reading woolf

It’s been a melancholic week, even with the serious basement cleaning that D and I accomplished last weekend. (I’m still on my mission to de-clutter.) Stella started back to school on Monday, and she is thrilled to be a second-grader. Thrilled. She comes home full of stories about her day and her new classmates, and I love this. But I can’t help that tug of emotion: She’s growing up too fast! There is nothing we can do to slow the onward march of time! I have also been missing my grandpa a lot this week. At the beginning of each school year, we would figure out which day would be my grandpa day, the day I would take him for errands, get groceries for him, or later, just visit him and make him lunch. This year, Wednesday is the day I have alone with Zoë, and it would have been my new grandpa day, and all day I felt heavy and disoriented knowing that those days are no longer a part of my life.

It doesn’t help, perhaps, that I’m reading Virginia Woolf’s The Death of the Moth and Other Essays. As I make my way through the collection of essays, I keep thinking of my need to make connections, to share experience. But it seems so futile sometimes. Or maybe it’s just that it’s so much work—it takes so much effort—to continue to move forward, stay open to new experiences in the face of the challenges that life provides. Does it sound like a need some kind of renewal? I do.

My goal for the weekend is to sneak away a few times and sit outside, reading Woolf. Her prose. Oh her prose. I love this:

The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it.

What’s not to love about that?

I’m wishing you all a lovely, relaxing long holiday weekend. 

clutter and clarity

I’m awake early these days, my to-do list making it impossible for me to sleep past a certain (still-dark) hour. So I get up, make some tea, and sit down at my desk, which is once again cluttered beyond recognition.

Here I sit, thinking about the weekend (a couple of birthday parties, housework, back-to-school shopping) and the fact that Stella starts school on Monday, which seems impossible. A second-grader? Already? Little Z will also be back to her school-year schedule at her pre-school beginning on Monday. And though I will miss my girls and the slower pace of our summer mornings, I am looking forward to getting back into a routine. I lost my groove this summer. I haven’t been to the coffee shop for ages; I haven’t been writing.

I think I need to purge—spend a day cleaning and organizing my desk (again), going through the girls’ clothes, packing up Stella’s too-small items and storing them, giving away the items that Z has outgrown or refuses to wear (basically all pants that aren’t “jammy” pants). I also need to do something with all my books. They are stacked in my office, stacked on top of the already-full bookshelves throughout the house, ready to topple. I need to get rid of some of them.

And I hope that when all of this purging is complete, I will be able to breathe easier, think more clearly. I know the house and my desk will become cluttered again before long, but perhaps I can develop some systems to help? Anyone have any ideas how to do that with two small children in the house? 

celebrating spencer

Saturday we held the service for my grandpa, and it was lovely. There were tears, of course, but there was also lots of laughter as people stood up and shared their memories of my grandpa—his optimism, his integrity, his sense of humor, and his extraordinary golf swing.

I read the piece I wrote last week about Grandpa’s nine lives (which I’ll now tweak and submit), and we watched the short video that was made about him a couple of years ago. (I wish I could stream it online, because it’s perfectly my grandpa…)

And Saturday morning, there was this wonderful news obituary in the Minneapolis Star Tribune. Check it out here.

I know I’ve spent a lot of time writing about him here recently, and I’ve all but abandoned my author interviews. But I’m back now, and am looking forward to having Rae Meadows as a guest later this week and Lisa Catherine Harper in the next month. So stay tuned!

Thank you, as always, for your words and for reading. 

1/19/1909 – 6/30/2011

My grandpa, Spencer Nelson, died early this morning.

In the coming days and weeks, I’m sure I’ll write more about my last days with him, but for now, I'll just post a few photos.

Grandpa and Grandma were florists. Here he stands with a bouquet.

He served in WWII as a Military Police officer on stateside trains. (Because of a knee injury he was ineligible to fight.)

Here with my Grandma, my mom, and his mother-in-law on a weekend home.

50th wedding anniversary. 

At the cabin. Notice his t-shirt: "You can always tell a Swede. But you can't tell him much."

So much attitude.

One of many tricks he devised to still be able to swing the club and not fall over after he lost his balance. 

I love him and I miss him already. May his optimism, which never wavered, live on.

Thank you for all you warm thoughts and prayers over the last days. I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to me.

some thoughts on dying

Warning: This is long and tangential. It’s the only way I can write it.

On Thursday afternoon, my mom was helping my grandpa walk to the door, when Grandpa’s legs gave out and both he and my mom went down. He didn’t have a stroke; he just didn’t have any strength left in his legs, couldn’t put any weight on them.

Luckily, my step-dad was home, and was able to carry Grandpa back to his bed. (Even at 102, Grandpa has some heft to him.) Later, after Grandpa realized that he wouldn’t be able to stand, even with help, he and my mom talked about what he wanted to do, what came next. “This isn’t the kind of life I want to live,” he said. “It’s not worth it.”

Understand: My grandpa is one of the most active people I know. Being stuck indoors in his reclining chair all winter was difficult enough for him, but he always had the hope that as soon as spring came (and then after his hospitalization and the placement of the pace maker) he would be out, cruising the River Road in his borrowed electric wheelchair. “I can even pack a picnic lunch,” he’d said. And I know he had dreams of finding some other old geezer sitting on a bench, someone he could talk to, someone who could relate.

Thursday afternoon I was at a meeting, and when I came home, D said that my mom had called and they were going to start hospice care. We were there in a half hour, and when we arrived at her house, my sister and nephew were there too. My mom and step-dad. D and I went downstairs to see him.

“Hi Grandpa,” I said, and he smiled, “Well Katy, D., hello.”

I sat down next him and reached for his hand. “Well,” he said, “I’ve had a great life.” His voice wavered. “I had great parents, a great family—Lucille, Nancy.”

“And wonderful granddaughters,” I said, smiling through my tears.

“Ha! And wonderful granddaughters,” he agreed.

I started to cry. D put his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m ready to go. I’m not scared,” he said. “I know what’s going to happen. I’m not in pain.”

How many people get to do this? Grandpa was totally lucid, seemed fine, really, other than not having much physical strength. “I won’t be eating anything solid now,” he said. What he wanted was strained oyster stew—just the broth—which my sister fixed for him in the next room, and which he drank through a straw. (It smelled disgusting to us, but he thought it was delicious.)

Grandpa raised his head from the pillow. “Stella is going to really be something,” he said. “She’s a bright one.” He laughed. “She takes after her grandfather.”

Stella was the first great-grandchild, and she and Grandpa have something special, I think—a connection. When Stella was a week old, baking under the phototherapy lights in the NICU, Grandpa stood above her with tears in his eyes, his hands clutching the edge of the warming table, and said, “Well, she has all her fingers and all her toes.” I think at that point he had thought we were keeping something from him. Maybe he thought she wouldn’t make it. I remember wondering then if his own losses—several miscarriages and a stillbirth before my mother was finally born—hovered close to the surface. Do they ever fade completely?

Now, whenever Stella is at my mom’s, she draws a picture for Grandpa, her Great-Gahgee, and tacks it to his refrigerator. She always remembers to speak loudly when she talks to him, leaning in to give him a hug in his chair. I had hoped that he and Zoë would have time to develop the same kind of bond, but she’s three, and well, that’s all: She’s three, and I’m much more lenient with my three-year-old than Grandpa thinks I should be. I hold her when she whines, let her drag me upstairs in the middle of a conversation, let her run around naked (a battle I’m not willing to fight).

I wanted Stella to understand that Grandpa was dying so she could really say good-bye, but maybe she’s too young? I’m not sure. She first asked about death years ago, after Mimi died. (For those of you who don’t know, Mimi was the woman with whom D and I lived after we were married.)

After Mimi died, I explained that Mimi was gone, but that she would live on in our memory, that we could look at pictures of her and remember her.

“But where did she go?”

“Well,” I said. “Her body just stopped working. She’s not alive anymore.”

What did she say to that? I can’t remember.

“Some people believe that you go to heaven when you die,” I started, not sure how I could make this idea tangible for her.

“But where is that?”

“Well, it’s not really a place.” I paused. “It’s like in Lion King after Simba’s father died, and Simba looked up into the sky and saw Mufasa in the clouds.”

I’m not sure if it made sense then, and I’m not sure if it would help now. Coincidentally, Stella’s spring dance performance was to “He Lives In You” from Lion King

I don’t know why I love that song so much, but a couple of weeks ago I downloaded it from iTunes and now, as I run along the river, I listen to it over and over again, goose bumps prickling my skin as I cross the Mississippi and then cross it again in my loop. (I know. I’m totally cheesing out these days. I can just imagine you rolling your eyes as you read this.)

Interestingly, it has only been since my grandpa started to die that I have felt like a runner again. In the last months, my heart and head haven’t been in it (even though my running injuries have mostly healed…) My legs have felt heavy, my breathing strained. It’s as if, having made it through what has been a very stressful and often-difficult year, my body was worn down. But how could I, at 39, be worn down when my grandpa, at 102, was not?

As I ran yesterday, I felt strong for the first time in a long time. My mind was trying to make connections between my thoughts, which are all over the place: My grandpa, whom I love, is dying. A couple of friends, whom I love, are trying desperately to conceive. My mother, who has cared for her father for years, and who is fully in charge of helping him die, is exhausted, resigned to his death at the same time she still feels glimmers of hope for a recovery (even as she realizes how ridiculous that is). Death, life. Death, life.

Thursday night when I put Stella to bed, my eyes red and puffy from crying, I told Stella what Grandpa had said about her being really something, and she smiled. “You know that he’s dying, honey, right?”

Tears started to run from her eyes, catching on the bridge of her nose, dripping into her hair. “You’re making me sad,” she said, her voice accusing.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just want you to be able to say goodbye to him.”

“I want to catch him one more fish,” she said, the tears coming faster.

Last summer, Stella caught a bass that D cleaned and filleted, and my mom and I breaded and fried with butter and lemon. Then Stella and Grandpa sat across from each other eating, contentedly absorbed in their meal.

“Oh honey, that’s so sweet,” I said, hugging her close.

On Friday, my grandpa was still so lucid—he seemed fine, really—that my mom asked him whether he had made his decision to die in haste. “You don’t need to do this now, Dad,” she said. But he insisted: “I’m ready to go.” Friday was the twelfth anniversary of my grandma’s death—they were married for 67 years—and I think part of him wanted to go then, on the same day. But he didn’t. He talked about the memorial service we’d have for him. He gave my brother-in-law his golf clubs.

And on Saturday he was much weaker. He insisted on saying his goodbyes, telling D and others to “have a great life.”

“I’m ready to slip away,” he said.

I wanted to tell him what? That I wouldn’t be who I am if it weren’t for him? That he will live on in each of us? I would have loved to say that soon he’d be reunited with my grandma—how comforting would that be?—but my grandpa is a life-long atheist, and he would have told me I was full of crap. I was able to choke out only this: “You know how much you’ve meant to me, Grandpa, Right?” He nodded.

When he slept, I sat next to him, reading, giving my mom a break. I started Rae Meadows’ new novel, Mothers and Daughters, on Friday. Rae sent it to me a few months ago, and I had been anxious to start reading it, but I couldn’t have anticipated how perfect it would be for me right now, as I sit next to Grandpa. It’s a story of mothers and daughters—a story about connection, grief and letting go. (I hope to have Rae as a guest here at Mother Words in the next couple of weeks…)

Yesterday, Mom took a walk and then a nap, and as I sat beside Grandpa, I read, and then I stared at him, and read some more. I fed him a sip of water through the straw when he was thirsty, but his eyes were closed most of the time. He wasn’t interested in talking. When he fell deeply asleep, his cheeks puffed out slightly with each exhalation. But his breathing was labored, and there were more and more long pauses between breaths. With each of these, I looked up from my book, holding my own breath, thinking, Let this be it. Let go, Grandpa. And then: Oh Grandpa, I love you. But his chest always stuttered into action again.

Something is clearly going on in his lungs—filling with fluid maybe? When he breathes it sounds like the fizzing of a newly opened can of soda.

I tried to commit him to memory even though he wouldn’t want to be remembered this way: with sunken cheeks, the tendons visible in his neck, straining when he swallows. He would want to be remembered as a young man, all early-century swagger, or next to his love Lucille on their 50^th wedding anniversary—my Grandma dressed in her teal dress, Grandpa next to her, his frame solid, smiling in his gray suit, his hand on Grandma’s lower back—or on the golf course, yes on the golf course where he spent thousands and thousands of hours perfecting his game.

During a break yesterday, when my mom was sitting with him downstairs, I stood at her kitchen window and watched the neighbor across the street mulch her garden. I listened to the sputtering hum of a mower down the block, the steady ticking of the clock on the mantle, the birds chirping in the tree outside. The sweet juice of an orange filled my mouth and I felt oddly content. This—these small moments, loving everything fully—are what make up a life, no?

I lay down on my mom’s couch and picked up Meadows’ novel again, and this is what I turned to (from one of the chapters in Samantha’s perspective—she is the daughter in the novel):

In a span of months she had been present for birth and for death, the wondrous first breath and the horrible last. But wasn’t it an honor to be there at the end of a life as well as the beginning? To mark the extraordinariness of a lifetime, to bear witness to its completion? Could she ever convince herself of that?

I’m convinced.

happy father's day!

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. Wishing everyone a lovely day!


D had to coach this morning, but we'll greet him with homemade cards and the electric griddle he's been coveting. We'll have a little family time followed by some solo time for him to watch the US soccer game. Then dinner with my sister's family and my dad. If the rain stays away it will be perfect. 


I'd love to pause and appreciate all the dads in my life: Thanks to my dad, whose support and generosity never cease to amaze me (and whose babysitting skills we couldn't live without). To my step-dad, who has a huge heart. To my grandpa Spencer, who has lived a tremendous life, and who at 102, wants to keep living, even as he fades. To all my friends who are dads and from whom I learn a ton. And finally to D--of course--without whom I'd be lost. I can't imagine a more wonderful partner and father for our girls. Thanks for everything you are, D! 


Check out Literary Mama for some wonderful Father's Day essays, poems and reviews. 


What do you have planned for the dads in your life today?

happy mother's day!

Stella came into our room this morning and said, "Happy Mother's Day, Mama." 


"Thanks, sweetie," I said and looked at the clock. It was 5:30 a.m. 


"I'll just snuggle with you for a while," she said, and she climbed into bed next to me. I fell back to sleep, but a few minutes later, she said, "I think I'm awake. I'll go down and watch T.V." 


"Okay, sweetie."


I slept until 8:30 and then D and the girls brought up strawberries, a croissant, and a vase of brilliant orange Gerbera daisies. The girls had each made cards and presents: Zoe gave me a framed hand-print with all of the things she loves to do traced around her fingers; Stella gave me a Marigold that she grew at school. So dear!


I hope you are all having a wonderful Mother's Day! I so appreciate this community of mothers and writers and friends. Thank you for being who you are!!! Happy Mother's Day!

an update and an essay

Thank you all for your thoughts and good wishes for my grandpa. He has done the seemingly impossible and bounced back at 102 years old. On Friday afternoon he had a pacemaker put in, and he felt so good after the surgery that he wanted a plate of BBQ ribs. “I know I’m talking too much,” he said, “but I just feel so damn good.”

On Saturday he was transferred to a nursing home where he’ll do physical therapy and grow stronger before he goes home. (And then he’ll get regular blood transfusions to keep him from becoming anemic again. There is some internal bleeding, but he didn’t want to have any invasive procedures to discover the source of bleeding. A wise choice.)

Yesterday he said that the difference between some of the people at the home and him was that they were there waiting to die, and he was there to get stronger so he could live. He’s truly remarkable, and has already charmed the whole staff.

So, there’s that. And I’m grateful for the extra time with him.

But truthfully, most of my time (and my emotional energy) these last days has been focused on the book and getting permissions for the excerpts and essays I use as examples. What a process—a huge process—but one that will make the book what I want it to be.

I probably won’t be writing long posts here for the next few weeks, but I’ll pop in and let you know how the looming deadline is affecting my mental health.

Today, instead of any more of my own words, I want to leave you with this wonderful new Literary Mama essay by Lisa Catherine Harper. Her wonderful new memoir, A Double Life: Discovering Motherhood, is just out from University of Nebraska Press. My review of it will appear in Literary Mama this summer, and I also hope to have Lisa as a guest here at Mother Words in the coming months (after June 1^st). Enjoy her wonderful piece!

grandpa update

Thank you all for your warm wishes for my grandpa (and me). I went over to see him yesterday afternoon, and if you can believe it, he HAD bounced back, just as I had hoped he would. He was sitting in his recliner, talking a mile a minute. Seriously, he covered the food he'd consumed; described the shirt that my mom wouldn't let him cut open (I'm not sure why he wanted to do this); golf (his own tournaments and some famous victories by some famous golfers--I admit that I don't absorb all of the details even when he tries to glare them into me); his gratitude for my mom and step-dad, who have been caring for him around the clock; and his hopes for getting better. "I hope I'm not being too optimistic," he said, "but I feel pretty good, and I'm planning on feeling even better by the time it warms up."


"That's right," I said. "Dammit."


He smiled and gave me a nod and an almost-wink. "Dammit is right." 


And I left my mom's house shaking my head, not believing his recovery.


But then. But then. We got a call from my step-dad at about 8:30 p.m. Grandpa had passed out and had been taken to the ER. My sister came and picked me up. (I left a wailing Zoë at the door. Later D told me that she hid behind the bathroom door and wept. When he finally coaxed her out, she asked, "Did momma go to the hospital to die?" I nearly wept when I heard that. Poor little button.)


My sister and I didn't know what to expect at the hospital. Had Spencer died? Was all that talking him just trying to get it all out? Those last words?


Well, he was lucid and alive, and actually seemed fine--tired, but fine. So we rotated in and out of his room (only two visitors at a time), and witnessed some of the terrifying sights of an ER: a gunshot wound, blood, lockdown. Finally, my mom mouthed through the glass door (she couldn't get out and we couldn't get in because of the lockdown) that Grandpa would be moving to a room, and that we should go. 


My sister and I finally left, and we were both exhausted, but I slept badly--my dreams those near reality dreams that fill me with anxiety and wake me every ten minutes. 


I don't know what will happen in the days to come. I'll try to spend as much time with him as possible, but I also need to write and teach. Somehow I'll fit it all in. I will, won't I?

cocooned

I’m sorry I’ve been quiet the last week. (And I’m sorry I was late on drawing names for the autographed copy of Hot (Sweaty) Mamas. I just had one of my fine coffee shop friends pull a name from a bowl, and it’s Cath C! Cath, send me your address, and I’ll get the book in the mail. Thanks to all of you who commented!)

Part of the reason I’ve been quiet is that I’ve been writing. June 1^st is just around the corner, and I have a ton of work to do on Use Your Words to have it ready for my editor by then.

But the other thing I’ve been doing is sitting next to my grandpa, watching and waiting. Last week he took a turn—his heart was racing and he felt dizzy. On Monday, he realized he was going to fall before he fell, so he lowered himself to the floor and luckily didn’t break anything. But it took something out of him and he has been in bed ever since, sleeping most of the time, not eating much. And he may have had a mini-stroke on Thursday morning. As I sat next to him that afternoon, watching him sleep, I couldn’t help thinking how small he seemed, wrapped in the cocoon of this blankets, his body undergoing a metamorphosis that I wasn’t fully ready to accept.

I realize that he’s 102. He’s had an amazing life. But still, I’ve been hoping he’ll bounce back (as much as a 102 year-old bounces anywhere). I’ve been in that weird place, so excited about the book, about spring—feeling generally hopeful—and then I sit next to him, and watch him, and hold the straw to his lips, and it’s as if I cannot let the possibility of his death into my consciousness.

Yesterday after egg hunts and before dinner with the in-laws, D and I went to visit him. Grandpa was awake and seemed a little confused, but he was definitely better than he had been a day or so before. He asked whether we thought he had more color than he had earlier in the week. We said yes. Then he asked me to get the mirror from the bathroom, and I held it up for him. He turned his head slightly from left to right and left to right. I’m not sure what he was looking for, what he recognized in the image staring back. I’m not sure if he thought he’d look better or worse than he actually did. Finally I said, “You look pretty good, Grandpa.”

When I put the mirror down, he said in his no-nonsense way, “Sometimes a little bullshit goes a long way.” Ha!

So maybe he IS bouncing back, maybe he’ll be around a little longer. I don’t know. In the meantime, I’ll write and teach and sit beside him as much as I can, and I’ll let some of my hopefulness spill into his room. I’ll spin as much bullshit as necessary, and maybe it will make a difference.  

what's in a moment?

I’ve been thinking a lot about the moments that I don’t want to forget—moments with my children and other family members, especially my grandpa, who defies the odds at 102, but who won’t be able to forever. (He would give a disgusted grunt at my lack of faith, I know.)

Working from home is tricky—I have more work than work hours—which means that I’m often at my computer even when my children are home. I don’t “clock out” ever. I wake in the night thinking of writing or editing or teaching; yesterday I ended up getting up at 4 a.m. because I had an idea and I didn’t want to forget it. (I know; I could have written it down and gone back to sleep. Instead I got up and logged in.)

I know I’m missing precious moments with my family because I lack strict work/home boundaries. I also know that years from now I will wish I had spent less time at my computer.

Over the last weeks and months, I’ve been reading my students’ wonderful writing about moments with their children, and their scenes, full of rich detail and nuance, make me understand just how much I’ve forgotten, just how little I sometimes pay attention.

Zoë has fully embraced being three—she is defiant and stubborn, changes her clothes twelve times a day, says “I HATE you!” when she’s scolded. She wants to do everything herself, insists that Stella’s size 6 and 7 dresses fit her because, “I’m growing up!”

She is absolutely, unequivocally, three. And most of the time I love this fact. Because she’s also a snuggler. She gives tight, almost painful hugs. She says, “I love you!” and “You’re the best mommy in the world!” She lines up her babies and stuffed dogs and protects them from the “bad guys.”

Yesterday after we had visited my grandpa (our Thursday ritual), she was beside herself, screaming and crying, trying to wrestle free of her car seat restraints because she was “uncomptable!” (And I’m sure she was uncomfortable; she was wearing Stella’s fancy Christmas dress—black velvet on top, stiff white skirt with sparkles on the bottom—and it was all bunched up around her waist.) She wailed as we drove down the River Road. I knew she needed a nap, so I told her we’d go see if we could find some geese, which congregate on the flat plains along the Mississippi River, across from the University of Minnesota. She didn’t care, she said. She saw them yesterday, she said.

But by the time we had reached their gathering area, she was craning her neck, trying to catch sight of them. We found three. They were napping—“in the mud!” she exclaimed, thrilled that any creature would sleep in a muddy field. And the uncomfortable dress was forgotten. By the time we reached our house, she was sound asleep.

Often I read in the car while she sleeps because she doesn’t transfer well, but I had a desire to hold her sleeping body. D has been home on break this week, so he carried her in and passed her into my arms, and I held her there, like a huge baby, her legs draped across my body, her white patent leather “tap shoes” still on. And I stared down are her closed eyes, her chubby cheeks, her parted lips.

“Remember how many hours we spent with her like this?” I asked.

D nodded.

And I just sat there, feeling the weight of her in my lap. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, brushed an eyelash from her cheek. I took her in, my arm quickly growing tired.

I’m not sure if I “captured” that moment. Is that ever really possible? But I’ve written it down, and years from now—when she is a sassy tween—I can scroll through this blog and remember holding her, remember how heavy her thirty pounds felt in my arms that one day when she was three and I didn’t read or turn to my computer—when instead I just held my daughter.

What are the moments with your children that you don’t want to forget?

102

Imagine being alive for over a century and still not being ready to die—to be interested in and excited about (and sometimes disgusted with) the world.

Some of you will remember my grandpa Spencer, who was ill a year ago when his abdomen filled with fluid, which made it difficult for him to breathe and sleep. Spencer, who was exasperated by my lack of imagination when I suggested that he wasn’t feeling well because he was old. Spencer, who has lived through numerous wars, who served in World War II as a military police officer, who is outraged that we haven’t learned our lesson yet. Spencer, who has had four holes-in-one, who has spent more time on a golf course than most people spend alive at all. Spencer, who was married to the love of his life, Lucille, for sixty-seven years, who sat beside her as she died, who went on living when she was gone.

Today, my grandpa is 102 years old, and he’s better than ever. He would argue that he’s still a little wobbly when he stands, and he would probably lament how long it’s been since he’s held a golf club in his hands. But he’s eating more, sleeping better, and he’s even learning how to play chess. He’s started thinking about spring and the scenic drives he and my mom will take when Minnesota thaws.

There is no one like Spencer, and I’m so lucky to have him in my life and in my girls’ lives. Happy Birthday, Grandpa! I love you!

Please raise your glass to Spencer today! 

when clutter really means clutter

Many of my favorite mother bloggers have been writing about the desire to get organized at the same time they've been lamenting the challenge that "getting organized" poses when you have a house full of small children.

I get it. I spend so much of each day picking up toys that I'm often tempted to say the hell with it and just vacuum them all up. (And when you add to the general child and house maintenance a gerbil whose poop chamber, as we have taken to calling it, always needs cleaning, well, "organized" seems impossible.)

But after reading Kara's wonderful post about framing tasks as questions and Kay's post with some tips for keeping a clean house in the midst of pre-schoolers, I knew I needed to do something to clear the clutter. Then I was inspired by this photo of Vicki's office, and I realized that I didn't need to tackle the whole house (or even the basement); I just needed to clear some space so I could think again.

I am embarrassed to even post these photos of my office, but I need the evidence so you'll know how hard I worked yesterday. This is my office yesterday morning:

If you take a look at Kara's office again it's clear that "clutter" means a slightly different thing to her than it does to me. And seriously, what is that disheveled Barbie doing on my books?

Okay, now here is my office last night. D came home from taking the girls to Stella's dance class and said, "Look how big your desk it!" Indeed.

And now I am ready to dive into my work. Do you think I'll write faster now that I can actually see the surface of my desk?

happy new year!

I hope you all had a lovely holiday.

We spent the week after Christmas up at my mom’s cabin in Northern Minnesota, and it was just the change of scene I needed. Stella and D cleared an ice rink on the lake, and Stella skated back and forth, undaunted by the number of times she fell. Then it snowed over a foot, so we gave up skating for cross-country skiing.

There is nothing like gliding through the silence of snow surrounded by towering pine trees. It always helps me put the things in perspective.

We also spent time reading and doing puzzles (which developed into an obsession), laughing and eating and drinking wine. Zoë danced and played with Little People and got snugly on the couch with a pile of books. And Stella spent quite a bit of time making earrings and working on a quilt for her doll.

The sewing, crafting gene clearly skipped my generation, but I did the best I could as her assistant, trying not to curse when I pierced my skin with the needle or almost glued my finger to an earring. I kept thinking of Catherine Newman’s wonderful essay, “Pretty Baby,” in which she describes her son Ben’s “most special outfit.” It’s “the one he wears only for such extraordinary occasions as a birthday party or the weekly show-and-tell at his preschool.” It “involves a floral printed t-shirt and fuchsia velour sleeves, and the pants that I myself made (with much saying of the F-word and sewing of my actual hand to the fabric) from the magenta striped terry cloth that Ben picked out from Jo-Ann Fabrics.” I love her.

Over the course of the week, we made several trips to the Ben Franklin in town for more crafting supplies, and I’ll admit I was wooed by their isles of colorful fabrics (which are a steal, by the way.) Ben Franklin has just about everything, from tacky to truly useful. It may be my favorite store. (Do I sound like I’m becoming a crafter after all?)

I tried to stay off-line as much as possible over the holidays, but I did log in a dozen hours on the memoir. Based on insightful feedback from my wonderful agent and brilliant writing group, I dove back into it and cut cut cut.

I always promote the merits of ruthless cutting to my students. It can be such a challenging task, especially for beginning writers, because it’s difficult to eliminate a nicely crafted sentence, even if you know it’s superfluous. I felt those pangs as I cut chapters 3, 4, and 5. But as is always the case after I slice away unnecessary words and heavy-handed back-story, the manuscript is stronger. I did new writing, as well, and yesterday I sent it off to my agent again. It’s closer to being ready than it’s ever been, so I’m celebrating that.

I look forward to reading and writing my way through 2011! How about you?

merry christmas

We've had a lazy morning so far. Stella sewed a skirt for her Our Generation doll with her new sewing kit. Zoe has spent the last hour dancing around the living room in her frilly new dance skirt. There is fresh snow on the ground outside. Coffee and eggs for breakfast. I've even had a little time on the couch with a novel. A lovely Christmas Eve morning so far. We'll spend the afternoon and evening with family. And then more of everything tomorrow.

I'm wishing you all a lovely couple of days filled with peace, love and laughter!

a few things

I feel as though I’ve spent so much of the summer juggling and fretting that I’ve forgotten to enjoy these last months. I have been snappier with my girls, who are both in high-parental-involvement stages—Zoë is potty training and fully embracing all of the defiance inherent in being a two-year-old; and Stella is suspended somewhere between a little girl and a big girl, a transition that makes her moody and sensitive. One moment she’s totally fine, the next she’s furious, in tears, and yelling, “I’m just so frustrated, Mom! I hate you!” (That’s my favorite.)

But as is always the case, I feel much better if I take a moment and list all of the things in my life for which I’m grateful. So here is my list.

I’m grateful for:

• the way Stella purses her lips in concentration when she’s working on a new craft. (She can sit for over an hour and make a friendship bracelet or a beaded ornament.)

• the way Zoë whips off all her clothes a dozen times a day, then shouts, “I’m naked! I’m naked!” as she shakes it around the room.

• Stella’s pride as she heads down the sidewalk on her new skateboard, with more grace and balance that I’ve ever had. (Seriously, the girl has mad skills. She could be a serious surfer if she put her mind to it—and if we lived somewhere that wasn’t landlocked.)

• the way Zoë packs up all her plastic fruit and vegetables in a bag and announces she’s going to work at the “shoppy cop” (coffee shop).

• that I can run again. (I’ve spent hours this summer in the chiropractor’s office and it wasn’t helping—or helped a little and then stopped helping—and finally last week I started taking those little packets of EmergenC of all things, and my hip and leg feel so much better. Electrolytes! Magnesium! Selenium! Potassium! I could have run for an hour the other day.)

• D.—I have to give the guy a shout out not only for his surprising garage-building skills but also because he’s my biggest supporter, arranging his schedule so I can finish my revision by Sept. 1

• Led Zeppelin—Okay, I’ll admit this is a little strange. But can I tell you how much I’ve loved rediscovering those guys this summer? There is nothing like running down a country road in Northern MN; open pastures on either side of me, a cloudless sky above me, and “Ramble On” blaring on my IPod. (Who am I? No idea, no idea. I’m just going with it.)

• My parents, who have spent even more time with the girls than usual so I can log in as many hours at my computer as possible. I know it can be exhausting, but they keep offering. They keep showing up, and I’m so grateful for them.

• My kick-ass friends, both in person and virtual. I so appreciate that you’re always close by, always listening, always ready to make me laugh. Thank you!

I’d love to hear what you’re grateful for. Leave a list in the comment field or link to your own post. And thank you, as always, for reading.

happy mother's day!

I had some quiet reading time this morning when D took the girls out to track down some fresh strawberries and a vanilla latte for me. Then with strawberries and coffee in bed, Stella presented me with all the Mother's Day cards and stories she had written. (Some were collaborations; Zoe contributed scribbles and swirls.)

Then after a quick dance party, we walked around one of our lovely city lakes (the girls jostling for position in the wagon and calling to the ducks the whole way). The sun was glinting off the waves, tons of people were running and walking, and downtown Minneapolis was sparkling in the near distance. What could be better?

Back at home I was able to read more on the porch--an engrossing novel that I don't even have to review! And soon we'll be heading off on bikes to my mom's house. A perfect day.

I hope you've all had a lovely day, as well. I'm so thankful for all the amazing mothers in my life. You inspire me each day. Thank you!

Please check out this really beautiful Mother's Day essay by Jeanine DeHoney over at Literary Mama. Also scroll through the rest of the site. There's been some wonderful material published recently.

writing about adult children: an interview with momma loshen

As you know, I’m interested in the ways mother writers deal with the ethical issues that arise when they’re writing about their children. I’ve posted about it here and here. And you can read the responses of writers I’ve interviewed here and here.

It’s easier to find essays out there about raising young children, and part of the reason, of course, is that those young children aren’t telling you what you can and can’t say about them. Hell, they probably don’t even know you’re writing about them. But when kids get older, they have opinions about what you can and cannot say/write about them. It gets more complicated. But I love to read the writing of women whose children are older, because, well, I find it interesting—it’s a glimpse into our future.

So I was thrilled to stumble on the newish blog, Momma Loshen, where Momma Loshen writes about the ups and downs of parenting adult children. Momma L. agreed to a few questions about writing about one’s children, so I’d like to welcome her to Mother Words today:


KH: On your blog you say, “In the interest of protecting the feelings of the innocent — my daughters in particular, whose feelings I’m not known to have tried to protect in personal essays I’ve published through the years — I’m using pseudonyms and trying to keep a low profile. Luckily, a low profile is an easy thing to keep on this overpopulated blogosphere.”

I’m interested in hearing more about your decision to blog anonymously. You feel you need to protect your daughters’ privacy, yet you’re drawn to writing about mothering and motherhood. Can you talk a little about this?

ML: My need to protect my daughters’ privacy comes after years of NOT working too hard to protect their privacy -- and having them get bothered by that. Actually, it’s only the older one, whom I call Meta on the blog, who was really bothered -- when she was a teenager, after I wrote a series of personal essays about her and her younger sister (whom I call Scootes on the blog), Meta told me I was never to write about her ever again as long as I lived. I had thought I was very careful about what I wrote about them -- even when they were children, I showed them what I was writing first -- but at least in Meta’s adolescence, the only rule she would issue was a zero-tolerance rule.

KH: How is writing about your daughters anonymously different and/or the same as writing about them non-anonymously? Is your purpose for writing different now?

ML: I still showed them the blog, after I had written a couple of posts, and asked them if it was OK for me to continue with it anonymously. Meta also blogs anonymously, and knows it’s possible to protect your identity, but I wasn’t worried about their public identity so much as I was worried about how they would feel reading the stuff I was writing -- I mean, THEY know who they are! Meta said it was OK, that I wasn’t writing about her (which would have violated the zero-tolerance rule), I was writing about me in relation to her. A subtle distinction, but I went with it.

After a while, I did let some friends know that I was blogging as Momma Loshen, and some of them have become regular readers. Oddly, Meta is a regular reader, too, and occasionally posts comments on my blog. I don’t know if she’s mentioned it to HER friends. Also oddly, Scootes, who has told me often that she loves the essays I wrote about her because it’s kind of like looking through a photo album of what she was like as she grew up, doesn’t seem to have been reading the blog at all.

My purpose in writing this blog was originally to see if there was a book worth writing about this subject -- and then, of course, if I really ended up wanting to write a book on this topic, my plan was to go public with the blog so I could use it as a way to create that all-important “platform” that every author is supposed to have. But I’m not there yet, and I’m not sure what Meta would say if I eventually did want to reveal my identity and, therefore, hers.

KH: When did you begin writing about your children? Why? What kinds of reactions did your daughters have to this when they were younger?

ML: I started freelancing when Meta was born (she just turned 30), and some of my earliest assignments were for parenting magazines, so occasionally I mentioned my kids, even when they were little. I wrote about Meta’s problems with weight when she was 6, and how I put her on a diet -- it appeared in a woman’s magazine, along with some photos of her, and I think that was what started her on hating being written about. But if she complained, I didn’t really notice. When she was about 8 I wrote about Meta getting reading glasses to prevent myopia, for a major newspaper, and again there were some photos of her -- I thought she sort of liked it, but now I wonder. And when she was about 10 I wrote an article for that same newspaper about getting kids to be less sedentary, and for the first time I insisted to my editor that Meta get a chance to speak her piece in a sidebar that she wrote herself. Meta had a chance to point out my own relative sedentariness, too, and to write, “I guess the point is, when it comes to your children, they should do as you say, not as you do.” Touche!

I wrote about Scootes playing soccer when she was about 8 -- also a women’s magazine, also a photo of the team -- and she kind of loved it (except for me saying she wasn’t such a great player when she was on a co-ed team). I also wrote about her a lot when I had an occasional newspaper column -- getting whistled at when she was 12, wearing clothes that showed her bra straps, playing girls’ basketball, also at about 12 or 13. I’ve written about them a lot, I realize -- book clubs I’ve been in with both of them, Meta’s bat mitzvah and what it meant to me, Meta going to an all-girls college, and blah blah. Sometimes I worried about being too much like Joyce Maynard, using their lives for my own purposes, turning my family into material. But I felt that if I always asked them if it was OK, it wouldn’t be so bad. And anyway, most of my professional writing activity had nothing to do with them -- these essays were occasional, and they were the fun part.

KH: What advice would you give to parents who are new to writing about their children? Are there things you wish you had done differently?

ML: Based on Meta’s subsequent anger at me, I probably wouldn’t have written at all about her weight. And I probably would have been more careful about being absolutely sure they were OK with whatever I was writing when I wrote it. For a long time I cared only about what made the best essay, and the best essays are the truthful ones, no matter who it hurts. I can still make a case for that -- but there’s a good argument to be made for sparing people’s feelings, too. Maybe that’s because I’m 56 years old. In the end, what you end up with is a relationship with your children, not with some anonymous reading public, and that’s the thing that’s essential to preserve -- even if it means the essay isn’t as good as it could have been.

You can read more from Momma Loshen here. Thanks, Momma Loshen, for taking the time to answer my questions!

I’m interested in how all of you navigate this issue, as well.

nine lives

The sun is finally shining here and yesterday was gorgeous, mid-sixties—almost unheard of weather for this time of year in Minnesota. It’s amazing what this does to the way I see the world. Hopefulness bubbles to the surface, escapes through my pours. I start imagining long walks and bike rides and loping, solitary runs during which my mind is free to wander, to come up with ideas for essays I won’t have time to write.

I took the girls to my dad’s this morning for a visit, and I noticed that the first of his crocuses have poked through the dark earth, purple buds ready to burst open at the sun’s coaxing. Soon his whole yard will be covered with dark purple Siberian Squill, and he will ask me to come over to take a picture, as he does every year.

Now I’m sitting in my little office. Zoë is sleeping and has recovered from her fever of a few days ago. (Though, unfortunately, she’s also fully embraced the Terrible Twos.) Stella’s bus will rumble past the house in less than ten minutes, and then she’ll come bursting through the door, her eyes wide. She will say, as she so often says, “Mama, I have to tell you something…” And I will listen to the report of her few hours at kindergarten, nodding my head and saying “Oh really?” over and over to keep her talking.

When Zoë wakes, I’ll strap her into the Burley, which she pronounces “Booooley,” and the three of us will head out on bikes to visit my grandpa, who, miraculously, is much improved. Many of you posted kind and hopeful comments about him a couple of months ago. I so appreciated these, but frankly, I didn’t think my grandpa would live to see spring. But now he has gained some weight back and his skin as lost its sallowness. He’s ready to step outdoors. How is it possible that 101 he still is not ready to give up on life?

After my piece came out in Brevity a couple of months ago, I took my laptop down to his apartment in the basement of my mom’s house so he could read it. (He doesn’t really understand what I do, doesn’t ever seem to believe me when I tell him how busy I am, so I wanted to prove something to him with that piece.) He read it slowly, nodding his head. And then when I closed the computer, he said, “You know, I should have died about nine times.”

And as if he were composing his own piece for Brevity, he proceeded to list the times he should have kicked it. But he only got to eight. “Hmmupft,” he said then, shaking his head. “Maybe there are only eight.”

His swelling is down, his breathing normal—he’s on his ninth life now. At 101, he’s not ready to go.

I’m still struggling with what it means to be a writer (or maybe I'm struggling with what it means to be a struggling writer). I swing between feeling hopeful—on the cusp of something big—to despondent, all in the same day, sometimes multiple times a day. Still, I’m not ready to give up. I can’t imagine doing that, just as my grandpa can’t imagine giving up on life.

So instead, I'll keep doing what I'm doing and wait and hope. And in a few weeks, I'll go to my dad's house, stand at the edge of his lawn, and take comfort in the reliability of his Siberian Squill.