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This is what I get for being smug.

Posted on January 18, 2012 by Beth Hull

Yesterday I hit an all-time productivity high. I tripled my page/word goal, managed to do the dishes, and even ran three errands before picking Z up at school and taking her to the park.

I bask in my super-awesomeness cape and matching lip gloss!

I was especially smug about the word count. Not wanting to brag to everyone in the whole world, I saved that info for Homes and Katy, both of whom were duly impressed. I was even contemplating a post for today on Parenting & Productivity, and how I get so much more work done after having Z than I’d ever dreamed of doing before Z. If only I knew what was in store for me.

This morning Homes and I received the 3 a.m. wake-up call. The kind that kept calling, and calling, and calling. “Daddy! Daddy! DAAAAADDDDDDDYYYY! Mommy Daddy! Mommydaddy Mommydaddy!” And then, once the caller was safely established in her cot, and the Ever-Suffering Mother and Homes safely in their Bed of Pain, the whining started.

To make a very long & painful story short, usually I sleep until 7, but today I was too pissed off.

I’ve been awake since 3:30.

On the bright side, I was able to accomplish these things, all before 7 a.m.:

fold laundry
scrub shower
vacuum
wash the dishes
give Z breakfast
pick up Z’s toys that didn’t get picked up the night before (surprise)

On the very dark and sad side, there is no way I’ll triple my writing goal today. My eyes kept closing while I tried to reach my regular writing goal.

I did reach it, though, so there.

Maverick – Instrument of My Destruction

Posted on January 11, 2012 by Beth Hull

I don’t want to complain.

Why is it that whenever someone says that, they follow it with a lot of complaining?

So let’s talk, instead, of the third trimester of a woman’s pregnancy. The third trimester has a firm, distinct purpose, and it isn’t what doctors may tell you, some scientific mumbo-jumbo about the baby growing and developing. No. The purpose of the third trimester is to put the mother (or “host,” rather) through so much discomfort that she actually begins to look forward to, and happily anticipate, the painful ordeal of childbirth.

Welcome to the third trimester, sucka.

Two nights ago, when I tried to heave myself over in bed like the large sea mammal I am beginning to resemble, I felt a very intense pain in my pelvis. Later that morning, I had a conversation with Homes:

Ever-Suffering Mother: Homes, I feel like someone took a hammer to my pelvis last night while I slept.

Snarky Husband: I didn’t think you’d notice.

Ever-Suffering Mother: And then they pieced the bones back together with screws.

Snarky Husband: I used the tiny ones.

The pain could have been a hammer-and-screw-wielding Snarky Husband, or it could have been my new Just Dance 3 game. But more likely, it was Maverick.

About Maverick. We like to give our unborn children nicknames in this family. Before we learned Z was a girl, we called her Perry. Short for “Parasite.” And even though we know this one’s a boy, we still haven’t decided on a name. So for the time being, I’m calling him Maverick.

(Cue jet engine sound effects.)

Highway to the danger zone!

But after the broken pelvis incident he gets a subtitle. Now he’s Maverick: Instrument of My Destruction.

(It’s either that, or Renesmee, after the famous literary half-vampire baby freak who famously tore apart her own ever-suffering mother.)

The Whoofles (pl.)

Posted on January 4, 2012 by Beth Hull

The Whoofle (singular) looks a little like an armadillo, according to Z. She is, thus far, the only one to have any knowledge of the Whoofle. She’s quite afraid of it. She worries about it eating her toys, and even eating her (so glad I hid that “Travels of Babar” book with the cannibals). It’s sad that we’ve worked so hard to keep her from scary things, that she’s resorted to creating scary things out of her imagination. We have to prop up Z’s giant stuffed triceratops, Penelope, to stand guard at night. And she has Mr. Fox to hold, as well. And her turtle star night light.

The Whoofles (plural) look a lot like your average group of four-, five- and six-year-old girls. The Whoofles travel together in packs during the day, and don’t include everyone in their fun. They are, I think, far scarier than the Whoofle (sing.).

Dropping Z off at school yesterday, I was a mixture of jubilation and uncertainty. I was looking forward to some quality writing time, but unsure how she’d handle her first day back after two weeks off of school. But she was so excited about going back and playing “Princess Beauty” (a new game – I think it may have come from a Disney princess book her cousin shared with her).

But when we dropped her off, the other girls didn’t flock to engage her in play, and she stood there, bouncing and excited, by herself. Before walking across the street to our car, we spied her on the playground and watched as one of these little girls basically told her she couldn’t play with them (we couldn’t hear the conversation, but the body language and Z’s resultant lack of bouyancy were clear enough).

I came home and it was hard not to cry into my breakfast.

I didn’t recognize any of the girls, so I’m pretty sure their moms aren’t reading this. So I can easily give way to angry venting and vilify these little three-to-six-year-olds to my heart’s content.

Jerks.

That’s all the venting I’m willing to do, because I’m sure once upon a time I was a Whoofles, and Z may someday be a Whoofles too, although I will do everything in my power to teach her compassion & inclusiveness (is that even a word?). And I want to show her it’s possible to a) make friends who aren’t cruel and b) have fun by oneself. And while I’m at it, I’d like to somehow get her to figure out how to solve all the world’s problems and also make enough money to set Husband and myself up in a nice retirement home someday. Maybe in a warm place, by the ocean. Surrounded by our non-Whoofles friends.

The Gift of Belief

Posted on December 16, 2011 by Beth Hull

The Gift of Belief. No, I’m not talking about Santa Claus.

Last week, the YA Muses wrote about gifts for writers. What do writers want for the holidays? Things like people to read their books (Katy), ultra-fine tipped Sharpies (Donna), conferences and retreats (Talia), fingerless gloves (Veronica), and guilt-free writing time (Bret). Yes, sign me up for all of those. But the most important thing I want is something I already have, which is a community of people who believe in me. They believe in me not only when things are going well, but even when I have no faith in myself. When I’m thinking of herding goats in a cold remote country that has no computers or typewriters or notebooks.

Friends and family – writers & non-writers alike – post encouragements via email, texts, and Facebook. They listen to me whine. They talk me down when I’m facing the Crevasse of Insecurity. They celebrate the good things, and believe more good things are to come.

They also read my words over and over and over and come up with brilliant suggestions to make my words into something people – not just goats – would want to read. They listen to me obsess about plot, character, revisions, querying, success, and failure.

And all this time invested comes down to one very simple thing: belief. They believe in me. Maybe they don’t think This Book is the one, but they won’t say so. Because even if it isn’t This Book, it’s the one after that, or the one after that, or – you get the idea. And they’re all along for the ride, with all its ups and downs.

I’m frowning a little as I write this, because it’s so sappy. But it’s true: I love you.

So We All Understand Each Other: Just because I’ve already received the Gift of Belief does NOT mean I will turn down other, more materialistic offerings this holiday season.

So tell me – who do you have to thank for believing in you?

Pandora’s Lunch Box

Posted on December 14, 2011 by Beth Hull

Since last week’s Momming Around post was abandoned in favor of self-congratulation, let me offer a few actual momming tidbits here.

Baby-to-be is a boy! We’re all excited, even Z, who said she wanted a sister. I’d kind of enjoyed thoughts of two little girls with that sister relationship I never had, but I’d also wanted a boy, so…yeah. Happy either way.
Z’s lunch box is absolutely disgusting. While my morning sickness is mostly gone, I still have gag-moments. Opening up her lunch box today was one of those moments. Her school has a policy of kids taking home their leftover lunch, so parents/caregivers can see how much their child is actually eating. It’s a nice idea, and gives controlling, obsessive parents one extra bit of control. However, the sight – and scent – of a day-old cream cheese-and-jam sandwich had me gagging. Z had to take a break from breakfast to dump the offending food in the trash. Note to self: deal with lunch box as soon as Z gets home. The problem is, I put it off because it’s disgusting, and I never know what I’m going to find.
Next week, she’s off from school. But Homes still has work, and there are currently no grandparents volunteering to come ease my pain. Am I a horrible stay-at-homie for considering the option to pay extra for a day of childcare next week? $30 for one day really isn’t so bad. Today is the last day to sign up.
I’m awful. We’ll do play dates and get the house ready for Christmas instead.
We’ll hate each other by Christmas.
No. I will a) go to bed early each night, b) plan outtings to friends’ houses, the grocery store, the library, and wherever else I can think of, and c) liberally self-medicate with chocolate ice cream in the evenings.
It’ll be fine. Really.