Dear Tequila,

I could not feel worse about what I have done to you.  The salt.  The watermelon.  The ginger.  Could have worked out, you know?  I still believe it.  But then I went and dumped that San Pellegrino in there just to give it a little sparkle.  (For the photo op if I am honest with myself.)  And, sadly, all I taste is something that smells like the hair of an unwashed, sweaty 8 year old boy.  The color...kinda the torn, pinky edge of a zombie bite with those fleshy-looking melon bits floating in there.  No good.  No good for anyone.  Not even the zombies.

I wish I was shallow enough to blame it on Pinterest.  A pretty picture of a sweating Mason Jar in the sun has moved me to try other odd concoctions.  (Yes.  Gin is the lucky one.  She got rosemary and tonic and it was divine.  Yes, yes prosecco and the lemon sorbet too.)  But this one was all me.  Me and my desire to reinvent a thing that should not have been altered.  You were perfect the way you were.

What I am trying to say is...sorry.  Truly.  I'll stick to Mod Podge and glitter next time I get the urge to get creative.  Maybe the glue gun.  The taste of you straight from the bottle with a little lime and salt, the occasional Margarita, that will be enough for me from now on.  I promise.

Oh, and can I ask you one more thing?  Do you have the number for Vodka?  (I hear she'll mix with anything.)

-Mama

(flinch) reroofing

Little C (who, quite frankly, is not so little anymore) joined me downstairs this morning.  He leaned in and kissed my ear accidentally because I turned my head as another patch of my roof came sliding roughly down in front of my desk window.  I think he was going for my cheek but caught the ear.  Good thing he subscribes to the try, try again philosophy because the next one he landed perfectly on the squishy, chubby part of my face where he gave it a good push of a smooch.  Pretty great way to start the morning.  Except for the part where I am flinching every time another hunk of shingles drops through my periphery.

He proceeded to wave his giant, 9 year old hands in my face and asked me to put something on them because they were itching.  I leaned back a bit so I could focus (which is new for me and yes, yes I know, don't say it aloud).  And what I saw told me instantly why his hands were itchy:

     Mama:  "Interesting.  Before I put anything on them, why don't
     you try washing them."

     Little C:  "But they IIIIIiiiitch!!!"

     Mama:  "It might be because they are FFFFffffffiiiiilllllthy!
     Try removing the dirt and sticky stuff and see if the condition
     does not improve."

     Little C:  (shouted from the bathroom)  "HEY!!  It worked!"

Huh.  (flinch)  Imagine that.  Remedy the thing causing the problem instead of just slapping on another layer of lotion, or shingles, or whatever.  (flinch)

Some Things Never Change

Mama: "You are not wearing that fleece pajama top to school today. You will be too warm. Go brush your teeth and find something with short sleeves and then we are out the door."

(4 minutes pass)

Mama: "Kid, you are not wearing THAT pajama shirt to school today either. Change it."

Little C: "But this one haaaaaas short sleeves!"

Mama: "Are you counting on my stupidity or yours to pull off that argument?"

Little C: "Well can I at least wear pajamas all day tomorrow?"

Mama: "Yes, darling, tomorrow you may. Now change your shirt AND brush your teeth with an actual toothbrush AND toothpaste AND I am going to check how clean they are AND the shirt must be one of the folded ones from the third drawer down on the right."

Little C: "Arghghghghghg....!" (stomp, stomp, stomp)

Game Playing

Picture a sobbing 8 year old boy. Sick with strep and a fever. Head thrown back, wailing. Tonsils bulging. Reddened eyes watering. Reddened nose running.

Mama: "Baby, what's wrong?"

Little C: "Miss M cheated on me!!"

Mama: "Is she seeing another brother?"

Little C: "What? No. We were playing a guessing game and she cheated!"

Mama: "It's all a guessing game, baby."

might have Earned My Stripes with this one

So, this title thing I have given myself? Alpha? If you look back far enough on here you'll see it really is only about my familial rank and not about comparing myself to other mothers. That might change as of this week.

This week I have stumbled upon perhaps my most brilliant parenting maneuver of all time. It leaves the bald-spot incident in the dust. What? Didn't I tell you that one? Well...here it is. Little C purposefully stuck his gum in Big C's hair recently. It was so smashed in there I had to cut it out. THEN I cut a matching bald spot in Little C's hair just to make sure everything was "equal" which is what they were arguing about in the first place. Sharp, huh?

But this week? This week I have invented a move. Like gymnasts get flippy, twisty things named after them, I think this one should be named after me: The Alpha Monkey. Its brilliance rests on the fact that the only counter-maneuver would be to deny their inner desire to be the boss of other people. An ability few children possess.

It works like this. You need your child to do something, say...get ready for bed and the multiple step in involves. If you say, "Go get ready for bed," they will end up playing green army men under their bed. If you say, "Get your jammies on, go potty, brush teeth, and wash your face," they will end up playing green army men under their bed in their underpants.

BUT....

If you say, "You get to be the boss of all the kids, how would you tell them to get ready for bed?" I can almost guarantee they will give you a fairly thorough list. Then tell them to go do it. They clearly know what is expected. They can no longer say, "I know I have been brushing my teeth since I first got them, but I did not know you meant to brush them tonight as well." Or, one of my favorites, "I did brush them....(intervening tooth check)....no, not tonight. Did you mean tonight? I meant that, technically, I have brushed them many, many times in the past. You did use the past tense, mom."

It could apply to homework as well: "What homework did your teacher give to the other kids in class today?" Then there is her list for today as well.

"How much time should it take the average kid to eat two waffles?"

"If you were a detective how would you figure out who wrote your name, in your handwriting, all over your brother's bunk bed?"

"If your brother told a lie to your mother what should his punishment be?"

Try an Alpha Monkey this weekend. Let me know how it goes.

Humans are illogical. We play with logic, like diving deep or flying, but we always have to return to our surface.

On Writing

One of my favorite interview questions people ask writers is, "What music do you listen to when you write?"

I love it for two reasons. The first is that I am fascinated by the lies people tell themselves. Not the ones they deliberately tell others. The ones they casually toss out there in a self-promoting kind of way. I mean the ones where people say, "I only ever eat protein and fruit" and they believe it so you'll believe it. But you know better because you've seen her scarf down 5/6 of her toddler's chicken nuggets while the little cherub wets himself a story and a half up in the maze of tubes. Just like you know she lied to herself when she giggled and hit his hands with gel sanitizer saying she is a serious mysophobe. If she really was phobic and not simply aware of germs, there is no way in hell she'd have suggested having a meeting at the McDonald's Playland.

Looping back, I find it hard to believe that one can craft a quality work while listening to music. Music demands my attention. I cannot come up with original thoughts when someone else's words are pouring into my ears. Maybe what they want is to be seen as someone who listens to that music. And also probably to be read by people that listen to that type of music. Which is why the writers that give the extensive, eclectic list of names crack me up the most. They want to be read by EVERYONE. Well, who doesn't, I guess? These writers who get interviewed probably do listen to the music on their list. I like to imagine someone keeping an iPod Shuffle in their pocket with their playlist just in case they ever get called on the carpet over their answer. And maybe the ideas do hit them while they listen to that playlist. But each sentence and the studious word choice and the editing? Good god, the EDITING? Are we supposed to think that this novel is something that just spilled out of them after downloading something off iTunes? Send me the link, because I'd one-click buy that thing twice.

Writing is work. It is labor intensive. It is time consuming. It requires a singular focus. I feel it in my own work and I see it in the kids I teach. I have had some of those moments where words come from within and out on to the page and I feel like the lucky little conduit. But it was a hell of a lot of work and practice to get to that space. Even harder to stay there.

Which ties into the second reason I love that interview question. I am truly intrigued by the headiness some writers attach to their craft. The routines and the settings and the exact writing utensil and only a certain font...it gets them in the mood or the zone or some level of zen. Whatever rocks your socks, my friends, but you know what I think? I think that some people need to convince themselves they are writers before they can write. Some of them produce wonderful things. But it amuses me nonetheless.

Maybe it sticks with me because I don't write like that. I need to get something rolling around in my brain for a good, long time before I know how it wants to land on the page. I guess I write to convince myself I am a writer. And I hope to, some day, produce wonderful things.

And when the interviewer asks me what music I listen to when I write I will tell the honest truth: an original composition. It is a complex layering of dishwasher, clothes dryer, barking dogs, video game chirps, and the lilt of my children's pleasure (or growling if the game goes poorly) all muffled through a closed door.

Next question.

Where do I write? Where don't I write. I am writing about you in my head right now, interviewer. About what you wish you were doing and how bummed you were when your editor sent you an email with this assignment and my name on it. (And also, I am writing the part about your interviewing me.)