Mabel's House

Expectations Are Resentments Waiting To Happen

2013-06-18T04:00:00.000-07:00

My friend Cathy Shaneyfelt once told me something that totally rerouted my brain processes. I was eating chili at a girls potluck, gabbing with everyone, talking about Halloween costumes, and then Cathy said:

"Expectations are resentments waiting to happen."

I don't remember what we were talking about specifically, but I do remember nearly choking on my chili. At the time I had boatloads of expectations, and life was not a sunny place. I wrestled with this concept for a while, because in my mind I kept thinking, "But what's life without dreams and expectations?"

I've come to believe there's a great gap between dreams and expectations. They are not the same thing. To dream is to enjoy, to fantasize, to hope for the best and proceed in doing your best to make it happen, somewhere, somehow. Expectations are different than dreams. Expectations are rigid. Expectations are passive. They sit and wait and expect that fairy dust will sprinkle itself over things and poof... "it" will happen in exactly the way we preordained it in our minds.

Dreams are elastic and changing and magic.

Expectations are rigid, rule-based, and ultimately, potentially, devastatingly, disappointing.

I'd like to think of my life as a good combination of dreams and effort. I dream of things, and then hopefully I put pen to paper, or feet to ground, or sweat to brow and do my best to create an environment where those dreams can happen.

But expectations, those suckers can make me very unhappy.

I remembered Cathy's advice last night. I was stomping around, trying to clean the kitchen and get a load of laundry done before bed. Jane had cried on and off every 30 minutes since going to sleep. Matt and I weren't in the best of moods at each other, and on top of everything he got called back into work. I've been sick on and off for over a month. We'd had yet another weekend filled with illness and bad moods and a serious lack of fun. And boy was I EVER in a raunchy mental state.

I turned on some music, lit some candles on the window sill over the sink, and proceeded to wash the dishes by hand. I chewed on my bad mood like an old piece of gum until I realized the expectation virus had struck yet again.

I expect to be healthy.

I expect to have fun on the weekends.

I expect a clean house.

I expect a husband and child who are always happy.

I expect...

Uh-Oh.

Anyone else smell that?

That's what I like to call the scent of a burning martyr.

So I stood there, watching the candles flicker and listening to the static of Jane's baby monitor, and I thought about the difference between my dreams and my expectations. My expectations make me frustrated and passive. And yes, they make me a martyr. My dreams on the other hand, those fill me with excitement and hope.

I believe that the way we think, the way our minds work and dwell, has great impact for our lives. I believe it impacts our relationships, our jobs, and yes, our dreams. Just the simple act of thinking creates the worlds we end up living in. And I believe when expectations rule our thinking, it is a poison in our lives. I'm convinced of it. It is a slow burning, martyr making, dream killing, poison.

I finished washing the dishes and said a quick prayer. I asked God to heal my mind. That's a biggie isn't it? Seems a big melodramatic? Maybe. But ever since I experienced depression in my life, having a healed mind is much more important than I ever could have imagined. Once you know what it's like to have the cheese slide off your cracker, you realize how critical a calm, peaceful, God-filled mind is. You realize how much our minds impact our realities. You realize that having a mind choked with expectations can be the kiss of death to peace, and happiness, and dreams.

So today is a fresh start. Today is a day I begin without expectations. Dreams, yes. Expectations, no. It's alright if our weekends are chaotic and filled with whining and runny noses and hurt feelings. It's alright if no one is happy at the moment. It's alright if the house is filthy and Jane doesn't have anything clean to wear to daycare on a Monday morning. It's really and truly alright if these expectations go flying out the window.

When I was battling postpartum I realized that this train, my life, is driving itself. The trains we all ride on are driving themselves. We don't wear the striped conductor's hat. We don't sit behind the wheel.

We're just riding.

We ride on trains that are driving themselves every day, our entire lives. We only delude ourselves that it's all somehow in our hands; the speed, the tracks, the destination. We delude ourselves that our meager little expectations will have any impact on the train what-so-ever. The only thing we control is ourselves. We rumble around inside these trains, doing our best, dreaming our dreams, praying to God... and if we're wise... expecting nothing.

Expectations are resentments waiting to happen.

Thank you, Cathy Shaneyfelt, for sharing this with me.

It has meant more than I can ever say.

"The hope of the righteous brings joy, but the expectation of the wicked will perish."
Proverbs 10:28

Vanilla is My Favorite

2013-06-17T06:44:00.001-07:00

So, this is our kitchen. In my dreams it has retro tile-work. And vintage bar stools.

But other than that, I like it.

I also love that it has white appliances.

It's clean. And vanilla. But that's OK. Vanilla is my favorite.

Something strange has happened to me since we moved into our new house.

I've stopped decorating as much.

GASP.

Somehow I'm not in as much of a pinch as I used to be.

Somehow, I'm not as concerned with everything being "pulled together."

Somehow... a miracle has occurred.

Granted, this means less blog material.

Speaking of vintage bar stools... anyone know where I could find some?

You Will Wear a Lot of Hats

2013-06-13T09:20:00.001-07:00

I work at a university. Have I ever mentioned that here?

Throughout the course of a year I hear so many students talk about what they will "be" in life.

"I'm going to be a doctor."

"I'm going to be a business owner."

"I'm going to be an accountant."

"I'm going to be an actor."

After all, they are here for those things. They're here to figure out how they will make money and support themselves throughout their adult lives (although lots of us end up doing something very far from the tree of our college major).

But as I watch them discuss these things with such assurance, as they put these dreams into words and send them out into the world, I want to give them all a hug. I think making statements such as (and this is the one closest to home for me) "I'm going to be a writer" can set you up for some seriously skewed expectations.

Because the truth is, you'll will never "be" just one thing. What you major in, what you do for an income, isn't necessarily what defines you. And yet, we're sort of programmed to think that way, aren't we? We're programmed to think, "If I'm not earning my living doing what I love, then I've failed."

Last year I had an opportunity to talk to some students in a class setting, and I told them this:

"You will wear a lot of hats."

I see more and more the message of "do you what you love" being blasted into our ears. Yes, earning a living doing what you love is the pinnacle of career/mental well being. But, as my grandmother would say, "Who's going to clean the toilets?"

The truth is, there are a lot of very happy janitors out there. There are a lot of happy psychologists, bus drivers, accountants and cable installers. They are multi-faceted people who work hard, earn a living, and go home to a whole new set of hats. Maybe they're artists. Or part time photographers. They're mothers. They're fathers. They're church VBS committee members.

I work as a Program Manager. That's a very fancy way of saying Office-Manager-Coffee-Getter-Budget-Ballancer-Travel-Event-Planner-All-Around-Supreme-Gopher. This was not my plan. I planned to be writer. But I've come to realize these are two different hats, two very good hats, and I get to wear them both. Thank goodness life isn't an either-or scenario.

You are not a failure if you clean toilets. You are not a failure if you don't become a self-sufficient artist.

In this life you will wear many, many of wonderful hats.

"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving."
-Colossians 3:23-24

For Serious

2013-06-12T06:35:00.001-07:00

So. Strep. Three weeks of the plagues and counting. This needs to stop. For serious.

My Girl

2013-06-11T06:10:00.001-07:00

Jane hardly stays in bed at night. She gets up, climbs in her rocking chair and reads to herself.

She sings all the time.

Life lessons are in full force, especially "you obey when I tell you to come here."

She repeats everything with alarming clarity.

She gives me her boogers.

She tolerates potty training, but she's not totally buying it.

Last night at dinner, out of the blue, she stopped eating, put down her fork and screamed, "Noooo, don't bite me!" It's nice to know the lessons are taking.

A Desk in the Corner: Inspiration and Brass Tacks

2013-06-10T04:00:00.000-07:00

When I get questions about writing, I always feel kind of squirmy. The entire act of creating through writing is a shifty gray area, and applying hard and fast rules and regulations to it is a bit like trying to pin down jello. If you're looking for an outline, a blue print, or a game plan... it ain't out there. You have to trudge through most of those soggy gray areas all by your lonesome and find out what works for you.

But since I do get these questions fairly often in my inbox, I will try to answer as best I can from my perspective. And please remember it's just that. My perspective.

One of the questions I get the most is about inspiration. How do I find inspiration? How do I decide what I'm going to write about? How much do you write per day, per week? When do you find time to write? How long should it take to finish a book?

I like to call these things the brass tacks of writing.

How do I find inspiration?

Here's how I see it. Inspiration is a shifty fellow. You have to follow where she leads. So the first bit of advice I could give, as so far as it's worked for me, is don't hold on too tightly to that outline.

If you feel like writing on your current book project, go for it.

If you don't like where Chapter 4 is going, skip ahead and work on Chapter 5.

If you wake up and feel like writing about the time your great aunt Eleanor farted at a funeral and blamed it on your little sister, but that has nothing to do with the book you're working on, go for it anyway.

This past week I was in a checkout line and the people in front of me got into a fight and the woman yelled, "Oh REALLY? Well remember THAT the next time you want me to put medicine on your toe warts!" And I looked up to the ceiling and whispered, "Thank you, I know how to finish Chapter 8 now."

In summation, my best advice about finding inspiration is just unclench a little bit. Go with the flow. Don't worry about how long it's taking you finish a chapter, or how long it will take you to finish the book, or any of that stuff. Be willing to let the wind steer you sometimes. Eavesdrop in the checkout line of your local grocery store. That's when I do my best writing.

How do I decide what I'm going to write?

When I was in college I was stumped as to how to pick a major. My dad solved the problem for me when he said, "You better pick something you love doing, because you're going to do it until it comes out your nose."

I apply the same logic to picking a book project. Is it something that lights me on fire with excitement? It better be, because it's a major time and mind commitment. Make sure you love it, obsess over it, dream about it... that's how you decide what you need to write.

How much do you write per day/per week? When do you find time to write?

I'd love to say I have a set writing schedule. I'd love to say I hold to the hard and fast "2000 words a day" rule. But my life doesn't really permit that. For those of us that have full time jobs, kids, significant others, friends, church, hobbies... the idea of writing four or five hours every day just isn't feasible. I don't feel guilty about that. Truthfully, I grab time when I can get it. An hour here, two hours there.

For instance, last Monday night Matt was out with friends, Jane was in bed, and the house was quiet. My friend Jenna came over to watch a basketball game (she doesn't have cable at the moment), but I stayed upstairs. I wrote for five hours. Do I get to do that every Monday night? Probably not. Does that make me a rude host? Probably (although she understood).But my mind is always on the watch, like a nervous cat.

"Can I write now? No? How about now? No?"

When opportunity strikes, you have to pounce.

How long should it take to finish a book?

I'd like to point out that I've written ONE book. OK, that's not true. I've written a couple of others that were purely awful and never saw the light of day. But in my experience, it shouldn't take longer than three to six months. A year is really pushing it.

Book ideas have a honeymoon period. You love it. You dream about it. You stay up at night thinking about it. That is the time to be writing like a crazy person. This has an expiration, it won't last forever.

During that honeymoon period don't ask people for opinions. Don't let your best friend read the first few chapters to critique it halfway. Just go with it. Be in love with your book and write like the wind and finish that first draft. There's plenty of time for critiques and opinions and rewrites later. BELIEVE ME... you will edit and field opinions until you're blue in the face when you get to the second draft phase.

But that honeymoon/1st draft period is just for you. Relish it. Work on it every chance you get. Don't let it go to waste.

Family Photos in the Backyard

2013-06-05T07:57:00.000-07:00

A huge thanks to my friend Christen for coming to our house and taking these great pictures in the convenience of our own backyard! Now the hard part. Picking the best ones. I submit to you this task might be impossible.

The Old Mom

2013-06-04T06:43:00.001-07:00

*Pictures from our latest excursion to my favorite store.

In my mind I'm 21.

Maybe 22.

I don't deviate from this mental existence except on rare occasions.

1. When I accidentally turn my iPhone camera on in reverse and see an image of myself that can only be a reflection of Jabba the Hut's twin sister, complete with triple chin and the drooped eyelids of a stroke victim.

2. When I go to Dillard's to look at bathing suits, and the sales lady hands me something that looks like floss and says, "this is all the rage." So I try it on, cry, and come screaming out of the dressing room, "I have a child! I have four thousand puckers of cellulite! I have cankles! What were you thinking? Give me all the cupcakes!"

Last week I was privy to a group conversation. The general gist went something like this:

"I want to have my kids before 25."

"Yeah, that way if you want to have lots of kids there's plenty of time."

"Plus, you don't want to be that old parent taking your kid to kindergarten."

"Yeah, you should do it when you're young and you can enjoy your kids."

Now, granted, I'm no prehistoric mama. I was a smidge old for having my first child at 31, but on the grand scheme I probably won't be attending Jane's high school graduation on a gurney. At that moment I did not feel 21. I felt my full age of 33. Actually, I felt 40, because I could not have been on a further planet from them. I glanced around the group of young, happy, shiny faces and snorted.

I actually snorted. I didn't mean to, it just sort of came out of me, like a geriatric horse stomping and snorting because their grand-colt is galloping around and kicking up dust and irritating their allergies. That was me. A geriatric horse. Snorting. In public.

It created an awkward moment, and I was right there, right on the knife's edge of making a big speech.

I said, "My mom had her last child at 42."

They stared at me as if I had 42 heads.

I looked at their sweet faces, stifled the speech again and thought, "Nah. You fillies will figure this out on your own, one way or another."

But today I'd like to make that speech. You know how it is. You get a speech all built up and ready in your mind, and then when you don't say anything it's like you've stifled a really big sneeze. It just sits there and every now and then knocks on the back of your brain, "Ahem, remember me? Can I come out any time soon? It's cramped in here with all these other speeches."

Lots of our friends had kids right after college. Heck, some of them had kids in college. Double heck, some had kids right after high school graduation. I make no judgments on that. They are good parents. Their kids are happy. It worked out.

But my toes curl when I hear this.

"Oh, you don't want to be the old mom."

So here's what I know. Being an "old" mom has secured things for me a young mother doesn't have. The key word is settled. A settled home. A settled career. A settled marriage. A settled social circle.

Jane gets the benefit of a mom who doesn't resent being home on a Saturday night while all her friends are out partying (at this point most of my friends are at home in their pajamas watching Gilmore Girl marathons).

Jane gets the benefit of a mom who's not searching for her identity or career (I figured that out long before she came along).

Jane gets the benefit of parents who can afford a home, good health insurance, plenty of diapers and a great daycare (something we didn't have in our early years).

Jane gets the benefit of our complete and total attention... let me qualify that.

When you're trying to secure a career, or worrying that you don't have one, or juggling bills without enough money to pay them, or dealing with a fledgling marriage, or rocky relationships, or partying friends, or all the other things that accompany being young... kids sometimes take a back seat.

Jane doesn't know what the backseat looks like.

So while I'm not proposing a world where all mothers begin bearing children at age 30, I am saying... it's ridiculous to believe parents have to be young to enjoy their children. Because those "old" parents? They look at the struggling early 20's parents and feel sorry for them. We're not as poor. We don't yell as much. We may not be able to run very fast, but we make up for it by buying our kids the best bikes. We watch them ride from the comfort of our lawn chairs, toast each other with diet crystal light and say, "I'm so glad we waited."

Being an old mom has its perks.

Rainy Stop, Thoughts on Raising a Daughter

2013-06-03T08:40:00.004-07:00

This past weekend it rained all Saturday. We decided to enjoy the weather and just stop. We put on the breaks. We played hide and seek behind the curtains. We blew bubbles in between the rain storms. We discovered Jane has an allergy to strawberries that makes her poor little mouth break out. We also discovered Mabel hates it when we play hide and seek with Jane, so she shredded her toy in anger. We had a very, very good day. It was a much needed rainy stop.

I've gotten a couple of emails related to my last post. Some people have expressed concern about our teaching Jane to push someone who is biting her. Most have done so in a very friendly, peaceful way. Let me just say, thank you. While we may not necessarily agree with each other, it's refreshing to receive emails that are tempered with kind words.

Here's what I believe. As a woman, I believe in defending oneself against violence. We live in a country where domestic violence is the leading cause of injury for women, more than car accidents, muggings, and assault combined.

I hear you.

"Isn't it a little early to worry about those kinds of things, Liz? It's just biting."

It's biting now. But in elementary it might be a bully. In high school it might be a boyfriend who bruises her arm when he gets upset. We live in a society that places more emphasis on how girls look than how they feel about themselves. Our culture doesn't teach girls to stick up for themselves, it teaches them to be pretty. What lies underneath situations like this is an opportunity to teach Jane that she is important, no matter how little she is. It's an opportunity to teach her that she is important, that she is tough, and she doesn't have to tolerate bullying or biting or any other physical incidents that make her uncomfortable. Little girls need to feel they have permission to say no. And defend themselves. As parents it is our responsibility to give her this permission.

So yes, I will teach Jane that it is alright to push someone away who is hurting her. I will teach her to yell for them to stop, to run, to tell a teacher, and make a big scene if she needs to. I want my sweet, gentle daughter to always feel it is her right to stop someone from hurting her, not to wait politely until said bully is through biting or pinching her, and then tell the teacher after the fact. I realize this probably cements the fact I'll never make a good Quaker (although I really like most of what they have to say). I realize I'll probably get a bunch more emails about the whole "feminism" issue. But that's alright. The only thing that matters to me is that Jane feels it's her right to stop someone who hurts her (not to mention the fact that she has a very large father who will enter the situation thereafter). If she understands that, we've done our job.

Don't Bite You: A Lesson in Personal Pronouns and Tough Kids

2013-05-31T04:00:00.000-07:00

*all names have been changed to protect the innocent*

Jane walked through the door yesterday and held out her arm.

"Joey bite you," she stated.

I looked at her arm and the big red puffed up mark where Joey's teeth obviously clamped down on my baby girl like a plump piece of ham.

"Joey bit you?" I asked.

She nodded, "Joey bite you."

This has been happening often. Too often for my comfort.

I will say that her daycare is very vigilant, and they always send notes home explaining the situation, what they did, whether or not she cried. They always make us aware, and they always hold her and put ice on it and kiss the boo boo's. They take every step possible to prevent biting. But hey, biting happens. It's still an excellent daycare. That's not what worries me.

I looked at Matt and said, "She gets bit too much. She's not one of the tough kids."

He shook his head, "No. I don't think so."

A few weeks ago her teacher told us that Jane is the sweet one. She said when Jane gets her toys taken away or she gets hit, she never hits back. This didn't sit well with me.

"We have to teach her to stick up for herself," I said.

Matt pondered for a moment before he responded.

"We don't want to make her aggressive though."

At this particular juncture we noticed her laying on the floor, splayed out beside the dog, pursing her lips and whispering, "Mabel kiss? Mabel kiss?"

"I don't think that's going to happen," I said as Mabel leaned in and licked Jane's lips.

We sat her down between the two of us and began our talk.

"Jane, when someone bites you, you push them away and say 'NO! Don't bite me!"

I demonstrated on Matt.

She looked back and forth between the two of us with interest.

Matt joined in, "See, if mommy bites me I'll push her away and say, 'NO! Don't bite me!"

Jane pondered this for a moment.

"Joey bite you."

"That's right, and if someone bites you, you push them away and say, "NO! Don't bite me!" I demonstrated again.

"NO! Joey don't bite you!" Jane yelled gleefully.

"That's right! But say, "Don't bite me!" I said.

"Don't bite YOU!" she yelled back.

"No, Jane..."

Matt put a hand on my leg, "Personal pronouns aren't her thing right now. Let's worry about that later."

Jane eyed the bright red teeth marks on her arm and sighed, "Joey bite you. Joey fwend."

Tears sprung into my eyes and I took a deep breath. They weren't sad tears. They were Hulk smash tears.

"He's your friend but he cannot bite you. You push him away and tell him no."

She crawled into my lap, "Joey fwend."

At this point I had a vision. I walked into the daycare, pointed my finger at all the children and said, "The next person who bites my kid is gonna get it. I don't know what it is. But I'll think of something. And it will be awful. So DON'T BITE MY KID." Then the teachers looked nervous, and security came in, and then came a restraining order. The vision began better than it ended and helped me realize that this is not a viable option.

Our society really embraces the boy culture. "Aw, he's such a boy," we say to each other as the little fellas run around breaking things, pushing each other, and drawing pictures on the walls with crayons. But somehow, we don't give that freedom to little girls. Little girls are supposed to be sweet and say please and thank you and never fight. Little girls are supposed to play with dolls and speak softly. Little girls are supposed to sit still and behave.

To this I say BOLOGNA.

I'm so thankful for Jane's sweet, gentle heart. But I also know that in this life a girl has to be tough sometimes. And in order to be tough, girls need parents who give them permission to be tough.

My sisters, on the other hand, were rare ducks. They were born into this world with an invisible "don't tread on me" tattoo stamped on their arms. Once, when I was around 8 and Rebecca was Jane's age, a little neighborhood boy punched me. He hit me right in the stomach and it took the wind completely out of my lungs. In those moments of shock I slumped to the ground and in the corner of my eye I saw Rebecca spring to her feet.

We'd been playing in the sprinkler, and she was wearing nothing but a water logged diaper. She grabbed a big stick off the ground and charged the boy like a deranged kamikaze pilot, stick flailing, stocky feet running at full force.

"DON'T HIT WIZ!" she screamed.

I remember distinctly that the boy ran from her. I mean, he should have, because she fully intended to beat him to the best of her abilities.

But what I realized yesterday while talking with Jane is that she doesn't have that. She doesn't have the innate, "pick on me or mine and I'll filet you with this stick" reaction to violence or mistreatment. She just makes peace because someone is her "fwend."

So we'll work on it. Slowly but surely. She'll always be sweet and gentle. I just want her to feel fully justified in saying no. And pushing back. And maybe, on occasion, waving a big stick around in the air.

I may not be able to teach her about personal pronouns for a while, but I want her to know it's ok to be tough.

Around the Corner

2013-05-30T07:01:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I go out onto the patio at night by myself. I listen to the frogs by the creek and I eat mint leaves. No, seriously. Like a cow, I'm out there gnawing on mint leaves. In the dark. This is my current idea of having a good time.

If you had told me, way back when I was tanning my skin into a leather bag and taping pictures into my senior year notebook, that one day I would be a project manager who sat in the dark eating mint leaves and listening to frogs FOR FUN I would have laughed. Or cried. Or ran. Probably a combination of all three. My life was in a holding pattern for the awesomeness that lurked just around the corner. My entire high school existence was spent in a state of boredom, completely sure that a more fabulous existence was waiting for me out there in the universe.

Then I went to college. And while I loved college, I was certain then too that something better was coming. And so it went with every new phase of my life. I wasted so much time waiting for the wonderfulness waiting just around the corner. I did not see the wonderfulness already around me.

I can't pinpoint when this changed. And I'm certainly not speaking about optimism. Looking into the future and being excited and uplifted is the stuff of life. But at some point I realized that the wonderful is NOW. It may not be glamorous. It might be nothing more than a humid night under patio lights listening to frogs. But what a shame it would be to focus on what's around the corner. What a shame it would be to miss it.

A Desk in the Corner, Query Letters

2013-05-29T08:07:00.001-07:00

I get emails from time to time asking me a myriad of questions about writing. I try my best to answer each email, but lately I've been swamped and haven't been able to respond. This makes me feel immensely guilty. So, I thought I'd do a series of posts over the next few weeks dedicated to what I know about writing and getting published. This way no one has to wait around on me to return their emails. They can simply read these posts and say to themselves, "Huh. She really doesn't know very much at all." And that's cool. I completely agree.

This is my desk. It's a 1960's vanity built in between two closets. It looks out over the garage roof. It has an old formica top and creaky drawers. It feels a little bit tucked away and forgotten, like Jo March's attic. It is not grand. This is good.
First, let me say that if you are going to write, or do anything creative, you need a space. But hear me out.

In our last house I had an entire room dedicate to my "library." I decorated it, and rearranged it, and decorated it again, over and over. I had a big desk that jutted out in the middle of the room. I would sit there and instead of writing I would observe the room.

"I should move that bookcase over there."

"I really should paint that."

"Maybe I should hang new curtains."

This was a problem.

If you haven't read Stephen King's On Writing, get it. Now. Today. Read it. In this book he speaks to this problem when he says, “It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support system for art. It’s the other way around.” -Stephen King

I think sometimes the idea of being a writer, or an artist, or whatever creative thing drives us, takes over the act of actually doing it. That lovely little office didn't help me at all. This little unimpressive vanity tucked into a dressing room does the trick much better. I don't look around at a room that says, "I'm a writer! This room should reflect that!" I just sit there and write. Period. That's it.

So get yourself a space. But don't get yourself so much space that it distracts you. Don't feel grander than you should. It's writing. It's work. Just get down to business.

Moving on.

The first wall most writers smack into is the query letter. You realize that if you are to nab a good literary agent, you must have a good query letter. This. Is. Daunting.

After I finished my book and set out to write a query letter that would land a great literary agent (hello truly wonderful Laurie Abkemeier), I could scarcely find a real example of a good query letter online. Most authors were hush hush about their agent finding process, unless they couldn't find an agent and then they were really loud and vocal. There are entire blogs and websites devoted to those complaints, none of which were helpful.

For those of you who are trying to compress your book into one agent-eye-catching letter, I feel your pain. So in case it helps someone out there in the wild blue writing yonder, I'm posting my original query letter for My (Not So) Storybook Life here.

As you can see, the agent/editor process will change A LOT about the story you originally start with. I went through three major rewrites between Laurie and my publisher, but this is where I started. I had to change my original title, which still makes me sniffle a little bit... but that's one of those hard truths about publication. Your story becomes every one's story, and sometimes things get axed. But don't be discouraged. Put on your thick skin. It's completely worth it.

For those of you who could care less about this kind of thing and just showed up for pretty pictures or a funny story, sorry. I'll get to you tomorrow.

Dear *insert exciting literary agent of your dreams name here*

When my dream of domestic perfection and my real home life collided like an exploding letter to Inspector Gadget, I needed to vent. And by vent I mean punish. So who better to suffer than the ones who duped me?

Growing up, I loved the country loveliness of Green Gables and the ladylike poise of Elizabeth Bennett. I planned for my future to mimic the ideals in these books. It didn’t happen. So who better to pay the price for my dashed delusions than my literary friends? I snatched them from their pedestals of perfection and reassigned them to real life. Anne Shirley deals with a penny-pinching husband. Elizabeth Bennett shepherds a Duggar-size brood of kids. Jo March has to cope with a soul-sucking job.

My beloved, sweepingly romantic literary characters get hoodwinked by a roofing company, stressed as their pipes clank and sweat in the winter, and overwhelmed when the wall where their crystal sconces were installed gets hot due to suspect wiring. It makes me feel better. But then again, I’m a little tacky.

So what did I learn from putting my literary friends through the grist mill of life? There, amid the charred, nuclear dust of leaky roofs, burned dinners and home invasion paranoia, was humor. I found humor in the fact that my homemade chocolate chip cookies could be sold on the black market as weapons of intestinal destruction. It’s funny (now) when my schnauzer poops on the floor whenever she hears tornado sirens. I can even find humor in sewage disasters, paint color mishaps and a 6 ft tall husband who suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder every time he has a run in with a spider.

Who Stole My Green Gables is a 50,000 word nonfiction book, a humorous recounting of literary domesticity and the process by which I learned to love my own home-life reality. I'm a freelance writer and an office drone. My blog, Mabel's House, currently averages # visits per month and has been featured in Better Homes and Gardens and online at Apartment Therapy and Design Sponge. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Owen

2013-05-28T09:40:00.001-07:00

You know when you're so sick you don't feel like watching tv? And then you realize you're so sick you don't feel like reading? That's always been my "go to the doc" flag. Yucky bacterial infections. Hopefully I'll be reading again soon.

The Plague

2013-05-27T03:42:00.001-07:00

So here it is. The most exciting thing that's happened to me in the last week. I crawled out of bed, coughing and hacking, and rewired a set of lamps. Seriously. I did that based on sheer boredom and will. After that I crawled back into bed and fell asleep for three hours.

Sorry for the radio silence. I'll return soon.

Life, Lately

2013-05-22T06:51:00.004-07:00

Moore

2013-05-21T02:55:00.001-07:00

Over a decade ago, in what seems like another life now, Matt and I were married and in college. Between the two of us we held down four jobs, and one of mine was at Bottles to Buses Daycare.

One hot spring afternoon we were on the playground and I noticed the sky turning green, and the trees were starting to whip back and forth beyond what was a normal windy day. A few seconds later the tornado sirens went off.

I cannot explain the terror that filled my heart as the other teachers and I tried to hustle dozens of toddlers inside the building. I have not known terror like that since, except in those flash moments when Jane is very sick or hurt.

For so long I declared that I probably wouldn't have children, but on that day over ten years ago, I was mama to a dozen little babies who wobbled when they ran and couldn't quite get the knack of potty training. A least I felt like a mama as we all huddled in an interior hallway. We teachers put on our best fake smiley faces and sang Jesus Loves Me, and then Itsy Bitsy Spider. Truly, I was terrified.

We heard the roar as a tornado passed over, flinging limbs and debris against the roof of the old church the daycare was housed in.

The children, for the most part were oblivious to the dangers. They sat cross legged, climbing on me like their own personal jungle gym. They picked their noses and sang If You're Happy and You Know It with the most adorable lisps.

It's hard to wrap my mind around the tragedy a tornado can bring. But the children in Moore. I have had to turn off the news. It makes my heart ache in the worst way. It makes me remember that day, many years ago, and all those toddlers that called me Miss Wiz. They are teenagers now.

I'm sitting here in bed, at 4:47 a.m. unable to sleep. I can hear the birds chorusing in the trees outside. Matt is snoring next to me, and Jane is asleep across the hall. Mabel alone is awake, staring at me with a questioning face.

"What gives woman? Go to sleep."

I suppose I feel it's my obligation, a little bit, to be sleepless right now. To sit here in the darkness, in solidarity with all the Moore mamas who are wide awake and worried.

Arkansas has a stormy forecast today. Possible severe weather, those are the words the weatherman uses. None of us here in the south get a pass from these scares.

May God bless you, Oklahoma. May God protect us and heal us from these things we will never, ever be able to understand.

The Weekend On My Phone

2013-05-20T06:11:00.001-07:00

12 Years. I Wouldn't Change a Thing.

2013-05-20T00:15:00.001-07:00

No One Tells You These Things

2013-05-17T07:17:00.000-07:00

Recently, Jane took the liberty of adding items to my bedside table. It was really only a matter of time until she took some ownership of the space, as she's always finding reasons to be in it. First thing in the morning she wants to snuggle and watch cartoons. After dinner she stacks a tower of books on the floor and wants me to read to her in bed.

I always have a stash of books, a glass of water, my glasses, TUMS and hand cream on the bedside table. She's fascinated by these things. One night after a reading session, she deposited her Dr. Seuss book on top of the table, next to my books, and smiled shyly.

"I put there," she said.

A few days later she left me a t-shirt she'd used to blow her nose. This week I noticed her Tinkerbell cell phone, a purple sock, and a comic book that came with her Chick-fil-A dinner called Cowborg (this entire piece of literature confuses her and she just calls it "angry cow").

A few nights later I turned out the lights and settled in. I fell asleep and rolled over. Jane, like the thoughtful two year old terrorist that she is, had carefully deposited her Tinkerbell phone under the covers. Verily I say unto thee ladies... you have never known terror until you roll onto a toy in your sleep and it switches on, and through the dark you hear these words:

"Iridescent! You're looking sparkly tonight!"

I'd previously finished watching an episode of Hannibal before bed, and Matt was working late. My sleep deprived brain mixed all these components into a scary stew cocktail before I was even conscious enough to analyze what was happening to me. I sat straight up in the dark, lunging away from the pale yellow light of that little demonic piece of plastic.

The Tinkerbell cell phone might be this generations's Chucky doll.

Here's the part of the story where I'm a very bad mother. After she left for daycare the next day, I submerged the phone in water. I did not ever want to hear that thing bleat another chipper, horrifying fairy phrase.

"You are glowing with sunshine today!"

"My, I'm impressed by your fairy wisdom!"

I watched the bubbles gurgle to the surface and smiled smugly, knowing the little electric workings of its guts were smoldering into oblivion. Then I took it out, dried it off, and deposited it back onto my side table. There would be no more midnight Tinkerbell horror in my house.

The plan was very clear in my mind.

Jane would come home, pushing the previously chatty buttons on her Tinkerbell cell phone : "It's bwoken!"

Me, hugging her, seeking to assuage my guilt: "Aw. That's ok. Let's go buy you a new cell phone."

*insert super fun mommy-daughter Target date here*

I went into my closet to put on shoes. I hummed a little tune. I felt no guilt. That's when a horrible, garbled voice from the bedroom started talking to me.

"The moon above gives us good cheer!"

It sounded as if Tinkerbell was a life long smoker, and had had a baby with Pee-wee Herman. Then they recorded it's voice, and then slowed it down to the slowest speed possible.

"Theeee fairyyyyy duuuuust is readddddy for harrrrrvest..."

I know when I've been beaten, and that hellish piece of Chinese plastic beat me. I ran down the stairs, out the door, into the garage, and off to the safety of work.

They should really tell you about things like this when you take your childbirth classes. No one tells you that one day you'll try to snuff out Tinkerbell. And then plan to lie to your kid about it. And then Tinkerbell will resurrect herself from the dead and taunt you with her zombie vocal chords.

No one tells you these things.

Writing About "It"

2013-05-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

I recently finished watching a video series PBS did with Nora Ephron, and when she said this line, the world around me went into slow motion.

"Someday this will be funny, and you will write about it."

Don't you love how that happens? Every once in a blue moon something so small, yet so pivotal, takes place and everything you were doing before gets rerouted and redirected somewhere new.

When I heard her say those words, I teared up. This was partly because I'm still coming off antidepressants and it's making me a weepy little nut-ball on certain moments of the day. I also teared up out of relief.

I am relieved that finally, after all this time, I can laugh about my postpartum depression.

For a long, long time, I could not laugh about it. And then, all of a sudden, I could.

I have a long standing rule that if I can't laugh about something, I won't write about it. It just takes time. With enough time, most things can be funny.

I think some people believe writing is a terribly romantic endeavor. I beg to differ. Writing, for me, is hard. It is hair pulling. I have to sit by myself and be terribly antisocial. I tell Matt, "Pretend I'm not here." Which really stinks, because I like it when he talks to me.

I type for a while, glare at the screen and say something like, "Why can't you just cooperate with me...words? Huh? Huh?" Basically, I have to be a little bit schizophrenic to do what I do. I'm sure it's not that way for everyone, but it is for me. And since writing is not this easy, romantic, "lightning just struck my brain" event, I really have to have a carrot in front of my face. I have to bribe myself. The funny stuff is the carrot. If I can make myself chuckle, all that talking to myself and hair pulling is worth it.

So that's what I've been doing. I've been putting my postpartum depression experiences on paper. I'm doing all of this through the lens of humor, of course. It's cathartic. But it also symbolizes, for me, a big shift in my life.

It feels like I can finally close the door and move on.

The Sweetest May

2013-05-15T04:00:00.000-07:00

This is the sweetest month. Flowers, bees, late sunsets, herbs on the patio, strawberry pies (from here), twinkle lights in the neighbor's yard... it's all so wonderful. I cannot wait for the cicadas and fireflies.

This was my third mother's day as a mom. I have to say, I don't really remember the last two. I know that's awful, but where those days should be in my mind there are only two big, empty spaces. I can, however, remember every detail of the last purchasing meeting I went to. I can remember, in detail, what my high school boyfriend said when he broke up with me. I can remember account numbers, budget totals, and the date of the last time I cleaned the floors in my house. I can remember Jane's first word (duck) and the first time she walked (at 18 months in our temporary apartment on a cold fall night). I can remember my last date with Matt when he took me to an eastern European restaurant. I got bratwurst and fried potatoes. We talked about going to see The Great Gatsby and Matt said, "I just hope we don't get Les Miser-obbed."

He did not like Les Miserables.

But for some reason I've lost every detail of the last two mother's days.

I suspect there's only so much room in my brain. And I'd like to think that I've filled up all those spaces with other more important memories than a commercial holiday packed with Jared commercials. Am I the only one who wants to kick a puppy every time I see one of those chocolate diamond commercials? Or the commercials that feature a necklace with what can only be described as a diamond shard... not even a chip... in the center? Seriously men. Just have your children draw your wife a picture and let her sleep in. No one wants a diamond shard.

I say all that to end up at this point: this was a great Mother's Day. This one I will remember. I'll remember because of this post, and these pictures.I will remember this day because Matt remembered my favorite dessert. I'll remember because it was the first time Jane did both #1 and #2 in her potty. I'll remember the way she peered at her poop suspiciously (a sight previously unseen in her entire life because they're usually safely contained in her diaper). She looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, all the while her forehead was creased in a monstrous frown. She drew up her hands and said, "No touch. It's yucky." I will remember because I really want to. These are things I do not want to forget.

Thank goodness for pictures. Thank goodness for a blog.

He Picks Up the Slack. And by Slack, I Mean Poop.

2013-05-14T08:12:00.004-07:00

I got an email the other day asking why I don't blog more about my marriage. Actually, she specifically wanted to know if my marriage was "really that good" or if I just put a good spin on it.

I can only assume this lady hasn't read my book. Because guys, it's all in there. I wrote about his sleepwalking, wedgie giving, and intense fear of spiders. I wrote about our fight with all the windows open in the house and the neighbors that undoubtedly heard.

I'm not holding back secret information.

But she was right in that I don't blog a lot of marriage details. It's not even a conscience decision, now that I think about it. But it's true, I don't come here to vent when he forgets to deposit checks. Or when we have a silent standoff to see who will wash towel first and we end up drying off after our showers with a stack of six wash cloths. That is a true story. From this weekend.

On the flip side, I'm not trying to hide any of that. I'm not trying to make things look rosier than they really are. It's just... there's a time and a place for griping about your husband. When you're out to dinner with your girlfriends and someone leads off with, "Can you believe that he __________ ." Or when you see your therapist. Or skype your sisters.

I assume he has his times and places for his own venting about me. Like when I'm feeling all Paxily and don't do the dishes for three days in a row, even though our arrangement is that he cooks and I clean. Like when I ask him every single night "Did you lock the doors?" even after I've watched him lock all the doors. Like how I look like a completely different person with makeup on, but at night when I take it off I somehow morph into crack-addict-face, complete with giant under-eye circles and pores that would make a Clinique makeup artist cry for her mother. "False advertising, that's what it is," he undoubtedly tells his friends.

But here's what I will say. Matt picks up the slack. He gets up from the dinner table and runs Jane a bath without even asking if I need him to. Now, he doesn't actually GIVE her the bath or wash her hair (her hair intimidates him), but that's beside the point. And while Jane plays in the yard and I'm taking pictures, he silently makes his rounds, picking up Mabel's poop and throwing it over the fence into the bushes by the creek. So she won't run in it. So I won't step in it.

Our marriage is not sunshine and roses all the time. We fight. We get our feelings hurt. We feel misunderstood sometimes. I've even been known to stick out my tongue at him when his back is turned. But as we approach our 12 year anniversary next week, I've come to realize that as long as you pick up the slack for each other, you can make it. As long as someone isn't the taker all the time, and someone isn't the giver all the time, you can hold onto each other and find things to laugh about, together. No matter what fight transpires, I know deep in my heart that Matt loves me. He's fun. He's cute. He's hard worker. He's a good father. And he's willing to pick up the slack.

One day when Jane is older she may ask me about marriage. And I'll tell her, "Find a man who picks up dog poop in the yard so you won't step in it. That's true love."

Mother's Day Highlights

2013-05-12T17:59:00.001-07:00

1. A Saturday afternoon with friends at the movies. And yes, Baz totally Moulin Rouged Gatsby to death. It was still beautiful to watch, and now I want to wear ribbons and hair pieces.

2. Books, strawberry pie, and a Star Wars t-shirt. Matt knows the way to a girl's heart.

3. Sunday with my mom and Meme. As you can see below, Jane's mood wasn't the skippiest, but it was still a great day.

It Was Inevitable: Let's Talk About Boobs

2013-05-08T12:20:00.001-07:00

Ah. Breastfeeding.

To some women it's religion.

To others it's like a curse word.

To most of us, it's a quandary.

When I had Jane I tried my hardest to breastfeed. I read all the books. I took all the vitamins. I did everything but stand on my hands and sing Bicycle Race backwards in my most impressive Freddy Mercury falsetto. Just kidding. My falsetto isn't impressive. It's disturbing. Actually, it could break glass.

Jane kept losing weight. Her doctors kept talking about "failure to thrive." We had to take her for weight checks every week. She had terrible acid reflux. Her tiny body was so skinny, and her little face was taught. I could see her cheekbones and it made me cry. It was clear that my body wasn't make enough milk, but formula was the enemy (at least that's what everyone kept telling me), so I kept plugging along.

And then my big bad terrible happened and they put me on lots of drugs.
I had no choice but to totally stop breast feeding.

Jane started the formula. She gained weight like a champ. Her reflux got better. She was happy and plump. The day I found rolls on her wrists I rejoiced, and then I did Rocky-style fist pumps in the air.

But once that bottle came out into the open, women made comments. And they were appalling.

"God made our bodies to breastfeed, but some women just don't try hard enough or know the right things to do..."

That was a word for word actual comment. A comment made to a woman trying to recover from severe postpartum depression. A woman trying to keep her baby alive, and herself. That comment rang in my ears and made me oh so blistery, scorch the earth mad. It was my body. It was my baby. It was my experience. It was none of their business.

I'm putting this out into the world for all the women that aren't breastfeeding. Who can't, for one reason or another. Whether your body won't let you, or whether your medication isn't safe for your kid... it is OK. There's a lot of shame, there's a lot of judgement. But it really is OK.

A friend of mine is on the opposite end of the spectrum. She's struggling with how to wean her baby, who will be two in a while. She deals with a different kind of backlash.

"That kid has teeth, it shouldn't be breastfeeding."

"If they're old enough to talk, they're old enough for a bottle."

The freedom with which these opinions are whipped out and flung at other women amazes me.

Here's my criteria for whether or not I have business telling another mother my unsolicited opinion:

1. Is her child happy and healthy?
2. Is she mentally stable and in good health?

If the answer to these questions is yes then ladies, it's time to ZIP THE LIP.

So back to the boobs. I think breastfeeding is a wonderful thing. But luckily we live in a time when there are other options. They are good options for babies like Jane with their empty bellies and no-fat cheekbones. Never, ever let anyone make you feel guilty for bottle feeding. Smile. Thank them for what is no doubt well intended opinions, and walk away with your chunky, happy, formula fed baby.

And then feel that sweet relief you aren't stuck wearing a nursing bra.

I know I did.

Voldemort Nose and Thoughts On Transparency

2013-05-08T07:14:00.000-07:00

While I was photo-bombing Jane eating cereal this morning, I noticed the top picture and thought, "Cool Voldemort nose bro." Except all of us ardent Harry Potter fans know a Voldemort nose is not a cool thing at all. So I shall never make that face again as long as I live.

Just kidding. I'm making it right now.

If a lifetime of photos are any evidence at all, I've been making strange and inappropriate faces since I was born. It's one of the reasons I don't photograph very well. I'm always contorting my face when talking, or laughing, or ducking my head to create a ginormous double chin, or raising my eyebrows and bugging my eyes when someone tells me a good story. This whole big eyes raised eyebrows thing is also one of the reasons I attract lots of crazy people into my life... or so says my mom.

"You and your aunt," she'll say, "You're both too open and transparent. Crazies love that."

But over the last few years I've come to the conclusion that crazy attracts crazy... that's why crazy people like me. They look at me, note my hyper talking and bugged eyes and say, "Hey, a kindred spirit. Let's be buds." And then I make my Voldemort nose face and say, "Cool. Lets."

It's really a matter of transparency.

Transparency can be awkward. It's hard to be at a party, with a room full of women who are all wearing size 2 Ann Taylor and talking about car pools and pilates Then one of them mentions the new moisturizer they bought at the Estee Lauder counter and suddenly you feel it rising up in your throat. "Shut up!" you say to yourself, but it's too late. A story bursts from your lips about the time your sister bought face cream from Dillard's, broke out in hives, had bumpy skin and you spent all Christmas vacation calling her Lizard Face. And then she got angry and smeared the cream on your neck and you got the lizard bumps too. And then all the women stand silently, staring at you, wondering what planet you're from. And then you get nervous and involuntarily make the Voldemort nose face.

This is the story of my life.

I find a lot of things difficult in life. Math, for starters. Cooking something edible. Making it to church on Sunday morning when Jane is screaming and I spent all week working and all day Saturday cleaning. These things are hurdles for me. I battle against them. But transparency has always been something that happened easily, despite being the non-size 2 dork at the party who tells other wives lizard skin stories. I can't seem to reign myself in and be dignified and reserved. I make weird faces. I tell weird stories. I talk too much, too long, and too loudly. It's just who I am, the way it is, for better or worse, richer or poorer, skinny or fat.

I got an email last week asking me what I thought the most important key to successful blogging was. After I finished laughing (because never in a thousand years should anyone come to me for advice on successful blogging... I took down my public comments for goodness sakes), I realized there is one easy answer to this question. Transparency. It's good for blogging. But it's good for life. Sometimes it's OK to stop hiding behind who you think you should be, and just let it go. Sure, some people won't get it. You'll get strange stares. Or rude comments. Or critical emails. But all that energy you've placed into creating yourself the way you think you should be will be much better served in other areas of your life. You'll have awkward moments. But you'll be happy once you let it (whatever it is) all hang out. Pick your nose in public. Pin a Star Wars calender onto the wall at work despite the fact that you're 35, and a lawyer. Wear broom skirts instead of skinny jeans even though you'll look like an old hippy because YOU'LL BE SO COMFORTABLE. Talk loudly and passionately when the mood strikes.

Don't fear who you truly are.

Don't fear transparency.

Don't fear the Voldemort nose.