Could I Have Fed My Children in 10,000BC?

Always a spring of creativity, Stasha of The Good Life at northwestmommy, challenges us this week to come up with a list for her Monday Listicles on the topic of food and thinking!

Where to begin?
Grocery lists.
Recipes.
Ingredient labels.
Pinterest.

We see the normal, average foods piling up in our grocery cart, lining our pantries, gathering mold in our refrigerators, but how often do we see their origin, unless in our gardens out back?

So in order to make this into a teachable moment for my daughters, and a history lesson for me so I can sound impressive at the dinner table tonight, I've taken it upon myself to find 10 foods that make me think of the world when it first began, well, maybe when humans first started transitioning from being hunters and gatherers to farmers and cultivators.

10 Foods That Make Me Think Of Trying to Feed My Children Thousands of Years Ago 

(in case I climb aboard a time machine and plug in 10,000BC)

1. Insects - So I've eaten a chocolate-dipped cricket, once, a long time ago, but I think I'd have to crawl around in the muck, digging for grubs, and teach my girls how to swallow them whole.
2. Almonds - 10,000BC and I'd be identifying these, scaling mountains and crossing deserts, to get almonds if it means no more bugs.
3. Einkorn grain - Never heard of it, but supposedly it was one of the first cereals available in 16,000BC, right next to Lucky Charms I believe. Pass me the milk, please. But wait, cows weren't domesticated until 6,000BC.
4. Cherries - These may not take the place of chocolate, but if my 1 year old can eat a dozen maraschino cherries in less than a minute, I have to think these would be on our stone slab table for dinner every night.
5. Bread - Thank goodness this was invented in 10,000BC. In my family, "thunder thighs" are a sign we have ancestors who were champion bread consumers.
6. Wine and Beer - Who knew wine and beer count in the food pyramid of the world's oldest foods? As a mother in 7,000BC I wonder which my daughters would have preferred? 
7. Cucumbers - Jumping forward to 5,000 BC, because my middle daughter literally eats six or more cucumbers a day, and I'm not talking about the baby size ones.
8. Ice Cream - 3000BC and I'm dying to know how they made it without ice and our Snoopy snowcone maker and sugar, since sugar didn't appear until 1200BC.
9. Peas and Carrots - Now this is something I could have grown, harvested, cooked and consumed alongside my girls in 3000BC.
10. Blood as food - in the first century, in puddings and soups, and I'm about to barf as I type this, so let's add a #11 to sweeten this list.
11. Cheesecake - also a first century food, and I'm guessing they didn't have a springform pan, but I'd take this over blood pudding any day of the week.

 So maybe we would have been a little scrawny with a few cavities and sticky fingers, but I thank my ancestors from 10,000BC for finding food, cultivating it, cooking it, and providing for their children. I've always dreamed of going back in time to the dawn of Homo sapiens, but I don't know if I could stomach it.

A Dog, A Family

We meet a lot of bloggers. Some stand out and we return again and again to their blog.

Since I began this blog in 2007 I've come to love many blogs, but in the past couple of years I've found one that I return to over and over again: The Good Life by Stasha at northwestmommy.

From her Monday Listicles to her amazing photography to her voice, Stasha's blog rings with honesty and beauty. She writes sincere comments and truly values everyone's voice.

And then today I discovered on her blog this beautiful short movie starring her son and dog. In case you haven't seen her dog in photos before, it is HUGE. But this short movie shows us the beauty of Stasha's life, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

Here's the link: http://www.northwestmommy.com/2013/better-with-pets

I've shared this with family and friends already and now I want to share it with you in case you might want to pass it on to others!

What Will the Future Be Like for My Children?

It's easy to let our minds go down the path of answering the question: "What will the future be like for my children?"

Sure we wonder what our children will be like in the future, but I have more say in that than the amount of control I have over the future world for our children. What will the world be like in 50 years when I am 85 and my daughter are possibly grandmothers themselves?

I believe the Internet has sprung this leak inside our minds. We demand, we believe we need, we expect quick fixes, fast solutions, and answers available with a click of a button.

But the frontiers have disappeared and our children's minds first face a digital screen, a blinking cursor, instead of card catalogs, weather reports in newspapers, blades of grass in an open field. I've read numerous articles and books about the positives and negatives of exposure time to computers, TVs, cell phones, iPads, etc, but it's not so much as 'exposure' that I worry about but the fact that our children will never know a life without all things digital.

How do we teach our children that answers are earned, solutions are the result of time and energy, fixes are rewards of creativity and work?

Modeling. I need to model it for my girls.
I should stop "Googling it."
I should turn my cell phone off for the entire day.
I should purchase a newspaper and read it with them.

What I'd really love to do is unplug it all. Get rid of the TV, the cell phone, the iPad, the computer. Physically it's not impossible. Unplug, pack up and put them away in a non-accessible place.

But how hard would it be to do the day-to-day functions in our society today?
Maybe not as hard as I fear, maybe.

Recycling that Prescription

As I sat on the examining table at my doctor's office, bending over so the doctor could look at the irritated mole on the back of my neck, I coughed. A phlegmy, thick, mucousy cough (sorry for TMI), a cough I've had for over a year that comes and goes.

Out whipped my doctor's prescription pad and he scribbled away.
Take this antibiotic, he said.

Oh, this cough, it's nothing, I said. Just drainage and it coats my throat.

He shook his head and insisted I fulfill the prescription for yet another antibiotic.

I call my doctor's office the antibiotic-happy clinic, because every time I go in for whatever random reason, I leave with at least one antibiotic prescription in hand.

And I rarely take them to the pharmacy to actually get the medicine.

Of course I do for serious things, like strep throat.

But my doctor once kept prescribing a variety of antibiotics, one after the other after the other, for the close within the appropriate range of bacteria in my urine. She wanted the numbers to be smack dab in the middle of the correct range.

Weeks and weeks went by of taking different types of antibiotics with no effect. And finally I said no.

I said no, because I am quite alright with the bacteria in my urine.
I am not alright with exposing my body and all of its microbes to different antibiotics that kill off healthy bacteria.

Maybe some of my readers will disagree with this, maybe they take everything the doctor prescribes, but maybe, just maybe, the doctors aren't always prescribing antibiotics as they should. Maybe some doctors are too antibiotic-happy?

The Things We Ask

I often catch myself 'telling' my daughters...

Please pick up your room.
Eat your peas.
This is the third time I've 'asked' you to get your shoes on this morning.

With all of this telling I begin to wonder what I ask them...

Did you go potty yet?
What would you like to drink, milk or water?
It's time to leave for school, where are your shoes?

The majority of our day is filled with these basic telling and asking statements.
Shouldn't it be filled with more thought-provoking ideas and questions?
Shouldn't I be framing their growth: mental, emotional, spiritual?

Maybe it's no wonder when I turn to my writing and find myself struggling to dig deep into the characters and carve out a unique plot.

Maybe life is just too simple minded, at the moment.

Before I know it my girls will be 13, 15, and 17, and then I'll be missing the simplicity of statements like "Make your bed" and "Did you wash your hands?"

A Newborn Series: Smell

My first two daughters were born in the up most sterile environments possible: the surgical room.

Prior to becoming a mother, I imagined warm scents of candles and fresh scents of flowers in a cocoon of a hospital room where I would give birth naturally. Instead, on the their birth days I inhaled the bleach of a freshly scrubbed floor, the rubbery plastic of latex gloves, and the disinfectant soup that cloaked my body from the hospital shower.

Today is my due date; however, I write this in advance of this important day as I prepare myself for a third c-section.  Despite the non-welcoming smells of the operating room, I anticipate the most incredible smell of life: that of my newborn baby held against my chest for the first time.

It is an honor today on this special day to host my blogging friend Germaine of Kiddothings here on my blog as she took on the challenge of the sense of smell for this newborn series, and what an amazing job she did with it!

Thank you Germaine for making my due date easier for me as I will be thinking of this post and all of the wonders of newborn smells as I welcome my baby girl into the world!

Parfum Le Bebe

By Germaine of Kiddothings

Today is Kim’s due date. She is going to be a new mother again the third time around. And to celebrate Motherhood for the third time, she’s starting a Newborn Series this week. I am so honoured to be here today to help her welcome her little one into our world.

Since it’s also Picnesday today, Kim is co-hosting Picnesday with me. To those who have dropped by from my blog, thank you and stay a while to get to know Kim and Zook Book Nook. She’s a wonderful writer and a very supportive bloggy friend.

As I write this, I’m reminded of the early days when my kids were newborns. As I sifted through my picture archives to do this post, I felt a tug at my heartstrings. I felt my eyes sting with tears. For I miss my babies. And today, I’m given the opportunity by Kim to also celebrate my ‘newborns’.  Kim has asked me to do a take on ‘Newborn Smell’. 

So here, I am going to share with you what goes into making  Parfum Le Bebe - a perfume that makes a mother fall in love with her baby instantly.

A whiff of soft baby fuzz

The peacefulness of a baby sleeping

The tenderness of a baby’s grip

The wonder in a baby’s gaze

The sweetness of a baby’s first smile

Having your baby lay down on your chest,

feeling his heart beat against yours

Taking in that magical feeling of being so close to a miracle that is

 Your baby.

And that my friends is Parfum Le Bebe, 

The Scent of Life.

Thank you Germaine! 

I have tears in my eyes as I read this and look at these breathtaking photos again! My world will soon be full of the Scent of Life!

Tension Tamer

My two-year-old tiger lunges for her older sister, jaws wide open, baring her teeth.

"Bite me!" my four-year-old lion taunts, giggles, and leaps off the couch.

Her tiger sister slings a hug around the lion's neck, and wrestles her to the ground. Despite the four extra pounds her lioness older sister has on her, the tiger cub uses her denser weight and pins her older sister to the ground.

Giggles shriek up from the carpet.
Shouts of "no, no, no" are eclipsed by more laughter.
They roll around. They hug. They bounce on each others' tummies.

And then the tide turns.
A hair is pulled.
A foot is too confined.
A shirt gets stretched.
A pair of lungs is smothered.
A set of teeth graze the skin.

The tension builds, I watch in dread as I see the giggles ebb and the monster growls from both tiger and lion merge in the air.

Do I tame the lion and tiger before the tears and pushes and bites surface?

Well, I try.
I intercept.
I say the famous line "That's enough!"
But I'm always, always too late.

So tears come and go.
Sister cats are separated.
Anger is dispelled.

And my girls slink back into their joyful smiles and hug.
Most of the time.

Detective Mom: Do You Monitor What Your Kids Read?

While teaching honors biology to 9th graders, I discovered several of my female students were reading graphic fiction books about young women who had s.e.x.ual encounters on a serious, scary side: violence, abuse, underage rape, etc. My students admitted they liked reading about violent s.e.x.

This moment froze in time for me: How does a teacher, a writer, a parent relate to today's teens?

This discovery came before I had children, before I had two daughters, soon to be three. The discovery stills hurts my heart today for many reasons: Why did these girls like this type of book? Why were their parents in the dark? What if I need to be a super sleuth to discover what my daughters are secretly reading?

I don't relish the idea of being a Detective Mom.

At the moment, mysteries need to be solved...

        Is that puppy pee or little girl pee? Does it matter?

       Why is there a third of the fish tank water on the floor and rug?

       Why are all of your clothes out of your dresser drawers, again?

       Who is it running down the hallway to my bedroom at 3a.m.?

       Where is your other shoe? It's time to leave.

I don't envision such simple mysteries to be solved in my future.
The mysteries will deepen in complexity, both emotionally and mentally.

Being the bookworm that I am, I know every single book on my daughters' bookshelves. I should, I bought almost all 900 of them.

But maybe I won't know every single book they read when they are teenagers. They'll go to the library without me. Their friends will loan them books at sleepovers. And maybe I will find myself leaning more on the side of trusting them, than prying through their bookcases and under their mattresses and inside their school bags.

I do know I don't want my daughters to read the kinds of books that my students were glued to.
I do know I would not allow it.

But I don't think I will be strict and demand to know every single title my daughters' choose to read. I'll probably have other worries about them on my mind, than what books they are reading. Because, honestly, who would ever think that a young teenage girl would want to read a book like the ones my students were reading.

But now I know that it is a possibility.
At least I have ten years to go, maybe less, until I have to begin worrying about that.
Right?

Maybe if I am Detective Mom one day in the distant future my superhero-loving daughters will just laugh and say, "Mom, it's alright. We're making the right choices. Don't worry."

If you are reading this daughters (the year is probably 2021), please know I do trust you and I love you so much, but please reassure me that you are making the right choices. 

Love, Mama (that's what you called me when you were 4 and 2)

The Missing Parts

My four-year-old daughter recently asked me in the car, "Mama, what parts of the Bible are missing? Tell me those stories."

My mouth opened, "Um, well, Sweetie, the Bible was written a long time ago. You're right, they probably didn't include every story, but it was so long ago I don't know what stories are missing."

My daughter continued to probe me for the missing parts for the remaining 20 minutes of our drive. She's one determined little girl.

But it got me thinking about the Bible, about our history, about stories I read and stories I write.

What parts make it into the text and what parts are omitted?

At the end of my day, after my girls are asleep, I write my husband an email. Sometimes it is short as I am tired. Sometimes it has different parts of my day in it, the cute, sentimental parts inspired by our daughters.

But there is so much more left unsaid.

I have a horrible memory. My earliest childhood memory is when I was in first grade, sitting beneath a huge evergreen tree with my sisters and neighborhood girl friends. I vaguely recall the blurry face of my kindergarten teacher, because she was a harsh, strict woman. But that is it. There are so many gaps, so many missing parts of my story.

I wish I remembered more, like the details of minor events in my life instead of just the big ones.

I like to think this blog and my email files hold those fleeting, small moments of my daughters' lives in case one day they wish to fill in the missing parts of their stories.

What parts are missing from your story that you wish you could remember?

Crossing the Fence

Not so long along I began to realize that my blog could do more for me than serve as a place to write and explore my thoughts.

It can inspire me to reach out to others, both online and offline.

I've just begun taking small steps to do so, but I can report now that I am becoming closer to our neighbors!
Just awhile back I wrote about neighbors and how fenced off we are from one another. So I baked a pie.

I had the excuse of our stolen pot of carrots, which our neighbor helped get back for me when he saw a bunch of crazy youngsters stealing my daughters' pot of carrots off our front porch. At 3a.m. our neighbor from across the street witnessed the thieves taking our pot and he came out of his house to confront them and got our pot of carrots back.

He is a hero in my daughters' eyes.

So I wanted to thank him for helping us, but I had been wanting to thank him for some time for always asking how we are doing during my husband's deployment. And to be honest, I wanted to teach my girls a lesson: that bringing a peach pie and a tub of ice cream over to a neighbor is a common practice.

So we baked a pie after dinner one night. The three of us then walked across the street, my oldest wearing her nightgown and my youngest wearing a tutu (it was almost 8p.m. by the time the peach pie was done). And we gave our neighbors the peach pie and ice cream. This was something so frequently done among neighbors when I was a little girl, but my girls have never experienced this.

And it made my daughters so happy! To give, to share, to relate to our neighbors. My four-year-old was relieved, however, that I saved a peach for her back at home.

And then today, our neighbors (the mom and daughter) came over with a bromeliad plant and my pie dish full of nectarines for us!

But what made it even better was that we talked and talked (in Spanish), and I felt great getting to know our neighbors. I had to translate it all for my daughters, and my youngest one tried to show off her Spanish by shouting "Dora" over and over.

Even though my girls couldn't participate in the conversation, they got it. They understood that neighbors are friends, not just people we wave hi to or peek at through the gaps in a fence!

So I want to say thank you to all of my readers who comment on my blog, especially the post "Us and Them: A Backyard Divided," because you encouraged and inspired me to step outside of my shell, and my fenced in yard!

Will You Marry Me?

My four- and two-year-old daughters fight over who gets to marry their daddy.
Even though I remind them that I am married to him, they each claim that they get to marry him.
Finally, it gets settled: "Mama marries Daddy on Saturday and Sunday" while my girls get to marry him on alternating weekdays!

Then a few days ago, my oldest daughter offered a new solution.
She asked her younger sister, "Will you marry me? I'm nice."
And my youngest daughter smiled and nodded yes.

I listened, smiling at the simplicity of her proposal.

The criteria, the aspirations, the standards, the traits... everything we look for in a partner, a lover, a mate, a best friend, a spouse can feel like an enormous list, but perhaps long ago a proposal was backed with such simple statements like the one my daughter offered.


I have a job.
I have a house.
I have a plow.
I have a piece of land.
I have a trade.
I have a skill.
I have a respected family name.
I have two hands and a strong back.

I cherish the simplicity in my daughters' eyes. It makes the spin of the crazy, busy world slow down and stop for me. I remember what life and love is all about.

Abandoning Her Family

What if you're not cut out to be a mom?

Sure there are many of us who struggle with the challenges of being a mom, feeling like we aren't enough, like we can't do it, but we stick with it.

But not every mom does. Some walk away.

I recently wrote a very rough draft of a 200 word flash fiction story, titled The Abbreviated Woman, to try and capture a moment on the surface of a mom who leaves her family.

The summer before starting graduate school, I came back from the rainforest to earn some money to buy furniture and rent an apartment in St. Louis. I took on a job at a daycare, working with the 5 and 6 year old children.

One day I discovered a little girl from my class who couldn't go poop. It frightened her. She wouldn't talk about it. She actually didn't talk much at all. That day at pick-up I approached her father and mentioned it to him. I didn't expect the response he gave me:

"She's been having some issues since her mother left us."

I was a very naive 22-year-old and couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that a mother could leave her husband and child. I simply thought there was something wrong with the mother. Who could do that?

I had heard stories of husbands abandoning families, but women, no.

I have often thought of that father and daughter, hoping they found happiness and peace together.

But I have thought more about the mother, especially since becoming a mother myself. Yes, the fear of losing my children is present daily, but not consuming my entire mind and spirit. But I've never feared I couldn't handle being a mother.

How does a mother who abandons her family feel?
What is she going through in her mind when she decides to leave?

I can't imagine it is easy for any mother to make the decision to leave.

Perhaps she is unhappy and believes her children and husband would be better off without her in the picture. Maybe she wants a life living alone, to pursue what she wants in a manner she wants.
It's possible she wants to start her life over.

Why am I absorbed enough with this question to have written a flash fiction story and this post about it?

I don't really know, except that I know I never want to be apart from my children and husband. I love them more than anything in this world.

Maybe the mothers who abandon their families love their husbands and children as well.
Maybe they are following some intuition that leads them down that path.

It is a question I will never know the answer to though as I will never abandon my family.

Sleep Child of Mine

This child.

That child.

Your child.

My child.

Alex, Age 9, Brazil

Every single child is so precious, so full of life. 

The innocence of a child's life rings of fragility. 

James Mollison's project "Where Children Sleep" grips my heart. It is in print; however, you can view it digitally online to see the images of children around the world and where they sleep.

As I began to look at each photo, my heart felt that flutter moms feel when we want to reach out and help a child in need.

Then I began questioning myself:

Maybe the child is happy in his or her environment? 
Maybe the child receives the same unconditional love my children receive, just in a different setting?
Maybe the child's parents would view my daughters' bedroom as less than optimal?

Who determines what is best for a child when it comes to the child's rights?

"Where Children Sleep" is a production to bring awareness to the rights of children.

And I felt myself not only wanting to reach out to these children, but also judging:

Was the lavishness of one child's room creating a child who will not be conscious of her footprint later in life?
Why did the seven-year-old girl have to work in a quarry?
How can a child's mind and soul grow in such a barren environment?

And then I hated myself for judging. It might have been instinctual to judge because it's the Mama Bear in me, or it might have been my own upbringing, my own view on top of a pedestal that made me begin to think I knew what was best for the child.

It's easy for me to make the assumption that my daughters have one of the best chances at living a healthy, safe life by living in the U.S.

But I've always wondered since the day my first daughter was born:
What if we lived in a different country? 
What if my child fell asleep at night with a different view of the moon?

It is certain I wouldn't love my child any less.
However...
How might my child's life be different? 
What if a mom from the U.S. viewed my child's bedroom and judged me? 
What if 'others' felt my child's rights were endangered?

James Mollison's project has made me aware of both the rights of children, but also the rights of parents. From where we stand we all may have a different opinion on a child's rights.

But perhaps we can all agree on one universal truth: A child's life is the only one the child has.

Stepping Into Shoes

We often hear ourselves saying "I wear many hats," but what we don't always talk about are the numerous shoes we step into every day.

Being a mom means feeling quite alone...

I am the only one on this planet who is going on three hours of sleep.

No other mother has to deal with a sick dog and a sick child at the same time.

Those other moms, the ones who publish novel after novel, 

they all have full-time, live-in nannies, right?

Everyone else is having a date night, while I'm the only one alone in a house with sleeping children.

But blogging let's us know, despite our reservation to trust it, that in fact, we are not alone. Quite possibly in this very moment another mom is alone in front of her computer, with her little ones tucked asleep, her husband deployed half-way around the world, and she is lonely.

I tentatively try to step into her shoes.

And she isn't the only one. I attempt to imagine what it might feel like to be in the shoes of the mom who locked her keys and children inside her car or in the shoes of the dad who coaches his son's soccer team or in the shoes of the mom who works 50 hour weeks or in the shoes of the mom who is single and deploys, leaving her child with her elderly mother or the dad who comes to the playground every day with his children and stares at his phone the entire time...

Several years ago I listened to a man giving a talk about measuring sticks.

He asked us, "Do you measure the people around you with your own personal measuring stick?"

He continued on to question "Who are you to measure someone else's morals and actions with your own stick?"

And I looked around, I still look around sometimes, and realize I am judging. I am assuming I know what a person is thinking, feeling, living.

But I don't.

Who am I to judge?

When my hair has gone unwashed for two days, my shirt has stains, my two-year-old's mouth is showing evidence of the morning's breakfast, and my four-year-old's sassy mouth is drawing attention, I wonder "Is someone judging me?" They don't know the whole story of why we all appear this way. They only see the surface of the moment.

And that is all they get.

So I tuck my measuring stick away. I've learned to appreciate the challenges of being a parent, and know that many others have it a lot rougher than me:

A mom who gives birth to twin boys with four other children at home and her husband deploys a month later.

Parents who deal with fear on a daily basis that their five-year-old's disease may take her life. 

A father who is struggling to understand why his four-year-old daughter refuses to talk after her mother, his wife, left them...

Stepping into shoes... I don't know if it makes a difference, but at least it reminds me not to judge, not to think I am alone, and not to believe no one has it rougher than me. It helps me to appreciate every moment I have every day.

She's On a Roll

In 7th grade a friend of mine once confided in me that she French rolled her jeans to perfection just before choir class in hopes that the popular girls would be impressed by her jeans and accept her into their group. Within a few months, my friend had already had s.e.x. with one of the boys in the popular crowd to pursue her desire to be 'in' with certain people. Rolling forward into 8th grade, my friend then began throwing back shots of Vodka after school with the popular kids, and that really marked the dwindling end of our friendship.




When my older sister was in middle school just three years before me, students were only making out and kissing. And just a generation or two before us, middle school students were only holding hands and passing notes. Today I hear in the news that my friend's actions in 7th grade now occur among boys and girls in elementary school, so I can't even begin to imagine what is happening in the shadows of middle school.



Now how does a writer-mama relate to these children?

Before our first daughter was born, my husband and I did not want to know her gender. We anticipated the surprise. Upon her delivery, my husband took a minute before he announced proudly "It's a girl!" In that minute I imagine a thousand thoughts of worry ran through his head: some day I will have a teenage daughter, some day I will have to have 'the' talk with her, some day I may have to give her hand away in marriage, some day I will see her become a mother. We are so happy to have two daughters (and a third one on the way), and whether we had a daughter or son we both would think about their future days among peers with pressures that my friend in middle school experienced.

I have discovered teenage girls reading X-rated books. And I'm not talking about books with heated passion. No, these books go way beyond that with abusive, drug-induced, scary-in-the-details s.e.x.

These teens had only recently entered their teen years. As an adult I was in disbelief and worried about the future of our children. As a writer my mind got lost in one question:

Who writes these horrible books and why do they get published? 

At the time I found the teenage girls reading these books (in the classroom), I was a teacher. Confronting the parents did little to prevent the girls from reading more books like these, because the parents said they did not monitor what their children read.


Monitoring what our kids read is a topic for another day, but come on, a book about the details of s.e.x. bordering rape and more, how can anyone let any child read that?


Well, getting back to being a writer-mama... How do we relate to the young adolescents today in our writing and parenting when so much more serious stuff is going on among them, stuff we didn't experience or see or hear about until we were several years older?

I want to write for my daughters and children around the world.
I want what I write to inspire them to lead healthy, positive, adventurous lives.
I want my readers to close my book feeling encouraged to believe in themselves, to embrace themselves, and to have the courage to stand tall in the inundating wave of peer pressure.

But I also want to relate to my readers, to describe what they are experiencing and witnessing in their day-to-day lives, to be in touch with them and say 'hey, I understand what you're going through.' A frequent comment among my students when I taught 9th grade was, "Mrs. Zook, you get us. Maybe it's because you're so young." I don't want to stop "getting children and adolescents" as I get older. I imagine having children will always help me relate to them, but as a writer I need to reach children of all backgrounds, of all experiences so my writing can touch each person who opens my book.

I hope my friend, who rolled into 8th grade on a different path than me, is happy and healthy today.
I hope the teenage girls whom I taught have found happy and healthy relationships.
I hope I will be able to relate to my daughters, my readers no matter what direction they roll in life.

I first posted this on my blog back in 2009, but I wanted to share it with you again in hopes to learn more from my readers about how they relate to the adolescents of today.

The Hand Off

To get in and out of the rainforest where I once lived I had to hike for about two hours up a mountain to catch the bus. I always appeared a sweaty mess, and stood baffled beside the locals who were not only sweat-free, but mud-free and clad in wrinkle-free clothes and polished shoes.

To this day it remains a mystery how they managed to look so fresh after a journey up the mountain.

On one particular day I had to travel to the city of San Jose to visit the doctor (I could no longer hear the birds sing). I stood in line for the bus, anticipating the 4 1/2 hour bus ride that involved passing cars in no passing lanes around mountain curves and breathing in exhaust that made the street signs in the city literally black.

To my surprise, my friend Maria showed up with her three-month-old baby. They were traveling in my direction on the bus. I was thrilled to not be alone for part of the trip, and I offered to hold her baby. Maria gladly handed her over to me.

I held the baby girl in front of me, making silly faces and googley eyes, when the baby suddenly threw up all over me.

Maria, laughed whole-heartedly, and took her baby back, offering me a piece of cloth in exchange.

I smiled, genuinely appreciating Maria's laughter to take my mind away from the mess.

I could not return to my hut. I had to get my hearing fixed. Without being able to hear the birds I could not be a naturalist and a guide to those who came to the rainforest in search of manakins, motmots, and quetzals.

So I wiped myself off as best as possible, bordered the bus, and opened the window as much as possible.

I imagine I smelled when I arrived at the doctor's office, but it was mixed with sweat and dirt, and I had given up being embarrassed by it.

The thing is in Costa Rica, where I lived at least in a small valley with only 20 some families, hygiene is very very important. If I skipped a morning shower, the local women who came to cook breakfast at the research station where I worked would ask me: "Kimberly, why is your hair not cleaned?" And on the days when I did shower (trust me, taking a shower in the mountains with frigid mountain water is not the ideal way to wake up at 5a.m., even in the tropics), the women all nodded their heads in approval and touched my wet curly locks.

Nevertheless, the doctor did not say a word. He gave me medicine in my ears, and we waited and waited and waited. Then he flushed my ears out. An entire tablespoon of earwax came out of each ear. Both the doctor and I were so disgusted, so shocked that in that moment I forgot about my throw up/sweat/dirt-stained attire.

And I realized, there was background music playing in the examination room I was sitting in! I could hear!!

When I returned late that evening the rainforest was screeching and roaring with life that I had not been able to hear for weeks.

I washed my clothes and took an icy shower. I pulled on my wool socks and fleece sweater. I checked my bed for scorpions and tarantulas. And I hunkered down into my bed, smelling fresh and clean.

As I closed my eyes, I smiled remembering Maria's laughter over her baby throwing up all over me.

And I remember this now, after spending seven days inside my home with both of my daughters throwing up all over me and me throwing up as well. I desperately felt the desire to hand over my girls to a friend.

Like Maria, I didn't want my girls to throw up on a friend. I just needed a break. I'm glad I took Maria's baby all those years ago. I'm glad Maria didn't have to travel with a baby and throw up. I know now that being clean is a small matter compared to being strong enough to keep going when the day never ends.

Silencing the Pain

 

Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop is today!

I've chosen the following prompt: 1) A mom fail moment.

My four-year-old is "super brave," as she puts it.


When she had blood drawn from the vein in her arm, she shed a single tear.
When she had six cavities fixed in one appointment, she hummed the entire time to stay calm.
When she has an upset stomach, she runs to the bathroom and throws up in the toilet and tells me as I come running after her that she's all better and smiles.


So when she had her most recent MMR shot, I did not plan on it being a traumatic experience for her.
I also did not plan on the nurse being new and young and with a case of the shakes.

We entered the scene unaware:

Nurse: "Do you see these three shots? These are the needles I'll be using."
(Nurse holds up each LONG needle in front of my daughter's eyes)

My Super Girl: "They're different colors."

Nurse: "Yes, which one do you want first?"

My Super Girl: (starting to tremble, because the nurse is still showing her the LONG needles) "The blue one."

Me: "Remember, this will only hurt for a second and then the pain will stop."

Nurse: "Okay, I am going to give you the first shot right here."

(The Nurse then proceeds to SLOWLY insert the LONG needle, seriously taking about 10 seconds to put the needle into my daughter's arm.)

My Super Girl: (crying hysterically now)

Nurse: (hand uncontrollably shaking now)

Me: (steam blowing out my ears in rage)

Nurse: "Okay, only two more to go. Which needle do you want next?"
(Nurse holds up the remaining two LONG needles for my daughter to see.)

Me: "Let's just finish this, please."

My Super Girl: (crying so hard she can't talk)

Nurse: (20 seconds later) "Okay, we're all done."

We've had numerous nurses administer numerous shots, and they've always been very quick, 2 seconds tops per shot.
I watched in horror as this nurse took 10 seconds per shot to insert the needles into my daughter's arms.
My daughter ended up getting severe swelling and bruises  and complained about the pain deep inside her arms for days.

And I felt so helpless. I kept my mouth shut. I felt like I failed my daughter.

I tried comforting my daughter with words and hugs, but for the nurse I remained silent. I felt bad for him, being new and not knowing the better method for giving shots to children. But if we are assigned to him again for any shots in the future, I will ask our doctor for a different nurse.

There is no way to silence the pain, but I can use my voice to make it hurt less.

Yin Yang: Part Two

From the time our first daughter arrived we have been told the same thing over and over: 

"She is a mini-me of your husband!"

And four years later it is still true. Her face, her expressions, and most of all, her personality.

The presence of my oldest daughter makes it feel as if my husband is still here every day with me, despite the thousands of miles that separate us during his deployment.

So one would assume that since I love and understand my husband, raising his mini-me would be a piece of cake.

But I am finding myself more and more encircled in the yin yang relationship with her.

Maybe it is just her age. Maybe it is the effect of her father's absence on her. Or maybe it's me?

Whatever the matter, my heart and mind struggle with understanding her, with knowing what method of discipline will work with her, with comprehending what is best for my high-spirited daughter. And because of this struggle, my heart aches, wanting her to know that I love her so incredibly much even if it doesn't seem like I do when we are at odds.

While I try to engage her in raising caterpillars or playing in a water puddle, 

my daughter is seeking the thrill of pretending to be Spiderman or wanting to watch more TV or imagining riding a rollercoaster.

While I seek silence and a calm moment, 

my daughter races around, pretending to be a musketeer or a superhero.

While I cave under attention, 

my daughter shouts, "Look at Me!" all day long.

We aren't opposites, but we do compliment each other. My actions and words feed her, replenishing her spirit. And in the same moment, she does the same for me.

I love my daughter for who she is. I love that she knows all of the superheros by name and wants to build a pedal car from scratch with her daddy once he gets back home. I love that she dreams of being a volcanologist to experience the thrill of being inside a volcano. I love that she is fascinated by motion and thrills and excitement.

I love that she has dreams of her own.

And I believe that I know and understand her, but it doesn't always seem easy to do so.

With my own mini-me, our second daughter who is two, it's really easy to get inside her mind and know what's going on.  And maybe that makes it that much more challenging to get inside my oldest daughter's mind?

I don't always get it right with her. I don't always give her enough hugs or attention. And I don't always have enough patience to watch her try to blow up a balloon over and over while she says, "Mommy, watch this," and follows me around the house, wanting me to watch her do it for the 1,000th time. 

At the end of the day, especially if it's a day where I've had to be hard on her, I just want my daughter to know one thing: that I love her with all of my heart, and I'm trying to understand her.

What Rebels Are Made Of

A visit to the past...

So I've only been drunk once in my life. I enjoy wine (not beer or martinis), but I've never felt the desire to get drunk, except once.

Like any typical college girl, I decided to finally figure out what all the hype was about on my 21st birthday. Skipping an evening out with my rowdy sorority girl-friends, I asked my three organic chemistry lab partners to join me at Nick's English Hut after we finished creating a form of Aspirin. No, we didn't try it out (on ourselves).

The lab took us over five hours to do since I broke a $180 flask half-way through and we had to start over, so obviously I had to treat my three lab buddies to some drinks even though it was my birthday.

My three lab friends knew it was my 21st and that I intended to experiment with the drunk sensation, so they ordered me a pitcher of beer, a shot of some sort (it was green and red and had the name 'turtle' in its title), and another drink with lots of glitter in it.

I took it ALL in by myself, and within two hours I was back home, opening the passenger door, falling onto the street with my legs still in the car, giggling and claiming I could make it to my volleyball game within the hour.

My amazing best friend, Emily, took me inside and put me to bed. She helped me six times during the night when I got sick and couldn't make it to the toilet, and she cleaned the toilet for me in the morning!

At some point during the night I shouted to her that I was hot, hot tamales, before I sank back into drunken sleep.

The next morning I awoke and made it to my fungi lab with a face that was literally green. My Berkeley-hippy professor actually asked me why I was a pale shade of mold. Pretty embarrassing, but I survived.

Why did I wait until I was 21 to get annihilated? Once was enough for me, and I've never gotten drunk since. But I am perplexed why I lacked a rebellious streak when I was in high school and college? All of my friends got drunk all the time, but I was the one who volunteered to be the designated driver.

I have never been a rebel (unless you count living in the rain forest by myself for two years as an act of rebellion, but for me it was a normal, easy thing to do that didn't involve extra courage or fearlessness on my part. It was simple and fun. I wanted to get away from a fast, crazy, technology-filled, materialistic world, so I went to live in hut for awhile).

The only time the desired-rebel part of my writer-mama shadow is allowed to come out is when I am writing about a character that has traits of people I've known in my past. Their rebellions, their freedoms, their choices all come through in my writing; I don't know if I envy them or fear them.

I don't consider my lifestyle to be that of a wallflower; I am fairly liberal, laid-back, and adventurous, but I don't see myself as feisty, rowdy or the life of the party.

Trying to put myself in the shoes of a rebel is not easy to do since I've never really experienced that frame of mind. I can try to fake it in my writing, but it seems so obvious to me that my words show that I've never really done some of these things.

Young adult novels today are full of extreme experiences to draw the reader in (e.g., alcoholic friends, abusive parents, drug-addicted siblings, rape/incest/teen pregnancy, murder, abandonment, etc). I've read numerous award-winning books, and they all have at least one of these topics in the story.

It's depressing, but I wonder if more and more adolescents are relating to this material.

When I was in high school the hot topics were sex and booze, but now it seems like these topics are light and the heavy ones in the award-winning novels today are the ones publishers want to see.

My experience with the light topics is certainly more than my experience with the heavy ones, so as a writer I struggle with writing stories that teens relate to on such deep (depressing) levels.

Is my main character in my young adult novel too simple, too boring, because he faces different types of challenges instead of experiencing acts of rebellion in his life?

Well, I may be simple and down-to-earth, but this is what makes me happy. I'm certainly looking forward to having my first glass of wine once my baby is born (after I've pumped or nursed), but one glass is enough for me.

I just hope that the simplicity and down-to-earth approach of my writing for teens can interest them and make them think. If I ever publish my YA novel.

In the meantime, I look at my daughters and wonder:
Will they be rebels one day?
Will they grow up among peers who experience abuse, alcoholism, drugs, rape, murder, etc?
Will they want to read about these experiences in books?
Will they be content to experience an act of rebellion once or will it become a habit?
Will they look at me as a softy, a boring mommy or as an adventure-seeking mommy who just has no interest in getting drunk?

The Baby Baby

Dear Baby,

We created you from love Little One.

We discovered your miracle of life shortly before your daddy deployed. So while your daddy was deployed I surprised him by having a 4D ultrasound before Father's Day! From the second I saw your tiny 10 cm long body, I fell in love. You raised your little arms to your face when I gently poked a finger into my belly. Your perfect tiny body held me spellbound.

An enormous grin lit up my face at hearing the technician say "See these three lines, you're having a girl."

Your sisters predicted you would be a girl! And your daddy and I are so incredibly happy and so blessed.

I mailed the 10 minute video of the 4D ultrasound to your daddy, who was half-way around the world. Sitting inside his ship, he watched you come to life on his computer screen and heard every word spoken at the ultrasound appointment.

I got to see you again when you were 20 weeks old. You amazed me by moving so much and displaying your beautiful profile so well for the technician to measure you.

And here I sit with you inside of me. You are 24 weeks old and already I feel you kicking when I put the palm of my hand on my belly.

Who is this little one inside of me?


What will your laugh sound like?


What will make your face shine?

Do you smile when you hear your sisters singing to you from the outside world?

I love you as much as I love your sisters. Your daddy loves you this much, too. We are so blessed and can't wait for you to join our family little one.

We love you!



P.S. Please remember I love you if one day I am screaming at you and your sisters when you are all 18, 16, and 14 and living under one roof, trying to share one bathroom while getting ready for school in the morning.