The Moonlight Son-ata

I have the hum-drums today. The Child is spending three weeks with family in California, as he does nearly every year, and every year, leading up to the event, I am slightly excited (oh, think of all the free time) and every year, the moment I have to leave him, the horrible anxiety begins to settle in.

Not that he won’t be taken care of or anything--he is in the greatest of hands--but the house is SOOOOO quiet. No piano blaring the soundtrack of my life, no obscenities shouted when the video games go awry (well, The Husband does that too, but that’s beside the point), no, ‘I’m hungries’, no, ‘I’m boreds’. But also no hugs, no bedtime kisses, and I honestly don’t know how to cook for two. Dear God, there’s leftovers. What does one do with leftovers?

I always promise myself that writing will be my priority when he’s away, but this year, the novel is finished, the short story I keep on the side for dry times is done. Even my query letter is complete. And anyway, if every other year is testimony to my writing dedication, then I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish this year! (As past years have been spent pining away for The Child, wondering what he’s up to, what sort of wonderful and exciting non-Mom-including adventures.)

His Auntie has rented a double bass for the month so that they can jam together (she plays the violin). The last I heard from them both they were working on the Moonlight Sonata. I’ll likely hum myself to sleep with it tonight...


"She never quite leaves her children at home, even when she doesn't take them along."
~Margaret Culkin Banning

Ode to the Should-ers (A Big Happy Birthday to Marina's Pecked by Ducks)

Wow, can I relate to this blog post from Marina, of whose blog I am a long-time lurker and avid fan!

Mother, writer, chronic should-er--I finally gave it up. Now I don’t believe in spotless houses or perfectly behaved children (ha! except where my previous blog post is concerned--ho, hum) or setting writing goals that will only lead to my ultimate failure. My motto: one chore per day, one extra TV show for the child per day, and at least one paragraph of my novel written per day (no editing allowed).

The beauty of it is, the one chore morphed into a "relatively" clean abode, the one extra TV show became a half-hour of peace, and the one paragraph transformed itself into a completed manuscript! If only I could say I kept my promise to my blog as Marina has.

Well, another goal for another day…

Happy birthday, 'Pecked by Ducks' -- to another enjoyable year of duckling stories and writing victories!

Happy Writing,
Shannon

Lois Lane vs. 'Lax' Luther and the Dreaded Dishes

Shame on me and my garsh-darned novel (almost done, by the way--way to go, Shannon!) for keeping my blog so painfully devoid of text for the last (count ‘em) SIX long months!

While I’ve been plugging away in ‘Fantasy (Genre) Land’, making plans to attend the big Willamette Writers Conference in August, and suffering complete and total Facebook social anxiety disorder melt-down, I have also been managing to fulfill my daily duties at work and home while single-handedly caring for The Husband and The Child. (Give her a glass of wine, ladies and gentleman, she deserves it!)

Recently, I expressed to The Husband that if I didn’t get a little extra help around the house I was going to run away from home and seek refuge at the nearest Loony Bin for Writers.

Luckily for me, The Husband set to work on devising his brilliant scheme--"Rinse the dishes and put them into the dishwasher ourselves, son!" he faithfully declared, donning his bright blue one-piece and Superman cape.

Complete with Christopher Reeves dimples and sexy black forelock, he leapt into action and for one blissful week free of ‘Lax’ Luther’s painful dish-detail, I luxuriated (vacuuming carpets and doing laundry instead).

Oh, merciful memories, what sweet sad sorrow doth tremble from my lips! For unbeknownst to me, the Evil Genius (a.k.a. The Child) put into play his ‘Diabolical Plan for Complete and Total World Domination’.

Don’t get me wrong, The Child is a blessing. But he is also Thirteen. The Weakest Link in Superman’s chain, Thirteen. And though the plan seemed simple enough (each man for himself--wash, rinse, repeat) when the dreaded putting away of the dishes reared its ugly head, The Child had so much more important things to do. Video Games. Television Shows. "Can’t do that right now, Mom, it’s so lovely outside."

Okay, I remember Thirteen. I remember it well for all the long years we’ve been apart. Then, I was ‘Independent-Shannon’. ‘Answer-to-No-Man-Shannon’. ‘Shannon-of-the-Messy-Room’ and ‘God, Like-I-Know-So-Much-Better-than-my-Parents-Shannon’. (In some dark damp room, my father dry-washes sweat-click hands and laughs menacingly at his well-deserved revenge).

I try my best. But at five foot eight with muscles growing up like mountains, the domineering stares and shaking fingers just don’t work. Threats? Okay, they often do the trick. But with the dishes? We’ll have to wait and see. Already, three months allowance get to stay in The Mother’s pockets. The video games are stashed behind locked doors. Three loud hurrahs for parental controls! And there’s always the Man of Steel, which strangely works the best of all.

“Fine, don’t listen to me, Child," I can say when all else fails. "I can’t wait to hear what your Dad thinks of that."

Welp, off to Fantasy Land again, my friends. Stay tuned...

Auld Lang Syne

"If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing."
--Benjamin Franklin

Here's to a new year of doing both!

Proud Mom Boasts

When Did ‘Soldier’ Become a Bad Word?

I love Halloween. Aside from Christmas, the Child’s birthday, and Thanksgiving, it is by far the most anticipated day of the year for my little family. The Child, though now twelve, is still remarkably into it. So into it in fact, I played a smaller role than usual in the beloved creation process. We never do the store-bought thing, but spend the beginning parts of October, stitching and gluing (and yes, bleeding from an assortment of sewing needles), and otherwise creating the yearly masterpiece we call The Costume.

This year, the child opted for ‘World War II soldier’. We leapt into action. Six trips to the Army surplus store and a thousand band-aids later, we were ready. The day dawned bright and sunny (slightly too warm for the perfectly recreated 40’s era long-johns and woolen uniform, but one must suffer to be beautiful . . . or in this case as handsome as Steve McQueen in 'Hell for Heroes' -- as you can see in the photo below).

A history buff, the Child must have every detail honed to within a fraction of what he deems (over and over and over again) ‘realistic’. Note, the badges sewn on with finger-numbing care and the photograph of the war hero’s sweetheart, ‘Betty’, whom he left on the shores of some black-and-white city as he boarded the boat bound for Goochamagoogoo.

Earlier in the month, when the Child mentioned he was going as a WWII soldier, a school advisor ‘advised’ that he NOT. “You know, the war and all,” the advisor whispered with a nod of the head and a wink my twelve-year old was supposed to understand.

Truth be told, I didn’t understand it either, so I chalked it up to guns and ammo and all other things inappropriate for school. (“No, Child, you cannot wear that Rambo-esque bullet belt. And no, child, you cannot bring that toy Tommy gun.”)

A small rant--

Now, I must insert here that I am by no means a fan of war. I think it stinks. And though I could go on and on in some political tirade about the state of our country’s affairs and yada yada, this post isn’t meant as a political statement. I have no agenda. I am not pro-war. I am not pro-the Iraq war. I am not pro-death and destruction. The product of two hippy parents, the whole idea gives me shivers, BUT, call me old-fashioned, I do believe in honoring our vets and the men and women risking their lives for our country--no matter the reason they are doing so.

--small rant ends.

So, all decked out, the Child went to school. The slightly freaked out part of me waited for the principal to call and tell me to bring him a new set of frocks, but the call never came. I picked him up from school. He’d had an okay day.

Darkness soon fell like a blanket on our smallish, eccentric neck of the woods. The Child set out on his journey with two buddies, knocking on doors, begging for candy. “Trick or treat!”

All went smoothly for awhile. A few folks gave him sideways glances. A mother told her child not to touch him. And then a house refused him treats. Gave them to the other boys. Another woman saw him coming, shook her head, turned of her lights. Nobody home.

One of his little friends began to get paranoid. They started back, their booty-bags a tad lighter than usual.

A block from the house, screeching tires sped around the corner--a truck full of teenagers, maybe college boys--the Child wasn’t sure. They slowed down when they saw him on the sidewalk, all points and stares and angry shouts. “Worry about peace, F---er!” they shouted as they sped away.

Another small rant--

Now, I AM a fan of peace. A BIG fan. But I don’t understand what kind of peace one thinks to spread by screaming foul curses at a little boy on Halloween.

A little boy, for goodness sake. Trick or treating.

Other kids dressed up as axe-murderers, serial killers, zombies with tendrils of viscera streaming from their middles (yes, I saw one wearing just such a costume). But mine? My sweet little history buff chose to go dressed as symbol of our great nation during a period in history where the alternative to war was an evil dictator who murdered innocent men, women and children by the millions.

We’ve all seen the movies, yes? Schindler’s List. The Diary of Anne Frank. We know the atrocities that went on in Europe during World War II. And no matter why the US initially entered the war, our brave soldiers fought for freedom. Ours. Theirs. Without them, who can say what would have happened? I can’t imagine the result would have been very good.

--another small rant ends.

The Weekend from Hell and Other Terrible Truthful Tales PART I: My Gamer Kid Fragged My Honors Student…

I feel I need to preface this post by saying that The Child is truly an exceptional kid. Bright, curious and kind. A straight A student who loves classical music, plays the upright bass, taught himself to play the piano by ear, and despite being neck deep in the muddy waters of adolescence, gives myself and The Husband very little lip.

One of his very few shortcomings (and yes, forgive me, Child, I realize you may curse my name in some shrink’s chair years from now) is a fierce competitiveness (an unfortunate genetic side effect from my side of the family) and a quickness to rash bouts of intense emotion (a trait prevalent on both sides of the gene tree). Mix these two with a passion for playing violent gun-wielding video games (ala Halo 3 and Gears of War) and the results can be extremely ... uh ... volatile.

Okay. Picture this. A quiet Saturday morning. Mother rises, showers, brews the coffee, wakes The Husband, and in fifteen frantic minutes the pair are off. The Child is supposed to call me when he rouses to let me know he is alive and so I can remind him to brush his teeth and eat some breakfast (not necessarily in that order).

By 11:15, The Child still hasn’t called. Not highly unusual as he is twelve and likes to stay up late on Fridays playing Xbox with his Turkish cousins, but still I decide to give him a jingle to let him know I have a few more small errands to run before I come home.

(Now, let me add here as well that we have had an ongoing battle about his video games. The Child’s behavior, though usually genteel, becomes quite explosive when he’s gaming. Last week, we finally struck a bargain (his idea, by the way): he will not play at all on weekdays and only dabble on weekends when his cousins in Turkey are awake and online--so keep in mind that this particular Saturday is the first weekend morning after a blissful week of videogameless peace.)


ME: Hi, Honey, you didn’t call me.
THE CHILD: Yeah, I guess I forgot.
ME: Everything okay? Did you brush your teeth? Get something to eat?
THE CHILD: Um, I think I ate. I didn’t brush my teeth though.
ME: Why didn’t you brush your teeth? Is Mr. Lazy visiting this morning?
THE CHILD: No, um, Mother? The police sort of came to our house.

For a moment, I think I’ve heard him wrong. And then I gasp. I nearly drive off the road. My next thought, after merging into the slow lane, is that The Child is joking. Of course he’s joking. What would the police be doing at my house? Besides, I tell myself, The Child is an ultra-responsible kid and would have called me immediately. Right?

ME: That’s not funny.
THE CHILD: Mother, I’m serious.
ME: This isn’t funny.
THE CHILD: I swear I am totally serious.

I pull onto the shoulder, screaming that he better tell me everything--every last little detail--as I rummage desperately through my car for some paper fast-food bag to breath into.

And then it all spills out: someone called the police and reported a domestic disturbance at our house involving loud shouting and possible gunfire.

GUNFIRE?

Ooooooooh, I think...he must mean the violent, gunwielding, videogame playing, shouting obcenities at the screen, not calling his mother when the police come and search the house kind of gunfire. That's the kind of gunfire he means.

Wonderful.



Coming soon, the next chapter in The Weekend from Hell series...
PART II: My Honor Student Sells Bumper Stickers to Support Our Family/Pay for College