Mom in the Mirror

Tick tock tick tock tick tick tock

My watch battery died recently and I haven't replaced it, not because I'm lazy (although I am), but because I've found that living "off the clock" has actually sharpened my perception of time.

I have two backup watches with batteries that died in the 5-8 years since I put them in my jewelry box, "just in case." No matter. There are clocks everywhere, so I can usually find out what time it is, and at work I just look at the clock on my computer.

But when I'm not at work, I no longer want to know what time it is. Instead of living by my self-imposed schedule, I use my judgment to determine whether to browse in the bookstore, eat fast food or a leisurely lunch, end the visit or keep talking.

This experience has reminded me that I control how I spend my time, not the clock, whether or not I'm wearing a watch.

Who they gonna call?

Have you ever paid attention to who your kids call when they want or need something? When it's potty-related ("My poop is green!"), it's usually Daddy in our house. When it's the middle of the night, it's usually Mommy. And have you ever noticed who comes, regardless of who is summoned? I respond to Colter whether he yells for "Mommy!" or "Daddy!" and Gary does the same. Is this equality or what?

Accepting rejection

My husband recently submitted one of his children's stories to a bunch of agents, and this week received his first rejection. I picked up the mail and flipped through it before walking inside, so I was able to take a minute to figure out how to tell him. I decided to congratulate him on reaching a new milestone as a writer -- after all, if you never submit, you'll never be published. When he received the second rejection in the mail a day later, he sent me this note at work:

Julie,

This is so exciting... I just got my second rejection... At this rate I'll be rejected by all of my prospective agents within a week.

How should we celebrate?

Love you,

Gary

I share this story not just because I think my husband has a great sense of humor, but to remind everyone -- as a good friend reminds me all the time -- that if you write, you're a writer. And that sets you apart from the many who wish they were writers but never set words down. You, in contrast, always pick words up. You browse them, glare at them, cuddle them, and share them. You use them as shovels, to dig deeply into life so that in even your loneliest places, you find bedrock.

It's wonderful when others read those words and live happier, better, differently as a result. We all want pageviews and publication to confirm we're doing it right. The dirty little secret is: it's never enough. I have yet to meet a writer who finds the praise (however much she receives) equal to the pain. We all struggle. But it's the struggle that keeps us honest. And honest writing is the only kind that truly makes a difference in this world. Right?

A PC Valentine

One-third of adults in Britain and nearly half of the children surveyed there consider their computers "a trusted friend." Many said they're happier spending time with a computer than with humans. And I thought I was bad! You can test your electronic affection here.

p.s. I posted something on DotMoms: Who will raise your kids if you can't?

Gary and his father's typewriter

When my husband was a young boy, his father used to work long hours "in the city" as an advertising executive. This angered Gary, who expressed his frustration one day by pouring glue in his father's typewriter. I remember this story often when Gary goes out of town and Colter starts acting out. As I try to set reasonable limits, absorb what I can of his anxiety, and deflect the rest, I also find myself being grateful that he isn't destroying my computer keyboard!

Playing outside

As far as I can tell, this is the elementary school version of "hanging out." Colter does this for hours some days, and it usually involves running, bouncing a ball, or just sitting around with friends. If I ask what he did, I get the inevitable response: "nothing."

Reading in the shower

Another twist on the routine, due to Gary's absence -- Colter wanted to read this morning and he wanted me to listen to him. This was at 7:40 a.m., when I needed to get ready for work. Our solution: he sat in the bathroom and read aloud while I showered. I guess if reading to Colter in the bath is quality time, listening to him read while I shave my legs is, too.

Shamed into doing the dishes

Gary's away for a few days, and usually when he's gone I muddle through as best I can and he returns to dishes in the sink and lots of cardboard boxes in the trash (Kid Cuisine, pizza, etc.). This morning, I fried an egg for Colter, then proudly prepared to leave the kitchen when he'd finished eating. Not so fast. "I'll help with the dishes," he said. How could I say no? We unloaded the clean ones from the dishwasher, then loaded the few we'd dirtied. Colter so enjoyed it that he's decided he can earn an extra five minutes of TV time for helping out. What do I earn? Quality time with my son.

Dispatch from the land of the late

I'm late posting this, late to work, late realizing that Colter's agenda wasn't in his bacpack (a last-minute trip to school to drop it off delays everything else this morning). I hate feeling terminally behind and like I'm constantly rushing. But I haven't yet found a permanent cure, other than slowing down and doing less. Yeah, right.

Passive aggressive lullaby

Many nights, Colter falls asleep while I'm reading to him. Some nights, I'm too tired, so Gary reads to the two of us instead. Just as I'm drifting off to the most peaceful sort of rest, I hear Gary say, "Good night." And it wakes me.