Sick Days

I have an excellent excuse for not blogging more. My son has been fighting a fever for almost 5 days. He timed the majority of it to coincide with the long weekend. Monday I thought he was better so I shipped him off to day care - only to get a call a few hours later to pick him up.

Last night he spiked a fever again, not as high as Sunday night's 40/104 temp, but high enough. I drove him to the Children's Hospital and went into emergency where the entire city had converged for one big sick-fest. Kids sick everywhere. I looked at my child, determined that he was not that sick, and went home. I was a little worried. I mean imagine if he takes some huge turn for the worst or gets diagnosed with some horrible condition and people learn I was too impatient to wait four hours to see a doctor.

However, after a fitful night, he woke up with a slight fever, a desire to lay there like a blob and stare at the tv. Fine with me. I called in with a sick child.

I'm not big on sick days. Mainly because I generally have to be pretty sick not to go into work. (Before you think that I'm ultruistic, I'm not, I'm greedy ;)) But a sick kid day can be frustrating. Because as much as I love my child, I gave birth to a child, not a leech. And the sicker he is, the more he wants to cling. I do spend a lot of time cuddling him, and it's not that I don't like it - it's just that as I lie there, I think about all the other things I could be doing.

But the thing I've learned being my child's mother is that some days you just got to do it. Adults and children alike need time to recover. Being around other kids may be good for him, just like going to work may be good for me. But we end up pushing our bodies too far, and then we drag out whatever sickness we've got. I can tell that today will be the last sick day. Already this afternoon he's on the mend. He's brighter, a bit happier, and - woohoo - he's eaten. Because it's been juice for a couple of days...

I know. Exciting blog.

Focusing on Now

Recently in her newsletter - Funds For Writers - C. Hope Clark stated, "Writers do not make money overnight. They do not become published overnight. Those still seeking the open doors may get jealous of those who found theirs, but that's a waste of energy they could be infusing into their writing. You climb to be successful. You stumble, drift, and search to find the positives. Anyone does in any lot in life. What gives anyone the right to expectdifferently?"

I find this to be very true. I tend to have lofty goals, have my sights set on the highest hights, look to the distance to drive myself forward. I'm kind of a 'keep focused on the future' type of person. Which I don't necessarily see as a bad thing.

But a little here-and-now perspective change can be a good thing. While climbing on this big ladder, if we don't look where we are, we may miss a rung or two.

I don't think of myself as a jealous person - but I often use the success of others to spur myself on. There is just something about watching someone succeed and wanting that for yourself. I don't know what to call it because I don't ever begrudge people their successes. But where I stumble is making that connection between doing the work now and securing the success in the future. You just cannot make that leap from here to there without butt-in-the-chair work to get you there.

So sometimes I have to pull my dreaming head out of the clouds and get some work done. Because book tours and signings, speaking engagements and book clubs do not just happen by lolly-gagging. They happen when deserving, awesome, incredible writers work. Hard.

I've been thinking a lot about this blog thing. About why I do it and why there are moments of inexcusible silence when I don't do it. Certainly I'm not reliable, and I have a self-defeating suspicion that I'm not even interesting most days. I have this thing ingrained in my brain that I must a) be interesting and b) make sure that everyone likes me. This means I don't want to say bad things about people who clearly deserve bad things being said about them.

I read a lot of different blogs, I believe I've listed them before. And I cannot compete with the wittiness of Joshilyn or the heart-filled blogs of Kira. And I often don't have the energy to be as smart and up-to-date as Shelley. I'm supposed to be creating something of my own here. And I feel like I can't.

I remember when I first began blogging. I was in the midst of a divorce. It's kind of like being in the midst of a hurricane. You want to strap yourself down to the nearest palm tree and wait for the pain to subside. But you know you have to keep moving or a Volvo will come flying by and take your head off. I blogged about the pain, about the anger, about the desolation I felt. Some days it was my only communication. I had friends that phoned to check up on me because my blogs were so... near the edge that they thought I might fall off. Or jump.

At some point I let go of that. I dropped it off the edge. I deleted that blog and along with it, every single post. I didn't keep a single one of them. I got past it all. Some may gasp at that, but let me tell you, I also threw out almost every single diary I've ever kept. Since grade school. Chucked them all.

And I felt so much better for it.

I did keep a few pages. I tore out the pages from when I met my boyfriend for the first time 9 years ago. I kept those and I read them to him. Because although I had not gone back to read the pages previously, my memory was identical to what I had written. And that's when I knew for sure that I did not create the words in my journal, I just transcribed them.

I hold every word for every memory inside of me. I don't need to clutch a journal or a diary because all the good and all the bad has been categorized and filed inside of me. Some of it I will pass on by translating them for others. I may write a book that expresses the ideas I have. I may write essays for my family to read 100 years from now. But they don't need the gritty, gunky truth that I wrote down in my wobbly hand. Or maybe I just don't want to give it!

Inside the pages of some of the most tattered pages, I read some seriously shocking and flawed statements. The words LOVE and HATE were bandied about like they were EVERYTHING. I fell in and out of love like a jack-in-the-box. I was up and down like a toilet seat. I found myself slightly embarassed by the young fool I was.

Throwing them away was like acknowledging my adulthood. It was like finally saying, "I know who I am now because I know who I have been, warts and all."

Wasn't I blogging about this blog? Yeah, I've been toying with trashing it. But I think I'll keep it for a little bit longer.

My Son, the Brave Pervert

We went swimming tonight. Thought I'd step up to the plate of being a good mommy and start taking him more places. Swimming, maybe learning to skate, maybe gymnastics or something... The kid is loves to 'do' things. And I'd like to do more things with him...

It seems I should have started this swimming thing earlier than three and a half years. Because two year olds were kicking his butt in the bravery department. He clung to me like a leech and would not let go.

And we were just sitting on the edge of the shallow end. Eventually he got a bit more brave and he started walking in the ankle deep water. Even ventured to mid calf...

And then he looked up. Waaaay up. And decided he needed to take the quantum leap and go on the big-ass waterslide. I kept saying no, but he was insistent. So up we went. He was still insistent. "It will be fun!" he kept saying. I was doubtful.

We sat at the top of it, where the water starts to rush in, and he immediately became the leech again. But not to be swayed and determined that it wouldn't kill him... we set off. Half way down the pool was regaled with the sound of "NOT FUN! NOT FUN!" echoing off the insides of the slide.

But we made it.

After a few minutes he admitted that he was scared. I said he was brave.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

I explained that it meant that he was scared but he went ahead and did it anyways.

He was ok with that. Nevermind that it was only my stubbornness that refused to walk back down the stairs once we got to the top.

Now. Onto the pervert part.

As my son has rarely been in public in a bathing suit, I was unprepared for a few things. Apparently, somewhere in his life we've missed the step where you don't stick your hand down your pants and play with your penis when talking to people.

A little girl with cute curls at the end of her hair and stylish little bangs was sitting next to my son in the pool. In true pervert style, my son stood there, crammed his hand down his pants and said "hi my name is..."

As she looked at him blankly, I vainly tried to yank his arm out from his swim shorts. I ushered him quickly away and explained that when we are in public, it isn't nice to have our hands in our pants.

"But mommy," he said, looking at my with the most quizzical expression, "I want to play with my penis?"

I guess that's.... brave.

A Day in Which I Lose ALL My Cool Points

So here at work we had a little visitor. A very cute visitor.

A kind of famous visitor.

Jason McCoy

He'd been here before and I hadn't gotten to meet him, so I harassed the boss-boss to introduce me. And he did. And I got a signed t-shirt. Very cool. Cool points were high.

Then came the talking part. You know, where I acknowledge that he's a good singer. I tell him I like the fact that he writes some of his own songs. And hey, I'm a writer, you know, should you ever need a biographer or something.

But no. I clammed up like a .... like a.... see? It's still happening! Loss of any word that makes sense other than "Hi, I like you."

What did I talk about with him?

His hair. Yep. Hair.

Some non-fan had called him a "long haired frek" (sic) and I said, "hey, heard you're a long haired freak, your hair isn't that long!"

In my head I can hear the words "Cool points dwindling" like some 1980s arcade game.

For the record, I tried to regroup and try again. I was getting coffee as he was getting coffee and I brought up the writing things... turns out he writes the majority of the songs on his recent album. NOT that I was trying to pitch a song to him or anything. Nope. But should he need a ghostwriter for his autobiography......

But again. Clammed up. Like a big. fat. clam.

He sure was cute though.