Parenting Code

Like most parents, Robb and I often spell words we don't want the boys to decipher.

If we're thinking of going for a w-a-l-k, we don't want them to rush to put their shoes on before we have decided.

If we're thinking of c-o-o-k-i-e-s for dessert, we want to be sure we're in agreement before one or the other makes the announcement.

If we're thinking of giving b-a-t-h-s after dinner, we want to declare our agenda privately, to avoid any arguments or revolts before it's necessary.

"Do you want some I-C-E C-R-E-A-M?"

"Sure. But not until they are in B-E-D. I don't want to S-H-A-R-E."

As with many other areas in our marriage, we have learned to read one another well and we don't have to complete the thought in order for the other one to understand. So, we often spell in abbreviations.

Walk: W.

Cookies: C-O's.

Baths: B-A's

It has become a very cryptic language that makes perfect sense to us, but if you're listening in, you might find a few gaps.

For example, a friend joined us for lunch on Sunday. The boys were so tired, melting fast, and we were running out of options to tide them over before their naptimes. I said to Robb, "By the way, if you need them, there are some C-R-A-C-K in the backpack."

My friend sat up a little straighter and said, "I'm sorry, but did you say there is Crack in the backpack??"

Oh, no. That would be the abbreviation for Graham Crackers. But I can see how we might have misled you.

(And somedays, Crack seems like a better option.)

Writing After Rejection

It came. The first rejection letter from a publisher.


The envelope boasted my handwriting, since I had to enclose my own Self Addressed Stamped Envelope with the manuscript. It's almost like I sent myself the rejection, as if I told myself no.


But the words inside the envelope were not mine. It was a horrible form letter (which I actually expected), but it aimed to be personal, which is the worst kind. "I'm sure there was something that appealed to me about your manuscript - perhaps it was a good idea, a strong character, or some lovely prose."


"I'm sure there was something..." she said. I pictured her tapping a fingernail to her chin, testing her memory. "What was it... I'm sure there was something."


Frankly, I expected the no. I really did. It's impossibly hard to break into the competitive business of writing, and almost nobody tumbles into a book deal without some heartache along the way. So really, I expected it. And at least I knew. After seven months of waiting, I knew. It's a no. I read it, folded it up, and placed it in my kitchen basket of things to sort through later.


But then came the 'later.' The emotional sorting. I didn't need to open the letter or hold it in my hands; the words were branded in my mind. "I don't think this manuscript would ultimately succeed."


That's not my favorite sentence, that one right there. One's psyche takes a blow after a sentence like that. Yes, I was thankful to have an answer. And I still believe in the manuscript, the story, and its influence. But a few hours later, I found myself questioning. What's the point? Why should I? "I don't think this manuscript would ultimately succeed." It was a scrolling marquis that I couldn't erase.


For a while, for just a bit, I didn't want to write.


But here's the thing: I have to.Writing is like aerobic exercise for my emotions and my mind. Can I live without it? Yes, but I'm healthier when I stick to my training regimen; I'm happier when I have done what I need to do, when I sit down and write. Even when it's hard work, uphill, and the words don't come easily, still it's good for me. I can feel it. And I love it.


Writing after rejection is like getting back in the driver's seat after a car accident. A car accident doesn't mean you'll never drive again, but the longer you wait to get behind the wheel, the more you lose your confidence. I'll drive tomorrow, but just not today. Later. Not yet. Ultimately, I have to choose to claim the task at hand and my role in the process. I have to choose to not be defined by what happened.


I have to.

* * *

"Sometimes you have to fight for the thing that will make you whole."

~ Tully, Firefly Lane

* * *

"A vampire is any person or thought or feeling that stands between you and your creative self expression, but they can assume many seductive forms. Die Vampire, Die."

~ Title of Show

Pickle Pizza

Tucker has confused the names for pepperoni and pickles. He thinks the red circles on his pizza are pickles, and I think that's a great mistake. "Ew. I don't like pickles." (Which is an articulation upgrade from what he used to say: "Ew. I no yike pickles.") He plucks them off and tosses them at Tyler, who gobbles them down.

Someday, I should correct him. Or else he'll be out with his buddies after a game, and they'll say, "Hey, Tuck, what do you like on your pizza?"

"Anything but pickles, dude. I hate pickles on my pizza."

And they'll think, "Right. So do we. And we can't think of anyone in the world who likes them. Let's get pepperoni."

Woefully disappointed, Tuck will be faced with an awkward social setting. In a real pickle, if you will. I sure can't let that happen. Someday, I'll coach him on such things. But for now, I'm riding it out. Extra pickles, please.

Bottoms Up.

"We're here to celebrate her birthday," Robb's mom announced to our waiter. We were at a quaint and authentic Mexican restaurant in the mountains, and I think she was hoping (as I was) that they would bring us a slice of chocolate cake a la mode with many forks.

But that's not so much the tradition, apparently. Instead, he placed before me a brimming shot of Tequila.

Now, please allow me a moment for a sidenote: I have never done a shot of anything before. Feel free to laugh, smile knowingly, nod in agreement, or feign your shock and amazement. I just haven't. The whole loss of control, memory, and feeling in my tongue... it just never appealed to me. But there it was, right before me: an opportunity, a rite of passage, and an audience cheering me on.

Cheers to the Birthday Girl

I'm pretty sure this is the face you're supposed to make.

Oh, and hold a napkin, just in case it comes right back up.


It's a little odd that my three year old is watching so closely as I pound my first shot.

I did it. Sweet victory.

A few moments later, I felt neither sweet nor victorious.

More like dizzy and nauseous.

And maybe a little slurred, although the memory is a little fuzzy.

And here it is, the bottle from whence it came.

Their own brew: 80 proof.

And just like that, I was over the legal limit. No breathalizer for me, thanks.

And no parenting responsibilities, either.

I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have passed either test with flying colors.

But I did it. There. Check that one off the list.

I must be thirty.