Tapper and Company

The Faith of a Chicken

2016-09-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Mrs. Cushman,
I've never forgotten hatching chicken eggs under heat lamps in the corner of our kindergarten room, right next to the easels. After 30 years of remembering it fondly, I decided I could not let my children grow up without knowing the same sense of excitment and wonder I felt the day I came in with my backpack and saw their fluffy bodies where once there were only hard shells.

Since I don't own a farm, I've been stumped how to make this happen. This summer I began a search for a farmer who would let me hatch his chicks, care for his chicks and return his chicks when they weren't chicks. And after a dodgy google search where I foolishly entered "I want to rent a chick" I did come up with Hatch the Chicken. It would cost me hundreds of dollars, but a woman would bring me an incubator, a cage and seven eggs and let me keep the hatched chicks for one month.

After racing to my husbands office to ask "persmission" and after getting an amused smile that said "you're crazy and I find it entertaining" I handed over my credit card numbers and announced to my children, "We are hatching chickens!"

We picked out our favorite eggs from the batch the farmer had, put them in the incubator and started doing this

and this:

For about four weeks.

We had a special light to watch them grow and we would peer in wonder, whispering words of encouragement. In our very hands, beneath a translucent shell, a new life was growing and becoming. It was startling.

And after twenty six days there was this!!!

And our entire family squished into a two foot space between my daughter's wall and bed (she insisted the eggs stay in her room at all times) and waited for hours. That is not an exaggeration. We got sore and tired, but the battle waging in front of us was stunning! The tiny bird would cry out and rock its egg and we would talk back, promising we were there and ready to love it. Sometimes the eggs would call to each other, their tiny peeps whispered in their dark, crowded eggs. Every single one of our seven eggs was twitching and preparing for life.

What would they think of light? And human touch and the feel of grass beneath their feet? What made them so brave to try? How did they know what to do?

And then:

Buster came first, our little trailblazer. The first touch was thrilling. To put our own fingers on a brand new life. To be the first faces he saw and the first voices he heard.

And then:

and then some more:

When the hatching was finished two days later we had five busy chicks and two silent eggs. While they all grew and developed in the eggs, there were two, at the very last hour that never emerged. I sat next to the incubator, and found myself pondering over the still eggs. Had they been too tired? Too frightened to try? Had they lost faith that the next peck or scratch or wiggle would be the one to free them? Should I have helped them? The mysterious answers stayed hidden inside those unbroken eggs. But when I looked at our five chicks I felt new admiration for their faith and courage. It wasn't easy to break into this world and make a go of it. Their siblings died trying. But they fought on.

They started to explore:

They even made their way to sweet husband's office:

They got bigger and stronger:

And made us happy!

(This is me getting ridiculously attached to chickens! I would sit in the yard with them for an hour at a time, just watching their antics. We all did.)

And then they grew their combs and it was time to say goodbye.

But they taught every lesson I hoped they would. They filled us with wonder for the miracle of life- even the tiniest lives. They filled us with hope. And they taught me about faith. The faith to struggle. The faith we have to have when we think we are entirely alone and in the dark. The faith it takes to realize that beyond our fragile shell God waits and watches and encourages, and knows what we are about to become because of our struggles.

Now when I am afraid, I wonder if I can have the faith of a chicken.

The faith of a chicken is believing in tomorrow. It is believing in something beyond and better than ourselves. It is trusting that we are part of a plan that is perfect and miraculous in its details.

So Mrs. Cushman, wherever you are, thank you for hatching those chickens in our kindergarten classroom. I probably had snot-stained shirt cuffs. I probably talked when I shouldn't. I probably cried when I got my feelings hurt. I probably interrupted a good lesson with a pointless fact. But you taught me anyway and are now the reason I am teaching my children the same lesson.

You knew, didn't you? About the faith of a chicken?

Sincerely,

Regina

Homemaking- our remodel revealed

2015-04-21T12:07:00.000-07:00

I married an artist.
He married a nester.
Between the two of us we can't leave good enough alone. Every unattractive things makes us almost giddy. We are fixer-uppers. Ugly is just a chance for transformation. He wields the power tools. I nod and point, like I am being helpful.
I tell him what colors and textures will work. He doubts me until he agrees with me.
We are having fun doing something completely impractical.
This isn't about resale.
This isn't about entertaining.
This isn't about portfolios or bottoms lines.
This is about high-fiving each other at the end of the day and saying, "I love this home we built together."
And that, really, has very little to do with the colors or textures or power tools. That is all about the people and the love in our four walls.
But while we're working on building the love, we're working on building the style, too.

How we found it six years ago:

Buying a home takes vision. We had to erase everything we saw and just keep the walls. Okay, most of the walls. The home we chose was beautiful and pristine and well kept. It was lovely. It just wasn't... us. And when you just can't leave well enough alone you have to make something your own.

Our home the day we moved in 2009:

Traditional kitchen circa 2009:

traditional living room circa 2009:

The front room that is supposed to be a dining room but we don't do dining rooms so we didn't know what it was circa 2009:

Fast Forward to 2015:

Kitchen:

We took out the old oak planks, put down six inch hickory floors, painted the cabinets, installed frosted glass in the front of the upper cabinets, installed stainless steel countertops, a rock backsplash, new lighting fixtures, and a bank of floating, live edge shelves for our every day dishes.

Our Living Room:

We tore out the fireplace wall, did a solid stone wall, painted, and put in hickory floors

Our non-dining room:

There is nothing formal about us. We walk around the block barefoot and kiss other people's babies. We love eating our meals in the kitchen and want our guests to feel like one of the family. In the old dining room we tore up the white carpet, installed hickory floors, painted the walls, and turned it into a living room with a television and piano for our little ones and a cat tower for our four legged family member.

We still have a huge to-do list of projects remaining: bathrooms, staircase, landscaping, basement. But it is all just for fun. We do it because the feeling of seeing potential where others don't, making beauty where others wouldn't, is just a little addictive. There are a million things I can't do- sew button holes, quilt, make gourmet jams, get my eyeliner right- but for me, this is one thing I feel like I can get right if I keep trying.

It's not a fashionable title to say you are a homemaker. You don't get any sexy points or looks of admiration, but I honestly don't understand why.

In my book there is nothing we crave more than a true home. A place where we belong. A place we understand. A place where we feel safe. A homemaker is someone who creates that out of nothing. Someone who transforms sawdust and wires and cement into memories and birthday parties and family dinners and bedtime stories. For every moment I spend trying to make my home look good, I hope I spend a thousand moments making it feel good. And if you are doing that, I think your home is beautiful!
And to tell the complete truth, I would take a one room sod house in a heart beat if this was what I came home to every day:

What I wish I'd known about colic...

2015-04-11T18:26:00.001-07:00

I met a beautiful, young mother today who is going through the agony of raising a baby with severe colic. I write this post for her. Just a few words exchanged between us and our eyes were wet because... we know.
If you've never had a baby with true colic this won't interest you. It might even horrify you.
If your baby only cried for a few hours at a time, or slept more than four nights in his or her first year of life, this just won't make sense.
Because babies cry, right?
Man up and be a mom, right?
Every mom has a baby who cries. Don't try to make everyone feel sorry for you. Right?
I might have thought that was right.
Until I came up against this monster that they call colic. Or as a specialist explained it to us- a five letter word for "we don't know."

It's hard to see all the medication on the counter in this picture. It is difficult to describe how hard it was to open the pedialite, measure out the medications, make a bottle, all with one hand while she shrieked into my ear, wetting my shoulder with her spit and pain. This picture doesn't show the way she would suddenly arch backward with all her strength and scream and the medicine bottles went tumbling across the counter. It doesn't show how I knocked everything over in my desperate attempt to keep her from throwing herself out of my arm onto the hard tile floor or crying while I put her on those hard tiles because I had to right the medicine bottle before it was all gone. It doesn't show that this scene was identical four hours later and four hours after that and four days after that and four months after that, except the baby got bigger (huge, really) and harder to save when she jerked and screamed.
It doesn't show the forty pounds I lost ( forty pounds from my PRE-baby weight) until I was a walking stick or the time I took her to urgent care (again!) and the nurse put the thermometer in my mouth instead of hers. I tried to protest until she told me I was running a fever of a 104 from mastitis. I had no idea because every moment of every day felt like a fever of 104. I was in the refiner's fire. And let me say, I wasn't burning alone. My husband was in there with me and our little family seemed to be crumbling to ashes before our sleepless eyes.

So, here is what I wish I had known. What I want to say to every very tired, very confused mother.

Your child loves you.

She can't tell you right now because her life is hard, but she loves you. You are everything to her. She will stop crying and she will adore you. You will be her best friend. I know this. I know this is true. I know because my baby grew up and out of all her tears and she loves me. We have a bond that is unbreakable because we started from the bottom and fought for every single victory. Every good day. And we never let go of each other. Now I know we never will.

You don't really hate your baby.

I know you've felt it and it scared you. How can anyone hate a baby? How can a mother?! The answer is that you don't. You are so tired, and the screaming is so loud, and your life is in such a free fall that you want to scream and cry back. You hate the trauma and the uncertainty, and the deep feelings of inadequacy and the fire in the middle of your soul that seems to be killing you. And somewhere behind that mask of agony and noise is your daughter. Your daughter. You made her. What a miracle you both are. The shocking part is not the "hating." The shocking part is being able to love right through the hate when every cell of you is screaming to fight back, run away, protect yourself. But what do you do? You hold her while she scream at you. Who has love like that? You do. That's amazing.

This is the hardest time of your mothering life.

Let me repeat that. This. is. the. hardest. time.

The cruelest (unintentionally, of course) thing ever said to me during our two years of colic was a mother who slapped my back and said, "If you think this is hard, wait until they are teenagers. You ain't seen nothing yet."
She walked away laughing and I sat in shock because there was no longer a reason to live.
If it got harder, if it got worse, if I would think this was easy, then death was the only thing left to wish for.
I know. Dramatic much, Tapper?
Yeah, well, you see how you feel when you haven't slept in 11 months. Not bad sleep like we have to nurse every few hours. Bad sleep like we regularly had to walk the block at 1 and 3 in the morning because the screams echoing off the walls were making parts of my brain melt. There comes a time when you think, "Forget freedom. Give me sleep or give me death."
Every month of every year has gotten easier and easier since colic. When mothers talk to me now I say, "I have no complaints. My life is ridiculously easy. I think pre-teen girls are awesome."
I slept last night. My child says I love you. I am a normal body weight because I can eat food again. Every little problem is just that- so, so little. After colic, you think you are cheating because everything else feels easy.

You are the mother she needed.

No one took of picture of me crying over the yellow pages looking up adoption agencies- not for my sake, but for hers. I couldn't help my child. Every day, all day, and all night, my child begged me to help her. And every day, every hour, and every night, I failed. I let her suffer. I let her scream. It didn't matter that I tried with all my strength and faculty- I failed and she suffered. There are no words to describe what that does to a mother's soul and heart. I thought she deserved a real mother. A better mother. Because a real mother would know how to help her child. A real mother would have the magic touch. A real mother would comfort her.

I took this picture at two in the morning one night after a bout of screaming. Eventually she quieted and took great interest in a hat and a stuffed animal. Because there were so few quiet moments of play for us, I pulled out all of her hats and all of her stuffed animals and helped her accessorize each and every one.

We worked on it for about forty five minutes, yawning and whispering, until at last she fell asleep in my arms, where I walked her for another hour because every time I tried to put her down she would begin to scream again. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was her real mother. I was the better mother. I was who she needed. And she was who I needed. We survived each other and came out of the experience deeply appreciative of our moments together.

To all mothers who think they are not "real", or think they are failing, who cannot fix the problem or the heartache, just hold on! Hold on them. Your hands are magic. Your hands are the ones they need. You are the only one with the ferocity and tenacity and power to love her this much.

And here's the bonus:

You will come to realize that all those times you were holding a screaming baby, you were really holding your best friend.

( and no- she isn't holding a dead chicken. That is our cat. And it isn't hairless. It is nearly hairless. That is another post.)

Easter without Eggs

2015-04-08T09:26:00.000-07:00

I've had some interest from friends about a family tradition we've been practicing for five years now.
It all started when my oldest daughter was about seven.
We noticed that as Easter approached the conversation was constantly about dying eggs, hiding eggs, chocolate bunnies, real bunnies, fluffy chicks and new dresses. When I talked about Jesus she would nod and quickly return to her real concern- hunting for candy hidden inside little plastic eggs.
Hunting for candy is great. I fully support it. I wish our world was more like Willy Wonka and we could just go around licking trees. But candy doesn't sustain you. It doesn't give you hope. It doesn't make you hold on when you've lost the strength to hold on. It doesn't love you, or help you or teach you. Only the Lord does all of that.
So we decided not to let anything hijack Easter- not even adorable baby chickens and lop-eared rabbits.
(Or rabbits who are apparently minions of the underworld like this one- seriously, we only took this picture because we found this bunny equally horrifying and hilarious.)

Loving the tradition and holiness of Passover practiced by our Jewish friends, I decided to start a tradition to help us remember the life and mission of Jesus Christ.
(Don't worry- we still do eggs and bunnies.
On Saturday.
On Saturday we celebrate Spring and flowers and new dresses and baby animals. We celebrate our heads off.)
And on Sunday we wake up in an attitude of awe and reverence. We go to church, we pray and we talk as a family about the miracle of the day.
When evening begins to fall we prepare for our Easter Feast.

We begin by having each member of the family wash another member's feet. We speak of the dusty roads of Jerusalem, the sandals, the friendship between Jesus and his apostles, and how difficult it must have been for them to watch Him kneel before them.

We enter quietly into our sun room where everything is set with white dishes and plates. We light candles and take our seats. Our entire meal consists only of foods mentioned in the Bible. As we eat we take turns discussing each items on our plate, its meaning, symbolism or the stories where it appears.
So this is our menu and the references we discuss concerning each dish:
Fish: The fisher of men, the fish overflowing the nets, the fish with the coin in its mouth, the two fishes multiplied to feed over 5,000, the fish and honeycomb the resurrected Lord ate with his apostles.
Loaf of rustic bread: the bread of life, the bread of the first sacrament, the bread multiplied to feed over 5,000.
Flatbread (unleavened bread): the flight of the Children of Israel out of Egypt, the passover
Olive oil: The Garden of Gethsemane (an olive vineyard), the olive branch of peace, the olive branch of promise for Noah, the parable of the olive vineyard, the oil of anointing
Vinegar: The sponge they offered to Jesus when he thirsted on the cross
Water: The living water, the Samaritan woman at the well, the pool of Bethesda, the Jordan River, the turning of water into wine, walking on water, calming the waves of the storm
Grape Juice (to signify wine): The first sacrament, the first miracle (the turning of water into wine), the grapes of wrath, the fruits of the spirit
Figs: The story of the withered fig tree where Jesus instructs Peter to believe.
Salt: The salt of the earth
Bitter herbs: the bitterness of Israel's enslavement, the spices brought to Jesus as a baby, the spices used to bury him
Two small birds: The parable of the hen gathering her chickens, the offering of Joseph and Mary at the temple when Jesus was born, the promise that God knows every sparrow and we are much more to Him than birds
Corn: The story of the apostles picking corn on the Sabbath day as they passed through a field
Tabbouleh (wheat salad): The parable of the wheat and the tares, the field is white and ready to harvest

It is something that has given Easter very special and personal significance to our family. It has come to be one of our favorite family times together, despite the lack of sugar and games. This year as I listened to my girls tell their favorite stories of Jesus, as they interrupted each other with their favorite details, and held up their waving hands, desperate to say what they know, I felt immense gratitude for being their mother and for the precious gift of being able to teach them that they are Children of God. I am thankful to know of God's love and be able to teach them the good news of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Terms and Conditions of Friendship

2014-05-27T17:03:00.001-07:00

When you have some of the greatest friends and cheerleaders on Earth in your life, you're bound to wonder how you got so lucky.

So very, very lucky.

People who amaze me and inspire me and have all my admiration and awe turn around and call me friend. They call me and shoot me emails like it is normal. And I see their texts and read their words and wonder how in the world I managed to collect such amazing people in the circle of my life.

They reach out to support me, encourage me, laugh with me, celebrate with me and comfort me. They trust me with their tears and their secrets and their worries and their victories. They show up when I'm in the spotlight. They show up when I'm utterly lost. They show up.

So I thought I would share my philosophy of friendship, because so far it has netted me the most impossibly wonderful people I ever imagined could come into my life.

My rules for friendship are very concise, very simple, and utterly drama-free (and I wish I had figured them all out a long, long time ago!):

1. The job description of a friend is easy- be happy to see me, be sad to see me go. If you sincerely smile when I walk in and frown when I leave, like or not- we're friends.

2. You have no obligations of time or effort. You don't have to email me, text me, call me, give me presents or remember my birthday. If you are happy when I show up, you are my friend. If it has been years since we've talked- no worries- years go by fast. We're still good. If you do any of those very nice things you are going above and beyond the friendship call of duty.

3. If you allow me time to hibernate, hide, deal with my stuff and don't get offended if I don't call or come to a tupperware party, you are an understanding friend. Thank you for knowing I'm not brilliant enough to stay on top of everything. I love that you hold onto me when I can't hold onto anything.

4. If you want me to be happy and not sad, you are my friend. If you hope that life is kind to me and not not hurtful, you are my friend. If you don't wish me pain or misery, you are my friend.

5. If you say something that comes out horribly, but you never meant it that way- I don't take off points for articulation. It's what you mean and not what you say. I'm pretty good with words. I will edit for you and we are friends.

6. If I ask to help and you actually let me- that means we are really good friends. Asking for a favor is a compliment. We are great friends!

7. If you get mad at me and talk to me about it and give me a chance to see my mistake and apologize, you are a compassionate friend. And if you accept my apology and keep loving me, I will always love you.

8. If you can help me laugh at my own absurdities, you are a priceless friend.

9. If you tell me when I'm way off base, but give me points for trying, you are a brave friend and I admire your honestly. I won't let go of you.

10. If I know how you will treat me, consistently, every time I see you, you are a trustworthy friend.

11. Once you are my friend it takes some pretty awful behavior to get rid of me. So I end this as I began. If you are happy when I am happy, I am lucky to call you my friend, and I will always be sincerely happy when you come and truly sad when you go.

To the Gentle

2014-05-21T17:30:00.003-07:00

Hard days. Long days. Emotional days.
Every-moment-crammed-with-small-favors days.
Trying-to-remember-and-meet-every-commitment days.
Wanting-more-time-to-sit-and-process days.

As May rushes to a close the school year folds up. Not like a neat, compact envelope, but like a supernova taking a final breath before it implodes.

And in all the chaos there is a underlying stirring of panic.
The time is spent.
Another year spent.
They are taller and smarter, funnier and more beautiful.
And more gone.

When they put their heads in my lap I try not to move, wondering if I can count on one hand how many more times in my life they will sleep in my arms.
How many fingers will count the times they run from the school door with the word, "mama" on their lips?

It has been a wonderful week. A difficult week. A painful week.
The unkind things people did to me struck twice as deep.
But, let's always look on the bright side- the tender and loving things struck even deeper.
So many mothers wet their eyes with me, put arms around me, expressed their love.
I don't have fingers to count the friends I ran into at the store, sharing smiles.
The happy phone calls and compliments.
The packages from friends sent all the way from Paris!
I think I noticed every good thing because my heart is just raw enough to feel every touch.
And I know more now what I have always known- I live off of kindness.
Like air and food and water. That is how I survive.

I am so grateful for people who do not ration their kindness. Do not wonder if I deserve or need it. Do not assume I am fine. I am thankful for the women in my life who are gentle with me. Some days I notice with gratitude and a smile, and some days it is air. Water. Food.
Life.

I meant it when I said it...

2014-05-09T09:30:00.001-07:00

There were days he finished working and still looked human.
No tragedies or smashed fingers. No broken glass or torn masterpieces.
No turning around after three minutes of quiet to find this...

So grown up. So unruffled.
So unfair.
I'd look up from my mess of house work, food work, child work, as I tried to remember every birthday, appointment, assignment, permission slip and bill while spelling out loud and stirring the pot that was boiling over.
And he'd be whole and well.
And I would say, "Someday they will go to school all day and I am going to to shopping. And get my nails done. And go to lunch with my friends. And read books. And you will still be working. And I won't feel guilty at all. Not one bit. You have no idea."
And he would smile and say, "Sounds perfect."
They were hard, hard days. I never got to stop talking, but I could never talk about anything that interested me. There were lengthy discussions about monkey tails and pink string and water paint verses finger paint. I watched children climb onto school buses and I envied their mothers.
What would they do with all that silence?
And now my children are playing a cruel joke on me.
They are growing up and refusing to stop.
One gets gifts from boys who stare at her during math.
The other is graduating kindergarten and going to school all day.
And when my husband found me crying in my bed at midnight this week, he tried to remind me of all that shopping I was going to do and getting my nails done and lunch with the girls. Won't it be nice? Don't you deserve a break?
But the only break is the one in my heart.
What will I do when there is no one to help me contemplate the deep emotional needs of stuffed animals? What will I do when a counter I clean stays... clean?
What will I do with the silence?
I'm learning that loving this fiercely is painful. There are thousands of tiny ways you must detach from them and when you do, they take pieces of your soul with them. And it hurts so beautifully.
Oh, I'm still here. I still have all of my interests and talents and friends and responsibilities.
All the things that shrink down and feel so small compared to two faces. The two faces that still can't drink grape juice without getting a moustache. The two faces that light up when I walk into their classrooms. The two faces that make every day Mother's Day.
The two faces that make shopping seem meaningless and boring unless they're there to laugh with. The ones who make it better to do nails at home than going to a salon because I get to listen to stories that matter to me while they do unthinkable things with purple polish. And the friends I really want to go to lunch with are these two right here. A nice mud pie on an outdoor patio of a rustic little restaurant they built themselves, maybe.

Here's hoping it is never too silent. Never too clean. Never too calm.
Happy Day.
Happy Weekend.
Happy Life.
Thank you.

I think I just got put in my place

2014-01-27T10:06:00.000-08:00

I just read a fascinating article by a woman about how she feels sorry for young women with husbands and children.
And as I studied my life (a wife at age twenty and a mother at age 23) I realized that I just can't argue with her. I think she has me pegged.
She points out that getting "knocked up" or "hitched" to a man are no reasons to celebrate. After all, those things can be done by anyone, and have been for time immemorial. They are average.
We should have showers for women accomplishing real goals like job promotions and backpacking across Asia.
I think she has me there. I've never backpacked across Asia. I haven't backpacked much of anywhere, really. Probably because I got hitched to a man and knocked up. I've taken some really great hikes through the ozark mountains and Florida everglades, but I don't think those count because the entire time I had little girls following me and picking up feathers and pinecones and distracting me by pointing out the miracles of nature and the wonders of the world.

And I couldn't fully enjoy the sunsets over the gulf of Mexico because there was a man sitting in the sand next to me telling me how much he loves me. So that was pretty much a wash.

Who wants to spend their life with a person who lives and dies for them, loves and adores them? I think that might be co-dependence or something. Maybe there's a medication for that.
But if I had put on a backpack and walked across Asia that would have been spectacular. My friends could have thrown me a shower. I think I might leave my average life and try that.
Except...
Except...
If I am going to be really honest Asian people have been carrying stuff and walking around Asia for a long time. There might be some people who mistake my incredible journey for something average. So maybe backpacking across Asia isn't actually an amazing feat, after all.

photo by: cambodia4kidsorg

But if I went to another country and fed hungry children and gave naked children clothing and nursed the sick then I would definitely be contributing and accomplishing.
Except...
Except...

Now that I think about it, I do that every day. I feed hungry children and clothe naked ones and nurse them and teach them, so maybe I can check that off my list. Unless it only counts if you go around the world and do it to another mother's children. I'll have to look that up. I'm not sure my human beings count.

But job promotions... that's something I've been missing out on. I scrub toilets and make beds and catch vomit in bowls but I've never been promoted. No one gives me a raise or recognition. And the last time my daughter laid her freakishly soft cheek against mine and kissed me and told me that she loved me more than pink markers I think I was subconsciously wishing that I was sitting in a cubicle doing data entry really well so someone could come and move me to a bigger cubicle with a longer spreadsheet.

Or the time my husband told me that our daughter had my eyes and sounded like he thought that was the best thing that could ever happen to a person.

I think I rolled those eyes because I was wishing that I was midlevel manager working my way up the ladder and deciding who to fire during cutbacks. Because we all know that the hand that completes the spreadsheet is the hand that rules the world. I think I heard that once.
She also says that being a mother and homemaker will never be equal to being . . . say, an engineer.

photo available through Seattle Municipal archives

I usually get embarrassed being around engineers, which is a problem because there are so many of them! I mean they're almost average nowadays. I listen to their stories about ductwork and humidity levels and how to lay out a parking lot just so and I feel foolish having nothing to show for my days' work other than my children. I mean they are only the most complex organisms known to man. They have beating hearts and lightning fast neural systems and self-healing outer layers, along with cognitive and emotional abilities. They will grow up to continue life on the planet, heal broken hearts, mend bloody knees, appreciate art and nature and change the world, but that doesn't change the fact that I don't know the thermal properties of cement versus concrete.
To be totally honest, I'm not even sure if cement and concrete are different things.
It's really embarrassing.
Which is probably why I hide away in my home and paint and scour and decorate and make it look beautiful and smell beautiful and feel beautiful so people can feel loved the second they step inside. Because I'm not traveling the world or putting in overtime at work I have to fill up my day with meeting emotional and intellectual needs of those around me.

Sorry, but there's really nothing better to do.
And backpacking would require that I go buy a backpack and you know... I'm just a lazy housewife.

A Cricket in Our House

2013-11-07T12:13:00.000-08:00

Six years ago when I was told I probably could not have more children, I thought, "That's fine."
Because I was holding the cutest baby I'd ever seen and my heart was full and life was wonderful.
And now that baby is getting bigger.
And she left me to go to half day kindergarten.
And I started feeling lonely in the afternoons. Yes, I have my stories and my characters to fill up my thoughts and my time, but they aren't warm.
They aren't fuzzy.
They aren't adorable.
I needed a cat. A cat to sit on my desk while I typed and sit on my lap when I watched the news.
So I started looking.
And the Artist kept saying, "We're not getting a cat. You're stressed out enough as it is. It's just one more thing to clean up. It will scratch the furniture."
Intelligent and valid points, but I was too busy scouring petfinder to listen.
For weeks I took the girls to shelters where they promptly fell in love with everything with fur.
"That's not the one," I'd tell them. "We don't want a cat. We want the cat. The perfect cat for our family."
Last weekend we finally made the plunge. As we were driving across the city to rescue a special shelter cat the Artist pointed out, "Did anyone ask me if we could get a cat?"
Good point.
"Darling, can we get the cat we are driving to get?"
We are now the proud owners of a Rex/shorthair mix who is two years old and weighs only six pounds. She sleeps on the girls' bed every night and didn't meow once on the forty five minute drive to her new home. She is currently curled up in the Artist's studio while he works because she loves him. And the feeling is completely mutual.
She is even kind to the rats. One scurried into the same room as her unattended and she didn't take the smallest taste. She is one of the tamest, best natured cats I've ever met.
Friends, meet Cricket- the newest addition to our family.

I don't charge admission if you need a snuggle. Just bring a piece of tuna.

The kids I can't forget...

2013-10-02T12:55:00.001-07:00

I just got home from one of the biggest literary adventures of my life.
I went to the Chicago area to be on a panel for Anderson's Bookshop YA literature conference.
I was invited alongside hugely successful authors.
Authors whose books are movies and have their own shelves in bookstores.
For two days we ate together, worked together, laughed together, and talked to many, many people about young adult literature together.
And now that I am home and the exhausting blur of the weekend in behind me, do you know who I keep thinking about?

The kids.
The kids in the schools that I was fortunate enough to go visit.
The kids with their big eyes and smart-alec comments and loud laughter and wiggling bodies.
The kids who listened and contributed and made me want to sit down and just listen to them.

The ones who said they wanted to be writers.
The ones who said they hate to write.

The ones who stole the show and the ones who never said a word.
They were, by far, the highlight of my trip.

Every author I met was funny and successful and sharp and talented, every publicist committed, every speaker captivating. Truly I was humbled to be grouped anywhere near them- but the kids...
The kids made me feel the sheer joy of words. They reminded me how hard it is to get words right and how okay that is. They know you just keep trying and keep learning. They accept imperfections. They laugh about them. Maybe even prefer them.
And speaking of kids, my two favorite girls came to the schools with me and listened to mom, but during the conference when I was on panels and working hard they went exploring around Chicago with my favorite guy.

They now think business trips are nothing but awesome!

So after five exhausting days of travel and work and play, I want to say to every teacher I met who gives his/her all for the children, to every librarian I met who inspires the children, to all the students I met who opened their ears and their minds and let the words in-
I say to each of you, Thank you for letting be a part of your life for just a window of time.
I truly think you are magical.

The Day After

2013-09-23T12:12:00.000-07:00

Not talking about a hangover.
At least not from alcohol.

It is the day after one of the busiest weekends I can remember. I taught two classes at the Midwest Storymakers writers conference and had the honor of being a keynote speaker, along with Janette Rallison. It was thrilling. And depleting. As most of the best things are.
To add to the fun my writing partner, the author Jaima Fixsen, came all the way from Alberta Canada to stay with my family and attend the conference.
What's that? You're writing partner wouldn't do that for you?
I'm so sorry.
But with all the compassion I can muster- You can't have her. She's mine!

We spent all day Friday, Saturday, and Sunday exploring our city with our daughters, eating the best hamburgers on earth, staying up too late and talking writing, life, society, family and fountain pens.
And today- today when I need to get back to work and finish all five loads of laundry that managed to sneak up on me in one tiny weekend, and send emails and prepare for the Anderson's Young Adult Literature Conference in Chicago this weekend, all I really want to do is sneak into the backyard with my copy of Moby Dick:

And I am trying to edit and write and work and be a grown up, but the Dancer emptied her backpack for me this morning and made a pile of stones on my desk as she told me about each one.
"This one is speckled and this one is smooth and this one is pink and this one is broken..."

And now, in all honesty, all I can think is how beautiful those little rocks are.
Except for just now. I thought of how you can't end a sentence with "are" and that totally wrecked the moment.
I'm not sure that there is anything I can write more special than that haphazard collection.
So maybe I'll just go grab Moby and meet you outside...

My 9/11 promise

2013-09-11T08:10:00.002-07:00

The hardest post of every year is always September 11th.
I vowed never to let a year go by without recording my feelings of that day in a journal. That was back before we had public journals.
But a promise is a promise.

So short and sweet- because this day is not about me. It's about them. All of them.
The man who tried to cling to the window sill, but couldn't.
The fireman who vowed to find his men, but couldn't.
The wife who waited for her husband to come home through the smoke, but he didn't.
The child who wrote a letter to her mother, and had nowhere to send it.

I will simply say that that twelve years ago, in this very hour, my belief turned to absolute knowledge.
I always believed we were children of God.
I always believed I loved my neighbors.
And in a moment, what I always thought I knew, I suddenly knew I knew.
When those dust-caked faces with baffled eyes ran past the cameras, my heart screamed, "My brother! My sister!"
When the tower of rubble echoed with the locator beeps of hundreds of fallen firefighters who gave their lives for strangers, I knew there was a power deeper, stronger, better, purer than mere mortals.
There is something that changes people into angels. There is One who elevates us above ourselves and our circumstances. This I know.

To my brothers and sisters who are not here, but should be- I would have wept with gratitude to trade places with just one of you.
But you wouldn't have let me, would you? Which is why the world will always honor you.
Which is why I will never, never forget you.
Ever.

Dear children, be total rebels!

2013-08-30T09:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Child of Mine,

I am writing this letter to encourage you to be an all-out, no-holds-barred rebel.

Rebel.

A person who doesn't give a second thought about someone else's judgement.

A person who defies the entire world and walks their own way.

A person who is startling brave about being different in every way.

I want you, my child, the work of my life, to be the best rebel that you can be.

I want you to be the ultimate outsider.

A leader who needs no followers.

A person that doesn't just march to a different beat, but to an entirely different drum.

I look back on my childhood and everything I did to try to be a rebel and then I take a moment to snore at myself.

I wasn't rebelling. I was picking up the playbook and following it word by predictable word.

I was doing everything possible to be exactly like every idiotic person around me.

I was not a rebel. I was a lemming.

But you- I want more for you. No running over a cliff into the cold, raging ocean for my child.

You are in every way too awesome for that.

Tattoos?

Pierce everything?

Curse like a sailor?

Parade yourself as sex object?

Spend eight hours on youtube laughing at morons?

Get drunk with your friends?

Shoplift something you didn't even want from Walmart?

Snooze fest.

Follower.

Cookie cutter of every

wannabe who tried to be a rebel.

If you did everything on that list

it would make you like millions of other kids.

You are describing a coward.

Someone so scared to be different

they go straight to the middle of the pack

where they get trampled.

You don't fit that box.

A rebel shocks people.

A rebel is something they are not expecting.

Something they can't stomach or accept.

I look at the people around me and I see the rebels. I notice them.

They stand up in a crowd, never knowing if anyone else will stand with them, and say what they believe.

They don't laugh and nod at a story that makes them uncomfortable. They express an opinion.

You know, an opinion is one of those things that brave people, and only brave people have, even when it is monumentally inconvenient.

They don't spare themselves ridicule or take the easy way.

A rebel believes in something.

A rebel stands out from the world.

Today a rebel is a young man or woman who puts down his/her phone and talks to someone who looks lonely.

A rebel is a student in a class who asks a questions when they don't understand because they want to be smart.

Or who answers a question when the protocol is to look bored and make the teacher feel stupid.

You want to see a rebel? Find me a young person who respects his parents. Find me one who helps at home. Who protects his siblings. Who serves his community.

Find me a kid who isn't in bed holding his phone, but kneeling beside his bed saying a prayer.

Can you imagine the stares? If people knew?!

Can you imagine the faces of teenagers if one of their friends said, "I love my family. My parents are great."

A rebel today is a clear face, intelligent eyes, and hands busy with meaningful work.

A rebel is someone who questions their motives, examines their heart, and tries to do what is good, even when it feels very bad.

A rebel believes that they have control over their life.

A rebel owns their choices.

A rebel doesn't care what they are handed- only what they make out of it.

A rebel won't be a victim.

Dear Child of Mine,

I've trained you to be one thing. From the time you were little and I wouldn't let you watch the Disney channel because I didn't want you to learn to sassy and sarcastic.

Since the moment I told you that I knew everyone else was going to the skating party but we were still going to church.

Or that you couldn't wear a short skirt even if every other girl had one.

I was giving you the tools to be a rebel.

Not a shallow, stupid, rebel wannabe.

A real one.

A strong one.

A life-changing one.

And then in kindergarten, when you left the pack of cheerleaders to walk with the girl who had Spina Bifida because you didn't want her to walk alone, and it took so long to get around the block that all the popsicles were gone by the time we got back to the school parking lot, I knew what I had on my hands.

A rebel.

You go, Child of Mine. You show 'em.

They will laugh at you, exclude you, pick you apart, and in the end-

wish they were you.

My rebel.

Motherhood needs no subsidy

2013-08-02T09:57:00.002-07:00

Recalculating.
Recalculating.
I'm driving down the road of my life, pretty certain of the route and destination until a roadblock, a street not on the map, a detour.
Recalculating.
For the past year I thought that I was helping to inspire moms by showing them that I could love my job as a mother and chase big, creative dreams at the same time.
I thought that my book popping up on bookshelves would make mothers feel bigger or more possible.

Recalculating.
I think I got it wrong. Maybe just by a little, but by enough.
Motherhood doesn't need a subsidy of "other" accomplishments.
I don't need to say I am a homemaker and an author.
You don't need to say I am a mother and a caterer.
Or I am a mother and I volunteer at the hospital.
You are a mother.
I am a mother.
And the world had never, ever needed us like it needs us now.
It has never needed us to stand more proud of our roles as mothers.

So many mothers conquer so many mountains. So many fight the battles alone.
Find me a stronger person than a mother who weeps in loneliness at night and wakes her children with a smile in the morning. I defy you to discover the equal of her courage.

While some people gather medals for their victories in careers and accomplishments, a mother never leaves the trenches.
She doesn't have time to tack a badge to her uniform because she is working.
I don't have time to write out a fancy resume of everything I can do and everything I am worth because I am busy holding up the entire world.
The entire world.
The weight of disappointment, discovery, knowledge, rejection, self-worth, self-doubt, faith and skepticism is crashing down on my children every day.
Every day they see the news and need to understand why the people are crying, why the children are hungry, why their friends got mad, why their homework is hard, why they can't have the lead in the play, why we all believe different things, why someone is poor, why someone is famous, why the bad people seem happy, or the good people don't get the help they need.
Huge, crippling, exciting questions. Crashing. Crashing down on their tender, innocent heads.
And I am their mother.
And it is not just the tough things. They need me as desperately for the wonderful things. They would fight their way through jungles and soldiers to show me what they painted. They yell for me to come look whenever something is cute or funny or beautiful. They need my smile, my nod, my comment, my approval. Not want it. Need it to understand what is great about life.
I am their tour guide through this madness.

I must teach them to fight for joy because it is a struggle.
I must be an example of courage when I am scared.
I must stay calm when they need stitches and stay in control when the toilet overfloweth.
In every situation, at every movie, every conversation, every interaction, their little faces turn to me and watch for cues. Is this good? Is this bad? How does Mom feel about it?
And I must pick up this entire world that I don't understand and I must keep it from crushing them. I must hand it to them answer by answer, moment by moment until they are strong enough to carry it themselves.
When the confusion and exhaustion overwhelm me I cannot quit, retire, go on vacation or take time off.
I am a mother.
We are mothers.

I am not a writer who followed her dream and caught it when I published a book. I am a mother who followed her dream and caught it when I first held my children.

I am a mother who wrote her daughters a story.
I am a mother who will keep writing her daughters stories.
How wonderful for me that a few people have joined our storytime and let me read to them, as well.
And when they drift away and lose interest, that is all right because I have two little girls and I am their coach and we have a lot to get done. Every day is non-stop, intense training as they learn how to lift up the entire world.
They will need it someday soon when they are mothers.
I am not an author raising two children.
I am a mother telling stories.
I am a mother.
Destination reached.

Tapper Unplugged

2013-07-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

Let me first confess that I am not a "roughing it" it kind of gal.
I like hot meals and toilet paper and curling irons.
I spray my house four times a year not because I have bugs, but because I never want to see a bug.
But I just got home from the most incredible vacation.
We went to the Middle of Nowhere.
(Out west they call it Altamont, Utah- but trust me, if you address a letter to the Middle of Nowhere, it will get there. At least it would if they had postal service.)
We had no phone reception, no wifi, no television and no problems.
I'm not exaggerating. When I turned off everything, I forgot about everything.
Or even better- I didn't care. I didn't care about what reviewers were saying or what was selling or what I needed to do, clean, wipe up, wipe out, update, overhaul, patch up, look over, tweak or tweet.
The world melted into the hot desert dirt, into the smell of sage bush burning the air, into the flat buttes of the ancient mountains, into the sound of stars falling out of the sky because it was too crowded with lights.
This became our playground:

For three days we just looked. We looked at the sky and the earth and the mountains that stand somewhere in between the two. We looked at each other. I looked at the reflections in my daughters' golden hair, at the way my husband's brown eyes soften when he sees something wonderful. We looked into ponds and streams to find shining rocks and fish.

The Cowgirl spent almost six hours one day pulling crawdads out of a lake and then releasing them. After she gave them a good-natured scare, of course.

We didn't eat at fancy restaurants. We didn't tour grand museums. We didn't feel the pulse and life of a city. But we felt the pulse and life of each other. A family. All beating in one rhythm as if we found the spot where mother nature's heart pounds and we laid down on top of it just to feel it throb. It was an incredible sensation of quiet.
A quiet so exhilarating I felt foolish for not chasing it long ago.
As we neared civilization, we did some hiking with friends, trekking up Mount Timpanogos to explore a cave. Toward the top my phone started working again and my agent texted me. And I texted back that I was on the side of a mountain and would have to chat later. And I sighed because I knew I would have to text back later and good news and bad news would spill back in and there would be work to do and plans to make.

And I wanted to stay right here- right in the moment where there was no failure or success. Just breathing and seeing and being.

I had no idea how much I needed this moment, until I got it. No idea what it meant to rest. To use up your muscles and wear out your feet and exhaust your body and yet, rest, in every way that truly matters.

Back in Salt Lake City I had the honor to do a reading and booksigning at the King's English Bookshop. It was a lovely event and as I look through my pictures I know that if I tried to live the life of a happy hermit, loneliness would set in in two weeks. I need people. I need to grab their hands and hug them and hear them. I love them. But I look at this girl and I see her happiness and her gratitude at the opportunity to share words with others.

But I see something else, too. I see her worry and the pressures on her shoulders and the way she tries to plow ahead without caring what the outcomes is... but you do care. When you try with all your heart to do something well, you care a great deal.

So I am grateful that I had an entire week entirely unplugged.
I am grateful for the experience so I can tell that girl who worries and feels small and overwhelmed, "Remember the quiet."
I'm glad there are places in the middle of nowhere.
I am glad there are wild squirrels who will beg for peanuts.

I am glad that the mountains I climb, I do not climb alone.

I am glad there is quiet.

13 is their lucky number

2013-07-08T15:48:00.002-07:00

The Artist and I celebrated our 13th anniversary this week.
Don't worry- I won't mush or gush on you.
He nudged my shoulder and said, "I still kinda like you."
I nudged him back and said, "I still kinda like you, too."
Then we high fived went for a bike ride.
;)
We felt that the beginning of our family deserved a celebration so we got a present for our entire family.
Okay, half our family.
But they are the loud half and they screamed loud enough for all four of us.

I know- it's a monstrosity. But it's a really fun monstrosity. We led them outside and they dove straight in.

So, what was Tapper doing while the girls enjoyed her anniversary?
I was enjoying it, too, from ten feet away- thinking about that boy I still kind of like...

and wondering about all the years ahead of us.

Right now the best future I can imagine is having decades more time to nudge his shoulder, and enjoy quiet views like this

Happy Anniversary to my entire family. The Artist and I might have started it, but we're all in it together now.
Which means we can all do the laundry and dishes together, right?

Or not.

That's great, Mom, but...

2013-07-02T07:50:00.001-07:00

Today started in the most surreal way.
I got an email from a friend in Seattle (what were you doing awake at 5am, anyway? I forgot to ask...) saying, "I saw you on Amazon."
Which meant I wasn't dreaming last night when I got an email from Amazon saying they were going to feature me on their front page.
I slept all night thinking, "Silly Regina, you have such an imagination..."
But this morning, I woke up and those strange dreams happened.
Luckily those were my only strange dreams that happened, because I also dreamed about flashes of light blowing semi trucks off the road right in front of a horse farm, but I digress...
Anyhoo, I opened Amazon.com and saw:

I know. I was befuddled and baffled, too.
My daughter, the Cowgirl, walked in and saw me staring at the screen. She saw my picture up there and I said,

"This is the front page of Amazon. Like, all of Amazon."

She gave a little grin and a funny little noise and then said,

"OOOh, I want a Kindle Fire!"

Which made my husband and I laugh and we both said simultaneously, "There's the blog post!"
I am so grateful there is no unexpected success that can impress them, because there is also no failure that will ever disappoint them. I am forever and ever "Mom."
I will never want a better, more beautiful title than that. And you can put that on the front page of any site!

p.s. They feature two authors at a time, so every other click on Amazon today will show me. If you go and see a tattooed man, I promise I don't lead a double life. Just hit refresh once or twice

When Giving Up Is Awesome

2013-06-27T08:27:00.001-07:00

So you might not know that I am really pathetic.
Right down to the core of me I am so riddled with "quirks" (lets call all of my flaws "quirks") that I am like a swiss cheese of humanity.
And these "quirks" seem to blossom in the hot and humid air of summer.
The first two weeks without school almost did me in. I was trying to keep up my writing schedule with two giddy and active girls running circles around my rolling chair.
Which made me cranky.
Which made me irritable.
Which made me rude.
Which made me feel guilty.
Which made me feel worthless.
Which made me wish that I believed in drinking alcohol because I had quite a few days when I was wiping tears off my face and wishing I could saunter up to a bar and tell the keep to give me one straight.
In fact, the whole bottle.
I've never had a drop of alcohol, but trust me, a few days had me daydreaming...

So summer nearly turned me

from a functioning human being into a

whiskey-drowning bar hopper.

Luckily, I came up with a better plan.
I gave up.
I completely gave up on trying to to accomplish anything. Which felt awful. For three days.
And then it felt great. And then I couldn't remember why I was trying to fit in a career in the middle of being a homemaker, house manager, caretaker and business partner to my husband.
And I made a deal with my children.
We wake up, we clean up, we tidy up and when the house looks great (which only takes about half an hour) we are free to play.
Every day we go to the zoo or the movies or swimming or shopping or exploring and I can't for the life of me figure out why it was so hard to let go.

I'm grateful that when I cannot accomplish everything all at once, all the time, it doesn't matter.
The world didn't stop spinning through space.
The sun didn't stop slathering us with its fierce summer heat.
My career didn't fall apart when I left it to simmer on the back burner.
At least, I don't think so.
And if it did, if I can't stir it back up and get it going in six weeks when I have a few hours a day to work, then I'm glad my family doesn't attach my worth with what I publish.
And if it tanks and I feel sad, my family will take me to the zoo.
And buy me a ticket for the tram.
Double Score!

Flamingos, Coyotes and Books. Oh, my....

2013-05-30T07:07:00.002-07:00

In the last three days:
I walked downstairs to find this:

(the kicker is that big sis tied the string too tight and we had trouble getting it off her face)

I packed a picnic to enjoy some calm family time at the park and instead got this:

Pulled out of my driveway yesterday to find this guy waiting at the end of my street:

(It's a wild coyote, people! But that is probably redundant. I don't think there are tame coyotes)

And to add to all this madness, today is my book's birthday. Today, boxes in little bookstores, in little towns, will open and someone will reach down, pull out my little book and set it on a little shelf.

Isn't it amazing how so many little things put together can feel so big?

But just to clarify- My daughter turned into a flamingo and it was a coyote, people!

What makes it so special...

2013-05-23T11:35:00.000-07:00

Last night was a night that I didn't think I would experience in my lifetime.

We launched On Little Wings at one of the most respected book stores in America.

But that isn't what made it so special.

We packed it to capacity.

but that isn't what made it so special.

We catered amazing food for almost 100 people.

But that isn't what made it so special.

(But definitely delicious. Thank you to my caterer!)

I had the best florist in Kansas City doing my flowers.

But that isn't what made it so special.

(but it is what made it so beautiful. Thanks to An Eclectic Stem!)

I got to sign a lot of books for family, friends and strangers who are now friends.

But that isn't what made it so special.

When the bookstore owner came over and told me that he'd rarely seen a debut launch with such a huge, energetic attendance, that was amazing, but still not what made it so special.

Then he said that the entire store was filled with an overwhelming spirit of love and kindness....
And he hit the nail on the head.
Last night an entire shop was filled to the brim with good, caring, generous people who had nothing but encouraging words to say.
So what exactly made it so special?

Each one of you.

Truly, thank you.

Is that camera on?

2013-05-21T15:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I let the girls miss a couple of hours of school, but it was for a fun reason.
I had my first live television interview and since the Cowgirl is obsessed with the idea of being famous on TV, I thought she should see what television is really like:
People running around, tripping over cords, panicking when the internet goes out, fretting over microphone wires and talking to a mostly empty room.
I was hoping to cure her by showing her the wizard behind the curtain.

My segment got moved at the last minute so I was sitting in the wings when people started waving at me to run and I was hurdling over extension cords in my heels and hoping that I didn't sit up there and pass out and drool all over the host's shoes. I barely made it to my seat in time.
And I was terrified to look at the camera, (which so adds ten pounds! That's my story and I'm sticking to it...) because they told me not to and it is really hard not to when it is in your face!
Throughout the entire interview the Dancer was doing this:

because she thought I could see her.
And then it was all over (They could have asked me my opinion on American Alligators being shipped to Uzbekistan to fight insurgents and I think I would have come up with some sort of answer. My brain was in a do or die mode.)
And the girls got to chum up with the beautiful girl on TV and eat the strawberries that the man from the farmer's market brought for his spot and have their pictures taken and I was thinking maybe my "TV-isn't-so-great-plan" had backfired.

I explained to the Cowgirl that television is a lot of work and worry and being famous is silly and unimportant and we got up to the leave the studio.
And then the weather man came in.
And did his thing in front of the green screen.
And I was thinking, "Oh my goodness, I know you. Can I have your autograph?"

It just doesn't happen

2013-05-03T11:03:00.000-07:00

There are those things in life that are not supposed to happen.

Pigs don't fly.
Hell doesn't freeze over.
You won't win the lottery.
You won't get a package in the mail one day from one of the biggest publishers in the world with your name on the front.
It won't snow in May when the day before was 80 degrees.

Oh, wait.

I forgot that life doesn't follow its own rules.

Yesterday on the way home from school we rolled down our windows to catch the monstrous white flakes falling wet and heavy from the white sky. We pulled over and jumped outside into the wind and put our hands out and faces up and stuck out our tongues and did the snow dance.
In May.
When Wednesday was 80 degrees and it felt too hot to mow the grass.

And then, just to prove that the universe will never run out surprises to throw at us, a package was dropped on my snowy porch on this fine May morning.

Sometimes it snows in May. And only when it breaks all the rules and wasn't supposed to happen, do the snowflakes taste like miracles.

Just don't sound like an idiot...

2013-05-01T12:56:00.003-07:00

I had my first public speaking engagement as an official author.

I was the keynote speaker at the Olathe Friends of the Library fundraiser and I got to stand up in front of 200 people for over half an hour and tell them why libraries are amazing and authors are a little crazy.
Because we are.
It's not a normal existence.
Expose my innermost thoughts?
Face years of relentless rejection?
Sit alone at a table in a bookstore trying not to make people feel awkward for ignoring me?
Get paid in peanuts and pennies.
Yeah, don't everyone rush at once.
But still... still... it has a ring to it. I'm an author.
My sister came into town and my family showed up and the room was packed and I had three thoughts in my head- Don't stutter. Don't say "Ummm." Don't sound like an idiot.
It all passed in a blur, but the response was great.
You know how the Artist is always cool as a cucumber? He was almost giddy.
You know my in-laws who modeled the cool as a cucumber thing- they got me this whopping bouquet after the event ended!

And yesterday while I was grabbing books at the library a librarian pulled me over to her desk and said, "I want you to see something."
It was the holds list. 30 days before my book hits the shelves dozens of people are lined up to check it out and read it.
Is it appropriate to hug a librarian? Would anyone understand if I cried right in front of the travel tourism shelf?
Don't worry. I had my mantra.
Cool as a cucumber.
Don't sound like an idiot.
"That's great," I said with a smile. "I hope they like it."
Which translated into Tapper speak is roughly, "Well, punch a duck and break the sound barrier, that is bloomin' awesome!"
Or something thereabouts. Tapper speak is a really hard language to interpret...

p.s. I do not actually advocate punching ducks. Stay cool and love the birds, people.

Paint me a Picture

2013-04-16T07:21:00.002-07:00

I deal in words.
That's my hobby, my interest, my business.
But I love art in all its forms.
I love paintings and drawings (maybe because my talent ends at stick figures and one kind of flower that I am kind of good at. But honestly- only one)
Since a picture can say a thousand words, and because I've been up to my neck researching art for my next novel... (you can tell when I'm starting a book- my blog suffers. You can tell when I've got writer's block on my book- my blog thrives!)

These are about 1/3 of the books I'm using right now!

...my girls have had a renewed interest in all things art. For our family activity this week I raided Hobby Lobby and bought real brushes (fan, angled, straight...you name it) and grown up watercolors from a tube (the girls were ecstatic) and we all watched Bob Ross make happy little trees.
And then we sat down as a family and tried it out- different brushes, different techniques, different strokes. (I just said Different Strokes and you just started singing the song, didn't you?)

After an hour of hard work we had a handful of fun memories, a few tears when our "happy little trees" didn't look as "happy" as Bob Ross's, and a couple pictures.

Pictures don't really need to say a thousand words. This one only says twelve:

I am little. and I got to paint. Therefore I am happy.

No children were harmed in the making of this blog...

2013-04-15T06:43:00.004-07:00

We had a really big week over here. It was all about the baby of the family.
She had a full team of rowdy cheerleaders as she learned to do this:

And then this happened!

I am very relieved to report that the two pictures are in no way related except they star the same little cutie. But don't think cute equals small and helpless.

She is now strong enough to escape punishment if she causes mischief. There's no way to reach her once she starts climbing. If anyone is looking for a girl to camp out in a tree as a protest- I might have your gal.