8-year-old: Mama, what is this? [holding a cassette recording of The Hobbit.]
Me: I think they call that a cassette tape.
8-year-old: I’ve never even seen one of these before! It’s like from ancient times!
Me:
8-year-old:
Me:
8-year-old: Did you listen to these when you were a kid, Mama?
8-year-old: [lapping up his vegetables like he’s a dog or something.]
Me: What are you doing, son? Use some manners.
8-year-old: I’m just trying to see if I’m a vegetable vampire.
Me:
8-year-old:
Me:
8-year-old: Yep. I am.
Me: Why is your face so dirty?
3-year-old: Because I ate too much food.
Me: Sounds about right.
5-year-old: [Looking at a Marvel superhero book. Turns to the page with the girl superheroes.] Where’s the girl Spider-Man?
Daddy: Right there. [pointing to the page]
5-year-old: Oh, yeah. Because she has The Bumps. [points to opposite sides of his chest]
Daddy:
5-year-old: [looks down at chest] I don’t have The Bumps.
8-year-old: Mama, did you know that my penis is a toilet paper ninja?
Me: Oh, really? Do I really want to know why?
8-year-old: Yeah, it’s because when I pee and there’s toilet paper in the toilet because my brothers forgot to flush, it cuts the toilet paper in half. Like a ninja.
Me:
8-year-old: Don’t worry. I won’t ever say that in public.
I can’t even tell you the struggles I’ve had the last few weeks. I’ve been cranking out enormous word counts, but they’re mostly rough drafts. I’ve been staying away from final drafts, because I just keep thinking, “I’m not doing this right. I’m not doing this right. They’ll all know I’m a fraud.”
If you’ve been a writer for long, you know that there are weeks like this. Sometimes there are whole months or years (God forbid) when the voices keep talking to us, stealing our courage. Your characters aren’t developed enough, they say. Your plot line sags in the middle, they say. Why in the world would you choose that point of view? they say.
Those internal editors can be a drag. I’ve gotten really good at ignoring them on the first drafts of my stories and essays, because all I’m really trying to do is get all my words down on a page without logical organization or readability per se. Sometimes I use abbreviations or the completely wrong word with an asterisk behind it because I’m just trying to get the words on the page, as fast as I can. When I need a new name for someone or I’m writing about a new place, I’ll often put a line where the name should be, because I don’t even stop long enough to figure out what I’d like to call it.
This works for me, because I’m getting words down on a page crazy fast. It’s why I can write 6,000 words in an hour and a half. It’s how I log an average of 40,000 words in a week of only 20 writing hours.
Not so for final drafts. Last week I blocked out three hours to begin writing the final drafts of episodes one and two of my Fairendale series. It took me a whole three hours to write about 3,000 words.
Part of it is because, up until now, I’ve written all my other novels in first person point of view. The Fairendale series is told by an omniscient narrator, which I have never actually done before. So I’m trying to get it right, and the entire time I’m trying to get it right, that pesky internal editor has been bothering me. “You’re not getting it right. They’re all going to hate this,” he says.
And I’ve believed him. I’ve wanted to quit writing the story altogether. And I would if there weren’t a lot of people (mostly my mom) who are really excited about this series and can’t wait to read it when I finally release it. That makes me want to finish it. It also makes me feel pressure to get it exactly right. I’m a perfectionist. I try to make everything 100 percent, even if people would be perfectly fine reading a story at 80 percent.
Internal editors can come to us at different stages in the process. Sometimes they come to us between the first and second drafts. Sometimes they come to us during the writing of our final draft, and we can’t seem to hear our gut over their shouting. Sometimes they come to us before we’re going to hit publish, and we can’t even do it. We just can’t.
Do you know what those voices really want us to do? They want us to give up. They want us to see that story written in a point of view that we’ve never tried before, in a genre we’ve never written before, and they want us to close it up and say it’s just too hard. They want us to forget that we can make mistakes.
That’s why, as writers, we have got to power through them. We have got to write anyway. We cannot let those voices dictate what we do next or how we write our story.
WE ARE WRITERS. WE CAN DO THIS.
Whatever “this” is.
We have the ability to challenge ourselves and grow and make mistakes and recover from those mistakes. No one who ever came to this business ever came to it perfect. As far as I know, no one has ever looked at their first books and said, “Wow. I was perfect then. What happened?” because just like we’re growing and learning as people every year of our lives, we are also growing and learning as writers.
So let’s get to it.
Here are some ways to beat the internal editors.
1. Try something new.
Write in a new genre. Write in a different point of view. Start a story from the middle and then figure out the beginning and end. Do whatever it takes to prove to those voices that you can do this and that you’re in it to stay. Right now I’m trying my hand at middle grade fantasy, middle grade science fiction and adult romance/thriller/mystery. I’ve never done any of these genres before (mostly because I typically write literary fiction in first person) and it is HARD. But trying something new is how we grow as writers.
2. Keep writing in that writer’s journal.
We talked about a writer’s journal last week. It’s important to see where we’ve come from and where we’ve been. A writer’s journal can help us make sense of our writing world and what kinds of things we need to do to eliminate the internal editors. Sometimes they come calling when we’re tired or burned out, and we just need a break. Sometimes they come because of fear. Sometimes they have a little grain of truth in them, and we need to learn something new along with trying something new. We can write about all of this in our writer’s journal, and when we feel them calling again, we can go back to the day they bothered us last time and know that we made it through that one; we’ll make it through this one, too.
3. Identify the voice of the internal editor.
Sometimes it’s an old teacher who didn’t really believe in us. Sometimes it’s a parent. Sometimes it’s just us. We have to know those voices.
I know that mine belongs to a creative writing professor from college, in his mid-to-late forties, with balding hair and a stubbly chin. He was the professor who didn’t like my writing in college, and I still hear his public criticism in my head sometimes. Sometimes I imagine a published manuscript in front of my old professor’s face, and me pointing at it saying, “Look what I did, Dr. Jerk.”
We have to know our voices to shut them up. So don’t be afraid to get to know that voice. They can only be damaging if we let them.
4. Take a short break.
Sometimes the internal editors come out because we’re putting too much pressure on ourselves (I was trying to make the final drafts perfect. That puts way too much pressure on a writer. Who decides when it’s perfect, after all?). Sometimes we just need to take a step back and give ourselves permission to fail and fail in an epic way. Failure is only another way to learn, so every time we fail, we get the opportunity to take that experience and turn it into something that benefits us by making us better.
Writing is a vulnerable pursuit. It takes courage to share and put ourselves out there like that. Internal editors can make us afraid, but they don’t have to have power over us if we don’t let them.
Whether or not you want to become a parent is relatively easy to decide. Those tiny little babies. So cute. So cuddly. So snuggly and soft and warm. Smelling of…
Well, everything nice, of course.
So when it came time for Husband and me to decide we were ready to start a family, it wasn’t such a hard decision. I wanted one of those tiny cute cuddly babies. It was time.
What you don’t consider before you decide to have a baby is that one day they will be a willful 3-year-old. And then they’ll be a spirited 8-year-old. And then they’ll be, God help you, 13.
It’s not just the emotional and physical expenditure that will change as your tiny little baby who only wants to eat and sleep and poop and stays put wherever you lay him grows up. Your entire lifestyle will change. We weren’t ready for this. I don’t know if any parent is, because these are the things you don’t think about when all you can see is a cute little sweater vest that would be perfect for the first family portraits.
I think about them now. Every time I get a utility bill in the mail or shop for groceries or just try to leave the house.
What you don’t think about is that when your baby becomes a kid, there’s
1. The much higher utility bills.
You won’t notice this one right away. This will actually happen when your kid gets really good at turning on lights but doesn’t as quickly figure out how to turn them off. Or ever figure it out, which is more likely the case. Someday, when the baby is no longer a baby, he will also enjoy plugging up a toilet with toilet paper so he has to flush five times in a row and the toilet never fills up and it runs for half an hour before you notice. He’ll forget to completely turn off the bathroom faucet after he’s finally, finally, finally brushed his teeth after your thirtieth time asking, and it will run all night, because you were just too worn out to stumble out of your bed, again, to check. He’ll one day be 3 and think it’s funny to see your face turn purple when he sneaks into the backyard and turns on the hose, and the only way you know is when you’re going out to put the trash in the bin and you slip in a gigantic mud puddle and call Husband because a sprinkler has busted (Nope. It’s just the 3-year-old, watering the grass. For five hours).
Higher utility bills. There’s not much you can do about them, unless you just turn them all off and Little House on the Prairie it.
2. The grocery bill that will make you weep.
It doesn’t matter if you’re breastfeeding or bottle feeding, you are in for a treat. You won’t even recognize your grocery budget in a few years. Kids are always, always, always hungry, always, and you certainly don’t want them bumming food off their friends at school, because you know what happens when they get sugar in their system. (What happens? Read on.)
3. The fact that bouncing off the walls is a real thing.
You will watch them do it after attending their friends’ birthday parties. You’ll see the evidence in wall nicks and holes their hands accidentally made when they ran into it too hard, and you’ll make a mental note to fix it, but it will never happen. Because kids. And then you will vow never, ever to let them go to another birthday party. And then another invitation will come three days later, because they’re in kindergarten and all 25 students have birthdays, and they have to invite everyone in their class. And you will let him go, again.
4. The gross, gross and grosser.
You will do grosser things than you ever thought you’d do. Ever. Because sometimes there will be a little boy who took his favorite Lightning McQueen car to the potty with him, because Lightning “wanted to watch,” and now he’s sitting in the toilet your boy just went #2 in, and you will have to reach your hand into that stank and pull Lightning back out. Getting a new one just won’t do. Plus, remember the higher utility bills? Yeah, that goes for clogged pipes, too. Just close your eyes and fish it out. There’s soap for that. Lots and lots of soap.
You may also be sitting enjoying a lovely dinner with friends when your 18-month-old starts upchucking something that looks like a cross between a cauliflower smoothie and no-butter mashed potatoes, and, rather than let it fall on the floor and make someone else clean it up with their handy mop and bucket, your reflexes will make you catch it. In your hands. Your bare hands. Your bare hands that just stuck a fry in your mouth.
And you may quite possibly open a door to a poop explosion every other day if you have twins who think it’s funny to take their diapers off and time their bowel movements for the exact moment they’re supposed to be sleeping for naps, and you will have to scrub it off all the cracks they’ve made in their cribs. Don’t worry. There’s soap for that, too.
5. The energy it takes to keep a house tidy.
It’s not even worth it. They’ll just undo all your work anyway. Hang up their winter jacket on the peg where it goes? In five minutes they’ll just decide they want to wear it in the “fallish” weather that just blew in, bringing temperatures from 125 to 115 degrees. Get their school papers all organized and nice? They’ll just want to show you something they made in school today, and it’ll all end up on the floor anyway. Have a place for their shoes? Doesn’t matter. They won’t end up there. Just save your energy for other things. Like putting them back in bed four hundred times after lights out.
6. The paradoxical emotions.
There is the one minute where you feel angry enough to strangle your 3-year-old because he just, for the four billionth time, marked in a library book while you were watching, just to do it, and then there’s the moment (after 10 minutes of cool down and maybe a bottle glass of wine) when he brings you the library book and asks you to read to him, and his eyes are just so dang beautiful, and yes, of course you’ll do this for your precious little baby. There’s the second where you want to lock them out of your room forever and ever and ever because they keep coming in to ask questions like “Do penguins have knees” and “Why can’t we have four dogs” and “How did I get out of your body when I was a baby,” and all you know is you want to go to sleep, and then there is that other second where he comes in one more time and you take a deep breath and all he wants is another kiss and hug you don’t often get anymore because he’s getting too big too fast.
There’s the moment when you can’t stand the sight of him because he just ate his brother’s vitamins he knows he’s not supposed to touch because you’ve done this dance half a million times, and then there’s the other moment when you just can’t stand how much you love him.
You’ll get used to these moments as a parent.
7. The torturous road trips.
Soon, going anywhere outside a 10-mile radius of your home will feel like torture. This is mostly because of the question, “Are we almost there?” which will come out of their mouths exactly five minutes after packing in the car. And since you haven’t even left the driveway, you’ll know it’s going to be a really long trip. This question will be asked every other minute for as long as it takes to get you anywhere. So just keep it short, if you know what’s best for you. And if this question doesn’t bother you so much, there will be other things. I Spy, for example. And Disney songs. And farts in an enclosed space.
8. The impossible: Leaving the house.
You’re all dressed and put together and ready to go? All of you at the same time? Well, congratulations, because someone’s about to puke all over himself. You made it out to the car and everyone’s strapped? Someone will say his shoes aren’t actually in the van like he thought, and could you help him find a pair, and you’ll spend the next forty-five minutes looking for the matches to five lone shoes. You’re about to walk out the door on time for once? Someone will discover how to open their Thermos of milk and dump it all over their brother’s backside.
Late just comes with being a parent. Don’t let anyone tell you any different, and don’t let anyone make you feel guilty about it, either. They have no idea what it’s like to leave with your neanderthals in tow.
9. That feeling you get.
No, I’m not talking about the anger or the frustration or the fear that maybe we shouldn’t have done what we did. I mean the overwhelming emotion that hits us every time they’re doing something amazing or wonderful or they say something brilliant or funny or they’re just sitting there doing nothing. It’s that feeling of love that launches us through all these unforeseen challenges.
So I guess if I’m weighing the options, I’d have to say that The Feeling outweighs all the rest.
But ask me again in a few years, when my grocery bill is like a second mortgage.
Who invented these things? Who could have possibly thought it would be a good idea to market “foam bullets that don’t hurt when you’re hit” to boys of all ages, even when they have a whole head of gray hair or no hair at all? Who made those first sketches for this amazing invention of “won’t-hurt-them” guns and assured their marketing department that they were safe for the wild at heart who have always, deep down, wanted to engage in battle without anyone getting hurt.
Bull. These things DO hurt.
I know, because every time my boys find one of the guns hidden away in our garage and succeed in scaling a refrigerator or antique cabinet (impressively) to get it down, and, somehow, find all the bullets we’ve thrown away and the trash man has already picked up (I think they multiply in the dark of the garage), the first thing they do is point it at me. After which time they’ll then point it at each other. There is always someone crying in my house because of these things. Usually me.
There was a Christmas when someone thought it would be a good idea to buy my boys Nerf guns. A whole house of boys warrants this kind of thing, after all. And at first we were, like, Oh, yeah, cool, they can have battles in the backyard and no one gets hurt, because the bullets are soft and they won’t aim at each other’s heads or use the guns as swords instead. Except they don’t want to have battles in the backyard, and the bullets aren’t soft, and when they run out of bullets, they sword fight with hard plastic instead. The only time it’s even fun to play with these things is when I can wrestle a gun away from one of the boys and turn it on them (“YOU SEE? YOU SEE HOW IT FEELS? QUIT SHOOTING MY BUTT!”).
Here’s all I know. Most of the time, I’m minding my own business, trying to get dinner started or something responsible like that, and a boy creeps up behind me, and the only warning I have is the “whoosh” of the bullet coming. I don’t even have time to get out of the way before my left flank goes completely numb.
So I’m just here to tell you that these Nerf guns? Save your sanity and your money. If I had to slap a warning label on one of these things, this is what it would say:
“Don’t even think about it. Believe me, you do NOT want one of these things even close to your house. Your children will use it to attack you and terrorize their brothers and make little circle rings on every glass surface, and God knows you already have enough of all that without these yellow plastic torture devices waving in your kids’ can’t-really-aim hands. You will regret it every single hour of every single day. Check out those foam swords on aisle 25 instead.
“On second thought, just go straight to the wine aisle and don’t forget some chocolate, because you deserve it!”
So it’s almost time to mark another birthday on your timeline. Another year that you’re here to walk me through this parenting game, this real world, this beautifully brutal life. I am so grateful I get to have a mother like you to shepherd me and guide me and listen to me when I just want to complain about how hard my days are, knowing that you had harder ones.
And for your birthday, I wanted to share my gratefulness by simply saying this: Now I understand.
Now I understand why you sat up those nights waiting for me to come home from dates. I understand the love that would make a mom watch the clock, wondering where her precious one was at that moment in time. I understand the love that puts a time limit on a night out, because a mom must know her little ones, no matter how big, are home safe and sound. I know because my oldest has just begun venturing out, to a secret hideout beyond the boundaries of our home, and I know what happens the moment before he leaves, the way a desperate hand can slip that walkie talkie into his backpack with a, “Use it. Let me know when you get there,” even though it’s just 200 feet from our house. I know what happens the moment he leaves, the way a mama heart can fret until he’s back in her presence. I understand the fear that coils up in a mama heart when a child is any amount of distance away.
Now I understand why you refused to let me go see that one serious high school boyfriend anytime I wanted, even though I thought I was in love and I was surely going to marry him and we were going to live happily ever after. You could see through every person who came and went in my life, and I know because I see it with my boys, how I always know which of their friends will break their hearts or help heal it, how there are always some I like more than others, how I feel the urge to protect them from the ones I know will hurt more than they’ll help. You were always looking to my future, and I know because I am always looking to my boys’ future—who these people will shape them to be and how they will change because of those friendships and where I can step in and guide and love in a way that still respects their free will.
Now I understand those long conversations you used to have with Memaw, when I was waiting on a phone call from my latest boyfriend and you were sitting there talking about your kids or your work or nothing at all. I understand that sometimes all it takes is a conversation with a mother to make you feel like you can do anything in the world. I understand that mothers give courage. That they hold a child steady. That they heal and believe and set the whole world on fire. I know, because I get to do it for my boys, every day before I drop them off at school, enfolding them in that embrace that speaks the words for me: I believe in you. I dream big dreams for you. I adore you.
Now I understand why you wanted to be in the seat of every performance, every track meet, every game, every ceremony, no matter how long or boring or ridiculously pointless. I understand that when you love a kid, you just want to be there. You just want to see. You just want to show them how proud you feel, even though they won’t even possibly know until they’re parents, if then. I understand, because I went to those silly school dance parties and the forever-long reading awards and the next-grade-promotion ceremonies, and I sat there fidgeting but beaming and waving and whooping when my boys came to the front of the stage. There’s just nothing like saying, “That’s my kid,” even if your introversion self would die before you say it out loud.
Now I understand those nights you sat reading while we sat watching the latest and greatest horror film so we could scare ourselves into not sleeping—because I can’t watch them anymore now like you couldn’t watch them anymore then. And when my boys sit to watch that weekly movie (not a horror film yet), I sit beside them to read, because it’s the only time a mom who loves to read books can actually read, uninterrupted, for any stretch of time, even if her attention is still divided by the dialogue and action on a screen and she could read more if she shut herself in a bedroom with a “do not disturb” sign. I understand that sitting with them, even when we’re not watching, is still being with them, and I understand that being with them is more important than anything else in the world.
Now I understand those glances I’d catch from you when I wasn’t really paying attention, until I was—those afternoons I was working on pre-Algebra homework or reading the latest Victoria Holt book I’d checked out from the library or writing a new story. I understand that sometimes love makes it difficult not to pay attention, because I sometimes can’t stop staring at my boys coloring a picture or tying a shoe or reading a book silently over in the corner. Sometimes I can’t help but marvel that they are mine for this moment.
Now I understand why you always tried to tell us we would be okay. That we were secure. That there was enough money, even when we were on the last dollar and wouldn’t have another until a week later and there was no food in the refrigerator, only canned food in the pantry. I know, because I’ve lived through a lean season for several months now, and I know that all I want for my boys is that they will not go to bed hungry, and I will do anything in the world to make sure they don’t. I understand why you wouldn’t eat those nights food was short, because a parent will make sure their kids’ bellies are full before they’ll ever take care of their own. I understand what it’s like to parent in that tension of not quite enough, and everyone’s asking for something you don’t have budget to give, and the way it can twist a heart all black and blue. I understand what it’s like to wonder what if—what if one of them needs counseling again? What if someone gets a growth spurt and never wants to stop eating? What if the air conditioner breaks in the middle of summer?
Now I understand why you never let us take the easy way out. I know what hard work does for kids, because I lived through it. I know how it builds resiliency, and I understand why you would want to shelter us from all that ugliness at first, and I understand the courage it took to let us see instead—because you knew who it would shape us to become. I’m not glad that you struggled. But I’m glad we got to see your struggle, because it showed us that you were a real person, that you weren’t perfect, that you didn’t have everything in the world figured out, not even close, and I understand, now, that this is important for kids to know. I understand, because my boys see their own ability to overcome in my mistakes and insecurities and shortcomings.
Now I understand that it wasn’t about being a perfect person so much as it was about being a good human being. Not that you ever made me feel like it was about perfection as a kid. I put that heavy expectation on myself, when all you really wanted was for me to be brave and kind and true to myself. I get it now, because I have boys I drop off at public school, where a world can tell them who they are faster than I can assess the damage. I understand what it’s like to fight for who they are in a place that values perfect behavior and perfect concentration and perfect execution of things like grades and sports and all the extras on the side. I understand that it’s not about behaving so much as it’s about becoming, because that’s all I want for my boys, too—to become strong, kind, true-to-themselves young men who see a world that needs changing and aren’t afraid to do the work.
Now I understand.
Thank you so much for the example you were. Thank you for the hero you still are. I could not have asked for a better mother.
In this week’s On My Shelf I talk about gothic romance writer Victoria Holt, how writing felt hard this week, the music of Ed Sheeran and a new Netflix series I’m watching.
Husband: Does Mama know what you do at all times?
3-year-old: No.
Husband: Yes. Mama always knows. Mama knows everything and sees everything.
5-year-old: If we tell someone a secret, will Mama hear it?
Husband:
5-year-old:
Husband: Yes.
Me: Before you go outside to play, you have to clean your room.
8-year-old: I don’t have to. You just want me to.
Me: It’s a mess. I’d say you have to clean it now, because it’s a national disaster in there.
8-year-old: I’m a writer, a film maker and an inventor. I am not a room cleaner.
Me:
8-year-old:
Me: I can’t think of anything to say.
3-year-old: Are we having berries for lunch, Mama?
Me: Yes. We’re having strawberries for lunch.
3-year-old: But are we having berries, Mama?
Me: I just said yes. We’re having strawberries. Strawberries are berries.
3-year-old: NO! THEY’RE STRAWBERRIES!
Me:
5-year-old: (just got back from his brother’s art lessons, where he always gets a lollipop. High on sugar). I LOVE CRAYONS! I LOVE LOLLIPOPS! I LOVE UNICORNS!
Me:
A few weeks ago I took a Sabbath rest from my writing. I do this every seven weeks to give my brain and fingers and stories a rest, so I can come back fresh and ready, and I can protect against burnout.
Normally I use those “working” hours to learn something new or just read and relax or work on other arts and crafts that I don’t normally have time to do. But this Sabbath was the last one before my boys went back to school. So I decided to do something different. I decided to take an entire hour each day and just spend it with each of my boys, individually.
In a household as large as mine, I don’t often have the opportunity to hang out with my boys alone. So I wasn’t even sure what we would do, but I scheduled the time and let them know it was coming. I didn’t have to worry about making plans, because they already had their own plans.
The oldest was first. He wanted to do a puzzle for the first half hour, and then he wanted to write a picture book story together, where he would supply the picture and I would write a story for each page. It was a fun collaboration project that we both really enjoyed and are finishing up soon.
The second-oldest just wanted to do puzzles the whole time, so we talked about his upcoming year of school and how he’ll be in the first grade and whether he thinks he’ll have any of his friends in his class. The third-oldest wanted to do puzzles and read together, which was just fine by me, again. The 3-year-old twins didn’t make it a whole hour (more like 15 minutes), but they just wanted to talk—or ask questions about everything in the world until my eyes glazed over and I started answering, “I don’t know. I don’t know, baby.”
What I found during that time is that my boys became much more connected to me and much more compliant when they burst into the room later and I had to tell them that I was working hard to learn a new program or I was right in the middle of reading a book that I wanted to finish before the week was up, so they needed to shut the door on their way back out. They understood me better. I understood them better. We reestablished our connection.
What I found, coming back from that time of connection, is that my art was richer for the time we had spent together.
There is something about getting out of your normal routine, changing things up a bit, that can make you much more creative when you come back to the drawing board.
So many people nurse the fear that if they give up a whole week of writing, they will lose momentum on whatever project they’ve got going. I felt this way, too, in the beginning. Because I post a blog every Monday, and I was steadily growing an audience around that blog, wouldn’t I lose some of that audience if I had a Monday where a blog didn’t post?
But statistics (which I don’t always like to look at anyway) didn’t tell that story. In fact, my statistics continued to grow steadily.
And I felt much more energized as a writer for my week away from the keyboard.
When we are writers who work from home and don’t go into offices and only do this pursuit, it’s easy to slip into a more-than-full-time work pace, where we fill all the margins with work, because every moment is precious and needed. But working day in and day out, five days a week or seven days a week for the rest of our lives, with no rests in between, can lead us more surely into burnout than success.
If we’re parents, that means that our days are already filled with all the activity that children bring, and we don’t normally get a day off from that. We’re always on. Always on in our family, always on in our work, always on in our lives.
So rest time is doubly important for those who are doing it with children in tow.
Resting from our week makes us more able to do great work. Connecting with our children means we can more effectively connect with our art. We open greater depths in our hearts, which spills out into our work, when we are living life with our whole heart.
If it feels hard to find time for a Sabbath in your normal work load, here are some suggestions:
1. Begin by doubling up one week.
I did this at the beginning of my Sabbath practice. If I had anything that was regularly scheduled, I would double up on it the week before the Sabbath. In other words, the week before my Sabbath rest, I would write two blogs and four story installments and 12,000 words on that book instead of just 6,000. This won’t work indefinitely (and isn’t really the point), but for those just starting out, it can provide a sort of security blanket, because they’ve still produced the same amount of regular content. Just don’t try this for long.
2. Be okay with leaving something unfinished.
I’ve taken several Sabbath weeks this year. Before only one of them (the most recent one) was I able to finish a book’s rough draft in a nice and tidy spot. All the other times I left a book hanging right in the middle of it. This is a scary thing to do, because what if we don’t get back and finish it? What if there’s a noticeable snag in the draft that makes people wonder what exactly happened there?
These are all valid concerns. But they’re really unnecessary. Because, most of the time, what I’ve found is that when I come back from my Sabbath week, I’m that much more able to tackle that plot line again, sometimes with better ideas. That’s because leaving a story for a Sabbath rest doesn’t mean that story is out of our subconscious. Our subconscious often works things out without our even knowing, so giving it space can be good.
3. Use the week to learn something new.
Some people don’t like doing nothing. So learn something new. Spend the week learning about how to effectively market a book. Teach yourself how to sew. Pick up an old project from college and see if you can make it readable. There’s always so, so much to learn as authors, and exercising a Sabbath week doesn’t mean that we can’t still grow as writers and authors.
4. Hang out with the kids.
There’s so much inspirational creativity in our children. When we spend more time with them, some of that creativity becomes ours. We become better at what we do because of the time we take hanging out with our kids. It makes us better parents, and it makes us better writers.
And it’s so valuable to teach our children the beauty of rest. We live in such a rush-rush-rush world, and if we can model what it looks like to take a whole week off work and not worry about the money or what’s going to happen after this one week, they will learn Sabbath rest is something that’s not only possible but something that’s desirable.
5. But try not to write.
Now. I still wrote in my journal during my Sabbath, because it’s not a journal that will ever see the light of day. It’s just my unloading journal. So this wasn’t work, it was survival. I feel better when I’ve started my morning writing 800 words to get things off my chest. I could approach my Sabbath in the right frame of mind because of it.
Writing work should be put on hold for the whole seven days.
I hope you try it. I would love to hear how it goes.
We’ve been working on manners in our house. This might seem like a losing battle with a bunch of boys who think it’s hilarious to arm-fart while they’re covering their mouth coughing, but nobody ever said I wasn’t up for a challenge. I am the only female in a household of seven males, after all. Challenge accepted.
By far the rudest people in my house are my 3-year-old twins.
They make demands, no matter how many times we tell them we’re not demand-givers. They brutally tell the truth (“Are you having another baby, Mama?” No, little devil sweet boy, that’s just the after-pregnancy pooch. Seven months later.). They pick up words from their older brothers and try to use them in sentences that don’t make sense (“I need very literally to the potty.” What does that even mean, son?). They love the word NO, in all caps. They have their own opinions about what they think should happen, and it’s not ever what you think should happen. Never.
If you have the great privilege of living with or caring for a 3-year-old on a daily basis, you’re probably very familiar with the following:
Me: Please put your shoes on. We need to take your brothers to school.
3-year-old: NO!
Me: Yes.
3-year-old: But I too tired.
Me: Okay. You can stay here and go to bed.
3-year-old: Actually I hungry.
Me: You just ate three eggs and a two pancakes. There’s nothing left.
3-year-old: But I firsty.
Me: You can get a drink at the water fountain after we drop your brothers off.
3-year-old: But there are crayons on the floor.
Me: I’m getting tired of your buts.
3-year-old: Mama! You said butt!
Me: Just get your shoes on.
3-year-old: NO!
On and on and on it goes, until I’m carrying a screaming child out of the house at 7:15 in the morning (sorry again, neighbors) because he wanted to put on his shoes himself and I had to do it.
It’s like talking to a completely incompetent human being. Oh, wait. Silly me. It’s not like. It is. BECAUSE 3-YEAR-OLDS ARE COMPLETELY INCOMPETENT HUMAN BEINGS.
You see, 3-year-olds aren’t all that great at remembering that there are other people in the world. They don’t really want to know how else anything is done besides the way they want to do it.
Me: You have to pull the tongue of the shoe out, you see? Your shoe magically fits now.
3-year-old (starting over): No! That’s not how you do it!
They can’t really compute that not everything in the world is going to go their way.
3-year-old: I want the purple plate. (Gets the blue plate, because a purple plate doesn’t even exist. Cries for the next half hour because of a plate that doesn’t exist).
They don’t know how to learn from their mistakes.
Me: Sit down. I don’t want you to fall.
(3-year-old stays standing and falls out of his chair, out of his brother’s chair and face first onto the hard tile floor. Console him and make sure he isn’t really hurt.)
Me: See. That wouldn’t have happened if you had been sitting down. Now get back in your seat and sit down on your bottom.
(Turn around to cut the last strawberries. Turn back around to see 3-year-old still standing in almost the exact position he was before, except this time he’s dancing on one foot).
I’ve discovered that finding humor in the speech mess-ups my 3-year-olds make is one of the only things that keeps me from walking out on them when they’re fighting for 45 minutes about whether the exact same Lightning McQueen cars are the dark red Lightning McQueen or the light red Lightning McQueen. (The answer is neither. They’re the EXACT SAME CAR.)
So I’ve made this handy little list so I can remember and laugh and find my way back into thanks for these two 3-year-olds who fill my house with mayhem laughter.
1. Demands.
These can sound calm, like a simple, “Get me some milk” or “I need my shoes” or “I want a peach.” Or they can come from a belligerent 3-year-old who’s been taught the correct way to ask but just won’t, because 3-year-olds.
3-year-old: Get me some milk.
Me: …
3-year-old: I firsty.
Me: Nice to meet you, firsty.
3-year-old: Get me some milk, Mama. (A little louder this time)
Me: I don’t do anything for boys who demand.
3-year-old: I NEED MILK!
Me: Not when you ask like that.
3-year-old: GET ME MILK, MAMA!
I can play this game all day, because it usually happens at dinner and I’ve got my wine.
2. Buts.
I have some strong-willed 3-year-olds, and I hear a whole lot of buts.
Me: It’s time to brush your teeth.
3-year-old: But I not finished playing.
Me: I know it’s hard to quit playing. Right now it’s time to brush your teeth.
3-year-old: But we dinnent eat durnner.
Me: Yes we did. You had five pieces of pizza.
3-year-old: But we dinnent get to play.
Me: What are you doing right now?
3-year-old:
Me:
3-year-old: But I need a drink.
Me: Go brush your teeth.
Other 3-year-old (eats half the toothpaste while I’m occupied with his twin brother.)
There are also the buts that don’t make sense.
Me: It’s time to go upstairs, where you’re supposed to be.
3-year-old: But my cup is itchy.
Something tells me I don’t want to know what that means.
Me: Please don’t leave the door open.
3-year-old: But my eyes are tired.
Me: Don’t chew on your shoes. It’s really gross.
3-year-old: But my legs are itchy.
I wonder why. *Shudder*
3. Completely wrong words.
My twins have great vocabularies. The problem is, they haven’t really paid attention to the context in which those words are used. So their tries sound something like this:
3-year-old: I dinnent do my hisand today.
Me: You didn’t what?
3-year-old: I dinnent do my hisand today.
Me: I have no idea what you’re saying. Do we have an interpreter available?
3-year-old: I DINNENT DO MY HISAND TODAY.
8-year-old: He’s saying he didn’t do his highs and lows today.
Good thing there are older brothers.
3-year-old: I sweatering really bad.
Me: You’re what?
3-year-old: I sweatering really bad.
Me: You mean you’re sweating?
3-year-old: Yeah. I sweatering.
So close.
3-year-old: I have to very poo poo.
Me: …
4. Consonants are hard.
Consonants are not the friends of 3-year-olds in certain instances. Those certain instances would be words like “costume,” which will become “cossayume;” “actually,” which will become “ashaley;” and “shirt,” which will become “shit” (You’ll want to have a video camera trained on the kid who does this. You may even want to make a Christmas video with the kid saying, “Oh, shirt! Merry Christmas!” and send it to all your friends and family, which we definitely did not do. I’m just throwing out ideas here.)
For all their arguing and mispronouncing and demanding, 3-year-olds can be a-holes truly delightful little people. I’m really glad I have two of them, and I’m not looking forward to their fourth birthday at all, because, dang, I just want them to stay 3 forever and ever and ever.
I’ll just say what all the other parents of 3-year-olds are thinking: Sometimes it’s a good thing time marches on.
I run a monthly book club, because I like to read and I love getting together with a small group of women to chat about our husbands books. We meet once a month, stuffing our faces with chocolate (because it’s the only time we get to eat it without kids or husbands around) and pouring each other wine until way past our bedtimes.
Husband and the boys know when it’s time for my book club meeting, because I’m typically in the kitchen trying to finish icing those dark chocolate brownies with the dark chocolate buttercream icing I just whipped up in a bowl (because I’m also OCD about the food we eat). (Also, just a note for all you foodies: Don’t ever ask me for recipes, unless you want to get angry enough to karate chop my face. I’m terrible at recipes. I know how I make things, and I’m not sharing. Mostly because I don’t even know how it happens. I just pour and mix and get lucky. My mom called me the other day asking how I make my delicious icing. “Um…butter, vanilla extract and powdered sugar,” I said lamely. Just look it up, guys. We live in a Pinterest world, after all.)
My book club ladies and I meet late enough in the evening where I can help with after-dinner chores and bathing the boys and even beginning their evening story time so Husband isn’t completely overwhelmed with putting six boys to bed (It takes 16 people to do a good job. Since it’s just the two of us most of the time, that means we’re doing a…perfect job, of course.).
But sometimes my pumpkin sugar cookie experiment doesn’t quite (shockingly!) turn out the way I really wanted it to, and I have to take a quick trip to the store for some Unreal chocolate candy. In which case, I usually leave right after dinner and so Husband has to execute the after-dinner chores six-on-one. He says he’ll be just fine. I think it probably won’t happen. He says of course they’ll do their chores. I think yeah right. I don’t say what I’m thinking, of course. I wouldn’t want to defeat the man before I’m even out the door. I’ll let him try.
You can see from the picture that after-dinner chores obviously didn’t happen. Why are yesterday’s onions still sitting in that bowl, on top of the cutting board you cut them on like they didn’t even move? Answer: Because only a crazy person would touch after-dinner chores with six boys and only one parent home to referee. I totally understand. I don’t like it, but what am I going to do? Certainly not stay home.
I’ve been running this book club for more than a year now. I have returned home at 11 p.m. to Husband playing some songs to friends on periscope and an 8-year-old still reading upstairs in the library because someone forgot to tell him it was time for lights out. I have returned to 3-year-old twins dressed in their seven-month-old brother’s pajamas (It’s not even spandex. It’s a second skin with dinosaurs on it.) because someone didn’t check to make sure they weren’t tearing their room apart with already-folded clothes. I have returned to a 5-year-old curled up on the floor outside our bedroom and Husband in the bedroom with headphones on watching a movie.
It’s not that Husband can’t handle six boys. I mean, he was a boy himself once. He’s told me horror stories about the things that he and his brother used to do (We have so much coming). We just do things differently, that’s all.
Yeah. We just do things differently.
So, when I’m done shaking my head about how that rock-hard piece of bread possibly made it past the eyes of the parent on duty who wasn’t me and into the top bunk of a 3-year-old, where it was smashed all underneath his thrashing body during the night (because that’s how 3-year-olds sleep), I usually just thank Husband for trying again.
Cleaning up a toilet papered bathroom is totally worth taking a mom’s night out. Every single time.
