Multiple Projects

Ok, I'm working hard on my motherhood stories, and it's going pretty well.  I'm working on it everyday, but I need to help my ADD.  I need multiple projects to work on...so I want to start working on a children's book idea.

I think the best children's book authors are ones who write from the child within, so now I'm trying to figure out what I know and can write as a child.  What am I passionate about?

BINGO! The farmers market!  I want to write a children's book about a trip to market and how the food gets there.  I think that would be a good read, and there is a huge green push now and people want to raise baby green...so maybe?  yes...maybe...

Knowing Myself

So as I have been writing, I realized that there are still a lot of things about me I would like to change.

For Example:
I feel like I don't know how to be a girl sometimes.  I don't do the mani/pedi thing, I don't keep my hair up or keep my eyebrows plucked...hell I don't shave my legs as often as I should.  I've never been good at this stuff, can't blame motherhood as much as I want to.  My sister-in-law Diane is gorgeous and seems to always be kept up.  I wish sometimes that I was more like her, or that my mom had shown me how to be glamourous.  I hate feeling like the dumpy one in groups.  I do think I'm beautiful, but I think I don't show off my potential ever.

Alot of this stems from an event in high school where a guy followed me home and badness insued.  Nothing horrible happened, but it was enough to scare the hell out of me.  I started wanting to hide and feel like I still haven't really gotten over it.  I am afraid of being noticed for my appearance...but I think I have reached the point also, where I am tired of being invisible.

Next work in progress

The First Few Days






Two Weeks Before Evelyn Is Born:



Doc: I really want it to be just the three of us for a while.

Me: Ok, and I just REALLY want my mom to be there.

Doc: I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want some time to be our own little family before everyone shows up and wants to hold her. This is a big deal for us. I think it’s fair for me to want that. Maybe after a week.

Me: A week? Are you crazy. I’ll give you 48 hours. That’s fair. 2 days.

Doc: Ok. 2 days.



12 Hours after Evelyn’s Birth:



Doc: Why isn’t your mom here yet ?

Me: She’s driving as fast as she can. She’ll be here by 1….I hope.

Doc: I’m so tired. Can’t…stay….awake…..



Downside of a homebirth and having your baby all to yourself? No sleep. None. Those assholes in scrubs I mentioned earlier? They aren’t going to take care of my baby for me so I can rest. Nope. Doc and I are running on 4 hours of sleep to last us two days. Evelyn isn’t in a nursery. She’s right there next to me. After being up all night and all day in labor, I was ready to sleep for a week. Evelyn however, after resting for 9 months, decided to see the world, starting now. No newborn nap for her.

Doc stayed up as long as he could and I stayed up most the night checking on her every 10 seconds to make sure she was still breathing. All I wanted was my mom to show up and take her between nursing times so I could sleep. Just a little sleep. That’s all I needed. That 48 hour period of just our little family, could have been 48 minutes. 48 minutes would have been just fine. What I needed was for my superhuman mother to show up and save my ass.

My mother is my hero. She’s also crazy. Her first date with my father was a motorcycle race that resulted in him crashing, going to the hospital, and being bedridden for a week. She biked 100 miles through the West Texas Desert when she was 50. She also hiked the Pecos Wilderness 8 months pregnant. Interestingly enough, she also knew how to make the best spiced pecans in the world every Christmas and was a sugar cookie genius. She was like Martha Stewart meets Juliet Gordon Low meets Davie Crocket. Maintenance extraordinaire and mother of five, she was my inspiration for self-sufficiency.





My mom doesn’t have what you might call, sympathy. She lives by the 48 hour grace period rule. If you have not fully recovered in 48 hours, tough shit. Get over it.

Evelyn latched on, and the raw, sharp pain that shot through me made me grind my teeth loud enough I knew she could here. I tried to shut my eyes hard enough that you wouldn’t see the tears forming.

“Is her tongue underneath your nipple?” Doc asked, glancing back down at the “how to latch” section of my breastfeeding guidebook.

“Yeeeessssss” I tried to get the whole word out without my voice shaking as Evelyn guzzled.

“Maybe she’s not opening her mouth wide enough.”

“She’s latched right….it just hurts.”

“Well, are you sure that you-“

“Just stop. Honey. She has been latching right and as you can see….it’s not okay.”

My mom crossed her arms, “I’m sorry honey. I know it’s horrible. I remember sitting there crying thinking ‘OH MY GOD’. It gets worse before it gets better.”

Worse? How can it get worse? My mom and husband are staring at my cracked, sore nipples and I’m trying to feed my baby but fighting the urge to cry like a freaking baby. It doesn’t get worse. It can’t possibly get worse.

It got worse.

To Tell The Truth

Honesty is difficult.  The one things I want in this book is for it to be truly honest about how I feel about motherhood and other aspects of my life.  This poses some really tough issues, because there are things that I feel about people that I haven't shared with them.  How do author's do it?  Do you tell the people about it before you let them read it or do you just publish it and hope they don't hate you?  How would you feel if you found out in a book that someone was annoyed by something you did and put it in publication?  I'm pretty sure I'd be pissed off.

::sigh::

I have a tendency to get really annoyed and bothered by really tiny things.  I don't bring them up or address them very often because I know they are petty.  I admit in my writing that I know I'm acting like a 2 year old.  Does that make it any better?

Stories so far

Ideas for Short Stories for my book...

How I Met Your Baby Daddy - the story of how Matt and I met and our first few dates
I Realize I Don't Care About Myself At All - the story of how I forget all my belongings on my trip to Little Rock
The Two-Week Long Day - Evelyn's first 2 Weeks of Life
Baby in a Bar - the "we'll take her with us" approach to parenting and how all the hater parents are just jealous they don't have the balls to take their baby to Burger Night at McNellie's
Center of the Universe - why being a mother and drunk at 2 P.M. is okay
Disposing of a Candle - my battle to release my grief of my lost unborn baby and finally get rid of the candle I burn in her memory (which means by the end of writing this book, I will have to actually do it)
You Don't Get to Pick Your Family - why my family is amazing, even when it pisses me off

Still need a few more ideas.  After I write all of them, some might not make it into the final addition

Proof that I don't care about myself anymore...

Well, I went to see my good friend in Little Rock on Monday. Before I left I had to go and get my cell phone from a friend's house I had dinner at the night before.  I had been so busy getting all of Evelyn's stuff together to leave dinner that I forgot my stuff.  Then I swung by my mom's house to pick up some of Evelyn's "stay over" stuff I left with her since she babysits for us.

SO off we go on our 4.5 hour drive.  It's a beautiful drive, but low and behold...I have to stop to feed Evelyn.  I have to let Evelyn out of the car for a little while.  AND Finally, we get there.

I unload 1, 2, 3, 4.......4 bags.  I packed 5.  Which did I forget?  You guessed it.  The only of the 5 bags that held my crap.

SO, I made a trip with all of Evelyn's stuff which I obsessed over to make sure I didn't forget anything, and I couldn't even think about myself long enough to put my one tiny little bag in the car.

Sounds like a chapter?  I think so.  Time to short story my vacation....cut short by my lack of selfishness.  Ha.

From a Journal Entry to a Prologue

Prologue:
In Which I Wrap Up the “Pregnant Thing”

"What the hell do you mean you weren't a preemie?"

I held the phone away from my ear as I responded. "Mom said Dad exaggerated. I was like 2 weeks early, but not technically a preemie."

There was a long pause as I waited for my brother to respond. Finally, a sigh. "So all those arguments I won when I told you you were just a stupid preemie with low brain function...?"

"Yeah. I think I retroactively win those."

"....I am going to kill Dad."

I could tell he was getting ready to get off the phone. "Oh! Matt, one more thing."

"What?"

"I'm 9 months pregnant and I can still touch my toes."

He hung up.





I shoved my phone back into the pack pocket of my elasto-jeans. My belly had expanded to the point that even my stretch-waist pants looked like they were about to give. The only thing I could kick anyone’s ass at right now was arguments. Somehow pregnancy hormones turned me into a zing-ing machine. For example, my strong, athletic, cross country running brother couldn’t reach his toes. Not even in Elementary after he’d passed all the other P.E. tests could he manage that little stretch. I however, waddling mini-whale as I was, could still reach my toes like a yogi. It was nice to have a 1-up on someone.

A sudden ripple of movement shoved its way around my body, budging my shirt out as Evelyn’s elbow attacked her encasing.

“Shit, Evelyn. Really? Just come out if you’re going to beat me up. Neither one of us is comfortable.” She rolled over and shoved a foot up into my rib cage. “Great.” My due date was another 4 days away. I had just finished finals so I was no longer freaking out about her getting here early. I was convincing her to get out. Out. Out. Out.

Hindsight, kinda hypocritical of me. Moms would post in the blog-o-sphere about trying to induce early and how uncomfortable they were and all I did was turn my nose up at them. Didn’t they want what was best for their babies? Didn’t they think their babies knew when it was time to come out? Well, 4 days from December 17th and all I could think was my baby must be an idiot.

The last 9 months I’d transformed back to the hippie of my high school days. I’d embarked on an Earth Friendly Revolution! We’d started recycling, hanging our clothes on a line, shopping at local markets, eating organic food, taking natural childbirth classes. My husband and I were set on a happy, healthy, earth friendly lifestyle. I believed my body was empowered and I as a woman and barer of life, was the personification of fertility. Or at least I did when I wasn’t crying about the jagged pink lines had suddenly turned my beautiful fertile belly into stretched-out wasteland resembling a flesh colored watermelon.

I threw my coat on, buttoned the only button that I could still get closed, wrapped a scarf around my head, and leashed our yippy dog. “I’m going for a walk.” I called as I ran out the front door. Walk a mile. Have sex with husband. Try to sleep despite the fact that you have a 30 lb. sandbag attached to you. Send positive “be born” energy to my uterus. This baby needs to get out or I’m going to lose my damn mind.



December 15th, Maggie Calls Carly



“Michelle is in labor.”

“Oh my God! Are you at the hospital?”

“Carly!” in an exasperated tone. “Nobody is at the hospital! She’s having Evelyn at home.”

“Of course she is.”



Yep. I decided to have my baby at home. Call it brave. Call it stupid. I just didn’t want 15 mechanical strangers sharing this important moment in my life with my husband, daughter, and I. I also didn’t want some asshole in scrubs taking my daughter away from me right after she was born. I’d waited 9 months to meet Evelyn. I was getting my moment.

Despite all the pissy comments and rude shit I had said about being pregnant the last few weeks, there is something incredible about the moment you know you are in labor. I woke up at 2:04 A.M. on December 15th to minor contractions. I didn’t feel fear. I didn’t panic. I smiled. We had made it. Evelyn and I had made this journey together and she was ready to finally come out and see the world. The first hour or so of labor I lay in my husband’s arms in bed. Doc and I joked and laughed and kissed each other enjoying every moment of anticipation.

After a while I was too anxious to stay lying down. We’d planned on making a cake together in early labor so we’d have something to do. We wanted to make Evelyn’s very first birthday cake together. Mom always made us Funfetti cakes. You know, the ones with the sprinkles in the batter so the cake looks tie-dyed. We mixed the batter and got it into the pan before contractions got too intense for me to give a damn about the cake. I guess at some point Doc pulled it out because the house never burnt down.

By that time, the real work started. The further into labor you are, the less modest you become. I’m not modest to begin with. I spent the majority of labor naked because clothing was too damn uncomfortable. I paced the hallways, rocking my hips and trying to take deep breaths through contractions.

Meanwhile Doc had lost his mind. While I paced and waddled and attempted to find a peaceful, zen, happy place, I heard dishes clanging, the Swiffer mop, the vacuum and busy footsteps. It was as if all of the nesting impulses I had during the entire course of my pregnancy struck Doc in an instant. He cleaned like a maid on crack. Every time a contraction would start he’d run to my side and rub my back or squeeze my hips and rock with me until I made it through. Then he’d run back to his broom and compulsively clean again. Where the hell was that motivation before? Hell, where is it now? Maybe I should fake it sometime and see if that can get him to hang up his wet towel in the morning.

Anyway…

We shipped our dog off to a friend’s house. My midwife showed up. We reluctantly let our families know that I was in labor. After 6 hours of doing okay, labor stopped being fun. Thankfully, I don’t remember a whole lot. Bless you forgetful hormones! I remember bits of conversations:



“Keep pushing sweetie, she is almost here!”

“Ruth.” Ruth was my midwife. “Ruth I think you are a dirty liar you said that two hours ago and SHE IS NOT HERE!”



Or



When my husband offered a friendly “Honey, I think if you…” and was cut off by my “SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!”



And there are certain memories that stick out too. Like when my midwife shouted because mice invaded my house. I guess with our dog gone they decided to ambush our little shack of a rent house and scurry about all over the place. I love nature. It’s beautiful as long as it stays outside. I was too distracted by my pelvis pushing apart to really be too upset about it at the time. It was almost cute. Like how all the mice are Cinderella’s friends. We would later find mouse tracks, tiny pieces of shit, and nibble marks on Evelyn’s birthday cake. FML. I also think at some point, my midwife had Arby’s.

I do know that I pushed for two and half hours. Screw those movies where the doctor goes “Okay, push!” and three pushes later you hear crying and everyone gets to see the baby. Evelyn ended up being 9 freaking pounds. It took forever to get her to move down. She kept kicking the hell out of me while I tried to push and distracting me. But there was no way in hell I was giving up. My mom didn’t think I could do this and I was not going to prove her right. I was an AMAZON! I was a GODDESS! I was…so….tired. Michael Phelps might have 8 gold medals, but I’m pretty sure I could have kicked his ass in birthing endurance.

And then there was that moment. That moment where you feel like everything in the world has stopped. I felt Evelyn slide out of my body and felt the heat of her tiny frame as she was placed on my abdomen. Her deep pools of eyes locked onto mine and all I could think was “I know you.”

I knew her. There she was. She was covered in white gooey shit and her head looked like it had been stretched with a vice. But I knew those eyes. I knew that face. I knew her flailing arm movements and had felt her head turning around curiously. She looked just like me. It was like looking into a mirror. A creepy ass mirror where you see yourself as a baby, but it was incredible.

For the first half hour of her life, I held her. I said happy, probably stupid sappy shit to her. I’m pretty sure one of the first things I said was “Happy Birthday.” I probably cried too. I don’t really remember anything other than feeling complete relief and contentment.

Doc held Evelyn and took her around to tour her room and the rest of our house while the midwife checked up on me.

“Evelyn, this is your room! Your mommy worked so hard on it!”

Ruth smiled. “He loves her already.”

“Yeah. I don’t think either one of us thought we’d actually get to meet her. We lost our first child to a miscarriage about a year ago. It devastated both of us, but he took it really hard.”

I watched Doc rock her as he moved across her room pointing out different things on the wall and explaining them to our sleeping daughter. I loved him. We had made it past losing a child. We could conquer anything. Ruth finished up and Doc brought Evelyn back to my arms.

“Okay,” Ruth said. “I’m off! See you in two days!” And she was out the door. We were alone.

Fuck.

Um...Plot Anyone?

UGH! I hate developing plots. I like writing about characters and events that happen but coming up with a beginning, middle, and an end is rediculously difficult. For starters, I don't think I have a cathartic conclusion to my current story about motherhood. I have some neat ideas for stories, but I'm trying to figure out what my overall point is. Kinda like a TV series like Beastmaster, you know where each episode sort of stands alone, but occasionally they advance a plot line....::sigh::

Opener Exercise

Once in a class, we read the first few lines of books that had incredible openers. After sharing them and talking about what author's did in those beginnings to really catch the reader, we were challenged to write a beginning for a book. This is what I produced.

"What the hell do you mean you weren't a premie?"
I held the phone away as I responded. "Mom said Dad exaggerated. I was like 2 weeks early, but not technically a premie."
There was a long pause as I waited for my brother to respond. Finally, a sigh. "So all those arguements I won when I told you you were just a stupid premie with low brain function...?"
"Yeah. I think I retroactively win those."
"....I am going to kill Dad."
I could tell he was getting ready to get off the phone. "Oh! Matt, one more thing."
"What?"
"I'm 9 months pregnant and I can still touch my toes."
He hung up.


There is potential in this starter. I could certainly write about my first experiences as a mother. What's changed, what hasn't. I think I could probably put a different take on it. A take that isn't afraid to say the truth about what goes through my mind in early parenthood....

Writer's Journal

A wise woman by the name of Robin Fuxa started me keeping a writer's journal. It's a place to jot down different ideas about what to write. You can later review all your quick writes and ideas and piece together a workable idea. So I am embarking on a quest of sorts. I want to start and finish a book. So I'm going to create and use this blog to start puzzling and playing with ideas, hopefully getting some feedback and pushes so that I can write the story all the way out.

Woot.