hitting a wall

I’ve hit a wall. The early mornings, the rushing, the gazillion things on my to do list that I never have time to get to are taking their toll. I said to Donny this morning, “Can’t we just move to Barcelona?” This has actually become a joke between us—I’ve asked it a hundred times over the last year when stress threatens to get the better of me.

I know that moving to Barcelona wouldn’t solve all our problems, but it would provide a distraction from them, no?

And really, I don’t want to move—not yet anyway. There is a lot going on, yes. But so much of it is really wonderful. The reading last week was fabulous. I’m so grateful to Jill Christman and Sonya Huber for flying into town for the event. And I’m grateful to all of you who made it down to Open Book. Sonya read a hilarious piece titled “Breast is Best” and Jill read her equally hilarious “Weaning Ella.” I was sandwiched in between with a more serious section from my memoir. (If you missed the reading you can listen online. It will be the 100^th podcast on Mom Enough. I’ll post a link when it’s live in a couple of weeks.)

Another good thing: Teaching. I love Tuesday mornings, when I don’t have to rush straight to the office. Instead, I have an hour to sit and write before spending two delightful hours with a truly inspiring group of mother writers. What could be better?

But over the last month and a half as I tried to juggle full-time work with family and my writing career, I realized that it’s not motherhood and writing that are difficult to manage (as it sometimes seemed in the past); it is full-time work and writing that are at odds. Even if I get up at 5 am, as I’ve been doing most weekdays, I have so much other work do to during that hour that I never get to my own writing.

Wait. I’ve just looked at what I’ve written, and I’m shaking my head. WTH? “Stop complaining, Ms. Hopper. You’re lucky to have a job. Pull yourself together.”

Alright. Okay. I’m done. I promise. I’ll recalibrate and be back soon.

new schedule

Well, I made it through the first week of full-time work last week, but by Friday afternoon, I was exhausted (and had officially developed a head cold). I really like the work (and my coworkers are lovely), but I did feel that pull back to my desk (when will I get any writing done?) and to the River Road (when will I walk?) and to my girls, my girls, my girls. The last has been the hardest. At 2:15 each day, I stare at my clock, knowing that Stella is walking back to my mom's house from the bus stop, chattering away about her day. That is one of my favorite parts of my day--Stella in reporting mode, talking a mile a minute about everything that happened at school. I miss it!


I think Stella misses that time, as well. On Wednesday last week, she screamed, "I hate your new job! You wear make-up now and you don't even look like my mom!" I nearly burst into tears. Later I asked her what I usually look like, and she said, "You wear sweatpants." Oh yes. Did I mention that I miss my sweatpants, as well? 


I know (hope) it will get easier, even as I add my fall class to the mix this week. But I'm determined to get up at 5 a.m. to build a little writing and exercise time into the week. What do you think? Possible?

my memoir dress

Well, I started my full-time job yesterday—thank you for all your good wishes—and I think I’ll really like the job. My co-workers are lovely and interesting, and the work is important. But wow, I haven’t had a 40-hour week desk job for over ten years, and it’s an adjustment. By 3:30 I was missing my girls, wondering how their days had gone, desperate to fold them in my arms. By 9:30 I had to put down the final Hunger Games novel (just 20 pages from the end of the book) because I couldn’t keep my eyes open. But I’ll get used to it, no?

Today the office is closed, so I’m working from home (or rather the coffee shop), and I thought I’d take a break to post some wonderful poems by my friend and fellow writer, Marge Barrett. Marge has a new chapbook called My Memoir Dress, which is just out from Finishing Line Press. Marge is such a talented writer of both prose and poetry, and these poems in particular speak to me as a mother. Marge is able to capture the beauty in the moments in life that many of us overlook. Her poetry is full of lyricism and grace—it’s the kind of poetry that makes me want to stop and savor each word. Marge has given me permission to post two of her poems here, so without further ado:

Wild Flowers

Bloodroot blossoms when my daughter is born.

Along the rushing river banks, shoots push

through hard winter earth. Pulled by spring sun,

the blue-green lobed leaves open wide, breathe.

In a steamy old hospital room, the midwife listens,

counts loudly, heartbeat’s dropping, dropping.

I push, push, push my beautiful bloody baby out.

Hush. Dim the lights. Her eyes, huge blue, study us.

Bloodroot blossoms when my second daughter is born.

Basal leaves again uncurl in the woods

under the web of stick-branched trees.

In the birthing room of a new hospital,

the doctor counters, no stirrups, deep vein thrombosis;

don’t want her throwing a clot to the heart.

This baby comes fast, looks out, alert.

Bloodroot blossoms when my girls are born.

Pure white stars, golden orange centers.

© 2011 Marge Barrett, reprinted with permission of the poet

Magician-At-Large

Leaving London’s Gatwick airport,

I tell them to spend the last change,

buy something sweet, maybe artsy,

why not touristy.

My son disappears,

re-appears

with a calling card

designed by a machine:

his name, our address, and

Magician-At-Large.

He’s fascinated by tricks,

sleight of hand, coins, cards.

He saves money for supplies

at the magic and costume store.

This, after building go-carts,

balsa boats and airplanes,

yoyos (rocking the baby, around the world),

chemistry sets, rockets,

rags on the piano, drums and guitar,

the computer.

My freckled-faced, red-haired son

wands the card over my head,

draws it out of his sleeve,

once again taking me away.

© 2011 Marge Barrett, reprinted with permission of the poet

Thank you, Marge, for letting me share your wonderful words here. People, check out Marge’s writing. And have a wonderful weekend. 

A recap of that thing called life (and some birthday wishes for my daughter)

I obviously haven’t posted in a while, and I apologize, but I’ve barely been keeping my head above water. I’ve been involved in a job search, a final edit of Use Your Words before it moves to copyediting, prepping for and participating in the 2nd Annual Minnesota Blogger Conference (which was this past Saturday and which was fabulous—even better than last year. I was blown away by the wonderful writing by the people in my session. Go, writers!) Saturday night, we were out in Blaine at the National Sports Center watching D play in the MN History Soccer Game. (He’s still got it, by the way—scored his team’s only goal. From the stands it seemed as though his whole body was smiling.) And then Sunday, we held Stella’s 8-year-old kid party (with a gaggle of 7- and 8-year-old girls running around our house and yard), then spent Sunday evening at the benefit concert for our friend John Sylvester (our friend who is fighting the diagnosis of ALS).

Monday morning I woke up desperate for a day to regroup. Instead, everything is full speed ahead. I accepted a temporary full-time position (starting this Thursday!) in a social service agency that serves the Latino community in the Twin Cities. It’s a wonderful organization, and I’m excited to gain new skills and polish my very rusty Spanish. (I sputtered and turned bright red in the interview when we switched to Spanish. I looked like a complete idiot. That they still offered me the position is incredible.)

So I’m excited about the job, but it will change the whole feel of our lives. No more Zoë days. No more games of Sorry with Stella in the afternoons. No more mornings at the coffee shop writing. No more multi-step dinners during the week. (Hello, crock pot.) But still, it’s a good move for me and my family. (Someday I’ll be able to break down the things that led to this…) For now, I just have to trust that I will figure out a way to fit in my writing and some exercise.

This is all a long excuse for why I haven’t posted in almost two weeks. What do you think?

And now it’s Tuesday September 13^th, and my Stella is eight years old today. Usually on her birthday, I revisit that day, eight years ago, when I was vomiting and burning up from the magnesium sulfate, when I was just hoping that she would come out of me and be able to breathe on her own. Last night I wondered whether this year would bring the same flood of memories, and I doubted that it would. Stella is so grown up—so healthy and tall—so far removed from that three-pound preemie she was when she was born. But this morning, like clockwork, I thought, oh, this is when I began vomiting, this is when D arrived from his red-flight from Seattle, this is when, this is when. And I am tugged back in time by the current of details, seared into my memories of the day I became a mother.

I know there are women in similar situations right now—in their hospital beds, praying that their babies will stay inside them a few days (or hours) longer. I’m thinking of those women and families today as I celebrate all that my daughter has become: strong and determined, empathetic and caring, athletic and so very graceful. I love you, Stella. Happy Birthday! I’m wishing you a year filled with laughter and play, adventure, new interests and friendships. 

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? 

when there is hope, hope

(A heartbreaking, but take-action post.)

A month ago, D and I found out that our good friend, John “Sly” Sylvester might have ALS (Lou Gerhig’s Disease).

Earlier this summer, John and his wife, Tessie, spent two weeks at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester because over the last year John had lost mobility in his hand and arm. At Mayo, John underwent a slew of tests, and the doctors came to the conclusion that John most likely has ALS. There is no definitive test for ALS—the diagnosis is made through a process of elimination.

There is a slim chance, however, that this diagnosis is incorrect. Instead it might be an auto-immune disease that mimics ALS. But the only way to identify and halt the progression of this auto-immune disease is for John to undergo a series of infusions of Intra Venous Immunoglobulin Antibodies (IVIG) over the next 3 months.  If the therapy is successful, it will mean a full recovery for John.  If the injections prove futile, the ALS diagnosis will be confirmed.  But if John doesn’t receive the treatment, the auto-immune disease will remain undetected and lead to the same conclusion as ALS. 

The average patient with ALS is given 2-5 years to live.

John is only 38 years old. Tessie is 30. Their son, Gus, the cutest little guy with the most beautiful eyelashes I’ve ever seen, just turned one. They deserve a chance to be a family.

John has dedicated his adult life to helping others. He and D played soccer together for the Minnesota Thunder in the late nineties, and since then he has worked in the Minneapolis Public Schools, Harvest African-centered Prep School in North Minneapolis, and as the girl’s coaching director for the Minneapolis United Soccer Club. 

John met his wife Tessie in 2001 when they were both coaching summer youth soccer. They were brought together by their love of soccer, their dedicated connection to their families, their strong faith and their belief in giving back to the community.

John and Tessie both come from humble backgrounds. John wouldn’t have been able to make it to the level of a professional soccer player if it hadn’t been for the many coaches that waived fees in order to make it possible for him to play the game he loved. This is why John wanted to work for Minneapolis United and be able to help other young people, regardless of socioeconomic status, realize their dreams.

As a young woman, Tessie worked hard to obtain an academic scholarship to St. Thomas University and later completed dental school so that she could provide a much-needed service in low-income communities. She is currently a part-time dentist in a free dental clinic in St. Paul that serves homeless and marginalized people.

They are both self-insured, and their insurance *will not* cover the IVIG treatment, John’s only chance at surviving. The treatment costs $75,000.

John and Tessie need our prayers. They need our support. And they desperately need our financial help.

Please donate what you can to the John Sylvester Medical fund. (Donations are tax-deductible.) If you are in the Twin Cities, join us at Brit’s Pub in Minneapolis on Sunday September 11 4 – 8 p.m. for the Rally for Sly silent auction and benefit concert featuring Tim Mahoney, Kari Noble, Dave Hudson, and Hip Replacement.

John and Tessie have spent their lives helping others. Now they need our help. Donate. Please. And give John a chance to see his son grow up.

a blur

How can it almost be the middle of August already? Summers always go too fast, but this summer has been a blur.

I drove up to St. Cloud yesterday to present to the Forum of Executive Women about writing, publishing and motherhood, and it was such a wonderful event. What an interesting and organized group of women. And I was relieved that I didn’t need to fly from the podium to find a restroom in the middle of my talk. (TMI: I’ve been struggling to get over the stomach flu, which laid me—and poor Stella—out while we were up north at my mom’s cabin over the weekend and hit D Tuesday night. It ran through Stella’s system very quickly, but it’s still hanging on to me, unsettling me.)

Aside from the flu, I’ve been busy with the girls and presentation prep and some freelance work and some tweaking of Use Your Words. But I haven’t done much new writing this summer, which always makes me feel a little disoriented. I’m hoping that as soon as school starts again, I can carve out a better schedule for my creative work.

I’m also looking forward to my upcoming fall Mother Words class at the Loft, which will meet Tuesday mornings, 10 – noon, for ten weeks, starting September 27. And then of course the 5^th Annual Mother Words reading at the Loft on Thursday, October 13^th, featuring authors Jill Christman and Sonya Huber. Mark your calendars! It’s going to be a wonderful event.

So there is much to look forward to this fall, as there always is. But I wish I could somehow slow down these last weeks of summer. Or is it that I need to somehow slow myself down?

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?

musings at 4 a.m.

Last night D. brought home Blizzards for the girls and for himself, and my “I’ll just have two bites of yours” turned into me eating half of his Oreo Blizzard. (Can you see why he doesn’t like to share with me?)

I have a friend who insists that DQ is not a “deliberate dessert” (meaning it’s not worth the calories the way a chocolate torte would be), but I beg to differ. (And what’s not deliberate about driving to Dairy Queen?) I haven't had a Blizzard in a while, and I had forgotten how much I love them. I also forgot that eating ice-cream (even if it’s soft serve) in the evening makes it difficult for me to sleep. 

Which is why I woke up at 4 a.m.

And I got up because I have a ton to do. I had pushed all my other responsibilities to the edges of my plate in order to finish Use Your Words, and now those things are clamoring for attention: a book review; student writing that is long overdo (sorry, ladies!); a summer-fall freelance project I took on so I could (theoretically) have a break from teaching and have more time to write; a few outstanding permissions issues for the book (such a nightmare); and my grandpa, who is back home with my mom now, but not doing well.

So I’m awake and thinking about the next few months. I really want this to be a summer filled with hours and hours of reading. There are a couple of books I started this spring and had to put down in order to finish my manuscript, but now I’m desperate to get back to them, to spend my days immersed in someone else’s words.

This is what’s on my desk (some in various stages of being finished):

Tracy Seely’s My Ruby Slippers

Caitlin Shetterly’s Made for You and Me

Angela Balcita’s Moonface

Rae Meadows’ Mothers and Daughters

Alexa Stevenson’s Half Baked

Charles Baxter’s Gryphon

I’m hoping to have at least some of these authors as guests here at Mother Words, but with everything else I'm doing when will I finish these books? We have reduced childcare for the summer, and I’m so tired at night that it’s hard for me to stay awake to read. Maybe I need to start getting up at 5 a.m.? Going to bed as soon as the girls do?

How do you fit your reading into your day?

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.