Single Mom: Day 1

Thursday, 11:48pm

Finally home from the outdoor movie night at the pool and tucked in bed. Two-foot-tall popcorn machine is sitting on kitchen counter but I'll clean it up tomorrow and take it back to Cider Mill we borrowed it from. Ahhh. That movie night was fun. Snuggle under blankets. Husband sleepily pulls all the covers onto his side of the bed and resumes snoring, leaving me cold and exposed. I grudgingly admit I'll miss him for the next five days.

Friday, 7am

Wow? Did I sleep that late? Vaguely remember husband waking me at 4am to say goodbye but fell soundly back to sleep. Took a leisurely shower and tidied up the kitchen. Ate a few handfuls of leftover popcorn from giant machine on counter. Figured cleaning it out could wait until later.

Friday, 8:20am

Woke the kids. Made three different breakfasts. Got ready for work

Friday, 8:25am

Son says, "Mom, if you were to take an oxygen canister into outer space and let all the air out..." I daydream about what I'll watch on TV that night. What's that noise? Is he still talking to me? "...so, really, there's no such thing as size."

"Er...yes," I reply. Eat more popcorn.

Friday, 9am

Kids bicker endlessly in the car on the way to my work. (Commute time: 90 seconds) We've packed a Razor scooter, Rip Stik, laptop, and rollerblades to keep them busy while I work. 

Friday, 9:20am

Kids are bored of rolling sports equipment. Take Henry to check out Art Camp that's happening downstairs. Friend is running camp. Figure she won't mind one more camper today. EB fires up the laptop. Has dazed look on her face that can only be brought on by designing dream house on www.Barbie.com.

Friday, 10:20am

Kids are quiet and happy. Henry is working away at Art Camp. EB takes a break from the computer to get her hair cut. Walk her down to the salon and return to work. Feeling productive.

Friday, 12pm

"Pick up" Henry from downstairs Art Camp. Kindly ask my friend/camp director if I should pay her for "watching" Henry all morning. To my surprise, she says "Yes." Write her a check for $30. Realize I've spent all morning at work and will net $3.33. (Not including the haircut.)

Friday, 12:19pm

Home for lunch. Kids begin to bicker again. Make three different lunches.

Friday, 1:30pm

Off to the Pintos to swim. Boy, will it be nice to see some friends and let the kids swim together.

Friday, 1:31pm

Kids bicker in the car. Lose my patience with them and yell. Drop EB off at community pool instead of bringing her to Pintos house. She says, "Good. I think we need some time apart." Peel out of driveway, gravel flying.

Friday, 3:30pm

Had enjoyable time with friends. Plan to go home and put my feet up. Last time I left Kim Kardashian Hollywood app, I was doing a photo shoot in Beverly Hills. Must check to see how many "stars" I've earned.

Friday, 3:31pm

Henry reminds me he needs goggles. Drive to Target. Get goggles and bagel pizzas. (Essentials.)

Friday, 4:30pm

Recline on couch, feet raised. Click on Kim Kardashian Hollywood game but cannot focus on celebrity appearance at Las Vegas nightclub that I'm supposed to be doing. Instead, can't stop thinking about everything that's happened today. Open laptop and begin blog post.

Friday, 5:05pm

Incoming text: "Can you pick me up now?"

Sigh. Gratefully accept friend's offer to drive EB home.

Friday, 5:07pm

Stumped on blog post. Wander into kitchen. Eat more popcorn. Ignore pressing need to remove this monstrosity from my kitchen counter.

Friday, 5:29pm (and 30 seconds)

"Mom, I don't want to do the Lego robotics team this year."

"But you never said that! And we have to be there in LITERALLY thirty seconds."

"Fine."

Friday, 5:35pm

Drop off Henry at Lego robotics meeting. Chaos ensues with boys and girls talking loudly about name of Lego team. Girls insist on "Do you want to build with Legos" sung to tune of insipid song from "Frozen." Hope boys have a better idea. Thirty minutes pass as parents attempt to discuss meeting dates/times over the noise. Can't stop worrying that I left EB home in the shower. Didn't say goodbye. Didn't bring my cell phone with me. Run away from annoying other parent when she tries to engage me in conversation about "my summer." Nearly gasp when new kid walks into team meeting. Isn't that the kid Sue had to stop babysitting because he was so much trouble? What have we gotten into? Promise Henry I'll be back in 30 minutes to pick him up.

Friday, 5:40pm

EB home safe and sound. Not worried about where I was. Kim Kardashian has hired me to buy designs for her new store in Miami Beach! Something is going right for me today!

Friday, 6:29pm

Arrive back at Lego meeting to pick up Henry with EB in tow. Now Henry is having fun. Does not want to leave. Figures. Go for walk around neighborhood with EB. Stop in to see art exhibit at local arts center. Have long conversation with artist who is taking down the exhibit. Don't know much about art; pretended I was still a newspaper reporter and came up with reasonable questions. Husband texts photo of palm trees. If I wasn't joining him in 5 days, I'd cry.

Friday, 6:49pm

Henry still doesn't want to leave Lego meeting. We sit down on floor to "help" him build. Avoid more conversations with uber annoying parent about summer vacation. Awkward. Don't want to hear about their backpacking trip around Europe.

Friday, 7:05pm

Phew. Finally out of the Lego meeting. Stop by McDonalds for dinner just to spite uber annoying family and all other organic food-eating perfectionists.

Friday, 7:25pm

Shouldn't have had that 5th chicken nugget. Consume bowl of popcorn to wash taste of fake chicken out of my mouth. Mmmm...fake butter.

Friday, 8:27pm

Feeling resentful that husband is unavailable for phone call. Who will listen to me unload all my crap and not judge me as world's #1 whiner? Open blog post. Stare blankly at screen. Check game on phone. Holy Kardashians! I've made the C list!!!! So long, suckers on the D list!

Friday, 8:49pm

Is it bedtime yet? Wander into kitchen to examine popcorn machine. Notice all edible popcorn is gone. Grab rag and start washing salt and fake butter stains off of glass. Too much trouble. Leave wet rag on kitchen counter. Open pantry and grab a bag of Skinny Pop popcorn. Stuff into face while watching "Good Eats" with kids.

Friday, 9:03pm

Put on pajamas and hide under covers. Three more days of single parenting. Thankful that ability to blog has saved my sanity. Start mentally drafting tomorrow's post...

The Little House Stories

What does "based on a true story" really mean? Aren't all stories based on some truth?

I started thinking about these questions a few years ago when I read the delightful book "The Wilder Life," which examines the Little House series of books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. As a child, I was infatuated with those books to the point that I would spend hours re-enacting scenes and dressing up as the books' characters. It all seemed perfectly normal at the time. Who wouldn't want to pretend their picnic table was a covered wagon and drag all their possessions to the back yard? Looking back now, I must have been a very odd child.

As soon as I started reading Wendy McClure's "The Wilder Life," I instantly regretted not writing the book myself. In it, she travels across the midwest to the many homesteads, memorials and museums that honor the life of Laura Ingalls Wilder. To me, that sounds like the road trip of a lifetime. Some of the places were more impressive than others, but at each stop, McClure pondered the question of what was historically true and what was invented for the novels.

Yes, they are novels. The Little House books aren't biographies or non-fiction. They are shelved with the children's literature and classified as fiction. Many of the stories, McClure writes, are based in reality, but are not factually true. In fact, some of the books may have been written by Laura's daughter, Rose.

Does the truth of the stories really matter? Do we learn less from these books if all the events didn't actually happen? I don't think so. Stories, whether they are true or real or fantasy or fiction, exist to tell us about something. We may see ourselves in facets of the stories or we may simply be entertained by their plot lines. I haven't quite figured out why the Little House books were so appealing to me but they have inspired in me a love of storytelling and a love of reading.

Now, I am reading and enjoying Bich Minh Nyguen's "Pioneer Girl," which tells of a Vietnamese family's ties to Laura Ingalls Wilder. It also asks questions about how truthful stories can be.

We tell stories to mark our time on Earth, to tell of what happens in our lives, whether it's insignificant or not. Stories are told in books, on television and in movies. I love to read (and watch) stories of all types. I hope I never run out of stories to hear.

Funeral Director

I think I may have a future as a funeral director. Or, at least as someone who directs people to funerals.

On the drive home from school today, the kids and I all feeling down about the cold and rain, were psyched when Toto's "Africa" came on the car radio. Unfortunately, the funky beat started just as we turned the corner by the funeral home and onto our street. I pumped the volume and drove slower, hoping to prolong the moment. Eventually, we pulled into the driveway and belted out the mumbled lyrics as best as we knew them:

It's gonna be a lot to take me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men on Mars could ever do
I miss the rains down in Africa...

Then, I noticed a car had pulled in the driveway behind us. A man got out of the driver's seat and walked towards our car where we sat singing. "Mom! Turn down the volume! He's got a badge!" my daughter warned. I told the kids to stay put and got out into the pouring rain to investigate.

"I know about Pavlot but where's the other one?"

Owens-Pavlot is the funeral home on the corner. "The other what? Funeral home?"

"Yes. Is it called Roberts?"

"No. The only other funeral home here in town is Heintz."

"Oh. Hmmm..."

I took a look at his outfit. He was wearing a navy blue blazer covered in pins and badges and a pair of dress pants. He looked to be in his late 60s and although he didn't seem consumed with grief, it did seem reasonable that he was heading to a funeral. Could he be a veteran? That could explain all the insignia. Then, I remembered something I had seen in town when I was pumping up the volume on Toto.

"Well, actually, I just saw a man walk into Pavlot a minute ago. Wearing a hat. You know," I made a v-shaped sign on the top of my head. "Like a VFW hat." A VFW hat? I asked myself. What is that supposed to be?

Somehow he knew what I meant. "Oh! Thank you!" He ran back to his car and sped away.

When the kids asked me what the man and I had talked about, I told them he was looking for a funeral home because his friend had died. "Isn't that sad?"

"You know what would be sad, Mom?" my daughter asked. "If you lost your brains down in Africa."

Cue the xylophone solo.

Worrying about worrying

It wasn't until April 6, 2005 that I learned that mothers have an uncanny ability to worry. That's the day we took my son to the pediatrician because he wouldn't stop crying. Duh - it turns out he wasn't getting enough oxygen. He was admitted to the hospital, diagnosed with asthma, and prescribed a nebulizer that we've used virtually every day since. That's 3,303 days of worrying, nebulizing, and beating myself up for not knowing my own child wasn't breathing properly.

Since then, I've added many other worries to my repertoire. Some are plausible but most are things that are not likely to ever actually happen. Will I ever be wrongfully accused of a crime and sentenced to life in prison? Probably not. But if I do, I imagine I will have the spirit of Morgan Freeman in "The Shawshank Redemption." I'll wear faded denim overalls and a baseball cap with a frayed brim as I kick the dust in the sunny prison yard and pontificate on prison life. "Get busy living or get busy dying," I'll tell my rapt audience of felons. My letters home will be written in the same handwriting I used regularly in first grade, my academic skills somehow having been lost during my imprisonment. "Dear family, I'm sorry for what I done..."

Okay, I admit I've probably spent a little too much time on that particular worry.

Everyday I've got a slew of new worries. Today, I find myself reading about friends with the stomach bug and fearing I will be its next victim. Never mind that I've already had the stomach bug this winter and I haven't had physical contact with anyone who is sick. I'm still paying acute attention to my stomach's every toss and turn, anticipating that you-can't-turn-back-now nauseous feeling.

Truth is, there will always be something to worry about. No matter how many times I tell myself my worries are irrational, I still worry. I've read that the trick is to keep your worries in check by focusing on the many blessings life has already given you. I also tell myself that if the worst should happen, I'm strong enough to get through it and come out a better person on the other side. I've had the stomach bug before, and if I come down with it again this week, I'll feel better soon.

Also, I am thankful I've been blessed with the resources to hire a good lawyer if the occasion ever arises, and even if the worst happens, the prison-issue overalls will probably look pretty cute.

Would You Read This Book?

I took my kids to the school playground today and ran into a group of friends who read my Facebook post about my time at the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop. Although they pretended to be interested in the conference, they really wanted to know more about my book.

I don't know when it will be done but I'm at least halfway through writing it and then there's the editing and revising, which can be arduous for a perfectionist like myself.

Until then, I thought I'd tease you with the book pitch I planned to deliver at the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop...

Liz Bishop is a small town New Jersey mom who is losing her patience with a hive of gadflies who insist on interrupting her peaceful life.

When her boss Penelope suggests their children's museum host a controversial photography exhibit, Liz hides in her office with a can of Coke and a bag of M&Ms rather than stand up for what seems like common sense.

The new woman in town lets her four brats run wild. It's no surprise she brings a thermos of wine to the town pool, but how how does Liz get stuck making sure she follows the rules?

Then, there's Tracey. Her perfect angels think SpongeBob is a cleaning implement. Meanwhile, Liz's 12-year-old daughter has mood swings so strong they could power a pendulum.

Liz is exasperated and now her husband and children are annoyed, too. She's caught up in everyone else's drama and not what's happening at home. When the town council threatens to close the pool, Liz gets her priorities in order, turns her charms on the mayor, and the waves are calmed.

Have you ever rolled your eyes so often you were worried they would stick that way? Meet Liz Bishop. She's figured out that looking straight ahead is a better way to see the world. 

Finding Humor When Nothing's Funny

My trip to the humor writer's conference was not at all funny. At least, it wasn't funny when it started. When I flew from Syracuse to Dayton for the Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference on Thursday, my son was home with a diagnosed case of the flu and a 103 degree fever. I knew he was in good hands with his father and two sets of grandparents, but still, I was worried and anxious. Nothing was funny; especially not the CNN anchors who spent a solid hour dissecting the missing Malaysian airlines flight. I could swear my heart was pinging.

Two turbulent plane rides later, I was riding a roller coaster of emotions as I stepped into the cocktail hour for attendees. After being in the room for less than five minutes, I was pulled aside by two women who said I looked nice and they appreciated the fact that I was wearing jeans, not the cocktail dresses and heels worn by many of the other attendees. Bonding over our casual wear, much of my anxiety immediately melted away.

During my three days in Ohio, I learned how to craft a Tweet, how to publish a book, and how to walk into a room full of strangers and not worry. I enjoyed an impromptu concert by one of the participants in the National Drum Line Semi Final Competition. I learned how to sign up for Farmers Only, the Match.com for clodhoppers. (Not that I called that 1-800 number; I had a fine husband waiting for me back home in Christian Mingle country.)

Most importantly, during my time away, I got some perspective, and that was the most valuable takeaway. My son healed without me. I realized that I am capable of publishing a book. Not just any book: my story, my voice. I was reminded that the world is much, much bigger than my little town and that my world there should be larger.

It turns out the conference really was funny and I did do a lot of laughing. My favorite Erma Bombeck quote from the weekend was from a piece about regrets. She said,  "I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day."

I wasn't here for three days and the earth kept spinning, the children kept smiling, and I kept growing.