Not Yet

            Something disturbing has been happening in my home lately. I am powerless to stop it. My children are getting older. I know you’re going to tell me that it’s inevitable. But why? I’m not getting any older, why do they have to? I know, I know, denial isn’t a river in Egypt.

            My older son has a cell phone. He wants to walk home from the bus stop by himself. He watches “ICarly” because he has a crush on the blond girl. He calls me Mom and not Mommy. He doesn’t believe in Santa Claus, but works very hard to keep that from his little brother. When I want to kiss him on the top of his head, I have to stand on my toes. How did this happen? It was only ten minutes ago that I snapped this picture to use as a Christmas card:

2005. Really? It seems like ten minutes ago.

            A few weeks back, Owen and I were talking after school. He was throwing his jacket and backpack on the floor neatly hanging up his jacket and backpack and he said to me, “You know what’s a funny word Mom? Puberty.”

            “Did you talk about puberty in health class,” I asked him as I resisted the urge to put my hands over my ears and yell, “La la la I can’t hear you!”

            “No. I just think it’s fun to say… puberty, puberty, puberty, puberty,” he sang to a catchy little tune.

            “Do you know what that word means?” I asked.

            “No.”

            “It’s when your body starts to change from being a kid into an adult.”

            “Oh,” he said, clearly understanding the gravity of such a transition. “I guess I shouldn’t sing that song in school any more.”

           

I remember having a conversation with my mother when I was a little girl. I told her that I liked kittens, but I didn’t like full grown cats. She said something along the lines of, “You wouldn’t want to stay a baby forever, would you?” She was right of course. And of course I don’t want my kids to stay kids forever. I want them to have jobs they love and go to work on time. I want them to vote and do the right thing when nobody is looking. I want them to grow up and have families of their own.

            But not yet.

My "babies" 2011

Friday Fiction: Circling the Drain

            The swirling water going down the drain was purple, not brown as I expected. “Please God,” I whispered, “Don’t let me go from Marilyn Monroe to Violet Beauregard.”  When I looked in the mirror I saw that my hair was now a dull brown. It might be my natural color. I’ve been “check me out” platinum for so long I can’t remember. I don’t want to be checked out for a while. I just want to blend in.

Maybe Joey won’t follow me. Maybe he’ll just move one of his little chippies in for a while. She can play house with him and I’ll be safe. Maybe he’ll be relieved that I didn’t clean out the bank accounts and leave me alone.

            I put up with his shit for six years and Friday was it—the chippy that broke wifey’s back. I demanded to know where he was and what he was doing. I wasn’t going to let him buy me off with another trinket. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he asked before he hit me. Joey didn’t stick around long enough to hear the answer. He just left me on the floor. The sting on my face smelled like whiskey and cheap women.

            I put up with him sleeping around and coming home late. I got used to the nice house and the fancy car and the housekeeper. I liked getting my nails done and working out and shopping. But when I stood up and looked at my face—the back of his hand imprinted on my cheek I realized I was no better than one of his whores. I looked the other way while he screwed strippers so I could drive a nice car and live in a big house.

            I traded in all of his shiny tokens of apology for a handful of cash. I left the Lexus at the pawn shop and took a cab to the train station. I paid for a ticket to Chicago with my credit card. Then I walked four miles to the bus station and paid cash for a Grey Hound headed South. If he tries to follow me it won’t be easy.

  

This week we’d like you to write a piece about hair. It can be about you or one of your characters where hair figures prominently. Don’t just describe it. Use it as a vehicle to tell us something about your character, a situation, you and your life.

December First

            I’ve been involved with theatre since I was in the sixth grade. I turned 39 for the second time this year, so that’s a lot of plays. The only thing that every single one of those shows have in common is the feeling you get when it’s over. I call it post show blues—sort of post partum depression for actors and techies. No matter how good or bad a show is, no matter how difficult your director or fellow actors were, no matter how many challenges an actor faces in a production, he or she ends up being a hot mess the morning after a show closes. Some times we don’t even wait until the next morning. When I directed The Secret Garden last spring, I was a tower of Jell-O when my actors took their curtain call on our closing performance. The better the experience, the bluer the blues.

            I wondered if I would have the same feeling when I completed NaNoWriMo this week. I’m happy to say that this doesn’t seem to be the case. Maybe part of it is that theatre is a collaboration of many people that we miss when a show is over. While I have gotten to know some of my NaNoWriMo participants, most of the people I collaborated with on this product are a product of my imagination. And they’re still tumbling around my brain. Besides, I feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. Even if the material I’ve written is far from being the great American novel. It is a complete story from beginning to end. It needs a lot of work. There are some major inconsistencies that must be dealt with. Most of the story takes place in the fall—except when characters are doing spring planting and making lambs out of cotton balls at preschool. Ahem. And of course, several of the characters changed their names midstream—sneaky bunch!

            In Stephen King’s marvelous book On Writing, he recommends letting a  manuscript sit for eight weeks before starting in on the editing process. All I can say is, Mr. King must have a much greater sense of self-control than I do. I’m itching to take a machete to my manuscript—or maybe just a red pencil. But I will try to let my novel rest for at least a couple of weeks. For now, I’ll catch up on my blog reading and writing, memorize my lines for The Odd Couple, and get my house ready for Christmas. 

Wordless Wednesday: I'd Like to Thank the Academy

Red Writing Hood: Soundtrack

This week at Write on Edge, we were challenged to imagine our novel being made into a movie and to envision the song that would be playing during a pivotal scene of the movie. So here is a little snippet from my NaNoWriMo work in progress along with U2’s song “Walk On”. This scene would follow a piece I published  on the blog in June. You can read it here.

An Excerpt from Lost and Found

Michaela came to the door wearing pajama pants and a tank top with no bra. Her pony tail was coming undone. She looked sleepy and vulnerable.   

“Adam,” she said. “I’m sorry. I was such a jerk yesterday.”

            “You were?”
            “I was. I tried to call you after I cooled off but you didn’t answer. Then Brian got sick at school and Paige was sick by the time she got home as well. That’s why I look like this. It was coming out of both ends all night. I’m sorry. That’s gross. Too much information. They’re still sleeping. They never sleep this late.  Anyway, I’m sorry. You were just doing something nice for me and I was a bitch.”

            She finally took a breath.

            “Michaela?”

            “Yes.”

            “I brought you coffee.”

            “God bless you Adam,” she said with a laugh.

            “Can I come in?”

            “Of course.”

            The house smelled like disinfectant and there were dishes piled in the sink. Empty Gatorade containers and saltine crumbs littered the kitchen table

            “I need to apologize too,” I said.

            “No you don’t. You were just being nice.”

            “I’m not apologizing for mowing the lawn. I’m apologizing for overreacting and storming off. I wrecked my last relationship by buying things for my girlfriend instead of showing her I cared. I vowed I wouldn’t make same mistake again. So after the other night I wanted to do something for you to show you how I felt. Then it didn’t go the way I planned and I didn’t handle it well. I’m sorry for that.”  

            “Adam,” she said. “Peter was my first love. He was my best friend. I didn’t know how to be a parent without him. I thought I wouldn’t survive his death. It took me a year to just begin to function like a normal person. Being in a relationship with someone new never crossed my mind. And now I think about you at random times of the day and it distracts me from everything else. I’m falling for you and it scares me as much as it excites me. I know I’m making mistakes.”

            I kissed her gently on the lips.

            “You’re doing just fine.”