Mama's Musings

You like me, you really like me!

I had a Sally Fields moment yesterday. It was one of those rare days every writer dreams about. It was the day in which every editor in the world, large and small, said, "Yes." Okay, it was just a single regional editor and one national one. They didn't say, "Yes," exactly either. But it was good enough for me to click my rejection-weary heals and howl like a wolf. I padded about my shoebox office, barefoot and pajama'ed (it was 4 p.m. ET, but 10 p.m. mine, okay?).

A regional parenting editor emailed to say she'd heard I write essays. She wanted to see one for her summer issue. All weekend I pulled thoughts from my cerebrum, cracking the code for tone and pace. It wasn't easy. When the essay was finally in a passable form, I left pools of sweat underneath my chair.

"This has to be gooooood," I breathed, remembering the last time they rejected a piece they had originally accepted. I felt so humiliated. So for them to approach me felt like redemption. I couldn't mess up.

The second editor dashed off a note congratulating me (and, most likely, three hundred other recipients of her form e-mail) on making her laugh. I had passed the first hurdle on the long chain of jumps to the executive editor's desk. "Give us your submission by Friday."

I could feel the perspiration forming on my brow as I wracked my brain for something witty to write. What could it be? Pleading with my girlfriends for some ideas in a collective email, I felt much better having thrust my hand upwards for assistance. I don't normally do that. But this one was huge: a chance to be a humor writer for a national woman's magazine with 1.5 million readers. On the way to pick up my husband, the kids' rowdy behavior gave me an idea. So I rushed home to record some thoughts and send it off to them.

"Deadlines are for the undisciplined," I cackled, flexing my writing prowess with arrogant delight.

Zipping off the e-mail, I thought for sure the editor would write me immediately, thanking me for having saved her so much time.

"Yes, you are the one, Christine!" I expected her to say. After checking my emails every five minutes day and night, I have learned the importance of patience and humility in a writer's toolbox. It's not all stunning prose and slick copy that gets us writers to the next level: it's an iron will, perseverance, and, of course, the 'yes' we all long to hear.

Boston Blues

It has taken five years, but something is making me miss Corporate America. Maybe it was the heady smell of the new catalogues at the travel agency today, or the discussion we had with our financial advisor last week (he convinced us to invest a monthly sum into a mutual fund. "Ah, a multimanager..." I mumbled wisely as I flipped through the slick brochure. My advisor looked intrigued. A housewife who knows about stock option trading is hard to come by, I suppose).

Going to my monthly business club meeting fills me with a sense of connection. I have finally found a forum that doesn't use words like "strong-willed" or "homework" or "school". They don't moan about their children's behavior. In fact, we don't talk much about our private lives. It's strictly business. And I like that.

I don't miss the stress. I don't miss the tailored suits. I don't miss the permanent exhaustion, or the colds I'd get from being overworked when we lived in Boston. Perhaps what makes me think of all these things is the fact that I'm attending my 15th college reunion in May. That's why I was at the travel agency today. What will I say to the lawyers, judges, doctors, businesswomen who sashay about Reunion? Do I even have any clothes to wear? My guess is many of us are in the throes of motherhood or we're balancing ourselves on our toes as we stumbled through the maze of career and family. I just have to remember what Cindy LaFerle, author of Writing Home, wrote in her one-sheet, which accompanied her book in the mail today:

"...there's a real world of plucky people who car-pool, sort laundry, volunteer in their communities, and try to raise reasonably well-adjusted kids. They live and work in your neighborhood -- and they are the readers [I am] writing for."

Thank goodness for Cindy. I think I'll go read an essay or two...

Special Time

Rarely do I spend a full afternoon frolicking with the kids during the week. There's either a playdate or some other activity scheduled. Today we went to ballet because our normal ballet day on Thursday conflicts with Jackson's music concert. Yes, he is four, and he has a musical obligation this coming Thursday. To offset the conflict, we decided to go to dance class today. It was -12°C today. Not a cloud in the sky, but it was really cold. And I was grumpy.

"I never used to be this inflexible," I marveled as I buckled myself into the frigid interior of our car. I usually had a babysitter on Mondays. It works biorhythmically for me if someone else bantered with the kids for two hours and left me to work in peace without justification, warnings or tossing a video into the machine.

As we tooled along the sun-spilled road, my mood lifted slightly. I thought of the coffee I would have with Jackson in tow. He didn't want to be alone with the babysitter today. It was, after all, Monday, and he was usually with his sister -- and the babysitter. So I took mercy on him and took him along as well. in other words, I bucked up. No 'me time' in sight. Not, at least, until the children were in bed.

"What's wrong with me," I further chastised myself. I had two healthy, beautiful children bickering in the backseat. I should be happy!

The dance school wasn't open at 1:30 pm so we waltzed over to the computer store for some supplies. The children were happy to have a few megabytes of stimulation. Sophia read all the signs she saw outloud. It reminded me that they rarely see the inside of a store. We live in the boonies, and when I shop, it's usually when they're in school.

"Do you know what I want for my birthday?" Sophia quizzed me, looking out from underneath her fleece cap with one eye. "This, Mama! This!" She pointed to the pinkest thing she could find.

"God bless her," I smiled at the clerk, paying for the ink cartridges and prodding the kids forward. We entered the freezing, blue air.

When we returned, the school was open. Sophia dressed more swiftly than usual. I was grateful, as I wasn't sure how patient Jackson would be while waiting. Once she settled into her class, Jackson and I headed for the nearest café. We huddled next to each other for warmth.

The winter garden part of the café was empty so we sat at the table nearest the flower shop. The air was clear as it was a non-smoking section. The waitress took our order, then we played a game of "I Spy". I spy an "mmmm", Jackson said. Wait a minute! My four-year-old was advancing. He could identify sounds that letters make. I said, "Mirror?"  He grinned a million dollars and change.

"No!" he paused dramatically. "Mama!" My heart melted.

As he later stirred his hot chocolate, he looked up at me and said, "Special time, Mama. This is special time, just you and me."

I almost wept. How could I have stressed about this moment? The time I'd 'have' to spend while waiting for Sophia's dance class to finish? It was special. Thank you, Jackson, for reminding me how special you both truly are.

Happy Days

The slate grey sky promised nothing but boredom today. Sundays in Germany can be a challenge with two rambunctous children who desire stimulation and a barrel of fun. All the shops are closed. The arcades, however, are not. We were up to the task. Scouting out the new fun park near our house, we decided to go bowling.

When we entered the building, we felt comforted by the modernity of the place. There was a coffee bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a spacious seating area for lounging and carousing with friends. The ambiance certainly beat the bowling alley featured in the sit-com 'Happy Days' or 'Laverne and Shirley'. We settled into our seats and put on our flat-soled rentals.

As the brightly colored bowling balls whizzed up the pike to their circular resting place, we watched each of our kids waddle under the weight of the orbs to the start of the lane. As Jackson made it to Lane #7, he gave the ball a push. We watched it roll in a painfully slow forward motion towards the pins. But hey! Whateva! At the end of the first game, I was in last place, and Jackson was in second.

The music pumped in the background. The TV monitors flashed. The children stuffed their faces with french fries and two bowls of ketchup. Life couldn't get any better than this. It was, indeed, a happy day.

Ortho Evra, cupid, Gather.com

I just came across information about several Ortho Evra lawsuits. Ortho Evra is a birth control patch that, in at least 9000 cases, has led to major complications, including 20 confirmed deaths due to blood clots, pulmonary embolisms, heart attacks and even strokes. Sounds like the kiss of death to me!

Valentine's Day update: a series of diamond necklaces may not be in the cards for me, but something tells me my husband is going to surprise me this year. I wrote an article, Cupid's Arrow, Bent Not Broken a while back which I posted on my new Gather.com page. He used to think in more modest terms, but after fifteen years, I think he's finally getting the hang of it!

Natural vs. Social Science

The very first argument my dear husband and I had was about the importance of our world visions. Put plainly, he was going to be a natural scientist, and I was going to be a social scientist. He got his degree in Biology, I in Political Science and Literature.

In his thinking, natural science is superior because it is based on hard core facts. Social science is based on subjectivity, according to his reasoning. I beg to differ.

What is superior about making glow-in-the-dark pigs? Yes, you heard me. A team of natural scientists injected an illuminating substance from jelly fish to create green-snouted pigs that farmers can find snoring in their stalls at night without flipping on the switch. I find it most unnatural. Yet, my husband argues natural science ranks higher in academic hierarchy.

Social science has come in handy for me. It has taught me to handle conflicts between warring nations (my son and daughter); it has shown me how to balance budgets (food bill) and negotiate contracts (repairmen, landlords, phone service). My social science background has proven useful in so many ways.

Being married to a natural scientist is intriguing. His way of seeing the world is so different from mine. I suppose it could be worse. He could have become an accutane lawyer!

Valentine's Day

“What do you want for Valentine’s Day?“ my husband asked me.

Before I could answer, he plunked down a catalogue of Valentine’s Day gift baskets.

Hmmmm… we’ve been married 11 ½ years. We’ve seen good times, bad times, and in-between times. I’m thinking diamond bracelets and leisurely weekend getaways. He’s thinking fruit and jam.

Perhaps he was concerned about the cost of such extravagance. The next day I pushed a brochure about precious metal financing a friend had given me under his nose.

“Thank you,” he said, then flipped it open to protect the table from our kids’ finger painting project.

Random Ramblings

This year I am way ahead of the game. Even as our Christmas lights still twinkle in the twilight, I have my husband’s Valentine’s Day gift already. In case he ever reads my blog, I’m not telling what it is (no, it is not a bouquet of Valentine’s Day flowers, silly!). Needless to say, I have it – and he’s going to get it soon!

The new year has brought many new impulses, contacts, and ideas. In thinking about search engine marketing for my PR consultancy business, I’m wondering what’s next. I need to rethink my search engine strategy, using more keywords (like pet tags for your business, my mom explained to me a few years back. “That way, people will find their way to your home!” – she knew more about keywords than I did at the time!)

If any of you have advice on how to place better in the search engines, let me know. The term “book marketing” brings up about 1 million pages!

Lawyers, Labels and Late Nights

I'm getting too old for this. It is sad, but true. Going out on the town with a bedtime at midnight is for people who get six consecutive hours of sleep per night. On the evenings I decide to go out and come home late, it is guaranteed that my four-year-old son thinks crawling into our bed at 3 a.m. and sleeping sideways is a good idea.

After a night out recently, I woke up with a headache and a sore back. Sheesh! It rattles me to think I can no longer handle a few nights of bad sleep. And you know what? The evening wasn't what I thought it would be. I met an unsmiling lawyer and a few people with incredibly negative stories to tell. One person poured his heart out to me, and I had just met him. It was a weird night. You know you should leave an hour into an evening where you find yourself asking "Why am I here?" I woke up in a sheath of negative goo. It took the better part of the morning to shake it. I finally did, thanks to a chocolate croissant and a pot of coffee.

What makes people be unfriendly when you first meet them? Did I remind this person of her team of vioxx lawyers who tricked her into taking an unwinnable case? Did my listening ears rival the price of gold for the guy who told me things I'd rather not know? Did my faux diamond earrings sparkle in a way that repelled the people I wanted to speak with? Did they label me as a bored housewife with a few ideas and not enough gumption to follow it through? Am I overanalyzing this? Was this a random evening to teach me to be open even to negative experiences, come what may?

Sometimes I believe I live in a fantasy world, much like my grandmother whose house was dubbed The Enchanted Cottage. She surrounded herself with beautiful things. Occasionally, she would go out to the Real World, but mostly she stayed in her cottage and surrounding Connecticut town. I wonder if I have the propensity to do the same thing. The world isn't always a friendly, kind place. It can be unsmiling. And the people in it, too.

Thnobbit Hole

Sloop! The hole was dark, dank, drippy. It had only been two hours and thirty-five minutes. The kids were back to school, and I found myself in the Thnobbit hole*. You know the one. It’s where I go when I miss my kids.

Although I mildly complained just once about the length of our kids’ two-week school holiday, I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed the thump and rattle of my kids’ presence at home. We slept in, dressed at noon, ate whenever we felt like it. More often than once, we had lunch at 3 pm. Andreas was relaxed, the kids’ moods even-keeled, and my house was neater than a military compound. It was smooth sailing for fourteen glorious days.

My daughter’s brow was furrowed this morning at breakfast – the familiar look of consternation and despair. She crunched her toast noisily. “It’s going to be fine,” I said soothingly. “You can tell your friends all about your Christmas vacation!” I cheerily listed all the things we had done. It only served to remind her what she could no longer enjoy.

Our vacation was fun-filled and diverse. From the Swiss alps to Europe’s most famous circus, Circus Krone, we did it all. It was hard to believe when the alarm rang at 6:35 a.m.

Before Sophia got home, I prepared lots of different ways to console her after her first day back to school With her head down, she approached the front door. I took a deep breath.

“What will she say? Was the little boy seated next to her nice to her today? Will she be crying when I see her face?” I thought worriedly.

My shoulders tensed. Opening the door, I peered around the corner. Sophia lifted her eyes to mine. They were beaming.

“What’s for lunch?” she pushed past me, humming a merry tune.

I exhaled.

“S-s-s-spaghetti?” I stuttered. She was going to be just fine. I reached for a broom to sweep up the pieces of my heart. My child needs me less than I think.

*I have written extensively about life with Thnobbits, aka my kids. See my Web site for more.