WanderWanderWander

Stoics. Quakers. Religious fundamentalist stiff-upper-lipness haunts us. Well, it haunts me.

I had a terrific experience at the Read & Critique at the Pikes Peak Writers Conference last weekend. On Friday, nonetheless. My weekend was worth it before it even began.

I read for an editor at Knopf. I read a picture book I've been working on for three years. Seventeen versions. My critique group comrades have sighed collectively every time I bring it.

And the editor loved it! Though my Murphy's-lawometer is clanging, she said everything good about my book that she had just said about Goodnight Moon. Goodnight Moon for cripes' sake!

After I, embarrassed by my good fortune in the face of ten others' less good fortune in the room, an impulse rampant in me since yearning for C's instead of straight A's, said to the editor, "I asked you to be brutal with me. I love brutal criticism." And she said something that is now next to my computer for encouragement: "I could be brutal with you if you weren't such a good writer."

Now that's huge. That's a huge compliment. And what is my gut reaction to it? She couldn't possibly have meant that as huge a compliment as I have taken it. It's "no big deal." IF she still likes it when she gets it (I sent it Monday; she got it this week unless the USPS is even more inept than in the past.), IF it passes perusal by co-workers, IF it passes her editorial board, IF it passes the marketing department, IF I get a call offering a contract, IF IF IF, then it will be a big deal. Other IFs may lurk in the process of which I have no clue.

This is what I tell myself. It's no big deal.

But it's a lie.

It's a lie designed to cushion my psyche from dissapointment. I grew up this way. "Don't get your hopes up."

A few years ago, in the context of belief, I realized this fallacy. Faith does not mean wiping my brain and heart of desire or hope. Faith means hoping and being ready to still believe in the face of the consequences. Real faith means then believing when those consequences come.

And it's related to my reaction. Downplay what happened yesterday so tomorrow won't be so disappointing when your dream is put off a little longer.

And I refuse to do it. Here, now, every time I tell the story of my R&C, I will refuse to make it "no big deal."

Because it was a big deal. And if that assessment of the situation is all out of proportion, so what, damn it. I will cling to it. I refuse to be bound to weakminded fearful interpretations of reality just to "save" myself pain later. Can I not handle the pain? Can I not grow from it? Of course I can. Done so before and will do so again. I'm a writer, after all.

And the next time I hear someone trumpet "Her reaction was all out of proportion to...," they will get a piece of my tougher, more grounded in the reality of hope, mind.

Why eat popcorn any other way?

My father swears by his fat free air popper. Others go the "easy" route for microwave bags. I used to smother it in melted butter. But no more.


Pour safflower or corn oil in the bottom of a large pan.
Put (preferrably) organic popcorn kernels in a thick layer, making sure the oil reaches every kernel.
Turn on the burner to medium high.
Place the lid on, leaving it a crack open.
When the first one or two kernels pop, be ready to shake the pan.
Wear oven mitts.
As it heats up, hold the lid a third open as you shake the unpopped kernels to the bottom.
After the popcorn is all popped and before you smell scorching, take it off the burner.
Add extra virgin, cold pressed olive oil liberally.
Add salt.
Still wearing the oven mitts, close the lid and shake the pan vigorously.
Add more oil and salt to taste.

The advantage of the olive oil, besides being a "good" oil, is that the next day, when you want to eat the leftovers, it hasn't hardened onto the delicate kernels. It tastes almost as fresh as when hot. And the taste is addictive.

Enjoy!

This is a terrific web site for kids. They have a section for up to six years old and one for 6-10. The entire site is available in both English and French, and all of it is completely charming. "Boowa" and "Kwala" are the main characters in much of it. Most of it is animated. For example, one game is making pancakes. You click on each ingredient to put in the mixing bowl. When all are in, it mixes, then it goes to a page with a skillet on a stove. You must move the skillet to flip and catch the pancake until you've caught ten. It's animated in a style reminiscent of Lucy Cousins' work, a la Maisy. Enjoy!
http://www.uptoten.com/kids/uptoten-home.html

Everyone I see now says how great I look. But I hear no trace of envy in their voices, the envy I reflexively have for those moms who look the same after pregnancy as they did before. I do hear the residue of "for just having a baby." Because I don't look great for me. I say this without whine or low self-esteem. I just know when I look good, and now is not one of those times.

Returning to my old self seems hopeless at times. I don't lose weight simply from nursing. My body interprets it as sitting, sitting, sitting.

But no more do I want to return to my "old self."

I see my current self as being a chrysalis. Today I begin to slough off the layers of this self and emerge a new creature. Strong, energetic, focused. Still nursing, still a mom, looking something like I looked before, only better.

I just did what I thought I'd never do. I took my daughter to school.

I had planned on homeschooling my children, but the one method I have always liked as much as homeschooling is Montessori. Our area has had only private Montessori schools, far out of our budget, until now. And our six-year-old daughter was accepted into the lower elementary class for next year. And the kindergarten class had a slot open up for the last two months of this year, so off she went.

She woke right up, early for her. She chose her clothes with care this morning. She cheerily spoke with the teacher about having a cold and went into the classroom. I didn't even get a hug. Testament to her time spent with adults and in ballet class, I guess.

I have no profound thoughts right now. The baby is cooing for attention and our three-year-old is playing Boowa and Kwala (confrontation upon stopping looms). I'm glad for Sophia's being able to go, but I can feel the control factor niggling.