Visions and Revisions

Late with manuscript revisions, and almost every night I awake in a panic attack, convinced that the next morning will bring word from my agent and/or editor: "Know what? Never mind." Instead, they've been nothing but patient and supportive, though we are all eager to be finished, and none so desperately as me. Like a mirage, I always think the end is closer than it is, but I'm closing in.

Some days it's great, and others it's like trying to walk a stubborn 80-pound Lab, who keeps wanting to stop and roll around in something dead. In other words, I'm not entirely in control of the process. As I neared the end of the first draft, back in November, I realized I was trying to tell two stories at the same time, with two distinctly different themes and tones. My editor concurred. Making the necessary revisions was like separating conjoined twins. Not easy for this Mama to do. I don't know if the thousands of words I cut out will develop into something else down the road, but I do know that the surviving story is much livelier now, and more fun for me.

Some people find enlightenment in exotic places; I seem to find it at cub scout meetings. "Do Your Best" is a powerful insurance policy against 3 a.m. panic attacks. As I've printed off each revised chapter, I've felt the satisfaction of knowing those pages are the best I can make them (at least until my editor shows me where I can make them better). It's powerful, because so much worse than the fear of blowing it by not being on time, or not selling books, or getting bad reviews, is the fear of putting something half-assed out there. I feel like I can face every other worst-case scenario as long as I know I did my best.

I hope to be able to give you a publication date very soon. Thanks for checking in.

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Arrow of Light

My newly minted eleven-year-old crossed over to Boy Scouts tonight after five years as a Cub, a monumental achievement, given that his mother barely lasted two weeks in Brownies. I was as proud as if I had produced the first college graduate in our family history. It was an elaborate ceremony, with the Boy Scouts and Troop Leaders sitting opposite the Cubs, waiting to admit them to their ranks. I may have briefly struggled with the urge to lead the assembly with the Spongebob Movie anthem, "Now That We're Men," but mostly I had to blink back tears, watching our solemn and proud boys face us, their parents and den leaders, and prepare to shift their allegiance. Every single one of them so fine, straight and true. Every one of them so ready to make that crossing, like every eleven year old boy that ever lived.

It deserves a ceremony. Some say it requires one.

As I watched them waiting for their names to be called, the cheesiness of the props and the cliche of the Native American references fell away, and I felt like we were all participating in something as sacred and as old as time. Whatever it's called, however it's done, it serves a purpose. The boys were almost visibly vibrating with the resonance of the symbolic call to cross over.

I have my issues with the Boy Scouts of America, as I do with just about any institution, and from time to time, I've been known to poke fun at knee socks on grown men in short pants. Also, if we stay married through one more Pinewood Derby, it will be a miracle. But I've come to appreciate it for what both my sons (and next year, I imagine, a third) get from it: guidance, adventure, and exposure to organizational skills that--face it--are in short supply at home. (A requirement in my son's handbook: "Make a list of maintenance tasks required to keep a household running smoothly." Me, to my son: "Just walk around the house and make note of everything you see.")

But there's more to it than that. I don't have the first clue how to raise boys into men. Their father does, but it takes more than one role model. There are no male teachers at our elementary school, and while I don't consider it a handicap to be surrounded by strong, loving, capable women, something's missing from my kids' education. They find it at Scouts, thanks to the wonderful men who serve as our pack and troop leaders. And so I'm grateful to them, knee socks and all, for being there, tonight and every week, ushering my sons safely forward, welcoming them to the company of men.

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Might as well jump.

Remember Tom Hudson, my photographer friend who has a tendency to jump in when people need help?

He's on his way to Haiti today, having helped to mobilize a skilled and experienced aid team out of Little Rock in a few short days.  You can keep up with the journey on their public Facebook group and on Tom's twitter feed. Or just keep all of them, and the people they are trying to help, in your thoughts and prayers.

Thanks.

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Dancing Clothes

After nearly thirty minutes of holding up tops and bottoms and guessing at sizes, I had settled on the soft mint green ones. "Gilligan O'Malley pajamas," my mother had said, when I asked her what she wanted for Christmas. She loves to shop at Target when she comes to visit, and she particularly loves that line. The green flannel set was just like something she would pick for herself, I knew--comfy and cuddly. Just the kind of thing a grandma would wear.

I was about to wheel my cart down the aisle toward the shoe section, to see if I could find a pair of coveted high heels for my five year old niece (a calculated move in a campaign to get elected Favorite Auntie for Life), when I brushed past a rack of silky nighties.

Negligees, I thought, remembering my mother's word for her sleepwear when I was a little girl who played dress up in her strappy evening shoes, pretending it was my turn to go to the ball. I reached out and fingered the satin, recalling her in the mornings, her cropped chestnut curls tousled, her lovely long legs moving beneath something sheer and flowing as she made us hot breakfast, her always-tanned decollete soft and warm when she pulled us close. My father bought nightgowns for her as birthday and Christmas presents, and she would always vamp for him in the newest one, as my sister and I admired. They loved each other beyond divorce, to the end of his life, but back then there was a passion between them of which my sister, three and half critical years younger, has no memory. But I remember them dancing close on the living room floor, seeing them kiss in the kitchen, hearing curious noises from behind their bedroom door at night, before the sad and angry sounds replaced them.

They divorced, and he died, and she lives alone now in the home she made for herself, overlooking a sea that is the same blue-grey as her eyes. Her hair and skin are still golden-brown, and her bosom is still a warm and welcoming place to rest a child's head, as my sister's children, who live around the corner, well know. She has many, many friends of both genders and all ages, but there has been no man in her life to replace my father. She used to talk lightly about finding someone, but not so much anymore. I think maybe she has given up, if she was ever really looking. I think she feels that part of life is behind her. She jokes that she has gotten too old and too heavy, but she is sixty-six, vibrant and still beautiful. I know there is someone wonderful out there who would love to dance close with her.

She doesn't need anyone. She is complete and her life is rich. But I would love for her to find romance with someone kind and adoring, who would give her lacy things and awaken the vamp again. Passion with more laughter, less heartache. Easy for me to say, from my forty-year-old vantage point, I know. I shouldn't presume.

I slid the hangers along the chrome rack like abacus beads. Calculating. This one. It was a satin leopard print, elegant but unequivocally sexy. It annoys me when people invoke the dead to approve their own agenda, but the thought came with quiet certainty: Daddy would want her to have this. This and more.

I took the flannel p.j.'s out of the cart, and put the leopard print negligee in, adding a few pieces in her favorite color, a deep burgundy, to mix and match with it. All together, two gowns, palazzo pants and a wrap. An ensemble she could wear unblushingly while cooking porridge on a Sunday morning for my niece and nephew, but at the same time feel glamorous in. I finished my shopping and went home to wrap the presents and meet the international shipping deadline.

As I tucked all the pretty things in tissue paper and white boxes, I imagined them being unwrapped on arrival. I hoped my niece would open her gift at the same time as Mom. The little shoes were satin too--black, with sparkly rhinestones--a child-safe, but genuinely high heel that I would probably forbid if it were my daughter. I smiled a little wickedly, feeling like a devilish fairy godmother: magical wardrobe mistress, grantor of secret wishes, maker of dancing queens and princesses. Wishing I had wings, and could be there to see them vamp.

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Little Who Two

My five year-old loves his position as the baby of the family, but since Roscoe came, is glorying in finally being bigger than someone. "We could call him Little Who Two," he suggested, on the night the Christmas puppy arrived. Little Who One has scarcely put him down since. In spite of Roscoe growing at an alarming rate of 100 per cent a week, he lugs him everywhere: to the food dish, to the chew toys, to bed. He runs a kind of frantic interference between the puppy and Lucy, our calico cat, who is so far unamused, and has left strategically placed poops telegraphing her deep displeasure.

Our dautweiler, Fanny, is mostly an outdoor dog, with a fenced yard, a heated shelter and a daily walk. She is not a good family pet, but I don't feel like I can make her anyone else's problem either. I have a foolish hope that the puppy might calibrate her pack instincts, and integrate her more into our lives.

"Santa's bringing you a baby," I told her, on our walks leading up to Christmas. She wagged her tail.

On Christmas morning, and most days since, I let her and Roscoe have a little supervised bonding time. Roscoe is way more into Fanny than she is into him.

"Why do you keep bringing me this dog?" she seems to say, jumping up on me with a slightly panicked grin and crazy eyes.

So much for an adoptive mother for Roscoe. A deranged aunt, maybe.

Patrick, whose big idea this was, is staying true to his word that he would be the primary caregiver. "Your dog needs to go out," I say, and off he goes into the cold pre-dawn without a word. "Your dog left you a little something on your office floor," I tell him, and he duly gets up and fetches the paper towels. The boys help too. It's nice. I feel like a father from the fifties. There's nothing for me to do but chuck the puppy under the chin when he's looking cute.

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The Cusp

He stands in the music section of Barnes and Noble, the twenty dollar gift card burning a hole in his pocket, indecision burning a hole in his heart. In one hand, he clutches yet another definitive field guide to Pokemon, the cartoon characters that have been his obsession since first grade. In the other, an object of recent desire, a newly remastered Beatles cd. He is ten years old for only seven more days. He is moving into the in-between place. Moving out of childhood.

One night, several weeks ago, I peeked into his bedroom, and saw the baby in his sleeping face. The glimpses of that are so rare now. I gazed from the doorway a long moment, not knowing if I would ever catch that sweet sight again.

I wonder how aware he is of where he stands poised, how much consciousness undergirds the angst he feels as he weighs the little boy's book against the young man's music. I remember being his age, holding my favorite doll and stuffed animal to my breast at night, weeping quietly with the knowledge that I was passing from their world into another, one where I wouldn't be able to hear them speak.

Sometimes I look at my own weathered, sun-spotted hand, and am amazed to think it is the very same hand that once closed around my mother's finger, and grabbed at my father's beard. It feels like we move on as we go through life, but we never leave our own skin. I wonder if my baby self ever visits my face at night.

He chooses the Beatles album, and in spite of--or through--my own poignant projections, I'm pleased. I discovered their music the summer I was eleven, and listened to nothing else until I got through junior high. It's a good map.

We get home and rip the cd to his new MP3 player. Not many "pretend" toys in his pile this year. I toss it to him over the back of the couch, and he catches it. "Thanks, Mom!" He can rest his chin on my shoulder easily. It's time for braces, and middle school, and talks that I am nowhere near ready to deliver.

He puts on the headphones, and jumps to his feet, bigger than mine. My little boy is gone, I think. Into a world where he won't hear me speak.

Then he skips across the family room like a runaway shadow, and I smile and think, not yet.

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Then one foggy Christmas Eve...

With each pregnancy, Patrick put forth the name "Roscoe" as a contender, in honor of a favorite great-uncle. Cooler heads fortunately prevailed.

"Forget it," I said, adamantly, three times in a row. "You can name a dog Roscoe. Not a kid of mine."

Meet Roscoe.


Photo by foster mom and Little Rock Family photographer and art director Waynette Traub. Thanks to all the co-conspirators in our Christmas Eve surprise!

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Thinking outside the (amazon) box.

On the fourth day before Christmas, my true love gave to me an Atomic Cerebral Enhance-O-Tron. God knows I need it.

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You better watch OUT...

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good Boy this year. On my list will be five things. I want a lego star wars Imperial Cruser (Lego) a new safe with a twist combination a button press combination and a thumb scanner. (do all three to open) I also want an I Touch and the new night vision goggles from eyeclops. But the thing I want most

Is a new
PUPPY
one that is part Jack russel terier and part chiwahwa.
P.S. me my dad and brothers all want one

**

Dear Santa,

This year I want a DSI, DSI Action replay, DS Action replay, Action replay for wii, an Xbox, Utiment aliance 1 and 2 for xbox, squee ball for wii, ALL of the pokemon movies and a flat screen TV.

That was the TV stuff, now here's the toys. Star wars legos and a soccer. Everything else in Other. A bike, some drums, a REAL puppy, a lot of candy and to switch rooms with my little brother. My big brother should get a science kit to turn me into a lizard so I can skip math, science and social studies. I hope you have a lot of luck delevering presents!

Your friend.

P.S. I forgot some stuff: Laptop, spy stuff, a suit (on back) and a phone.

***

Dear Santa,

This year I want a lot of stuff, here they are...

1. Bionicle
2. DSI
3. Transformer (Devestator)
4. Legos
5. football

Sincerly.

P.S. I've been a good boy this year.

****

Dear Santa,

I already have everything I could possibly want. Merry Christmas. Love, Kyran.



P.S. If you bring a puppy into this house, you have to clean up after it.

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Beautiful Mess

I've lived in America for thirteen years. I still have days when I think, that's it, we're through. Who could live with a country like this?

Then I wake up some mornings to the smell of pie baking, and she's gone and dressed all the little brown kids as pilgrims, and the little white kids as Indians, and it's all so sweetly absurd and sincere, that I fall in love all over again, and go on believing all the promises I know she'll keep breaking.

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