But have actually been writign A LOT this week. It's all for work, but a bit creative. letters for the program, tweaking reviews on shows I've not yet seen to make it appear I have.

My baby will turn 11 in two days. 11 years old. How did that happen so soon?

I follow this woman on Twitter. Johanna something. I think she might be a real writer, because she does it ALL THE TIME. She has made a group, #amwriting, and though I've not joined it, mostly because #iamnotwriting, it is a little bee in my bonnet, reminding me I should be writing.

So I'm going to try to use this blog as my impetus, going to try to write... I want to say "everyday", but am afraid that is setting me up for failure. "A couple times a week" sounds so lame. "a lot" is even worse. What is my issue?

I have thoughts. I find myself frequently turning off my ipod while I walk, just to let the thoughts wander. So I do have something to say.

An I LIKE to write. I love to hear people chuckle over faux press releases or new stories I put together. I'm thrilled to have a by-line appearing in a new news magazine this Friday.

I think it's time.

I know, we all get the same 24 hours in a day. I'm kind of sick of being told that. Because I have set up my life wrong--the way many women have--so that I'm pretty much in charge of everything. So a half hour of quiet time...time alone, without laundry to fold and dishes to wash, or homework to encourage... doesn't happen all that much. When I do get a little extra time, I've been trying to get out and walk a bit, since I don't exercise anymore. At all.

I think to write, let's say, 5 DAYS a WEEK, will be a New Year's resolution (again). Perhaps, if I think someone might be reading the stuff, maybe leaving an occasional comment, that will serve as a reward. I will bribe myself with that.

I'm agreeing with you if you're now thinking I'm totally pathetic.

But I'll try. No, I will write. At least here, several times a week.(Another non-committal word).
Check back. #amwriting

He's 15. He's a good boy. He is right where he's supposed to be.

He's growing up way too fast for me.

"Are you dressing up for your party?" I asked.

"We're just hanging at her house," he said of the friend. "It's just like five of us. I have my tux tshirt on"

Okay. I know I know nothing about these things.

So an hour later, when i see my husband digging out an older, beautiful suit, i'm wondering why, until Michael comes downstairs in his "mobster" outfit. It's his black dress pants and shirt, and a burgundy tie I'd bought for his father. He slipped on the perry ellis double breasted jacket.

"Fits," Dad says.

It almost takes my breath away.

He's so frickin HANDSOME. I am his mother, and I know I'm biased, but even with his football helmet induced acne, he is a gorgeous young man.

On the way to his little party, I say the regular things... make good choices... call me if you need to... Since he's all in black, and it is Halloween, I ask him to promise to hold the hand of someone with a flashlight if they go out looking for candy.

I know, great excuse..."Uh, my mom says I need to hold you hand, kay?"

He'll be driving in a couple of months. He's looking into early admission to the University of Washington. He's perfect.

And he's growing up.

The Wink: Cents of Peace

I fear I too, may soon become a vicitm of the current economic climate. My job is hanging, simply because there just isn't enough to go around.

I had the chat yesterday with the boss, who, in spite of his reputation, is a just a pussycat. He doesn't want me to go. I'm a good fit here. Everyone here wants me to stay. They were nice things to hear.

But the fact remains, that something has to change.

I told my husband Michael, and he assured me we'll be alright... I'll find something else...I have good skills.

But it's not the lack-of-job money I'm upset over. I am flexible, and fairly confident that I could find other work.

I don't want to leave the PLACE and the people. I've never spent so much time where I had so much fun. Where I belonged. Where much of the time, I was really me.

I will probably try hang on doing contract work there. I'm told my desk will remain mine, even if I'm not a regular employee. My work will become part time though, I'm pretty sure, so eventually, the reduction in income will become and issue of sorts.

Of course I'll survive; I must. But I don't want to go.

I read a blog on Tumble Dry today and for a few moments, I was taken back to new motherhood in a way I can only describe as physical.

Amanda wrote about the impending first birthday of her third (and last)baby. She described her thoughts as she nursed her little Finley; the delicious feel of the baby’s skin against her own, the sparkly eyes growing drowsy, the little circles she felt Finley tracing on her skin up under her shirt.

And suddenly I was there, holding my own baby baby and feeling that enormous magnitude of love and connectedness. I felt her warm belly pressed against my own, watched her eyes turn from sparkly to sleepy milk drunk, felt the fat little hand tracing a design on my side.

And  then, as I read and remembered, my milk let down.

There is no mistaking the tingly, pins and needles feeling. And while I knew there was no milk to let down, my body tried.

It’s happened a few times in the ten or so years since I last nursed my own youngest child. Usually it was in a store, while some new mom let her newborn cry as she searched for the right hair conditioner or something. Drawn to those wails, those plaintive cries I found myself longing to pick up the stranger baby, to breathe against his tiny head and let him know he wasn’t alone. The milk came then.

But it’s been a while since that happened. And though nursing my children is one of those things I will can never do again, and will forever miss, I haven’t thought about it for quite a while. With working full time and looking for a child’s missing glasses and having an almost teenage daughter and teaching a 15 year old how to drive, those kinds of tender moments seem to come with so much less frequency.

Today's little surprise was a gift and a true blessing. Thanks Amanda, and Happy Birthday.

This morning, while grabbing my allotted two minutes of toilet time, my daughter yelled through the door.

"Mom! Mumble, mumble..."

"Just a sec," I call back as I begin to pull up my pants.
I open the door a crack.

"What did you say?"

"I need you to sign this permission slip," she says as she hands it to me, while I'm still zipping my pants. "It's due today."

I feel a little annoyed as I take the paper. "Can't Dad sign it?" I ask.

"Well, no," she says. " He's in the bathroom."


Today my baby turned 15, and tonight, all his friends bailed on him. For a while, anyway.

And in those few moments, when it seemed he’s be stuck with us at home… instead of hanging out with friends, I had to go into the bathroom and hang my head to cry. For him. And for me. Because he’s 15. And it’s no longer my job to make sure he and his friends are playing nice. It’s him. Against the world. 

I never knew it would be this hard. these little baby steps to independence... only they aren't really baby steps anymore. He's running full bore.

The friends did come around. He went out, and had a good time. I was glad for him. 

But it's so sad for me.

I'll admit it. I'm way behind on this blog thing, and for a while, bought into the myth that blogging was for people with way too much time on their hands.

But then I found a few blogspots that impressed me. And I met the author or them, and she impressed me even more. So with a little encouragement from her, I'm jumping in.

I am a writer by trade, but mostly by nature. Always thought about writing a book... have a couple kid stories done but unpublished... but am now a working mom, and don't have nice chunks of time to do stuff like think quietly and write a book.

But I do think, and have stuff to share. So I'm gonna give this a try. Because buried underneath my parenting and wife-ing and keeping everyone happy there's someone else. And she deserves to be let out.