Go...Hokies...Go! (No, GO TARHEELS, but still I like this book.)

Let it be known that I am NOT a Hokie fan.  At all.  Despite living in Richmond and having many Hokie friends, I think Hokie fans are all kinds of obnoxious.  They plaster their cars with turkeys and then have the audacity to change lanes without signaling.  They wear orange and maroon ALL THE FREAKING TIME.  I have a dear friend who is a Hokie who had Maroon and orange purses made for herself on Etsy.  I think it's a requirement if you graduate from Virginia Tech that you get a vanity plate to announce that fact.  Apparently Hokies think we care.  For my North Carolina readers, imagine if all the intelligent Carolina fans weren’t so snobby and behaved like State fans.  Got that?  Smart and obnoxious.  Yeah, they’re like that.  And they. are. everywhere.    

That said, I really am praying AGAINST out of state tuition, so I have to start grooming my kids to be either Hokies or Hoos.  Imagine my delight when I got my hands on this little book.  

You know that mascot book you’ve already got that is all kinds of lame?  And you read it a couple of times because a college friend gave it to you when your kids were born.  But what your child REALLY wants to read is that flap book about the bunny with the fuzzy tail?

Enter  Go… Hokies… Go!  

It takes HokieBird and walks him through the VT campus.  You can rub his feathers, help him flip through a book in Newman library, take him tubing on the New, and help him score a basket in Cassell Coliseum.  You can even scratch and sniff his pizza in Owens Food Court.  (I’m hoping that Hokie pizza actually doesn’t smell like the scratch and sniff.  Because this scratch and sniff pizza smells just like Raggedy Ann’s cooking in my favorite childhood interactive book.  Which made the smell awesome, but not so appetizing.)  It even has the Hokie fight song at the end.  Or, I’m assuming that “Tech Triump” is the Hokie fight song.  Admittedly, I probably would’ve enjoyed the book even more if I had remembered sleeping in Newman library or making out at the duck pond.  (I’m assuming people made out there.  Again, I’m not a Hokie.  And I kinda don’t like Hokies.  But if there had been a Duck pond in Chapel Hill, I think people would've made out there.  Because North Carolina is for lovers.  Wait, no, that's Virginia.)

My kids loved the book.  Henry’s favorite part was helping HokieBird score the basket and looking at the pile up of football players on fold out page.  Gracie’s favorite part was playing with the fans' pom poms.  As a Mom, my favorite part was the sturdiness of the book.  Most flap and play books get ripped up the first time you read them.  But this is printed on thick pages, almost like a board book.  That said, Gracie did rip out a few of the streamers on the pom poms.  But she’s like the Hulk, breaking pantry doors with just a look, so we shouldn’t really count that.  The writing rhymes and the illustrations are cartoony and reminiscent of Gary Larson or Berkeley Breathed.  

Bryan assured me that books for Carolina, NC State, UNCC, ECU, and Appalachian State should be coming out this fall and winter.  You can bet your bottom dollar that we are pre-ordering our Tarheel edition and will be emailing Bryan on a regular basis until there is also a Gamecock edition.   

Want a copy of your own?  You can buy yours here:  www.collegiatekidsbooks.com.   I think there may also be some copies floating around some specialty shops and kids’ stores in the Richmond area.   

Because you aren’t getting my copy.  We love it.  Even though it has that stupid turkey on the cover. 

*In the interest of full disclosure for the FTC, I was NOT compensated for this post.  The book was given to me by the author because we are friends and he was in town.  And by friends, I mean to say that his little sister is one of my childhood besties.  So in this case, “friends” means that he mocked and made fun of me for my entire childhood.  As in, when I told Sloan about the book and Bryan dropping it off at our house, he replied, “You mean that guy who always makes fun of you and calls you “Kings and Queens?  Sinchy Sinchy?”  Yes, Sloan.  That guy.

But we’ve both evolved.  For those of you who know us, Bryan Jones becoming a children’s book author is about as hilarious as me going to seminary.  Am I right?  

Also, let it be known that if one of my three books in process ever gets published, I fully expect all of you people to buy it, read it, and market the crap out of it on your blogs and facebook walls.  Cause that’s what friends do.  Unless the book sucks.  Then you can do nothing.  And that’ll be fine.  Because if this book had stunk, I wouldn’t have done this review.  Also, for the record, Bryan did NOT ask me to do this review.  I'm just doing it because I'm awesome like that.

So nobody sue me, because all of my money is tied up in adoption and giant holes in my kitchen ceiling.

Team Peeta

I wrote a longer post this morning while I was getting my car inspected, but for now, I simply want to declare unequivocally that I am on Team Peeta.  And to be clear, I'm not even sure how anyone else could be on Team Gale. 

If you don't know what I'm talking about, just carry on and maybe pick up a copy of The Hunger Games trilogy.  You'll finish it in less than a week because you will shirk all other responsibilities to finish it. 

To be sure, both Gale and Peeta love Katniss.  But Gale's love is self-serving, while Peeta's love is selfless.  Gale is a hard man.  Peeta is light and lovely and, for the love of Peeta, the boy bakes cheesy bread!  I couldn't stand Gale.  And I hated Katniss when she was with him.  His love for her hardened her, made her selfish.  While Peeta's love softened her.  But in a way that allowed her still to be strong and vibrant.  And if you find a man whose love allows you vulnerability and vitality, well, he's a rare keeper.  And again, let's not forget the cheesy bread!!

Oh, there's also the fact that I've had a pretty big crush on Josh Hutcherson since 2005's Little Manhattan.  It could be because of this...

Sloan Phillips in his youth...

And a young Josh Hutcherson...

And so now the cast to the Lifetime Network movie of my life is complete.

7

It is no secret that I stalk Jen Hatmaker.  I read her blog, her books, we’re facebook friends and I follow her on twitter.  I count the fact that she has responded to my emails twice and once to a comment I tweeted to mean that it is not unrequited love.  Add to that the fact that my bestie Mollie actually knows her, goes to her church, and may or may not have promised to snip a locket of her hair for me, and it is perfectly obvious that it’s a very deep relationship.  In my mind.  I’m certain that if there were not miles between Austin and Richmond, I would frighten Jen.  Little does she know that there are plans for a girls weekend in Maryland to see her in the works.  Bwawahahah…..
 

Anywho.  Now that we’ve got THAT creepy confession out of the way, I have to take a beat to talk about her new book 7.  It is titled “7” because she identifies the book as “an experimental mutiny against excess” in 7 areas—clothes, shopping, waste, food, possessions, media, and stress.  So she, and a group of women she calls “The Council”, embark upon this experiment in decrease with the desire that as they unplug from consumer culture, they’ll be more apt to hear God and love his people.

In the introduction she writes how opening up her home to Hurricane Katrina victims led to her seeing herself in a new light.  She was rich. Despite being a writer married to a pastor, she was abundantly rich.  She writes, “…I was so blinded I didn’t even know we were rich.  

How can I be socially responsible if unaware that I reside in the top percentage of wealth in the world? (You probably do too: Make $35,000 a year?  Top 4 percent.  $50,000? Top 1 percent.)  Excess has impaired perspective in America; we are the richest people on earth, praying to get richer.  We’re tangled in unmanageable debt while feeding the machine, because we feel entitled to more.  What does it communicate when half the global population lives on less than $2 a day, and we can’t manage a fulfilling life on twenty-five times that amount?  Fifty times that amount?

It says we have too much, and it is ruining us.”

GULP.  Convicted?  Yeah.  Join the club.

Speaking of clubs (bonus points for the wicked smooth segue!), I am a member of a facebook book club discussing this book.  It was put together by my buds Mollie and it is full of randoms from all over.  (Ok, mainly randoms that Mollie knows.)  

The first chapter Jen tackles food. For one month, she simplifies her diet down to 7 foods.  She considers nutrition and settles upon chicken, eggs, whole-wheat bread, sweet potatoes, spinach, avocadoes, and apples.  But mainly for the month she writes about missing coffee and the large amounts of repentance this endeavor is drawing her into.  It should also be noted she.is.hilarious.  MAYBE even funnier than me.  (Which I didn’t even know was humanly possible.  Too bad there’s not a chapter on humility…)

In my book club group, we started off lamenting the giving up of things.  And talking about our various issues with food.  I’ve yet to meet a woman who has a completely healthy relationship with food, so this limiting of food was a significant thorn in people’s side.   And for good reason.  But I think the whole point of reducing food had nothing to do with control, or weight loss, or health, but with providing Jen with a physical and very tangible thing that would daily remind her of her need for Jesus and bring to mind all the ways she tries to avoid feeling that need.  Her mantra was less Jen, more Jesus.  

While reading the chapter, I was so on board with limiting myself to 7 foods.  I even liked her choices and was fully prepared to spend 20 minutes a day concocting some type of sweet potato-cooked apple hash to spread on my inedible homemade wheat bread.  (Ya know, cause I just ADORE cooking.)  But then I went to sleep and the next morning woke up realizing that if I didn’t have a Diet Dr. Pepper STAT I might cut somebody.  (Which, yes, is the ENTIRE freaking point of the exercise.  Really.) But I also know me and the only thing I like about keeping rules is being smug about keeping rules.  The temptation of self-righteousness was too great for me.  And if my prayer really is less EJ, more Jesus, pretending giving up caffeine is my salvation is counterproductive.  

So for the next month, I have chosen to forego fast food, anything containing High Fructose Corn Syrup, and to eat leftovers until they are gone.  It is forcing me to slow down, think ahead, cook appropriate portion sizes, and keep up with my danged grocery list so that I have foods I can pack to take with me places.  Basically, it is causing me to live more intentionally.  To choose what it best over what is easiest.  To consider that leftover food in my fridge is not something to be endured but a privilege.  These are small things, really.  But already I feel like I’ve decided to become Amish.  It’s gonna be hell when she writes about media use.

However, even this small cutback to make room for the Holy Spirit to work in me has not been without affect.

Yesterday I chose a sit down restaurant when fast food really would have been a lot easier.  And what do you know?  I stretched the meal into two with leftovers and my children preferred sitting at a table to eat food rather than having French fries thrown at them while barreling down 288 at 65 mph. 

Last night I discussed how we needed to eat for dinner all of the things in the refrigerator that would go bad soon if we didn’t eat them.  It was a hodge podge of deli meat, greek yogurt, and bins full of vegetables from dinners past.  I chatted with Henry how some folks didn’t have food,  that Daddy worked hard to provide us food and that food was a gift from God.  Henry’s response preached to me LOUDLY.

“Well, Mom, I don’t wanna waste gifts. So how ‘bout when I’m done with my 4 no thank you bites of broccoli I eat ALL of the leftover peas?”

If that is not God at work in my family, then I don’t know what is.

Occupy My Life

Yesterday, I told a friend that I was thinking of giving up blogging and writing all together for awhile.  That my book and "building a brand" and networking with other writers and agents consumed too much of my thoughts and mind. It distracted me from my family and that I'd be a more loving wife and mom if I sacrificed my dream.  She wisely commented that, "Well, if it doesn't hurt, it's not love.  But it's also not love if you give something up and then talk all the time about how much you've given up and want credit for it."  My dear bestie A knows me well enough to know I'm not mature enough to love sacrificially and not want a parade in my honor for doing so.

However, after praying more about the whole writing and my own dissatisfaction with  my life as of late, it is also true that perhaps if I wrote more, I'd think about writing less.  Because real writers write.  They don't just sit in coffee shops and talk about writing with their writing friends.  They don't just carry around notebooks and jot notes.  They don't just ignore their families in an effort to remember that brilliant thing they thought about in the grocery store and forgot to write down in their handy dandy notebook  (You know that thing that made them buy four boxes of fruity Cheerios and completely forget the milk and bananas they went in for in the first place.)  Writers sit and write.

I do not want to participate this year in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month),  because if I can't read two books at the same time, I definately can't write a new book while still working on my manuscript from last year.  (Yes, the first draft if done.  But I may be weaving into it my idea for my second book.  I've had conflicting advice from two different agents.  So maybe it's not done.  But it is in a binder on my desk.  And I move it around from room to room in the house, stealing 5 minutes here and 5 minutes there to edit it and scribble notes in the margins.)

So instead, I'm going to participate in BlogNoWriMo.  I don't know if this is an actual thing.  I may be making it up.  But I'm almost certain I read something about it on twitter (which HAS become a distraction and so has been removed from my phone).  I'm going to blog everyday for the next thirty days.  And I'm not going to think about it.  I'm just going to Nike it up and just do it.

So, quite possibly, y'all could be reading a lot of mindless dribble for the next month.  Because part of this discipline is to help me be more present with my kids.  To focus on writing for a certain amount of time a day, and then close my notebook, Ipad, and laptop.  And then focus on legos and baby dolls and Thomas the Tank Engine (because I know have TWO kids who sleep clutching a little blue engine). 

I'd like to occupy my own life instead of hovering over the lives of my friends in social media.*


*Yes, I'm about the tweet that.  Baby steps.

Tennies on the Subway, Pumps in the Office

That's right, I'm a working girl.

I got a job!

Well, to be clear, it's more of a job-let.  But to say that it is an answer to prayers would be a gross understatement.  I've been itching for the past year or so to write.  And not just on the blog or work on my book, but to write for compensation.  To be able to help provide for my family by using the gifts God gave me.  Even if that provision is mainly just gas money.  I think I was also (secretly) wanting someone not related to me to say, "No, you're not crazy.  You can write.  You are correct in thinking this is your thing God gave you.  Michelle Kwan's is skating.  Bradley Cooper's is, well, just look at him. And yours is writing." 

While no one has exactly said those specific words to me (did I just compare my writing to Bradley Cooper's hotness?), it has brought me great joy to receive respect and admiration for my writing. 

So what is my new job?  Well, actually, I sort of have two jobs.  But only one of them pays.  The first, the non-paying gig, is that since January I've been writing for and editing the Virginia Bethany Christian Services newsletter.  In total, it is about 8ish pages each month.  May was about honoring mothers, both birth and adoptive moms.  June's is about fundraising.  Since I've taken over, it seems we've gotten some positive feedback.  It used to be just sort of slapped together by some of the pregnancy counselors.  And I want you to know I'm saying slapped together not because they were sloppy or unprofessional, just that they a) are not writers, and b) work as social workers for a non-profit (which is to say they work way too much for way too little money).  So I asked if I could take it off their hands.  They cheered, did little dances, and then handed me the reins.  It's been great.  And the editing of the articles has prepared me for my second job.

Which is to help another writer with her writing and to get things out the door to agents and publishers and the like.  And this one is the one where God just pointed at laughed at me.  Literally, on Friday, I received an email that said (I'm loosely paraphrasing)--Hey, Elizabeth.  I think you are awesome and I would like to pay you to sit around in your PJs and Toms and write for me.  Also, at some point there will be Margaritas.  I'm not kidding about the margaritas.  Margaritas have been promised to me. 

The most difficult things about both of these jobs are time management and voice.  Time management because I'm committed to being a stay at home Mom, committed to my kid's memories of me being about Legos and dance parties, not shows on the DVR while Mommy types in the dining room.  Right now I'm typing while Henry is at school.  Grace fell asleep in the car while running errands and I'm just letting her take her afternoon nap two hours early.

And as to voice?  I am finding it difficult, in both the newsletter and the joblet, to be true to the original author's voice.  I have to squash the part of my writing self that says, "Oh, I would've said it this way" or "this would be funnier here".  Sometimes I do this when just reading books for pleasure.  To the point that at my last book club meeting I said, "This book was okay.  My main problem with it is that I didn't write it.  It would've been funnier if I wrote it."  Sorry, Shauna Niequist.  Apparently you didn't get the memo that Cold Tangerines was really my story.

So if I'm blogging less or just putting up photos it is because I'm going to try to limit my blogging time to 30 minutes.  This post has taken roughly 20.  But some of them, like the three without typos, I spend hours on. 

No. I'm not dead. I'm intentionally not calling you back...

You may have noticed I’ve been blogging less. I’d like to say it is because I’m on vacation. Or that I’m busy living life. Or that I’m too busy writing the next great American novel. But that’s just not the case. There are some logistical reasons why this is happening and also some intentional ones as well.
Logically speaking, Henry gave up his naps in the fall. This was like a death to me. I no longer had three hours in the afternoon to blog, facebook, eat bon-bons, and ignore housework. I tried making Henry have quiet time, but this always resulted in a backslide of the potty training and let’s face it—pee pee pants and pee pee carpets add work. And I’m the poster girl for working smarter, not harder. So we read books, play with little Legos and tinker toys, and other things that prove difficult when Gracie is awake.

Gracie has begun to give up morning naps as well, so this has robbed me of the time to myself while Henry is in preschool. When this began happening, I resolved to use that time to go to the gym. Thankfully, she has been sick several times during the winter, so I’ve been unable to put her in gym childcare, thereby giving me a “Get out of going to the gym without guilt” card. At present, she is back to 2 naps a day, but that is because she has RSV.

We’ve also had a sicky winter. Puking. Coughing. Nebulizing and the like.

And Sloan got a promotion, which means he is travelling less and I’m getting to spend time with him at night more. I used to use the nights when he was out of town to catch up on blogging and reading, but now he is only gone two nights a week. And I like the fact that I like being with my husband more than I like typing on the computer.

However, I’ve also realized that with my getting a laptop and an Ipad, I’ve become attached (maybe addicted?) to technology. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing; it is not the technology’s fault. It is not facebook’s fault I now think in 140 character bylines. But it is MY fault if my children’s memories of childhood are ones of them playing by themselves while Mommy is on her laptop. Sure, I’m in the same room with them, but I am not with them. So I try to limit the amount my attention is divided.

I’ve also been getting more involved with Bethany Christian Services. I’m editing their monthly E-newsletter and writing articles for it. Some months it takes more time than others, but as I type this, I realize that I need to go ahead and write my “Letter from the Editor” blurb so we can email that puppy out. Nerts…But that busyness has confirmed to me that I’m using my talents for something that I’m passionate about. And more importantly, something I’m certain God is passionate about and so it is not a busyness that makes me weary.

I’ve also been taking this year to access and realign my priorities. My buddy Law-Momma often writes about the juggling act of being a working mother. But the juggling act, I suspect, is part of being human and not unique to working moms. We all juggle different roles, different dreams, different responsibilities and relationships. And the truth of it is, we can’t have it all. I don’t even believe we are supposed to have it all. We may want it all, but I’ve found that as I’ve stepped back from a few things (leadership in my women’s bible study, blogging less, saying No to some ministry opportunities I would’ve normally saddled myself up to out of duty, my goal of reading 52 books in a year), the experiences and relationships I am tending have grown deeper. Have been richer. I’ve become more intentional. And this, perhaps, is the point.

I want to not only accept the place God has me for now, but to cherish it. To stop looking across the way at the greener grass. To see that the grass is green where it is tended.

I don’t want to be known for being a great blogger. I don’t even want to be known for being a great writer. (Okay, I don’t HAVE to be known for that. But I won’t lie; it’d be nice if a couple people other than the folks related to me thought that.) I have the ear of the Creator of the world, the heart of the best man on the planet, and the teeny tiny hands of the best kids around. Do I really need any more adulation? Really?

My greatest desire is for my kids to know they are loved. By me and by God. Period. I believe that our self esteem can be traced back to the one who matters the most to us. For me, that’s God. And God thinks I’m worth moving heaving and earth for. He thinks I’m worth bleeding for. So I want that for my kids. And right now, I’m who is most important to them. So that’s what I want to be known for—loving my kids.

And yeah, I can do that through blogging. And working on my novel. And by diligently serving orphans to say, “See Henry and Gracie, you know how much I love you? That’s nothing in comparison to how Jesus loves you. And loves these kids. And loves me. So we have to let them know. We have to stand for them.” Because pointing my kids to what is right and good and true is loving them as well.

But I do have some posts in the works. I think about it a lot. For example, I’ve been thinking about and may just blog about the following in the near (or distant) future—

*How my son has “decided to be fwiends with” a kid in his class who “doesn’t talk good and doesn’t have any fwiends.” His teacher even told me about how she has seen Henry be intentional to befriend the Chinese boy for whom English is a second language. He does this by holding his hand on the playground and always picking him to be the goose to his Duck, Duck.

*The bonus of sick kids when it means lots of cuddles and Pixar.

*How my facebook newsfeed looks like a Planned Parenthood rally alternatively being protested by flash mobbing pro-lifers. And how I’ve never known anybody whose heart has been changed by being shouted at. And that what I really wish is that our culture would change its view on adoption, thereby making the issue null and void. That in the US alone, there are 140,000 orphans and perhaps we should stand with them. And shout for them. Or, here’s an idea, shut up and adopt them. (And, oh yeah, you buy a pet. Could you please stop comparing how you got your dog to how we received Grace into our family?)

*My continuing relationship with Gracie’s hair. Current RSV afro notwithstanding, I have begun to style it. This amounts to wonky parts, alien looking box braids, messed up coils, all ending up with me just saying FINE and putting it in toddler puffs because she won't sit still no matter how many goldfish I throw at her. She has more hair lotions and potions than I do. She sleeps on satin crib sheets. I keep all of her hair goodies in a purple and green tackle box. And, according to Sloan, there are anglers with their own ESPN shows whose tackle boxes pale in comparison to Gracie’s three foot tall behemoth.

So if you’re bummed that I’m blogging less, sorry. I’m going to try for twice a week, but just know that schedules and deadlines and self-imposed goals and the like make me itchy.  Any routines I adhere to are solely to keep my children happy and pliable to my every whim. (HA!)

51,439

And I'm pretty sure that about 35, 827 of them are complete rubbish.  Oh well. It's a first draft.  And no, you cannot read it.

To quote my beloved writing professor and uber-awesome author, Doris Betts, "To allow someone to read your first draft is like spitting in your palm before you shake someone's hand."

But rest assured, at least one of you, will be tapped to read draft three or so.   (I'm thinking of a certain lady with twins who also studied under Betts--because, you know, with twin 3 yr olds, I'm sure you have LOADS of free time...)

Month of National Things...

You may (or may not) have been wondering why there has been less frequent blogging going on as of late.  Several reasons...

1.  NaNoWriMo...aka National Novel Writing Month.
It's a challenge to write a complete novel in one month.  Or, to be more exact, to write 50,000 words in the month of November.  The rules stipulate that it is to be from scratch and to be fiction.  I am breaking those rules a bit as I am working on "the book" that I seem to have been working on forever, namely a memoir regarding how God brought Henry into our family.  So it looks at infertility, assisted reproductive technologies, and bed rest.  (Yes, there are notes in place for a book about our adoption journey as well, but Maria said to start at the very beginning...it's a very good place to start...)  So it doesn't really fit the fiction criteria.  But I am pretty much starting from scratch, working from my outline that I had finished, emails, and my old blog posts.  Well, I'm sure I'll look at the blog when I get to the bed rest portion of the book.  As it is, I'm 24, 432 words in and I'm not even pregnant with Henry yet.  I've just had my second miscarriage and am pretty loopy on fertility hormones. 

I don't feel too bad about breaking the fiction rule.  For a couple of reasons.  A) This really isn't a rule that has much to do with integrity, character, or God's law, so I'm pretty sure I can break it with a clear conscience.  B) I think the whole point of the NaNoWriMo thing is for wanna-be writers to get off their butts and actually write rather than just write about writing.  So in that regard, I am keeping the "spirit of the law".  C) I just read What is the What.  It is a memoir of one of the lost boys of Sudan and yet it calls itself a novel because the narrator readily admits that he can't remember all of the details.  Can't remember word for word conversations.  But that we as readers can expect that it is a true story.  It should also be said I think this book should become required reading for high schoolers.  And, as such, required reading for all those who read this blog.  D) I am calling the genre "Fictionalized Nonfiction" and am quite certain there are entire sections that are fiction.  Not that they didn't happen, just that I'm pretty certain I've edited out a lot of f-bombs that were tossed in Sloan's direction during this era of our marriage.  I think I may have also made myself look cooler in the section where Sloan and I first met.  If you think this is unfair, write your own book!

Lest you worry I've cleaned it up too much dear reader, I have written in the episode where I yelled out my car window "F-off!" to a pregnant teenager walking down Broad street smoking a cigarette.  And the episode where, after our second miscarriage, I single handedly in an afternoon drank a magnum of Red wine, smoked a half pack of cigarettes and ate a family sized bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos.  Because let's face it, those are both funny, if not good, stories.

2. National Adoption Month...
I've spoken at Orphan Sunday.  We've gone to a fundraiser for Bethany Christian Services in NC, and I've been working on an article about Gracie's birthday party for a Bethany newsletter. 
My heart has been in overdrive; there is such a crisis!  But let me just share with you a couple of exciting things I learned this past weekend while at the Bethany fundraiser.
Bethany Christian Services has a program in place in Africa that seeks to care for orphans by reducing the number of them, as in, as a part of orphan care they provide support to families where the head of the house is a single mom who is HIV+.  They provide monies for the mother's medication and also for the children's school tuition.  I think this is awesome as it seeks to keep the families together.  This is in addition to the orphanages they also fund, support, and run in various African regions.
The second thing that I think is awesome about Bethany Christian Services is that they have recently been granted permission to set up a foster care system in China.  There is NOTHING of this nature in place in the country.  Bethany is currently training and setting up a system where 250 children will be placed in loving homes to be cared for rather than growing up in orphanages.  Yes, there are far more than 250 children in need of such care, but it is a start. 

Finding the Way Home

It was with mixed feelings that I recently attended an acquaintance’s book launch. It should come as no surprise, that my pride and excitement for my friend was mixed with both jealousy and fear (neither of which look very good on me, by the way). Jealousy, because let’s face it, not only did she accomplish her lifelong dream of having her very own ISBN number, but Sarah accomplished my dream as well. A part of me is inspired and encouraged by this, another part is condemned. I also felt fear because I have NO game face. None. Just ask Sloan about my reaction to some of his gifts for me. I am incapable of feigning pretty much any emotion, but especially incapable of pretending to like something when I do not. So what if I read my friend’s book and did not like it? What if I couldn’t perfect the casual smile, nod, and simple “Congrats!” that would be required to see her every Sunday at church?


Well, folks, this self-proclaimed literary snob’s fears were unfounded. Finding the Way Home, by Sarah Byrd is not only a good book, but the kind of book you have to shift your plans for just so you can sneak in a few extra minutes hours of reading. I was warned it was a dangerous book to read before bedtime as it was hard to put down, so I set a 2 chapter maximum for me to read each night—choosing to savor it like one might slowly eat a slice of cheesecake. Well, I grew up watching the Golden Girls and can totally eat a whole cheesecake in one sitting. I worked around my “2 chapters before bedtime” rule by waking up at 5 am. It cannot be stressed enough that I am NOT a morning person. I let Henry watch a few extra Dora and Thomas episodes until I finished the book. Few books have had this effect on me. OK, well, the entire Twilight series did this to me, but this is a book you don’t have to be embarrassed about enjoying. You can even share it with your Mother-in-law (which I did).

Set in the English countryside, the story centers around recently widowed American Suzanne Morgan and a British schoolmaster, Peter Stewart. It is a story about running from one’s past and learning how to be loved. We forget being loved well requires us to teeter, sometimes painfully, between self-confidence and self-abandon. This book takes us along that precarious ledge, and there’s not a more beautifully appropriate setting for that than the cliffed-shores of Britain.

Byrd’s character development is strong. I found myself shaking my book as I read because I could not shake Suzanne. It is a bit embarrassing to confess that I found myself actually praying for her. That’s right, people, I prayed for a fictional character. I’m choosing to see this as a sign of Byrd’s brilliant writing rather than my own lunacy. I wanted Suzanne to be stronger, to speak up, to know she was worth loving, which I’m pretty sure was Byrd’s entire point. I also wanted to slap the Vicar in the face, which I also believe to be a sign of a good book.

The author characterized her book as gentle fiction. I tend to agree. I imagine if Rosamund Pilcher and Jan Karon had a love child, Sarah Byrd’s Finding the Way Home would be it. Here’s hoping for a large family…




Finding the Way Home can be found in print on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com, and can also be downloaded for either your Nook or Kindle. You should go  to one of those places now and buy a copy for yourself and for your mother-in-law. All the cool kids (read: me) are doing it.

Pithy comment: The Trouble with titles

Senior year of high school, my English teacher was Dr. Gutsell.  Although she had some serious oddities, she is easily one of the best teachers I've ever had.  At Christmastime, we decorated a Yule tree.  She was adamant it was not a Christmas tree, despite the fact that  it was a giant Frasier fir and we spent a class time armed with glue sticks and glitter creating ornaments about our favorite scenes from Beowulf, Dickens, or Graham Greene.  In the corner of her room, she'd fashioned a sitting room complete with vinyl orange sofa and other furniture the 1970's left behind. This was so, on occasion, we could all relax and wax philosophical about the literature we'd read. Very bohemian.  It could have only been more hip if we'd traded that Yule tree in for an Espresso machine all the girls donned berets and the boys, goatees. 

My two favorite oddities were in regards to writing--all papers had to be HANDWRITTEN on UNLINED paper with a FOUNTAIN PEN complete with a title page that did NOT have our name on it.  The anonymity of the title page was so that we could, on the days papers were due, sit in the hipster corner and listen to her read each title aloud.  She would read the title aloud and then as though she was Johnny Carson doing his Amazing Kreskin sketch, she would predict whether or not the paper was any good, would be enjoyable to read, or perhaps (egads?!) a total snoozefest.  (Okay, she probably didn't use that term.  She probably said something like "That sounds rather insipid..." or sigh and say, "How banal".)

Many parents complained--particularly about their children having to write in their papers longhand when we all had mighty fine Apple IIGS's at home.  But I loved the writing everything out.  It required being deliberate.  And I found the constant smear of ink on my hand made me feel like a very serious writer. And the titles?  Dude, I was all over it!!!  I would usually select some obscure yet pithy quote from the book followed by a colon followed by yet another profound statement that better explains the thesis of the paper.  I only remember one title.  I'd written about Graham Greene's crime novel, Brighton Rock.  My paper's title--"This were a fine reign: How to get away with murder".  It was deemed a title that peaked the interest of the reader.  She was looking forward to reading the paper. 

Since then, I have loved the challenge of coming up with witty titles.  You may have noticed that about this blog.  The trouble with this is, out of context, I have no idea what these titles mean.  I have complained about this before.  And I'm putting another draft of my book together and looking to see if there are any chapters of things I've left out and am searching old computer files. And apparently, when writing thesis papers, I tend to title the documents with whatever I am feeling at the time.

Imagine my delight when I stumble upon the following titles and paper subjects that I wrote for graduate school.  Funnier still when you remember that my degree is from a SEMINARY.  HA!!! You will be happy to see that my "quote:explanation" form is still in tact.

• This damn paper is worth 50% of my grade.doc-- For a Christian Education class, actually titled  Hope Deferred: The Effects of Rape on Emotional and Spiritual Development. 
• Draft 2 of mother-effing paper.doc--For my Old Testament class, actually called For in this hope we were saved: Romans 16:20 as the Fulfillment of Genesis 3:15
• Prof. W can suck it.doc--For a New Testament class, actually called You Foolish Galatians: A Writer looks at Paul's use of Sarcasm.

People are Strange...

We are on our way back home from the beach.  Despite the fact I'll be sleeping in my own bed tonight and expect my new Droid to be waiting for me, I am a bit sad.  It was nice having nothing to do but be together.  Over the course of the week, Gracie went from wobbling while sitting up to being able to sit up unasisted for entire afternoons.  (Sand is a big help.  So is hour upon hour of tummy time while on the beach.)  She has also begun the backwards scoots and up on all fours gyrating that is a precursor to crawling.  Sloan is trying to show her how to crawl while I am encouraging her to be immobile for as long as possible.  

But, the last bit of beach quotes come mainly from other people, or our reactions to other people.

Overheard while I was standing in line at the Red Box Movie Rental at the Piggly Wiggly (which Henry calls the Pig 'Tore.)  It should be noted that I had to bite my bottom lip and cross my legs in order to refrain from laughing and peeing in my pants.

Woman 1:  Oh my gosh, do they have "Dear John" in?  I just can't wait to watch it. 
Woman 2:  I'm not sure.  Have you seen "The Last Song"?  I just loved it.
Woman 1:  The only thing better than Nicholas Sparks movies are Nicholas Sparks books.  Don't you agree?
Woman 2:  I think Nicholas Sparks is the greatest novelist of the 20th century.

At this I could not contain myself.  I laughed in their faces and tried to disguise it as a cough.  I really wanted to say "You've GOT to be kidding me.  You mean to say Nicholas Sparks is a better writer than Hemingway?  Fitzgerald?  Lee?  I'd even accept Theodor Geitzel.  Heck, I'd even give you John Grisham before Nicholas Sparks."  I find it as a mark of maturity that I said nothing.

*********

Yesterday, at the beach.  I've titled this section "I hold this truth to be self-evident".

Elizabeth:  I just think that if you are over 60, overweight, and have a  hairy stomach with a clearly marked happy trail, you should not wear a bikini.
Sloan:  So you're saying it is okay for me to wear a bikini now since I'm still in my thirties?

Ennui

This is a second attempt at this post. I first wrote a really long one comparing the differences between novels and movies and how everyone wants their life to be like a movie rather than a novel. Becuase in good novels no one runs in the rain with a boom box to tell you they love you and I'm pretty sure that is what we all secretly believe we deserve. In books you get entire chapters about the landscape in Egypt. Guess what? There is a lot of sand. But the post bored me to tears.

In my sister's house, and some others I hear, to say you are bored is the ultimate sin. Bored? Really? Go clean your room. My mom told me that only boring people are boring, something I was pleasantly surprised to hear repeated on the show Mad Men. But my problem as of late has not been that I don't have things to do--there are four laundry baskets of clean clothes that need to be put away, the kitchen could use a mopping, Henry's room needs to be repainted, and there are baby clothes to be sewn for all my dear pregnant friends. But I don't wanna. And even facebook is letting me down. Apparently, I'm not the only bored one because no one has been having any good status updates as of late.

I'm sure a lot of this is just the change in the seasons. I've been sick so I can't go to the gym or rake the leaves and I have an extra 7 hours a week sans Henry now that he is in school. The fact that it is 50 degrees outside and raining is no help.

I resorted today to roasting pumpkin seeds and baking pumpkin bread. From scratch, with no recipe. Daring, eh? Snoozefest. (Though, surprisingly, the bread turned out well.)

I feel sort of like those chapters in the Bible with all the begats--Seth begat Enosh and had other children and then he died. Enosh fathered Kenan who begat someone with a crazy name. Yada Yada Yada. But I am reminded that a)life is like a book--it has highs and lows and meanders a bit like a dog on a walk, and b)God was there for all that begatting and took notice enough to include it. So even the boring bits bear His presence and matter. The fact God notices and cares about the boring stuff lets me know He really does love me because of who He is, rather than who I am. Because I am pretty boring.

So maybe life as a book won't be so bad. Books are always better than movies.*



*Unless they are both by Nicholas Sparks, in which case, they both suck. Spoiler alert--someone falls in love, commits adultery and/or gets a disease , and then dies.

Silly Old Bear

There are certain moments in motherhood that I've been looking forward to my whole life--visits from Santa, baking cookies, treats from the ice cream truck, an ash tray made of clay given to me on Mother's Day. (Notice that these dreams left out the things that make up most of motherhood--poop, dirty laundry, and just general stickiness.) Yesterday, in an effort to stretch out nap time and keep Henry on his bed, I was able to begin one of my dreamed of Mommy moments: Read aloud chapter books. You know, the kind without pictures. Or at least, without many pictures.

As a kid, I loved being read to. I remember every Friday afternoon in the fourth grade, Mrs. Fay would read for the last hour of school--the Indian in the Cupboard, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Charlotte's Web, Brighty of Grand Canyon. My parents may have read chapter books to me and I simply don't remember it. I don't know.

And surprisingly, Henry did pretty well with the book. A.A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh, whose name really is Edward despite his living under the name of Saunders. We made it through the first two chapters. Reading aloud in his big boy bed is a treat that the crib or toddler bed could not afford. He cuddled up next to me with his head on my shoulder, then would wriggle down putting his whole body on mine so he could hold the book and turn the pages. He would buzz like a bee and then burrow into the covers and begin to play peek-a-boo. I would stop reading and he would pop up and say, "No no, Mommy. Weed. Weed." I'm not requiring him to sit still for the reading, but he can't be talking.

So once he settled down again, this time, his head resting on my tummy while playing with a toy car on his legs, I began to read. Tut-tut, it looks like rain...

When Henry is Big

We have lots of books. Nonfiction. Fiction. Reference. Three different unabridged dictionaries. Children's books.

Lots of the children's books are from my childhood. My mother kept EVERYTHING in response to her mother keeping nothing. (Thank you, darling mom.) Every now and then Henry will dig out my old copy of The Digginest Dog (my favorite childhood book) or my beloved Mr. Pine's Purple House. Some of these books are still in print, some not. His most recent discovery on his bookshelf was a true gem.
For starters, the book obviously belonged first to my sister, as it was published in 1964. Second, it claims to be designed and written by Eric Carle, and yet I can find it nowhere in his lists of published works on the Internet. So now you are thinking, "Wow! Sell that book and you'll have a fortune." Well, another neat treat about the book is that while its cardboard pages are in relatively good physical condition, someone has taken a ballpoint pen to most of the pages. (I say someone as it may have been me, Sonya, or Bill. Not wanting to point fingers, I will blame the extra child that lives in EVERY American house named "Someone." Someone also has a cousin named "Somebody". Somebody is largely responsible for all items misplaced. )

The book is entitled "When I'm Big." It is a board book with holes in each page that show a face of both a boy and a girl on the front and back covers. So when you turn the page, you see a girl who says something like "When I'm Big I'm going to be a nurse and help people get well" and a boy who says "When I'm big I'm going to be a cowboy and rope cattle with my lariat." Cute, right?

Henry loves this book. Poking his finger in the hole, pointing to each person's inked up face. I love this book because it is SOOOOOO politically incorrect. Listen to the various aspirations of the book and recognize that each page gives you both a girl and a boy with their career goals.

Page One--
Girl: Nurse
Boy: Cowboy
Page Two-- (I love this one!)
Girl: Secretary (who types letters on a typewriter)
Boy: An Astronaut (who goes to the moon)
Page Three--
Girl: A Lion Tamer (what?)
Boy: A doctor
Page Four---
Girl: A teacher
Boy: A policeman (whose main job is to help children cross the street)
Page Five--
Girl: A musician
Boy: A sailor
Page Six--
Girl: An artist
Boy: A fireman
Page Seven--
Girl: A waitress (for the girl who thinks being a secretary is too lofty a goal?)
Boy: A farmer (who is smoking a corn cob pipe)
Page Eight--
Girl: An actress (who is smoking a cigarette and carrying a small dog)
Boy: A baseball player
Page Nine--(what I consider to be the book's Pièce de résistance)
Girl: A bride (and then I'll be married, just like Mommy)
Boy: A bridegroom (and then I'll be married, just like Daddy).

I'm pretty sure this wouldn't be published today. And let me say that I've been a waitress and my best friend was a secretary up until a few months ago. Those are fine jobs. But I'm not really sure they qualify as things a kid says they want to be when they grow up. I also know this book, sadly enough, would not be published because it comments on Mommy and Daddy being married. I remember when I taught PreK, they specifically told us not to read books that featured only married people, only white people, or only employed people. (Seriously. I was told to look for books that also included people who didn't work.) And I understand that it is a good thing to be inclusive to children during storytime, to not constantly berate them with images that are completely foreign to them or make them feel less about themselves. But come on people?!! It is a good thing for Mommy and Daddy to be married, specifically to be married to one another. It is not something that needs to be whispered, like its the thirties and we're talking about Aunt Muriel's (whisper) cancer.

As for now, I will simply hope that Henry does want to be just like his Daddy. (Of course, that is because his Daddy ROCKS!)

Love at First Chapter

I'm pretty sure that soon I'll be hosting a farewell party to "House of Mirth" as my favorite book.

I'm three chapters into A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and I am in love. By the end of the first page, I was reading slower. Like one would eat molten chocolate cake, I have to let the words sit in my mind for awhile, enjoying the flavor, before I can move on. Never before has a little girl sitting on a fire escape, eating peppermints and reading a book, captured my heart so completely.

It may be awhile before my next post. I'm planning on chewing on this one for awhile.

Bliss.

Like Mother Like Son

I'm so proud of my bright little boy's love for books.

But maybe I should find him a little something more age appropriate.

Ah, now that's more like it. Nothing makes a Creative Writing major Mommy as proud as her son's love of Strunk and White's Elements of Style and a Thesaurus.

On Hiatus

Not much blogging going on. Been sick. Been to a wedding. (Which deserves an entire entry to itself because it was AWESOME!!! but I'm too tired to do it and for some reason just thinking about it makes me sing the theme to Flash Gordon.) Am at my parents house making 6 pumpkin pies. And ambrosia. And cranberry apple bake. All while Henry kisses himself in the mirrored hallway.

Am also planning to work on my book more and my blog less. So bear with me.

But for my Greensboro buds, give me a call at my parents house. They still live in the same house where I grew up.

Pastel de Carne

For those of you who don't know--I'm working on a book. Sometimes I work on it in a frenzy, other days I get bogged down by the fact that when I'm through with it I won't know what to do next. Maybe just go to Kinko's? Who knows? But I'm writing about what we went through in order to become Henry's parents.

Lately I've been more focused on working out, trying not to kill the dog (whose adoption fell through!), and painting the kitchen than I have been about the book. So today I went to sort of read through everything and put stuff in some sort of order. (I've got like 200 pages completed, but it isn't in chronological order and some of it is very rough.) So I'm searching through files on my computer and I come to a file called "Meatloaf Recipe". This wasn't shocking as I've titled some of my chapters pretty odd things. Things like "Mick Jaggar is a seat filler", "I love drugs", "Not enough Valium", and, my favorite "There's a Needle in my who-ha."

But I couldn't for the life of me remember when I'd ever written about Meatloaf. Was in in remembrance of the first meatloaf I ever made in my first year of marriage? I didn't have a recipe so I just through some stuff in a loaf pan with some hamburger meat and cooked it. That sounds right, doesn't it? But apparently those green flecks in meat loaf are green peppers--not pickles, and you are supposed to use ketchup, not salsa. So we have come to call this "Mexi-Meatloaf" and it has never been served in the Phillips house again. (Although my sweet husband ate it.)

Nope. I've never written on Meatloaf. It was, in fact, shockingly, a meatloaf recipe by Alton Brown.