and grandpa bought me that shovel, and that’s Daddy’s old phone that I used to play on, and that’s me drinking a smoothie from the place we never go anymore. Oh, and I remember that shirt!”

It makes me feel better about never doing a baby book for either of them. Between the photo book covering their early years, and this blog, maybe I’ve done as much, or even more, than a baby book would have.

Story-Telling Girl

String Bean, in addition to her general obsession with princesses, has developed a fascination with fairy tales. She has the standard Disney fairy tale collection, and a Barbie fairy tale book and movie, but her favorite fairy tales are the ones she makes up herself, starring herself and her sister, often with her step-cousin and the neighbor boy playing roles as princes.

She’s given up having me read bedtime stories from books, instead preferring that we take turns telling each other stories about these two princess sisters and their adventures in a kingdom where mystical, magical things happen every day. We’ve had stories about magical fish in a lake behind the castle, that cast rainbows as they jump out of the water, talking unicorns that invite the girls to a hidden orchard for the best fruit ever, and castle balls where everyone dances until an evil witch comes to break up the party, is defeated by the princesses and their princes, who then become engaged and life happily ever after.

As a story teller myself, I probably don’t have to tell you how much I adore this new side of her always active imagination. Watching her string together words, images, and concepts, her eyes wide with amazement at her own story’s development, I can plainly see myself as a young girl, developing this same fascination at a similar age.