Kids are away for the weekend, and my husband and I are sitting in our bedroom, with the two whiteboards out, brainstorming what comes next in our creative endeavors.
He looks at my side, all those ideas I’ve listed noncommittally, and he says, That looks like a lot.
And I know what he’s saying. It looks like too much.
I can do it, I say. He shrugs a little and turns back to the boards. So I say, Some of those I don’t really have to do. They’re just ideas for now.
But the truth is, I want to do them all.
There is so much I want to do, so many stories and poems and pieces of my heart that want to be written. But there is only a limited amount of time, a limited amount of me.
I wish it weren’t so. I wish I could spend hours and hours every day creating and writing and brainstorming into being all the bare-bone ideas that come calling. I keep a journal full of these ideas, short stories and novels and nonfiction books that wait for writing, and that list doesn’t seem to be getting any shorter. I add to it every week.
How do we who are bursting with ideas find the discipline to take it one at a time?
There is no easy answer to this.
Because sometimes we will start on one project and find that we don’t have the time needed to make it good or lovely or interesting; or we find we don’t have the passion for it, at least right now; or we find we don’t have all the details worked out and need to let it sit for a while.
There is no shame in starting and then putting aside, as long as it doesn’t stay put aside.
Sometimes we move through seasons where we can work on multiple projects—crafting a book of poetry at the same time we’re writing a novel that’s waited years to see paper—and our creativity still feels alive and eager and magical. And sometimes we move through seasons when we can barely fit in the time to work on one project, even though more ideas are pelting us in the back when we turn away.
It’s not easy to remember that there is a time for everything.
[Tweet “There’s a time for everything. We may not be able to get to that creative project now–but we will.”]
I’m not so great, sometimes, at recognizing my circumstantial limits—because I love what I do and I just want to write and who cares if I’m working on ten projects all at the same time. It always seems like the right time to me.
But if we are pursuing an idea out of season, we are bearing fruit that is expensive and sour, fruit that steals valuable resources from other projects that might be entering the perfect season. So it’s not worth it to cram our schedule full of so many projects, because we can only tell our stories and write our whole hearts well if we’re doing it in the right season.
Sometimes it’s the right season for poetry. Sometimes it’s the season for that fantasy novel we’ve been setting aside for too long now. Sometimes it’s the season for 365 essays that turn into an unexpected book.
We must determine the season and then fit those projects in the right places, understanding that “not now” doesn’t mean “never.”
We do ourselves no favors trying to tackle too many projects and not giving any of them the time they really deserve. We do ourselves no favors trying to start a new project every time we think of one and rushing through the finish of the old one we honestly don’t have much interest in anymore now that this new idea has come along. There is discipline in the finishing, in the saying, “not right this minute” to the new projects breathing on our necks.
I take my time, because I know that, eventually, I will get to those other forty-five projects (as of today) on my brainstorm list.
[Tweet “Our creative projects deserve time. We can’t create well if we’re always rushing to the next thing.”]
And if I don’t, well, then, maybe they weren’t such great ideas after all.
How to Pace Yourself in the Writing Trenches:
1. Keep a brainstorm journal.
I carry a journal around everywhere I go. Every time I think of a new idea, I write it down. For novel ideas, I start a new page, and every time I have some sort of inspiration about the novel, I record it all on the page–so when I have time to actually sit down and brainstorm that particular novel, I’ll be prepared with all the thoughts that have come before. For short stories, I’ll typically jot down a potential title or a short sentence that details what the story will be about. For poems or essays, I usually write down the gist of what it will be about, so it can sit in my subconscious for a while.
Here’s another hack, if you’re like me: Index cards. I carry them around with me everywhere. I use these to jot down plot points of books I haven’t started writing yet. Sometimes I’ll be out watching a movie with my husband, and I’ll think of a scene for a book that’s on my “to-get-to” list. I’ll just jot down the scene and add it to the stack of notecards about that book. This helps me feel like I’m working on the book when I’m really just letting it slowly develop without any pressure.
2. Ask “What do I feel most passionate about right now?”
It’s not easy to get started on a book we don’t really feel passionately about. So what are we thinking about right now? Are we in a social justice frame of mind? Is there a book of ours that would help us explore that frame of mind? Are we in a humorous season of our life? Do we have a humorous book on our list that’s been waiting to be written?
I like to try to pair up my frame of mind with whatever it is I choose to write next. So if I’m having a really hard time balancing work with home responsibilities, I’ll write essays exploring that. If I’m thinking a lot about that homeless guy I met downtown last week and I want people to understand the homeless more, I’ll pick up the novel about homelessness and get to work.
When we match our passion of the moment with our next project, the writing comes much more easily.
3. Remind yourself (often) that there is a time for everything.
I know as much as anyone how hard it is to not chase down every single idea that comes up in my mind. I tend to be one of those writers who believes that every story should be told (I had the same philosophy as a journalist–which meant our features section had some quirky, interesting stories that might not otherwise have been told. I believe it was an asset to the paper). I actually disagree with the writing philosophy that says sometimes you’ll find, in the middle of your writing, that a story isn’t working, so you should just abandon it. Every story can be fixed. Every story can be made beautiful.
But that doesn’t change the fact that stories can’t be told all at once. If you feel the pressure to get to every one of your ideas right away, go back to what you have already accomplished and note the dedication and time it took to get even one book out there. Celebrate. Remind yourself that you’ve done it once, so you can do it again. Those books on your list will get written. But to write them well, you’ll have to take your time.
And maybe, in time, you’ll find that you don’t actually want to write them all. That’s okay. You’ll have plenty more ideas where those came from.
Week’s prompt
Write what comes to mind when you read the following quote:
“Beauty, more than bitterness, makes the heart break.”
—Sara Teasdale
Want to know how I can surely tell that school has started?
Well, of course there’s the amazingly quieter house. That’s a given. But that could just be older boys who are playing on their scooters out front and twins who are locked out back and a baby who’s just as sweet as can be.
There’s also the refrigerator that actually stays closed for an hour at a time, but that could just be kids away for the weekend (any takers?).
No, the biggest clue that school has started in my house is the stack of papers sitting on my bed.
Those are the look-at-later papers.
All three of the boys in school came home with 400 pieces of paper in their red and blue folders (It wasn’t really that bad. It was only 398 papers.) on the first day of school. I had to wade through all of them, because some required further action, like a signature or some kind of permission or even more school supplies. Some of them went into this pile, to be looked at later—or never, which is much more likely.
We started the school year sprinting. We were so organized I was impressed with us. Everybody picked out their clothes the night before, the backpacks were all hung ready to go, and even the school lunches were packed in the fridge. And then the first day happened and all.these.papers. Is it really necessary to send 5,000 school lunch menus when our kids don’t ever eat school lunches? Is it necessary to send three copies of the same exact information sheet? Is there a place where I can opt out of duplicates or papers in general?
Because I know exactly what’s going to happen. It happens every year. We will start off great. I will come down to dinner every evening and sort through those papers in five minutes or less, placing some in a recycling pile, some in a look-at-later pile, some back in the folders because they need returning.
And then I will forget I ever had a look-at-later pile, and by Christmas there will be so many papers we could use them to pretend there’s snow in every room of our house, which would be the closest Texas gets to snow. Or wear-a-coat weather. Or the charming Christmas chill. You know what, though? I’m going to keep that idea to myself and hope great minds really don’t think alike. The only thing worse than five thousand sheets of paper stuffed under a chair in my room is five thousand sheets of paper boys have spread all over the house so they can “play in the snow.”
I suppose that if this is the price I have to pay to have a little peace from an 8-year-old whose daily grand ideas include starting a vegetable garden in our front yard (cucumbers and carrots are starting to grow in the rose garden.) and selling water art paintings out by the mailbox where I can’t even see him, a 6-year-old who’s always hungry and will eat a two-pound bag of apples if I’m not paying attention, and a 5-year-old who likes to snack on Tom’s toothpaste, then I’ll take it. I’m already winded, but, hey, the school year has only just begun. I’m sure my endurance will improve as the months slip by.
Just don’t ask me if I saw the list of school supplies they need for GT. It’s buried somewhere in my look-at-later pile, so. Cut me some slack.
If you’re not as entrenched in the kid-lit world as I am, you might be wondering what early readers are. Early readers are a bridge between picture books and middle grade readers. They’re sometimes referred to as chapter books. There’s some debate as to what characteristics these books have, but here’s how I usually distinguish them: early readers are closer to picture books with not a whole lot of text but more than what would be found in a picture book. Chapter books sometimes have pictures and sometimes don’t.
Jaden Toussaint, the Greatest Episode 3: The Muffin Wars, by Marti Dumas, definitely fell into the early reader category for me, with charming illustrations and simple language that an emerging reader would understand. This was the first of the Jaden Toussaint books that I read, and I was immediately hooked. Jaden has a great personality and is so fun to get to know throughout the book.
In Episode 3 of the Jaden Toussaint series, Jaden’s cousin, Muffin, is coming to visit. He’s excited, but the problem is that she’s just as awesome as he is—maybe even more so. He feels a little threatened by her awesomeness, actually. So he sets out to try to prove that he’s better at something than she is.
The Muffin Wars is full of humor, personality and wisdom. I think early readers will identify with Jaden in his quest to be the best at everything and in the lesson he ultimately learns.
The Lemonade War, by Jacqueline Davies, is a chapter book for readers a little farther along the reading spectrum than Dumas’ Jaden Toussaint series. The Lemonade War is actually a book I picked up because my 9-year-old read it in class last year, and he put all of Davies’ other books in this series on his summer reading list this year. So I wanted to find out what had drawn him so deeply into the series. And once I read The Lemonade War, it was easy to see.
The book is about a brother and sister duo, Jessie and Evan, who are out for the last days of their summer break. Evan is mad at Jessie for a reason she can’t understand. The book is told from both of their points of view, so we get to understand what she doesn’t—and the reason he’s mad is that Jessie is skipping the third grade and will be joining his fourth grade class once school starts. So now he’s afraid that she’s going to embarrass him—but not for the reasons you might think. And I’m not going to give away any spoilers.
So instead of joining together to sell lemonade, Jessie and Evan have a war—whoever makes the most money at a lemonade stand will get to take the other’s money. The book is full of all their efforts to create a successful lemonade stand.
I love that The Lemonade Wars was full of marketing and business advice that Jessie and Evan used for their entrepreneurial efforts. I also love that Jessie and Evan were entrepreneurial kids. You don’t see that a whole lot, and now I understand why my son wants to do a lemonade stand or an art stand or a selling-Minecraft-ideas stand every day. It’s encouraging for kids to read about other kids who are taking initiative and creating their own businesses.
What I loved most about The Lemonade Wars was the bond between Jessie and Evan, even though the whole premise of the novel is that they’re fighting. But even in their fighting, it’s clear to see that they care about one another. They have a competition that actually serves to bring out the creative side of both of them and helps them realize that even though they may have completely different abilities and strengths, they are still valuable to the world.
Here’s my favorite line from the book:
“On good days, Jessie’s mom called her persistent. On bad days, she told her she just didn’t know when enough was enough.”
I love this, because it sounds a whole lot like my 9-year-old.
I hope you enjoyed these book recommendations. Be sure to pick up a free book from my starter library and visit my recommends page to see some of my favorite books. If you have any books you recently read that you think I’d enjoy, contact me. I always enjoy adding to my list. Even if I never get through it all.
I hope I didn’t steer you too wrong with that title. We all want to make a little extra money, don’t we? But there’s that “if only” tacked onto it. Whatever could she mean by THAT?
Well, every week, I look around my house and the disaster that it’s become, and I listen to my kids complain and I (God forbid) get in an argument with the threenagers about how I’m supposed to be cooking the chicken tonight, and I start fantasizing about all the extra money that parents could make, if only. Here are a few of my fantasies:
1. If I had a dollar for every time the 3-year-olds argued with me about whether it’s nap time or not, I’d be rich.
(Them: I don’t take a nap until two firty!
Me: How do you know it’s not three thirty?
Them: It’s not.
Me: But how do you know?
Them: IT’S NOT!
Me: You can’t tell time.
Them:
Me: Get in your beds.
Them: But we don’t take a nap until two firty!
Just press repeat on the above.)
2. If I had a dollar for every time my kids left the living room looking like a LEGO minefield, I’d be rich.
(Well, at least I can’t see what the 18-month-old did to the carpet today.)
3. If I had a dollar for every time my kids got an ounce of water outside the tub, I’d be rich.
(I’ll just mop the floor while I’m at it.)
4. If I had a dollar for every time my kids lost their shoes, I’d be rich.
(And if I got a dollar for every time they told me they’d already looked, when clearly they had not, I’d be even richer.)
5. If I had a dollar for every time my kids complained about their chores, I’d be rich.
(Especially the sweeping.)
6. If I had a dollar for every time my kids “accidentally” plugged up the toilet with a toy or, maybe, way too much toilet paper, or just because it’s one of their superior talents, I’d be rich.
(Some of the most frequent words in my house:
Them: Mama, the toilet is overflowing.
Me: Then use the other one.
Them: That one’s overflowing, too.
Me: Well, you’re not using mine. I guess you’ll have to figure out how to use the plunger.
Them: YES!
Me: On second thought, nope.)
7. If I had a dollar for every time my kids left something in my room, I’d be rich.
(Especially right after I’ve cleaned it. They like to leave reminders that they live here, I guess.)
8. If I had a dollar for every time my kids messed up the perfectly folded laundry piles to find sweat pants, I’d be rich.
(Or even a dollar for how many times we argued about how you shouldn’t wear sweat pants in two thousand degree weather.)
9. If I had a dollar for every time my kids argued with each other about who gets the green plate, I’d be rich.
(Boy 1: I’m the special boy. I get the green plate.
Boy 2: But I want to be the special boy! I want the green plate!
Boy 3: No, it’s my turn to be the special boy.
Boy 4: No! I get the green plate.
Boy 5: No, I do!
Boy 6: Aggle flaggle plaggle!
Me: YOU’RE ALL SPECIAL BOYS!)
10. If I had a dollar for every time my kids asked “Are we almost there?” while traveling, I’d be rich.
(Them: Are we almost there?
Me: Look at the clock. You just asked 5 minutes ago. I told you it would be another hour. Let’s use our logical brains. What do you think–are we almost there?
Them: Yes!)
11. If I had a dollar for every time my kids told me I was wrong, I’d be rich.
(Them: You’re not cutting that right, Mama.
Me: I’m pretty sure I’ve used scissors for at least two decades longer than you have.
Them: You should let me do it.
Me: And you also don’t know how to sew. I don’t have to cut in a straight line if I don’t want to. I sew in a straight line. Mostly.
Them: Just let me do it, Mama.
Me: GET AWAY FROM MY SCISSORS!)
12. If I had a dollar for every time my kids said they didn’t like this kind of dinner before they’ve even tasted it, I’d be rich.
(Them: EW. That’s the worst dinner ever.
Me: You haven’t even tasted it.
Them: I don’t have to.
Me: That’s just mean.
Them: It looks disgusting. And smells disgusting. And I bet it tastes disgusting, too.
Me: Next time you cook, then.
Them: Okay!
Me: No! I didn’t mean that!)
13. If I had a dollar for every time my kids stripped off their clothes and left them on the floor, I’d be rich.
Me: Why do you leave your clothes all over the floor? I’m not a maid.
Them: [shrug]
Me: Is is so hard to pick them up?
Them: [shrug]
Me: Them pick them up.
Them: Yes Mama.
(Just kidding. That’s not really how it plays out. That request usually has to be repeated at least four times before they even hear me. Husband says there’s something about the cadence of a woman’s voice that men scientifically can’t hear the first time around. I’m pretty sure that’s just an excuse.)
I don’t know about you, but I’d be able to pay for every one of my kids’ college educations if someone would just give me a dollar every time they did any one of the above.
Tomorrow I will rise early and sit through reading and writing and praying and then I will steal down the stairs to prepare breakfast and then steal back up to kiss them from their beds and point to their chalkboard schedules. Tomorrow I will walk down a concrete sidewalk, my hand wrapped around the fingers of one and the hand of another, and I will watch the odd one out lag behind or run ahead, whatever his mood may be, because there are only two hands for three boys. Tomorrow I will take my time on my way to the building, half a mile from our home, where I will leave three of them this time.
This year another of my babies will join 125 other kindergarteners, on his way out the door of my house and into the door of the world. And it doesn’t matter that I’ve done this twice before. Doesn’t make it any easier.
So I already know that I will join the ranks of other kindergarten parents, stopping at the door to watch their little big kid disappear into a world we have no control over, a world that doesn’t follow our rules or standards, a world that could be dangerous and terrifying and heartbreaking all at the same time.
It’s true that tempers at home, as we neared this day, have ramped up, and their daddy and I have looked at each other more often than not in the last few days with eyes that said, “I can’t wait for school to start,” but the truth is, I don’t mean it. Not at all. Because school starting means they are gone from me, gone from my encouragement, gone from my presence, gone from my protection. Never gone from my love, of course.
And then today the three who will go have climbed on my lap periodically throughout the day, like they know what this last day home means, and their snuggles have whispered loud and wild and desperate into a mama heart: They can’t go. They can’t go. I can’t let them go.
Because what if?
What if they don’t make any friends and become the outsider? What if they don’t like their teacher and their teacher doesn’t like them? What if the time they spend outside our home breaks their spirit or their confidence or, God forbid, their whole heart?
Tonight I will wander through the hallways of my home, like I always do, and I will touch those backpacks hanging on their hooks, and I will slip into their rooms to look at their sleeping faces, so big and yet so, so small, and I will cry and beg and pray that this year will be a good one; that this year they will know, without a doubt, that they are capable of wading through the raging waters of life; that this year they will really, really believe, deep down in the places where it matters, how important they are to me, to their friends, to the whole wide world, just the way they are.
I can tell them this every single days of their lives, but they have to learn it for themselves. Away from home. Out in the world. Somewhere else.
I know this. And yet it is not so simple, this letting go. I know what breaking feels like, and I don’t want it for my boys. I know what defeated feels like, and I don’t want it for my boys. I know what cruelty feels like, and I DON’T WANT IT FOR MY BOYS.
It sounds silly, I know, because it’s all just a part of growing up—the pain, the disappointment, the heartbreaks. Don’t I want them to grow up? Don’t I want them to be their own people? Don’t I want them to learn they can do it all without my constant help?
Yes. But no. I mean, yes. Yes, of course.
It’s just that yesterday he was only days old and I was just learning how to be a mother. Yesterday I was holding his hand, cheering him on as he put one wobbly foot in front of the other. Yesterday he needed me to bathe him and pour his milk and tie his shoes and pick out his clothes and tuck him in.
Where did the time go? Where did the baby go? Now they are only big, only tall, only lanky and self-sufficient and excited about this step outside the home, and I am only grieving. What does one do with this grief?
Well. I will fall apart, just outside their rooms, where I can hear them breathing in a sleep that feels far away from me this moment. Because it’s just so hard. So hard to watch them go.
It’s only one of a thousand steps. I know this. Theirs is a gradual leaving. I know this, too, but it doesn’t ever feel that way. It feels jarring, like we just weren’t ready, like we haven’t had the last five years to prepare for this day and the 12 first days after this one. (That last first day I try not to think about.)
Tomorrow I will walk them into this new step toward independence, and I will leave them in a place where they will learn about a world outside our home, where they will sit in classrooms with kids who can choose kindness or cruelty on a minute-by-minute basis, where they will watch their peers eat the cookies in their lunches first if they want.
Tomorrow we will stop just outside the doors of the school, where they will pose and their daddy will snap a thousand pictures for this momentous first day, and they will all smile so proudly, and I will weep so proudly, because they are my babies. Still. Forever.
And then we will walk to those classrooms, where two of them have done this drill before and one, well. One will turn at the door, and his eyes will ask that question, “Are you sure?” and I will have to make mine say what a mouth cannot.
“Yes, baby. I’m sure.”
Even though I’m not.
But he is ready. He’s ready to step out in independence. He’s ready to walk in the world. He’s ready to grow and learn and become his own person outside of me, and God it hurts, because he’s still my little one I pulled into bed with me those nights he didn’t sleep and I was too exhausted to sit up and feed. He’s still my little one I watched master the stairs before he even mastered walking. He is still my little one who hung upside down on the monkey bars before he could even speak complete sentences while I stood at the bottom with my arm-net stretched out, waiting for the fall I hoped would never come.
I am still standing at the bottom with my arm-net stretched out, waiting for the fall I hope will never come.
So I will let him go. I will let him walk in that classroom and greet his teacher, even though he probably won’t remember her name just yet, and I will leave him, and his daddy will squeeze my hand, because he knows just what this is doing to me, and we will walk back home with the three youngest who would fill a house for anyone else but make mine feel empty.
I leave him because I know he’s ready to try out those wings we’ve been building. I know he’ll crash-land sometimes and I’ll have to pick him back up and kiss those bleeding knees, but he will build mightier wings because of it. I know he’ll fly.
He will find his way into friendship, and he will learn the best games to play at recess, and he will love his teacher. He will be just fine.
He will be just fine.
Because he is stronger than I know. He is braver than I can even imagine. He is more than capable.
Tonight I will tiptoe into his room for one last look, one last touch, one last kiss on those dark lashes that only feel my lips in his dreams. And then I will leave, back to my room, back to my bed, where night will pull down the covers.
Tomorrow is a special day. Tomorrow my boy will make his first flight.
And I will be there, always, watching with proud tears and an aching heart.
For a year, I have spent time with the characters of my middle grade novel What He Left Me, and I have held Paulie in my arms, and I have fallen in love with Mr. Langley, and I have rooted for Aunt Bee. I don’t really want to say goodbye. It’s not easy to leave them to their own lives, when they have led me for so long in a story that unfolded much more beautifully than I could have known in the beginning.
So all this week, knowing I have only four installments left with these people I have come to love, the grief has watched my fingers typing out their final words.
When we have spent so much time getting to know characters and their stories and we have begun to genuinely care about their lives and their futures, it’s not easy to let them go. We have poured so much of ourselves into that project, spent a year (or more) of our lives sharing in their world, and now it is finished.
Every project must come to an end.
[Tweet “Every writing project must come to an end. And there is a grief to every end.”]
And it’s not always easy to let them end, to let our characters go, because sometimes we love them too much to let them go, and we want to know what happens and who they grow up to be, and we just don’t know if they’re ready to stand on their own.
We want to hold those stories close, like children, because it’s a mean world out there and they hold so much of us and what if the world doesn’t like them? What if the world rejects them? What if the world tears them apart more than they have already torn?
We finish these projects, and then we hesitate to give them wings, not trusting them to fly on their own.
We must let them fly.
Fear hides along the edges of grief, too. Because sometimes we only have a dim outline of what comes next, and we’re not sure we’ll like those characters as much as we like these ones we must say goodbye to in another ten days, and who even knows if we can do it again? We don’t have any guarantees. We just have a hard goodbye and a harder hello.
[Tweet “Fear chases every story’s end: What if we can’t do it again? We’ve done it once. We can do it again.”]
In this goodbye place, I feel the questions pressing in. What’s next? What if it’s not any good? What if I choose the wrong next? It’s easier just to hang on to that old story than to start a new one.
But every beginning has an ending, and this is just another.
Maybe we will miss our characters, and maybe we will miss the story they told, and maybe we will miss seeing them every day, but they are ready to stand on their own. And we have to let them, because there is more to be done. More stories to be told.
We can’t pursue a project longer than it needs to be pursued, and we can’t tell more of a story than needs to be told, so we must trust our endings and embrace our beginnings. So, in ten days, I will say goodbye to Paulie and Charlie and Aunt Bee and Mr. Langley, and I will turn to the new ones who wait for their story to be told.
Because this is what it means to be a writer.
3 questions to ask when you’ve finished a project:
1. What do I want to do with this?
It’s all well and good to finish a project, but now what? No one will ever know about our project if we don’t get it out there–whether it’s submitting to agents and editors or deciding to self-publish. I’m all for putting our best work forward, but after a certain point, we have to get it out there. Make sure you ask what’s next for your project, and write down those goals in black permanent marker so your fears don’t rewrite them.
2. What’s next?
I know that sounds like the exact same question you asked above, but this one is different, I promise. This is a “What should I work on next?” Ideally, we should have such a tight workflow and brainstorm practice that we already have another project in mind–and maybe even have a bit of it brainstormed.
This question is important, because it ensure that we’ll continue writing–and the best way to combat the fear that we’ll never produce something as wonderful as the story we just wrote is to keep writing.
3. What are my plans for next week? Next month? Next year?
(I know, this sounds like the others, too, but I promise it’s different.) At the end of every book I write, I like to evaluate what’s next. It’s so easy, when we finish a project, to feel that sense of accomplishment and bask in it for a little too long. It’s okay to bask in it for a week or so. But we have to get back on our feet. So I like to make my plans for next week and next month and next year–not just for the finished project or the next one in line, but for my entire career.
Writing changes us. Our goals are constantly changing. That means that once we’ve poured ourselves into an entire project, we may find that we no longer have a desire to do what we’d originally planned. It’s always good to have an evaluation process, and what better time than when a project is done?
Week’s prompt
A picture is one of my favorite ways to generate inspiration. Look at the picture below. Write whatever you want for as long as you can.
Every year in Texas there’s this wonderful weekend where shoppers get to take advantage of tax-free shopping on school supplies and clothes. Hundreds of thousands of people head out in droves, hitting all the local stores and cleaning out school supplies and every rack of clothes those stores possibly have stocked—all within the first three hours of tax-free weekend.
I just love large crowds with all those excited kids who aren’t mine, weaving in and out of the guarantees-an-anxiety-attack-aisles, so, of course, I’m always one of them. Because, you know, tax-free weekend saves me five dollars and forty-seven cents. Totally worth it.
This year my mom offered to take my 3-year-old twins for the weekend so I could take the three going-to-school ones out for a few necessities and a handful of new clothes (because their jeans are now capris).
Strangely enough, I always look forward to this day. It’s sort of a tradition in our house now, the squeezing through sweaty crowds to get that perfect Spider-Man backpack, the yelling at my kids because they picked out five lunch boxes and they only need one, the robot-like explanation (because it’s so oft repeated) that their daddy and I have a thing called a budget, and this little personalized pencil with a neon green zipper bag is not in that budget. And every time tax-free weekend starts creeping up on us, I can’t sleep for days I’m so excited, almost as if I’m shopping for me (I’m not. I haven’t shopped for me in eight years).
Let me just tell you what you probably already know: Shopping with kids is like walking through hell with a checkbook.
And yet, every year I forget the horror that was last year, and I convince myself that this year will surely be different, because the boys are older and more mature, and they understand the whole budget thing and, because of all this, they won’t annoy me twelve seconds after we get to the store.
We started out well, a whole 600 seconds of not-annoying. We stopped first at an arts and crafts store, where we picked out a chalkboard and some chalk markers their daddy could use to hand-letter their morning routines, personalized and artsy (incentive for getting out of bed on school mornings: they get to see art!). They helped me put the chalkboard and chalk pens carefully in the cart, and we headed for the register and paid with little or no fuss beyond their asking if they could please, please, please look at the Beanie Boos, just real quick. Okay, I said, because they were so good.
And then there was Target.
Now. I love Target. It’s the closest department store to my house, so it’s where I get the majority of things like paper towels and toilet paper and replacement toothbrushes after I caught one of the 3-year-old twins trying to scrub-clean the toilet with the existing ones and then putting them all in his mouth (“Look at my teef!” he said, and I threw up a little.).
The first thing they asked when we walked through the sliding doors was whether we could go look at the toys.
Um, no. We’re here for school stuff, I said. We’re on a time budget. And a money budget.
My mom had already bought all the school supplies this year, so all we really needed were a few clothes, some shoes, a backpack and lunch supplies for all of them. We went to the lunch box section first and spied the Thermoses. Two of them already had Thermoses, so we only needed one.
“But I want this one,” said one of the already-have-a-perfectly-fine Thermos boys.
“No,” I said. “You already have one.”
“But look at this one,” he said. “It’s really cool.”
“Well, too bad it wasn’t here last year,” I said and put it back on the shelf.
Half an hour later, when I finally pulled them away from the Thermos shelf, we wheeled over to the backpacks, where three other mothers were wrestling backpacks from their children’s hands.
“Only one,” they were saying.
Oh, God. Here we go.
I leaned against my cart, trying to empathize with all those poor mothers, while my boys pulled every boy-looking backpack off the racks—Transformers, Darth Vader, Batman, Superman, some dog I’ve never seen before, Super Mario Brothers, Spider-Man, Ninja Turtles, everything you could possibly imagine—one after the other falling at my feet.
“Look at this one, Mama!” they would periodically say. “I want this one!”
They knew they were only getting one backpack, so I didn’t feel the need to repeat what we’d already explicitly talked through on the way here. So I just let them bring their choices and said, “Is this the one you want?” and when they said no, I’d hang it back up.
Fast forward another hour, and they had their backpacks stuffed with their lunch boxes and strapped to their backs, because they wanted to carry them instead of putting them in the cart. That lasted about three minutes, and then they tossed them into the cart. Mostly because, right between the school supplies section and the clothes, is the toys section.
Come on, Target. Give a mom a break.
I lost two of the three boys, but by this time, I was already so annoyed and ready to be done I just left them. They knew where we were going. So it was that only one hung to the side of the basket. Until he realized that his brothers were gone. This one got lost one time and gets really scared when any of his brothers disappear, so of course we had to go back to pry his brothers loose from the LEGO aisle.
“Let’s go, guys,” I said. “Not what we’re here for.”
“Can we just get one LEGO set, Mama? To celebrate the start of school?” the 8-year-old said.
He’s clever, but we’ve never “just bought” a LEGO set for any occasion, I said. So no.
They hopped back on the side of the cart, which collectively weighed 130 pounds. Have you ever tried to push a 130-pound cart with a screwy wheel (because I always pick the screwy-wheeled ones, even if the carts are brand new. It’s just a fact of life.)? People kept passing us giving us dirty looks, because we were, after all, on a shopper’s highway, and I was going well below the speed limit, using every muscle in my arms just to turn the corner.
Finally we reached the clothes. This is where it really fell apart.
I don’t even know what happened. I just remember one boy who wears extra small holding up an extra-large and saying he wanted to buy it, and then the boy who wears medium holding up an extra small and saying he wanted this one and then the one who wears small holding up a large, saying this was the one he most definitely wanted to take home, and I had the luxury of telling them all that they’d picked the wrong sizes.
The clothes had already been so picked over we had to compromise greatly. And when I say compromise greatly, I mean no one got what they wanted. The boy who wanted a minion shirt got a Jurassic Park one instead. The boy who wanted Darth Vader got R2D2 instead. The boy who wanted Spider-Man got a minion shirt the other one wanted.
By the time we made it to the sock and underwear aisle, I was done caring. The 8-year-old got a pack of boxer briefs a whole size too large, the 6-year-old picked out some socks he’ll probably regret choosing the first time he wears shorts and realizes how ridiculous he looks in green and blue stripes that come up to his knees. The 4-year-old picked up a package of socks you needed sunglasses to behold.
Oh, well. Lesson learned. Last time I’ll take my kids school shopping with me.
Although, now that I think of it, next year will surely be different, because the boys will be older and more mature, and they’ll understand the whole budget thing and, because of all that, they won’t annoy me 12 seconds after we get to the store.
I first discovered Kwame Alexander when I stumbled upon his newest middle grade book, Booked, which was on my library’s display shelf. I talked about this book a few weeks back, but today I wanted to talk about another Kwame Alexander book called The Crossover, which was a 2015 Newbery Medal winner and also a 2015 Loretta Scott King Honor Award winner. The Crossover is written in verse, just like Booked, but in a much different style and with a much different story.
Twelve-year-old Josh Bell and his identical twin brother, Jordan, are basketball stars in their middle school. Josh fancies himself a rapper, and during game times, the poetry he produces has the flow of a spoken song. It’s fantastic.
The Crossover tells the story of Josh and Jordan, who are coming to terms with growing up and falling in love and trying to discover who they are outside of each other. It’s full of emotion and angst and has the kind of climax that you won’t ever forget.
When I talked about Booked, I mentioned that I probably won’t let early readers read that one. The same is true with The Crossover, but for different reasons. While Booked contained some words I wasn’t comfortable with my younger readers reading, The Crossover contains some mature content like death and romance, which my 9-year-old isn’t really all that interested in yet. But this one will probably be on his summer reading list next year, because, in our house, we have identical twins, and I loved how much insight The Crossover provided for that bond between brothers and, especially, how that bond changes as they begin to grow into their own separate people.
If you can’t already tell, I absolutely loved this book. Josh and Jordan were such likable kids, and I enjoyed the banter between the two when they were out on the court and ribbing each other, talking trash that didn’t really mean anything because it was all done in love. Josh’s voice was smart and engaging and, most of all, lovable. The book was a fast read and included some phenomenal poems about a thing you don’t usually think could look much like poetry—sports. Alexander did a wonderful job of bringing basketball to life with Josh.
There are too many quotes from this book to read them all, but here is one of my favorites:
“Sometimes it’s the things that aren’t said
that kill you.”
It’s true, isn’t it? Silence is the worst. And Josh has to deal with silence when he and his brother get into a pretty epic fight and don’t speak to each other for a while.
I hope you enjoyed this book recommendation. Be sure to visit my recommendation page to see some of my best book recommendations. If you have any books you recently read that you think I’d enjoy, get in touch. And, if you’re looking for some new books to read, stop by my starter library, where you can get a handful of my books for free.
*The book mentioned above have affiliate links attached to them, which means I’ll get a small kick-back if you click on them and purchase. But I only recommend books I enjoy reading myself. Actually, I don’t even talk about books I didn’t enjoy. I’d rather forget I ever wasted time reading them.
Many times, when I mention anywhere in the online world that I’m a mom of six boys, all the environmentalists come out to play, not realizing that I’m actually a closet environmentalist myself. Over the years, I have convinced Husband to trade antibiotics for sustainably harvested essential oils, paper products for dishware (unless we have a lazy Saturday), and toxic cleaning and personal care products for the homemade version (ever seen a man put on deodorant with his bare hands? He does in my house. And smells like lavender, too.). We stopped just short of reusable toilet paper, but not because I wasn’t game. That was Husband’s line.
My kids have helped us in this becoming-environmentally-friendly pursuit, in ways that have astonished me over the years. I never would have thought these simple ways to save the earth.
1. If it’s yellow, let it mellow. They don’t flush the toilet. Like hardly ever. You might lift a lid and get a heat wave of urine right in your face (or worse, if you’re really lucky, which it turns out I am). If I want to use a bathroom, I better be using my own, because theirs has been mellowing for days. And it smells exactly like a dead animal rotting in a swamp. Saves on: Water and wastewater.
2. Bath water can be consumed. That’s right. Bath time is not only wash time. It’s also hydration time, because they’ll fill up the bath cup that’s supposed to be used to wash off the eco-friendly soap in their hair, and they’ll drink that nastiness instead, no matter how many times I’ve told them it’s gross. (So gross. Do you know how dirty you are?) Also, if one brother has already finished his bath and left the water in the tub, another brother will get in and wash anyway (and still drink the water). And while we’re on the subject, I’ll admit that their daddy and I only have time for showers every two or three days, so. Winning. (Don’t worry. We make our own deodorant, which we apply every morning to convince people that we have it all together. As long as they don’t notice my greasy hair.) Saves on: Water, wastewater, energy.
3. They’ll wear the same Iron Man costume with nothing else underneath for four days straight. Or the same pair of pajamas. Or the same sweat pants. They’re not picky at all. They just want to wear what’s comfortable. For a week. This saves us the most in the summer, when it’s too hot in Texas to wear clothes. They just run around in their underwear swim trunks instead. Saves on: Water, wastewater, energy.
4. Paper of any kind is good for drawing. This means their brother’s class list for Valentine’s Day is a good place to draw a 2-year-old version of a spider. So is that flier for lawn mowing services and the thousand other pieces of junk mail waiting in our mailbox to clutter up our counter. Might as well put it to good use. Thanks, kids. Saves on: Paper waste.
5. Sharing is caring. If one pulls out an organic apple and puts it down, another will find it and finish it. No food is wasted around here. And when they’re finished, someone will find that apple core and take it outside to plant seeds and feed birds. (We’re still waiting for those apple trees to start sprouting, but I hear Texas isn’t so great for growing apples because it’s ten thousand degrees here.) Saves on: Food waste.
6. They prefer unpackaged foods. Actually, that’s not true. Give them a choice between a chocolate bar and a piece of organic fruit, and they’ll take the chocolate bar (unless they ask their parents… in which case they’ll take the fruit). But their daddy and I stick to the peripheries of the store, so they don’t really have a choice. They’ll eat two pounds of organic spinach before they starve. Saves on: Energy required to package foods, chemicals buried in food and released in air.
7. What’s TV? It’s been years since we got rid of cable and threw out the television. Our boys spend their days outside making movies with an old camera or pretending fallen tree branches are light sabers or creating hole-in the-yard art masterpieces their daddy and I will trip in later. Saves on: Electricity, consumption messages spread through commericals.
8. Weeds are just another word for flowers. Our boys gather them into a bouquet for Mama. They give them to the neighbor girls. They pick the dandelions and make their wishes. We have no use for herbicides, and guess what? We have the greenest yard on the block. Weird. Saves on: Chemicals leaching into groundwater.
9. Fertilization is free. Boys like releasing bodily fluids outside. No, we don’t have a dog. That’s probably just the waste of our two 2-year-olds. It’s OK, though. Just watch your step on your way to admiring the prettiest peach and pear trees in the city. Saves on: Synthetic fertilizers, chemicals leaching into groundwater.
10. Energy is free (and plenty). We live half a mile from our boys’ school. So we walk or ride bikes or race on scooters. A little more than half a mile down the road is the neighborhood park. A mile down the road is a frozen yogurt shop and a pizza place, perfect for the monthly family night out. After all that, our boys will still have energy left over. One of these days we’ll find a way to bottle it up and patent it for selling. Or just drink it ourselves. Saves on: gas, emissions from a car.
There are many intentional ways we teach our boys about environmentalism and social justice—because environmentalism always boils down to social justice—but I did not expect our boys to help us along the journey.
So I can only say to these six wonderful little people: Thank you. You have made the world a better place in so many ways.
