FGF: Generosity!!!

Fridays should feel good, but we're dealing with some heavy stuff here.

• Two of my freelance contracts are being discontinued (as in, the product is gone, not I'm being replaced, which is a strange comfort). I am now in the age-old debate on whether to maintain a daycare placement or keep Bella home until I find something replace that money. Keeping her home is free. Sending her to school at least part time is sane. Know what I mean?

• Our baby chick (the Rhode Island Red) most likely died. She was always a little weaker than the rest and then Wednesday we noticed the other chicks/keets pecking at and bullying her. Then we realized she wasn't eating or drinking. We isolated her, but she just got worse and eventually couldn't even stand up on her own. We tried dropper feeding her, but she stopped swallowing. So we took her back to the breeder. My hope is that he is nursing her back to health, but I'm thinking the reality is he'd cut his losses on her. My poor little baby Lulu, who was actually Javi's chick...

• We also found out on Wednesday that one of the Mountain Man's newest employees is one step away from homeless. He's only 18 and is raising his siblings (17, 14, 12, and 9) while his dad lays up with a girlfriend. However, the dad lied about paying the bills so now they have no power or water. My heart broke for them, especially when I heard how he told Billy and his other coworker (after they offered lots of help) that "no one had ever been so nice to him." What kind of world do we live in?

And so. I really need some !!! and some feely-good. Like, desperately need it. And so I went out and found it.

• I posted about the boy and his siblings on Facebook and was overwhelmed with the generosity and outpouring of kindness toward him. People have already brought groceries and offered money to help him keep his family together. Not a single soul has asked me what race or ethnicity he is, how much money he makes, or what his education level is. When push comes to shove, people are really really good. They are loving and generous and good. I tend to forget that when I hear people ranting about "illegals" and "welfare babies" and the like. I am humbled by this boy's determination to take care of his siblings and I am awed by my community's eagerness to support him. !!!

• My kid has been at camp all week. Remember our meltdowns? They have been few and far between this week. And then today, at the closing ceremony, the camp director pulled me aside to tell me how impressed he is with my little boy. He talked about how talented and intelligent Javi is. About how compassionate and funny he is. How he's full of initiative and drive. Not once did he comment on impulsivity, distractibility, or inattentiveness. Not once. I may have cried a little. !!!

• A friend of mine from high school (really, the only one I have left) admitted to me the other day that she was really hurt by something I did. Basically, I blew her off. In my defense, I didn't mean to. We were supposed to get together while she was in town but I totally forgot until late in the day and when she hadn't called by then, I assumed she'd gotten caught up too. So when I finally called her to chit chat, I was really surprised to hear that she was nursing some hurt feelings. But I apologized and assured her that I just have a swiss-cheese brain and all is good again. So good, in fact, that we're going to hang out this weekend while she's here on an impromptu visit. I really value her friendship and it makes me happy to know that a) she was mature enough to be vulnerably honest and b) I was mature enough to apologize and move forward. !!!

So, you see? Feeling good. Intentionally happy. Finding the beautiful streaks of gorgeous silver in those unbelievably stormy clouds. Work will straighten itself out. We'll be okay. Life will go on. And I'm the luckiest girl in the world for having so many amazing people to share the good -- and bad -- times with.





**This post is part of !!! and Feel Good Fridays.**

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Rules for writing

I spend a lot of time writing, but I don't spend nearly enough time developing a body of creative work that sings to potential readers.

So when I read these awesome rules for writing fiction, I immediately knew I had to share them. Not only are they whip-smart, they are also true. Like, down to your bone true. Read them, incorporate them, use them. That's what I'm doing.

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Death and taxes

You all know that I work from home. You also know that I gripe about how often I get paid (or don't get paid ... like how I'm missing a check for this month (despite me doing my part of the invoicing just like I always do) but the payroll people don't care and will rectify their mistake next month).

What you don't know is that the IRS pwned my tail. Like, lock stock and barrel. Like, if I could just toil my debt off with a pick ax and a yard full of rocks, I'd totally choose to do that (because imagine how much weight I'd lose) rather than figure out how to pay my astronomical tax bill.

Things I know: I should've paid taxes throughout the year. I should've squirreled away more in savings to offset what was inevitably waiting for me at the end of the year. I should've spent my hard-earned money on something (anything) that would make it worth it, but we don't have anything to show for it (except a camper) -- no flat screen tv or home renovations or dental work for the kid (or lap band surgeries).

Things I couldn't know: How much money I'd make freelancing last year.

It's an up and down kind of career. The jobs come and they go. I blogged for the Lord for a good six months, making a pretty good amount, but every month we were unsure whether the Lord would want me the next month. One day we were working on a devotional and teen outreach and the next day the job disappeared. I've edited web content and designed entire identities and developed communication strategies. I've stepped in to cover for other writers when they go on furlough or maternity leave. I've gone from writing full articles at one pay rate to milking other articles at a much lower pay rate. I've been told more than once that my work is moving to India.

My point: I spent the entirety of 2009 believing that I was one paycheck away from homeless. That we were living hand-to-mouth. That the mountain man was the breadwinner in our family. And how could I know ahead of time that all of my beliefs were wrong? How could I know until the 1099s came rolling in and I owe the IRS more than I know how to pay back?

When the tax lady broke the news, I lost my breath. I had to get down in the floor and just lay there, trying to keep the oxygen flowing to my heart and the tears from pouring from my eyes. My life flashed before my eyes. My arms started hurting and I did a mental check of heart attack symptoms just in case I needed to dial 9-1-1. When I realized my heart would hold, I made a different mental check of all the projects we'd planned to do with our refund -- the main one being orthodontic work for Javi. I tried to figure out how I'd break the news to the mountain man without destroying our marriage.

And then I started laughing. It was all so absurd. How in the hell did I screw it up so royally? What the hell were we going to do? But floating above those heart-wracking questions was this: I made it. I am a professional freelancer. I work from home as a professional writer and designer. I am a writer who gets paid to write and a designer who gets paid to design. I may wish for the chain-gang to work off my new-found debt, but the truth is that I have it because I've been successful at something I never imagined I could actually do. I owe because I have earned.

I am still embarrassed by my mistake but I'm also proud of my accomplishment. And you'd better believe I'm paying in my estimated taxes each quarter this year.

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Valentine's surprise

I have one more week until I can afford to send Bella back to preschool. One more long, busy, child-centered week that just happens to be the same week that I have three different projects and a fundraiser to complete. I watch every minute-hour-day tick by on the clock, knowing I'll be up at all hours of the night to complete my deadlines.

But those are adult issues that my sweet Bella Wayne isn't -- and shouldn't -- be affected by. Rather than attempt to work with her climbing on my shoulders, kicking at the laptop, or plundering through hidden recesses that only she can find, we decided to spend the morning making Valentine's Day crafts. We cut and glued and stamped and painted to our hearts' content.

But something heart-soaring happened in the middle of it all. On a whim, I asked Bella to draw me a B since we've been doing a lot of work on letters over the past week. She asked me, "What da B wooks yike?" I drew it and handed her the crayon. And there it was:

After much cheering and high fiving, I asked her to draw another B on the little Valentine's card she made for Grandma ... and she did:

I'm still watching the clock and my deadlines haven't moved, but I'm feeling a little less stressed out and harried about meeting them. The words will be written, the sites will be updated, and the world will keep turning. But my daughter wrote her first letter and I was right there beside her guiding and cheering her on. That's the point. The whole of it. Right there.

I know I'm a slow learner, but I may finally be getting it.

(This entry is linked to Wordful Wednesday.)

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Bad mama

Back in December one of my freelance contracts ended and I made the decision not to replace it. To maintain our budget and lifestyle, I chose to scale back on daycare and work during nap time and after the kids went to bed.

Can you guess how this worked out? All I have to say is no one at Bella's school ever thought it important to tell me that she refuses to take naps anymore. And knowing she's here all day with me makes Javi a little crazy and clingy so when he gets home from school all he he wants is my undivided attention. So, basically, I'm trying to work with both kids in my back pocket.

Therefore, I can't really be blamed for what I did (or didn't) do when Bella realized that Javi left his door open after he left for school yesterday. Wide open. With all manner of legos, Bakugan (backyookin to Bella), and art supplies. I was trying to finish up some editing when I realized the world was way too quiet. And I knew. I knew she was in that room and she was destroying whatever she could get her hands on and he would be so angry when he got home.

But I finished up my editing, sent out some invoices, and did some straightening up in the glory of all that quiet, without tripping over anyone or having to fight someone who suddenly wants that very thing despite not playing with it for hours (you know how it is). And only after all of that did I venture upstairs. Strangely, nothing seemed out of place in Javi's room. I pivoted and crossed the hall to Bella's room. Currently known as The Disaster Zone. And this is what I saw:





When I walked into the room, she held her hands up and said, "Javi's gonna be SO MAD at me!" Then turned to make me some orange soup before showing me the "wolf prints" on her hands. Because she didn't do this alone -- "dat wolf done helpded me makin' dis mess, Mama!"

Inevitably, both kids were crying when one had to clean up her mess and the other had to deal with cleaning up her mess, too (putting 800 pencils, crayons, and markers back in their little slots and reconstructing 6 lego vehicles and taping torn pictures). But we all learned a valuable lesson: You have to deal with the consequences of your actions.

Just don't tell them my secret. It was sooooooo totally worth it! I'm flashing my Bad Mama badge proudly. :)

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Freelancing isn't free

February 2007. I was seven months pregnant and thought growing and carrying a whole human being inside my body was the most dramatic thing that would happen to me all year. But then my company's CEO called to tell me my services were no longer needed, and the bottom dropped out of my world.

The call only lasted five minutes; but I spent long hours alternating between wracking sobs and angry rants. What were we going to do? Who was going to hire a heavily pregnant woman? How do you just tell someone that they aren't necessary when the past six months had been nothing but lavish praise and pats on the back? More tears. More anger.

I finally I picked myself up and sent out a mass email telling every one of personal and professional contacts that my "contract" with the company had expired and to update their contact information. I closed my laptop, blew my nose, and crawled into bed to hopefully sleep off the grief. But then the phone rang.

My mentor was on the other line with exactly the pep talk I needed. She reminded me that I am smart and talented and that I didn't need a boss or a CEO to tell me what to do and how to do it. We talked for hours and at the end of our conversation I was ready to embark on a freelance career as a writer, editor, and consultant. We weren't off the phone for 30 minutes before she sent me an email with my first freelance job.

The burden wasn't completely lifted from my shoulders. A door had slammed shut right in my face, but I could feel the cool breeze coming from a window somewhere. That was almost three years ago and I have succeeded in freelancing. When one job tapers off, I'm prepared with another job to take its place. I'm always pedaling, always looking, and always at the ready to take on some new project or client.

But there's something I'm failing at: making the damn money. I have to fight and claw for every dime that comes my way. I just don't understand why I'm busting my butt to produce excellent content by whatever deadline established, but then I wind up stalking my mailbox for the check that's always "on the way" yet mysteriously arrives weeks later than it should. Why do people think it's okay to play fast and loose with a person's livelihood?

I don't have answers. What I have is a full calendar of editorial work that must be delivered on time and no idea of when or if I'll get paid for it. Three years and I still haven't figured out how to effectively earn a paycheck. I can't call their bluff and stop performing the work. I can't force them to pay me by their own predetermined schedules, and I can't prove they're purposely dodging me on pay.

I'm starting a new contract in February. I think I'll add a line in my contract that reads, "If contractor is not paid within 30 days of submitting an invoice, client will add $1,000 for each day late. After 10 days, client will pay $10,000 for each day late. After 30 days, client will sign over entire account to contractor and watch as contractor smiles her way to the bank."

Maybe they'd at least get one invoice paid on time. (But probably not.)

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70 degrees in January

I am in desperate need of the paycheck I was supposed to receive two weeks ago, the house is a mess, and my nine year old is home from school for the rest of the week.

But who cares? It's 70 degrees in the thick of January. Bella and I sat outside in our bare feet and tee shirts, enjoying the sun as it beat down on us and the wind as it gently tossed our hair. What a perfectly glorious day, and when better to decorate ourselves with sidewalk chalk?

I know there are earthquakes and mudslides and pelting snow. But today is a gift and we're soaking it up.

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Feets are for ticklin'

Some days I struggle to get by. There are warlords and all-night-writing to meet deadlines and the superior demands of family.

And then there are days when I remember why it all matters. Why it would matter even if things were always sunshine and rainbows and unicorns for everyone, everywhere. These glorious little people we're blessed with -- whether through birth or adoption or accident or the bonds of friendship and family -- are what make the world go 'round.

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Mellow Monday

Weekends aren't what they should be. Rather than resting and relaxing, we're hurtling here and there, squeezing in this, and struggling to finish up that.

Therefore, I am the 1 percent of the population that looks forward to Monday. Not only does the big kid go back to medication (which we cease on the weekends) and head back to school (making the house so much quieter), but we fall into our routine and each moment is carefully measured according to what just happened and what should happen next.

Monday mornings used to be me in pajamas with a steaming mug of coffee in a dark room, but now that we're only part time at daycare, these days are full of play that's mixed with learning. This morning we:

Vacuumed the kitchen.

Doctored some babies while learning where our hearts are and that heart starts with H.

Put together the same four puzzles about 15 times while watching Milo & Otis. (And learned that babies come out of kitty and puppy butts. I didn't have the cajones to correct her and WOAH have I never seen this movie because why the hell are they showing dogs and cats giving birth?)

Had a dance party for some physical activity since it's freezing outside.

And then relaxed in Mama & Daddy's bed for some post-lunch, pre-nap wind down with Dora.

A certain monkey is now upstairs in her bed singing Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. Each verse gets quieter and quieter as she nears sleep. I'm researching and writing for a deadline tomorrow with the blinds all the way up so I can feel some semblance of warm sun on my face.

These mellow Mondays are the days I live for.

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Confessions

1. I am so lazy. A friend called me this week about a part-time job that would require only 12 hours of my time (two six-hour days) and pay $20 per hour. The catch? I'd have to be there at 7:50 am. Uh, really? You want me up, dressed, child free, and somewhere out in the world before 8 am? I just don't think I can do it. The superior side of me says that I could make twice that on a freelance gig that requires less time but the honest side of me says I'm just spoiled by how I haven't had to be presentable and in an office that early in at least three years. Why start now?

2. My kid is driving me nuts. You'd think the problem would be the two year old, but she's predictable and easy to manipulate. The nine year old is a completely different story. He can be surly and wild and unmanageable. It's too cold to put him out and it's illegal to cage him up. I don't want to spank him -- not that I'm against it -- but he's too old for spanking and doing it would only make him surly and disagreeable. I don't want to spend long hours yelling ... and when I do yell, it's inevitably the baby who learns a lesson (which is to scream when she's mad). So the end result is I'm in a foul mood, the nine year old is out of control, and the two year old is in tears because neither Mama nor Javi are behaving in nice ways.

3. It's my fault he's driving me nuts because I forgot to get his prescription filled. A kid who needs medication is a kid who needs medication. Of course, I'm not the only adult in the house, so technically there should be a backup when my brain implodes -- but the other adult doesn't really see this as his job so I'm the one responsible and I'm the one who forgot.

I feel so much better now.

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A lunch miracle

This isn't only a new year for us; it's also a whole new schedule. We decided that since I'm taking less work right now, we'd move Bella to part time at school. That means she'll be home three days each week ... with me. We're on day two and I'm actually really enjoying it.

The part I dreaded most was lunch. My child is a picky eater who is highly distractable. She can be starving yet turn her nose up at the most common toddler foods (the child doesn't even like mac & cheese). Then when she finally eats, something will grab her attention and suddenly she's full and must get down from the table. Now!

My sister and I did a lot of prep work for this week which included spending lots of time in the grocery store figuring out what the hell to have on hand for lunch. Yesterday was still a fail. Somehow Cheerio snack mix, Micky Mouse cheese, and peanut butter on crackers was soundly rejected. Bella wound up eating half of the mountain man's spaghetti-os. Yes, gross.

But today was a new day. My child practically drank her yogurt and thoroughly enjoyed eating each and every bite of grapes and bananas I put in front of her. See?

If you haven't tried the YoBaby 3-in-1 meals with your little one, you must. She ate an entire cup and it contained her arch enemy, also known as green beans! You wouldn't think green beans and pears would be tasty together, but the geniuses at YoBaby figured it out. We used to eat a lot of YoBaby when she was younger but thought she'd outgrown it. Not so much.

So day two of home lunch was successful. Is it too early to start planning for (and dreading) day three?

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What a long strange trip it's been

I posted this on my Facebook earlier:

And that's really how I feel. What a delicious, amazing, delirious past ten years. My younger sister was over for lunch earlier and we started discussing our bests and worsts of the decade. Yet, neither of us could name a worst. The past ten years were full of goods, betters, and bests. Even the sad, humbling, heartbreaking moments are ones that I embrace and appreciate.

Ten years ago I was earning my Masters degree in a beautiful, young city. That experience paved the way for me to have what seems to be a decade of riches. I can only pray that the next decade gives me even more opportunities for grace and light.

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QOTD: Elbow grease

It's been a long week. Javi got into some major trouble at school last week and again on Tuesday (that I'm not quite ready to talk about) and then behaved horribly at my nephew's school Christmas program. Bella has been screamy and stabby and off for a few days. So, sitting down to dinner last night after a good 12 hours for both of them was a huge relief.

I suppose the levity of the evening loosened Javi's mouth (not that his mouth needs any help).

J: Daddy's the king of our house.

Me: The king? Why does he get to be the king?

J: Because he makes the rules.

Me: No he doesn't. I make the rules and he enforces them. So, technically, I'm the king and he's my army.

J: No, he's the king because he makes the rules and he works.

Me: Oh, because I don't work.

J: Well, you work on the computer, but Daddy does real work. Your work isn't real.

Me: What? It is so real. Just because it's on the computer doesn't make it not real!

J: Yes it does. Daddy uses elbow grease, you just use finger grease. Elbow grease is real work!

I had to erupt into laughter. I suppose he has a point. And he was so sincere, like he'd weighed it out and "computer work" didn't make the grade. The mountain man spent this entire conversation patting himself on the back. I expect his arms are sore this morning.

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Do you see what time it is?

5:10 am. In the morning.

5:10 am IN THE MORNING.

And I'm up. Not because I have some new found willpower to move my sluggish body out of the bed, but because I haven't laid down yet.

I woke up at 9 am yesterday morning, worked fast and furiously on deadlines until 2 pm, cleaned the kitchen and living room until 3 pm, sat down to watch a DVRed show with Billy at 4 pm, walked around the neighborhood with Javi and the As at 5:30 pm, sat down to dinner at 6:30 pm, and played with the kids until they went to bed at 9 pm.

And then.

I must've lost my mind. I decided I simply had to catch up on my messageboard (which lasted until after midnight). Then I felt compelled to read the 87 blog entries that had piled up in my reader since Tuesday (lasted until 2 pm).

And at the unreasonable hour of half past crazy, I finally opened Quark and began layout. And I had to write at least five news bits to fill up the layout. And then there was the table of contents, which is still a bear despite my having automated it when I was hired for this contract).

There you have it. I procrastinate so hard and so badass that it is now 5:15 am and I'm sitting here, awake but dogass tired, unsure whether I should try to sleep for the 2 hours until Bella wakes up (thank the heavens Billy gets Javi ready and on the bus by 7:20).

One day I'll learn ... right?

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Where the sick things are

Bella shared the contents of her stomach with our kitchen floor on Thursday. And so began four days of delicate scheduling, careful manipulation of bowls and plastic pads, and trying to cage a wild animal.

We cleaned Bella up Friday night, laid down with her to make sure she wouldn't get sick again, and then prepared for what could've been a long (and disgusting) Friday. But she was in tip-top shape when she woke up the next morning - well, minus choice diaper after choice diaper. Normally she refuses to eat and I have to trick her into drinking her breakfast, but now that I was worried about her sensitive tummy, she cried and begged and railed at the world with raised fist over "Chockit Meeyilk! Peease Mama? Peease I have some chockit meeyilk?!" (Yes, here she is all sad and defeated that even her big brother laid down in solidarity before he headed off to school.)

So of course I made a small sippy with a teaspoon of jello powder mixed with a lot of water, which she took a sip of and promptly threw back at me indignantly before collapsing in a pile of pitiful tears at my feet (likely to make me forget she just threw a cup at me). I made just a teeny tiny cup of chocolate milk for her (because would she survive without it?) and let her curl up in my lap to drink it. But then my sister came in and gave me the stink eye for giving milk to a child with an upset tummy, so I tried to take it back.

Big mistake. My child is part evil. She will (and probably has) shank a fool. You don't toy with her emotions and live to tell the tale. So after hurtling herself around the room and leaving a wake of destruction, she spotted where I'd hid the cup, snatched it up, and snarled at me like a feral kitten before finding a dark corner in which to have her way with the cup.

And that's how our weekend went. There was some point at which I threw my hands up and said screw it. I'm going to roll with the punches and if she wants an m&m as her reward for putting that toxic waste in the potty instead of her diaper, I'm giving it to her! And if she wants to get out of this house, I'm taking her! I do wish I'd had a Bella-sized roll of plastic wrap for the blow-outs, but we all survived, and that's the lesson.

Today is Sunday and we've had no "mocha latte" diapers as my sister likes to call them (yes, I'll wait until you finish gagging). Bellabug consumed a whole bowl of strawberry "meal" for breakfast and then asked to pee on the potty. She's asked me 800 times to "do pussels" but hasn't tried to break my knee caps when I told her she'd have to wait a few minutes. We're moving slowly, but plan to get hair cuts and do some visiting today.

The wild animal has gone back to sleep now that the prospect of the cage is put away. This was Bella's first real sickness, so I don't think either of us knew how to handle it but apparently this child doesn't wait for cabin fever to set it. She goes on the offensive from jump and refuses to just sit still awhile so that whatever bug she had could run its course. I hope that she learns to go easy on herself some day, but for now I'm just thankful that we've both survived four days of sick alone together in our little home.

And as you can tell from this photo, there will always be something a little wild hiding just behind the surface of my little girl.

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Why women are unhappy

I wasn't surprised to see that women are unhappier today than they were 30 years ago. Yes, we have more freedom to choose what we want from life... but no, making that choice isn't any easier.

Marcus Buckingham reports that women's overall happiness has dropped relative to the 70s and relative to men's happiness, no matter how many kids they have, how much money they make, whether they are married, and what race they are. It seems wrong considering the 70s' battlecry for women's lib, the 80s' motto of "look how far you've come," and the 90s' standard "you go, girl."

But the stats don't feel wrong.

I know I have a cushy life. I have a job that allows me to work pantsless from the couch making pretty good money. My husband also brings home a nice paycheck. My children are smart, happy, and healthy. We have an affordable mortgage in an area with an okay school. We have a good group of friends, and our families live close enough to help out when we need them.

So why am I so often unhappy? Why do I question my motivations and dream about giving it all up in favor of a small paid-for-outright home on a patch of land in the country far from the rigors and demands of an ambitious life?

One of my favorite bloggers, Michelle Dortch, pointed out two very obvious reasons for most women's unhappiness: the "second shift" and comparison. I am very lucky that my second shift isn't that hard. Yes, I do the fill-in-the-gaps work, but Billy is extremely hands on both with the kids and the house work. I also try not to compare what I have (or don't have) to what everyone else seems to have. I've never felt compelled to stay at home or work outside of the home simply to do what someone else thinks is right.

However, I am stretched too thin. There's working full time, being responsible for everything my handsome husband chooses not to do (no choice for me), volunteering, being a good friend and family member. It's exhausting.

And I have to wonder. Did my 1960s counterpart spread herself thin like this, or did she focus on what was most important and let the rest fall by the wayside? I don't want to focus on baking cakes or making my husband's life stress free, but I also don't feel fulfilled staying up all night to finish up an article by deadline and then turning around and having to do the grocery shopping because there's nothing to eat and I'm the only one who knows how to prepare food fit for consumption (or who chooses to try).

The World Health Organization found that women start out their lives happier than men, but are much unhappier at the end of their lives. I can see this. We're filled up with promises of all we can achieve and how nothing can stop us. And so we try -- vigorously -- only to find that maybe we want something smaller. Something quieter. Something less ambitious. And what then?

Of course, I am my mother's daughter, so I have to wonder if a lifetime of struggling to fill in those gaps, of worrying about your children, of not having a choice about what you'll do or not do when it comes to family, of trying to have it all just wears us down. So at the end of our only run on Earth, we're tired and deflated and left wondering: Why didn't I do it differently?

I think men do what feels right and to hell with what anyone thinks. Women, on the other hand, try to squeeze out every drop of something -- including life -- and yet often wind up with an empty cup.

I'm making a promise today. I'm going to live my life so that, at the end of it, I am a happier person. I don't yet know how I'll do it, but I know what's making me unhappy today. And I'm vowing to change it. Will you?

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9/11, eight years later

I feel like -- especially after the election season last year -- the terror attacks of September 11, 2001 are always top of mind.

I see a movie set in New York City and look for the empty space where the towers should be. I see pre-9/11 movies and my breath catches in my throat when the towers appear where I no longer expect them to be.

Eight years. So much has changed, and yet so much is the same.

On that day eight years ago, I was tired from having stayed up late with a guy I was dating. He was originally from Brooklyn. I liked to tease him about having a half-Brooklyn, half-Southern accent. He was studying to be a massage therapist and had plans to study accupuncture after that. We stayed up late talking. I was late for work and heard about the attacks in my car radio as I wound my way to the government office where I worked.

My immediate thought was to call him. But he didn't answer. I tried to call him all day. Still no answer. Finally, around 7 pm, when I was glued to the tv and watching the tragedy unfold and wishing I could tuck Javi with someone safe and get in my car to go help, to go do something to help, I called him one last time. He answered.

The call was short. I immediately launched into if he'd heard from his family. Did he have any updates. Did he know anyone who was there. He silenced me. My brother is missing. I can't talk to you because I'm waiting for my family to call. I asked him to call me when he knew something.

I never heard from him again.

I knew how to find him online so I quietly kept tabs on him. I was chastened by his reaction to my frenetic and insensitive barrage of questions, so I did not try to call him again. I learned from his online reports that his brother was never found. Two weeks later, he posted that he was moving back to NYC to be close to family, to help with his brother's family, to heal.

Since then, I've often thought of that relationship as a metaphor for the world in days, months, and years after September 11. We all changed -- drastically. Many of us walked away from the paths we were on, and many of us became more determined to blaze new ones. Some of us hunkered down with family to ride out the emotional riptides the terror attacks brought while others of decided that time was short and now's the time to act.

Eight years later and we're still learning those lessons. We were all shaken down to our foundations and many of us are still trying to recover. There's a blessing here. We remembered how to love, how to open our arms up to those who need us, how to live inside a space where trauma exists.

I know we'll never forget what happened to our country and our people. My hope is that we continue learning how to be better as a result of it.

My thoughts and prayers are with those mourning the family and friends they lost eight years ago. May you find solace in knowing that so many of us grieve with you.

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Pros and con(vention)s

I am not a blogging convention goer. When I started blogging back in 2001, there was no BlogHer or Blissdom or Type A Mom. Then there was a brief stint where I didn't blog (or journal as we used to call it) because Billy didn't want me to.

When I came back to blogging in 2006 (after taking 2005 off), it was all about BlogHer and who was going to be there and what they'd be wearing and who knew whom. None of the folks in my previous blogging circle were going and so I didn't either.

Then there was the big job that required me to travel a lot (and write about travel a lot) and then there was a pregnancy that resulted in a baby.

Flash forward to now and I'm finally able to attend a blogging conference should I choose to. And I considered BlogHer this year, but there was way too much tweeting about losing weight and looking good and who was going to what party. And that's not my thing. If I need to look good to be your friend, then it's not worth it to me. (Yes, I know not everyone was looks-oriented, but too many people were focused on the wrong stuff.)

But there's a conference in Atlanta that I just recently found out about and that I'd love to attend. My other issue with the hot topic conferences is that the faces are so prodominately white and mainstream. But Blogalicious isn't. It's full of women of color and women from diverse backgrounds and sounds so interesting. I could even win a free conference pass to make going less burdensome on our family budget.

I'm not sure that I'll be in Atlanta in October, but wouldn't it be so cool if I were? It'd sort of be like my blogging dream come true. We'll see what happens.

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Perhaps this is why

Last week, I packed up Javi and we headed over to the library. We went a lot in July when he was participating in their summer program, but August saw us spending lots of time at the park instead. I missed it and he loves it -- well, he loves the endless supply of drawing books, anyway.

While we were there, I used the free wifi to do some layout and proofing. What is usually a struggle here came naturally there. I think the difference was:

a) I was at a desk. Like, a real live one. With a chair and everything.
b) There was room to spread out papers and pens and station my phone so it was away from my fingers.

Back when I worked at a desk, I would jot things down as they came to me and then address those items when I completed the current task. In my current "office," I am often shifting and readjusting and dropping and man is this laptop hot, and hey, wonder what's in the fridge.

This is my current office:

Perhaps that's the reason I feel my motivation has left the building. A beautiful, spacious, well lit home office is at the top of my mom porn list. Perhaps this is why.

In our next home, I will have a room of my own. It will be motivating and pretty and I will look forward to spending time in it. A girl can dream, right?

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My mom porn

I'm wading through work stuff this morning, but my mind is elsewhere (which makes it really hard to write five whole stories and way too many news bits). This is what's taking up my genius-space:

1. I'd be so much more productive in an office like this than I am in my current workspace (my living room):

Isn't it gorgeous? I would need a different chair so I can sit cross legged, but woah. So nice.

2. I would take my act on the road if my ride looked like this:


Now with 2 more miles per gallon than other minivans in its class!

3. I'd be so much thinner if I had this:


Yes. It's a lap band. And yes. I totally want one.

Maybe now that I have this out of my system, I can power through my writing work and squeeze in a refreshing nap before the kiddo is home from school. Genius space cleared!

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