Veterans Day.

I'm married to a veteran. Did you know that? Fortunately, he served in a time when the world was not at war. But I value his willingness to serve just the same. He isn't the only person I know that is a currently serving or has served in the past; a cousin, an uncle, a father-in-law, and many, many friends. Thanks to all of you.

You rock.

This song comes off of my new favorite album, Slice, by Five for Fighting. I didn't make the video, but I love the message of the lyrics. Give it a listen, then thank the veterans in your life. They deserve it.

Trouble.

When Jordan was in the first grade, he got his name on the board for the first time. His "table" had been talking, so all four children were punished, even though Jordan insisted that he hadn't been talking when he wasn't supposed to. Seeing his name on a list of trouble makers on the board was more than Jordan's fragile little psyche could handle. His response was so emotional, his teacher was unable to console him and ended up taking him to the office where she called home, and asked if I could come in and help.

He ended up coming home for the day, so upset he was that he'd gotten in trouble with his teacher. Jordan is nearly half way through the third grade and has not had his name on the board, or been in any other kind of trouble since.

And then... there is Sam.

Heh.

Really, I couldn't have two boys that are more different. Don't get me wrong... I love that Sam is different than Jordan. They are both exceptional boys. I wouldn't change a single thing about either of them. But oh, how they test my parenting skills in different ways!

Sam, for example, is not a stranger to having his name on the board. It's not something I'm generally concerned about. I got in trouble all the time when I was in school because I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to shut my mouth and stop talking. I don't expect my kids to be perfect (not even Jordan, though he seems determined to be so anyway). What's so funny about Sam is how little he seems to care. At my first parent teacher conference, Sam's teacher said that Sam was a great kid, and that when he was called down for things, he understood why and generally made an effort at improvement. She asked if Sam had told me he'd had his name on the board a few times. Um, yeah. I'm pretty sure that little bit of information would be on the very top of Sam's "things to forget to tell Mommy" list. But really. Name on the board a few times? No big deal.

What do you do though, when the teacher sends home a note that says, "Please talk to Sam about not correcting the teacher, or other adults."

Oh dear.

Now, I know Sam's a little bit of a know it all. I live with the kid. And mostly, because he's so stinkin' charming, he's always gotten away with it. But dude. You can't correct your teacher when your 6.

I wish I knew more specifics about what the particular instances of correction are. I mean, this IS the south, and even teachers aren't immune to using a grammatical phrase now and again that I might itch to correct. But Sam's teacher? She's not one of those teachers. She's awesome enough that even if I could, I wouldn't change a single thing about her. I'm guessing it's more along the lines of "No, we already DID those flashcards, and don't need to do them again," kinds of corrections.

When I talked to Sam about it, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Mommy, you told me once I didn't have to be perfect all the time. And I'm not. It's just natural."

Yeah. Natural.

Oh, how this boy makes me laugh.

Waiting.

So. Nine weeks ago my kids started school. The very same week, I put a stack of paper containing my heart and soul into a manila envelope and mailed it to a publishing company. It was the first of my inquiries, and so far the only one that I have made. Because of the religious theme of my book, there are only a handful of publishing companies that would even entertain the idea of working with me. This makes the process of trying to get published a little different. Instead of querying agents until I find one willing to represent me, I query the publishing company directly. A little easier, and a little more terrifying all at the same time.

So. With a breath and a gulp, and a pounding heart, I handed that envelope to Mr. Postman and set myself down to the task of waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting some more.

And I'm still waiting. The estimated eight weeks of response time has come and gone and here I sit, still waiting, and utterly terrified of the sweet little woman that delivers my mail. I've been preparing myself for rejection, because really, with this being my first attempt at publication, I feel like I must. When and if it comes, there are other publishing companies that I will solicit. I'm not quite ready to entertain the possibility of rejection coming from all of them. For now, I am renewed by the hope and encouragement that comes from open possibilities. And yet, in my heart of hearts, I know rejection across the board is a true possibility. It kills me though. I love these people that I wrote about. They are so perfectly real to me, there lives such a part of my heart. To shelve them wouldn't be easy.


The nine weeks of waiting has also given me a little bit of a break. You see, I haven't been writing (not even blogging a whole lot, if you've noticed at all). The pregnancy hasn't helped. Feeling like padooky dook does little for creative energy and a will to sit upright in front of a computer. But I also just needed a breather. I worked so hard for so many months, and poured so much of myself into the creative process, it was nice to take a step back and, I don't know, get a full night's sleep for a change.

It was but a brief respite though... my fingers are already itching to start something else. Characters are climbing out of my head and holding conversations in my kitchen. I won't be able to ignore them for long.

So I will keep waiting. And while I wait, I will keep writing.

A note to all of Inkmom's readers: Baby girl arrived last night and Mom and baby are healthy and well. I won't post pictures, because well, it is Inkmom's baby and it would be rotten to steal her thunder, but I will tell you that little baby is preciously perfect and is just as beautiful as her Mamma.

Small Town, USA.

(Warning: I love where I live, and at the end of leaf season, when I am particularly indoctrinated with the loveliness that is fall in the mountains, I tend to wax a bit poetic. Sorry in advance.)

The parking lost was mysteriously a flutter. I mean, this was Wal-Mart. On a Tuesday night. What on earth was bringing so much bustling activity to a normally subdued location? Then I saw the flashing lights of the ambulance. My heart quickened and I reminded myself that all that are dear and close to me were safe at home and I need not worry for myself, but I worried for whomever was suffering. When I reached the storefront, I joined the crowd of onlookers and asked an employee if everything was all right.

"It's fine," he said. "Someone just fell and bumped their head, and didn't think they could drive home."

We watched as the ambulance was directed to the scene of the accident. Many finally drifted into the store, but something else caught my eye, so I stood for a few more moments. Shortly after the ambulance arrived, a wave of F150's and Chevy Silverado's, all sporting a single flashing light haphazardly placed above the driver side window hurriedly pulled up to the scene. A bunch of normal looking guys, uniformed in nothing but blue jeans and assorted shades of flannel, poured out of the trucks and raced over to the scene... they directed traffic around the ambulance. They kept the curious from getting too close. They helped.

I knew immediately who they all were, because this is a small town in the south. Every single firefighter that this little county has, and nearly ever EMT is a volunteer. They drive around in their pick up trucks, working their regular jobs, eating dinner with their families, and then, when emergencies happen, they materialize at the scene, sometimes leaving wives and children waiting patiently in the car to see if their is anything they can do to help. They'll run shifts at the fire station, so that someone is always ready to respond. And they'll do it all for nothing.

It may seem like a novice system, but in a sleepy town like this one, a bumped head in the Walmart parking lot might be the most exciting call they get for weeks. I love that about my town. Here, everything just seems to move a little bit slower. It's the sort of town where all the cops have breakfast at the same diner every morning. Where locals laugh at you if you lock your doors, where people still pull over, some even getting out of their cars to show respect for a passing funeral train. It's the sort of town full of old barns and cows, where Wal-Mart, just a regular Wal-mart, not a big, fancy supercenter closes at 10 PM, and wouldn't dream of staying open all night. It's the sort of town where teachers walk your kids to your car when you pick them up, and stand at your window to talk about how the day went, how your child is doing, and what they might need to study for the upcoming test.

In many ways, a town like this is years behind other faster, busier parts of the country. There are more parts of town that don't get good cell phone coverage than there are parts that do. We have one radio station that covers the local news, high school football games, Nascar, and plays country music in between. We have one hospital, one high school, and two hundred churches. And, unless you're a transplant, most everyone can trace their genealogical heritage to four or five individuals. Its easy to know the names of these founding fathers... all the streets are named after them.

Sometimes, I mourn my lack of shopping options. I complain that to get anywhere, you have to drive far. But when it comes right down to it, I don't think I'd change anything. (I don't know. Maybe if I could have my town exactly like it is, but with a Target, I would change that.) I love the southern simplicity of small town living. And I love that everywhere I go, it's beautiful. See?

The view on the way to the elementary school:



A creek in the national forest, just a few minutes drive away:



The view on the way to Josh's office:



My favorite old barn, and of course, the cows:



The view from the top of my favorite local hike:



And finally, the highway that takes you in and out of town:



You should all come and visit. Really. You'd love it here. Just don't all come at once. And not this week, cause I'm going to go hang out with my sister so she can bring my very first niece into the world. Yay!


And now for a totally unrelated note that is too adorable not to share, Henry just came to me with a can of Yoo-hoo (not a regular purchase in this house. I mean, does anyone actually buy Yoo-hoo on a regular basis? But it was an early pregnancy craving, and there was one can left over), and said, "Mommy, I want some Waaaa-hooo!!!!" Heh. I love that boy.

Injured pride and garbage disposals.

Did you know garbage disposals are power tools? I know it sounds ridiculous to give the swirling blade at the bottom of your sink that spends its days mutilating leftovers such a prestigious title, but really, there is no other way to explain the episode that occurred in my kitchen last evening.

It all started with a little bit of good natured pumpkin carving. Sounds innocent enough, right? We carved, we laughed, and all was well. Then it was time to clean up.

"I don't think I'd put those big pieces of pumpkin down the garbage disposal," I said to my husband. Because I'm logical and smart like that. And I think working garbage disposals are much more user friendly then, you know, ones that don't work.

Josh tossed me a knowing look. He grunted, and maybe scratched himself a little bit, and then he dumped all the pumpkin remains into the sink... big pieces and all. With a macho shrug of his shoulders, he turned on the water and flipped the disposal switch.

Suddenly, it didn't matter if he was standing over the garbage disposal, or wielding a chainsaw in the front yard... he was a man, holding a power tool, and there was no stopping him.

Funny how that happens. I've witnessed it first hand on more than one occasion. I once watched Josh trim a few branches off our neighbors tree that had grown into the road and were dangerously obscuring the view of oncoming cars. I watched in horror as the tree grew thinner and thinner... he stopped only when I thrust myself in between the few remaining branches and the fiery rotating blade screaming "Mercy, Mercy!" at the top of my lungs. I swear that poor tree wouldn't have a single limb left if not for my drastic leap of faith...

Alright. Maybe I just suggested he stop. Repeatedly. While cowering behind his truck in hopes that his testosterone and gasoline fueled power tool lust wouldn't injure any harmless passersby.

Do you want to guess how long it took for the garbage disposal to stop working? I'm thinking less than twenty seconds. In a matter of moments, my sink was a swirling cesspool of pumpkiny filth. The motor of the disposal would turn, swishing the water around, but it wouldn't drain. Nice.

After a few grumbles and incoherent mumbles, Josh was on his back disassembling the pipes under the sink trying to unclog the disposal.

"Do you want me to google it?" I asked. Because everyone knows that Google can diagnose just about any household problem or illness ever known to man.

"No," he replied. "I'm not ready to relinquish control yet."

So the disassembling continued, and I immediately sat down at the computer to uh, check my email and google garbage disposals. (What? You know you would have done the same thing.)

I was quiet for a while. I mean, we were dealing with injured pride here, and I knew the best solution for that was for Josh to fix the disposal on his own. But really... the googled results were so simple. Plug up the other side of the sink, and use a plunger on your disposal. Over and over again, I read of people's experiences with this simple remedy. After a few more grunts and grumbles from the kitchen, I started reading, out loud. At first, it wasn't well received.

"It's already taken apart," he yelled. "I can't go back now."

"I worked for nine hours under the sink trying to fix it," I read. "Finally, I swallowed my pride and put everything back together. Who would have thought this simple solution would work!"

Heh. I was laughing on the inside. A few more shared success stories, and I heard him mumble, "Fine. I'm reassembling."

Wouldn't you know it? The plunger worked.

I used to think Tim Taylor of Home Improvement fame was overly dramatized... men don't really care about making things bigger, stronger, faster... pushing things to their maximum capacity, grunting and growling along the way.

Or...

Maybe they do.

(posted with permission from the dear husband who is oh so good natured and is really quite good at laughing at himself.)

Things are amazing, and people still aren't happy.

Have you seen this? It's hilarious, and oh so very true!

Is Breast Best?

When I was pregnant with Jordan, I went to a local La Leche League Chapter Meeting. The organization had been a great support to my Mom and she suggested I give it a try. Overall, it wasn't a bad experience. I met a few nice people, but I was completely unprepared for the very disturbing experience I witnessed just before the close of the meeting. A woman sitting across from me in the semicircle of nursing and soon to be nursing Moms had an older child with her, probably four or five. I can't be sure of his age, but I am sure that he was potty trained, and speaking in complete sentences. I watched as he darted over to his Mom, and asked if he could have a snack. She nodded sweetly. Then, I watched in horror as the little boy lifted his mother's shirt, exposed her bare breast to the entire room, and nursed happily away for a moment or too. When he'd satisfied his need for snacking, he went back to his toys in the corner.

I can't decide if I was more disturbed by the little boy's ease in helping himself, or in the mother's ease in going without a bra to facilitate such an action. Alas, it was her kid, her boob, and her choice, and though I found it a little unnerving, in the end, to each her own.

I did not, however, go back to La Leche League. Fortunately for me, I still had a great experience nursing Jordan. I cried my way through three weeks of pain and discomfort, bleeding, cracking and complete misery, and then, everything got easier. Jordan nursed for thirteen months.

For me, I had always known I wanted to nurse my babies. As it often does, tradition played a big part in that decision. My mother was a nursing Mom and since most of what I ever learned about motherhood came from her, it was natural for me to do the same thing. It was cheap, convenient, and for me, it worked.

When it was time to start nursing the twins, I can't say I wasn't a little bit overwhelmed. Double time milk production is a tall order, but I managed to pull that off as well, though not always without a little bit of help. I worked my hardest to produce enough milk for two babies, but as luck and nature would have it, I was often a few mammary glands short of a full feeding. So I supplemented with formula when necessary and felt no failure in doing so. A baby's got to eat, you know? I made it nine months with the twins before my exhausted and deflated dairy bar called it quits all together.

With Henry, he nursed like a champ from the get go, we had a great experience and the kid never tasted a drop of formula. I hope, with baby number five, things go as smoothly.

So why the breasty history?

You always read about all the angst... the breastfeeders versus bottlefeeders... the judgement, the criticism of those who make choices different than your own. The topic will garnish full page spreads in magazines and be a subject of discussion on talk and morning news shows.

And yet, I've never experienced it. I have friends that breastfeed. I think it's a great thing that if you can do, you should do. But I also have friends that use formula. Maybe nursing didn't work for them, or maybe for reasons that have nothing to do with me, they decided not to nurse. And you know what, they still have great kids.

Maybe I've lived a sheltered existence and simply haven't been exposed to the armies of angry, defensive woman who thrust their breasts and bottles forward in an effort to take a stand, or maybe the entire conflict is an imagined creation that we've all heard about but never seen. Don't get me wrong. I know and expect differences of opinion. We all make choices based on what's best for us and those decisions won't always be the same. But I don't get all the harsh hatred. Does it really exist?

You tell me. Have you ever felt judged or criticized for the choices you made about how to feed your baby?