This birthday was no different. Alice had 2 birthday parties previously, but they were family only, and her brothers had twice had parties with friends. This situation needed to be remedied. Alice is still a little young to have real friends, so I invited the daughters of some of my friends who she had occasionally played with. I only had one concrete premise. There must be a doll cake. A doll cake, for those who don’t know, is a cake baked in a dome shape that serves as the skirt for a Barbie-type fashion doll. You shove the doll in up to her waist, cover her injection-molded breasts with frosting and voila, a doll wearing a southern bell dress made of cake! Every little girl’s dream!

I had always heard you could use a Pampered Chef batter bowl to cook the skirt in but then I was warned that it was just a hair too short to accommodate an 11 1/2 inch fashion doll. “You have to cut the feet off,” my friend advised me. That seemed like a perfectly awful waste of Barbie feet so I asked around and found there was an even more gruesome solution. A Doll Pick.

A doll pick is essentially a doll head, torso and arms, only it looks like it has been impaled on a pike. I tried to hide it from Alice partially to surprise and partially because it was so darn creepy but she discovered it. “What happened to the doll’s body?” she asked, which was a question I found I could not answer.

I only realized after I had invited the little girls to the party that oh my lord my husband is working 60 plus hours a week plus going to school two nights a week plus OH MAN I just had a baby. What was I thinking? To get this house in party order would require not just cleaning but a total reorganization. For instance, why are there piles of cardboard in my kitchen and 2 bags of plastic styrofoam peanuts on top of the book shelves? Not only are there things piled onto every flat surface in human reach but my three older hooligans have been known to dismantle a clean room in a matter of moments. Even if I got the house clean enough for guests there is no guarantee it would stay that way.

So in a moment of desperation I decided to have the party at a local park and prayed that there would be no rain, although secretly I also prayed that there WOULD be rain so I could cancel this madness, which was giving me more and more anxiety the longer I dwelled on it.

I am not a detail-oriented person. Selecting food and decorations are fun for me, but it when it comes down to the nuts and bolts of making sure to have enough utensils and not forgetting to bring a pitcher for the beverages and such, I slowly spiral downward into the fetal position. I was coming to terms with the fact that I was having a party at all when I found out my mother and father could not come, nor could my grandmother. Enter party number two, or party number one, since we held it on Friday night, the actual date of Alice’s birth.

I stayed up for hours the night before making homemade fresh strawberry cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, one batch for the end of school picnic that our homeschool co-op holds every year, and one for the family party. This was completely unnecessary of course, but I have an unreasonable need to be liked and the quickest way to do that is to feed people. And it works. I am very popular.

The party at my Mom’s went off without a hitch, except for the fact that Alice COULD not blow out her candles. I finally snuck up behind her and added a puff of my own or we would have been there all night. The cupcakes were delicious, every present was delightful, and Alice thoroughly enjoyed her moment in the spotlight.

Enter Party #2. I was nervous about getting to the park early and setting up, but my insanely-loyal-to-his-terrible-job husband was working from home until the last second. I left about half of the party accoutrements at home, which ended up not mattering because LORD was it WINDY. Apparently those blue arrows on the weather forecast? WIND. The sky was bright and sunny, but the wind was outrageous and cold. If I had brought bubbles they would have popped the minute they left the wand. Alice’s china tea set that her great-grandmother made would have been obliterated. As it was my husband had to go back home for a roll of duct tape when it became clear that there was no way the tablecloth would stay on the table without it.

Slowly the birthday guests arrived and it became apparent that no amount of well-meaning mothers could salvage my original intent for the party. Plates and napkins and coffee cups and gifts were flying. One sweet girl dumped sparkling pink lemonade on herself (aided by the wind) and cried “Mommy! I am unhappy!” My friend Jesika pointed out that the shelter house was effectively acting as a wind tunnel. She did save the day in one respect: since she never cleans out her car (her words!) she had enough jackets for all the little girls to borrow.

We did manage to eat the doll cake, which turned out decently despite the fact that I am no cake decorator and I had to bake the darn thing for over an hour just to get it to cook through. I am sort of known for ruining cakes, so at least that brought me some comfort. I actually remembered to bring the candles. I have a habit of buying birthday candles and then leaving them in the junk drawer and then having to borrow a pillar candle or something at the last moment, so this was a real win for me. Until I went to light them, and WOOSH. There went the wind again. The one time I actually remembered the candles they were completely useless.

I brought foam tiaras and hand mirrors for the girls to decorate with stickers and jewels, but those were sent home with the goodie bags. It was not crafting weather.

With gifts and snacks out of the way, and all other activities called off due to inclement weather, we finally decided to just let the kids play on the playground. The runny-nosed birthday girl with her tulle skirt drooping and wings askew opted instead to sit in the van and eat her birthday cake. When my husband climbed into the van he turned and said “Well, sweetie…did you have a good birthday?” Alice replied matter of factly,

“I think it was stupid that I had two parties.”

Our first two children were fine sons, born almost exactly two years apart. For most of their lives they have been best friends, walking hand in hand, crying if they were apart. It pleased me to know my sons had each other, and I longed to give my daughter a similar companion, and something I never had. A sister.

Every last one of us became convinced of the reality of this baby girl. She even had a name, one my husband and I conceived separately and simultaneously. Eva for his grandmother, Lucille just because we liked the name. When I told him of my stroke of genius he smugly replied that he had already thought of the name three days before. It was serendipity. It was fate. Our daughter was born in our hearts. Now we just had to wait until she was born into our lives.

When the 2 pink lines showed up on the stick, I whooped for joy. We weren’t trying but babies with us always seem to be the result of a happy accident. I only had to go through one pregnancy where I was filled with fear and then confronted by a child so incredibly precious to recognize the foolishness of ever doubting God’s hand on my womb. And finally, we would get to meet our second little princess. The timing on earth seemed rotten, with my husband in school, but the timing for our family seemed just right.

Everything screamed girl. The heartbeat was fast. Perhaps an old wive’s tale, but I was also sick, as sick as I had been with Alice, sicker than with my boys. And I had difficulty even looking at boy’s clothes, or thinking of boy names, because it seemed silly. I was carrying a girl. This I knew.

But when a friend of mine with a similar story, who was equally convinced of her child’s sex, had a surprise boy, I began to get nervous. I began to doubt. I scheduled an ultrasound. My child was shy at first, but after a while there could be no mistake. I was carrying a son.

I was dumbfounded. My dreams were tied up in a neat little package that I thought was based on something akin to prophecy. Were we not given a message? As a person whose whole life has seemed chaotic, I thirst for balance and order. Symmetry. 2 boys. 2 girls. Children close in age who share toys and hand me down clothes. And there came the monkey wrench in the well-oiled machine of my desires. A boy.

I was told to start loving this baby, to stop resenting him, by people who meant well but whose accusations hurt me deeply. Of course I loved him. I had known him for a long time. I had felt his kicks inside me and pressed my hands to my abdomen in communication. I just thought he was someone else, and it took me a few days to process this. I grieved, not because I was having another son, but because I felt I had lost a daughter. It was an honest feeling, born out of love, and I had to press through it. I was ashamed of my tears, but I knew that the place they came from was not resentment. It was loss.

For us, Eva Lucille was a real person. She had existed as a family member for almost three years. We all felt we knew her, and anticipated her arrival. So when we found out she wasn’t coming it was a bit of a shock to us all. The adjustment was quick, but it was an adjustment that had to be made through a few tears on my part.

Some people wait until their child is born to name them. They want to meet their baby and get to know them. But for me, I like for God to inspire us, and help us get to know our child beforehand. I was fretting because we did not have a boy name selected. I knew it would help me bond with my child if he had an identity. And my husband and I felt the boy name well was dry. We had never disagreed over names, but we no longer knew of any boy names that we both agreed on. I clung hopelessly to the name I selected when I was 14, a name my husband had told me he would *never* like.

But when the ultrasound showed lips that seemed parted with laughter…my husband said to give him the name I loved, the name that meant “Happy.” And when his identity was forged, there came peace. God had gifted me a son. A son I was allowed to name my favorite name, a name my husband has grown to love. Felix Sebastian is happy, and I know he will be worthy of praise, as his name proclaims. He was not who we expected, but he is who we need. And he has made us happy.

Owing to my morbid sense of humor,  whenever we have mentioned wanting to have another baby I have always moaned dramatically “ROOM FOR ONE MORE…” It’s suitable. Most people seem to view the idea of four kids as certain death, though for me it’s just normal. I’ve never known anything else. Four was the magic number for me.

At least, it was until number three came out a week late, I went having labors that were less than 6 hours long to one that lasted for 36 hours and included lunch at El Rio and a shopping trip to Wal-Mart. My daughter was so large that it took her hours just to descend enough to stimulate dilation.  My water was broken at 9 and a half centimeters, and I was immediately hit with an uncontrollable pushing urge, which I had to breathe through for an agonizing fifteen minutes. Then, came shoulder dystocia and finally, I see my daughter, the largest newborn I had ever seen outside the Guiness Book of World Records. Five minutes after she came out I told my husband plainly “You can have surgery now. Seriously. I am DONE.”

We felt we were being very wise. Pregnancy is very hard on a woman’s body, and for me it lasts FOREVER and is fraught with health problems, not serious enough to endanger the baby, but enough to make me feel that I was slowly being invaded by an invisible army of pain. Birth is strenuous, and let’s not beat around the bush. It hurts.

Why be greedy? We have our boys, we now have a girl, what could be more perfect than to just close the door on reproduction and open some new doors? Hugh returned to school, and I embarked on a freelancing career that really fulfilled me in ways motherhood did not. We felt very grown up.

But, only a few weeks after my baby girl was born, and I watched her adoringly as she slept in the church nursery’s crib, I was struck by the powerful feeling that I was not done. The feeling was so deep, so profound that I could not fight it. I have learned that when I know something, I know it, and not to fight that knowledge. And I knew there was a baby in my future.

Later, Hugh and I discovered that we both thought of the same name at almost the same time. This future baby now had a name. The only thing left to do is to wait. And we did, longer than we waited for the other three, who were all born two years apart. I would look at the kitchen table and know that someone was missing, and I knew exactly who it was, and I knew it was only a matter of time.

And this week, we found out that we will be meeting this missing person, sometime in mid March if due dates are to be trusted (and I don’t…my kids like to cook a bit longer.) I love accidental pregnancies. There are serendipitous, and proof to me that God knows us better than we know ourselves. I had baby fever for quite a while, but I really didn’t think there was a chance I was pregnant, and I had made up my mind that I wasn’t ready for another baby, that I wanted to do other things right now. And I was happy to do those things.

With the pace of my life I was slow to catch on that I had a new life growing in me. But when I found out there was nothing but joy. Earlier in the day I had fretted a bit about the future, about what I was meant to do. This settled that question. It drew my heart home, and even closer to the dear children I have already been blessed with.

It’s a scary time, for my family personally and for the nation at large, but I feel immense calm. I know that this situation was born of purpose, and this child is meant to be here, meant to be someone. The knowlege of this baby has erased all fear, and affirmed to me that things will work out in the end.

So yes, we have room for one more here. But while that might spell gloom and doom for some, for us it just brings relief. If the cable snaps, we’ll at least have eachother.

Erma Bombeck was the reigning queen of schlumpy housewives. For her to be a woman’s hero would have been no big deal, especially during the golden years of her reign, the 60s and 70s. She certainly was my hero. Only it was 1988, and I was 10 years old.  If I were in a freak show I’d be The Girl Who Time Travels because all of my references are so dated. It comes from being half-raised by my grandmother in a 100 year old farmhouse where layers of history are excavated just by moving a glass or lifting a book. I read my grandmother’s copies of “If Life is a Bowl of Cherries What am I doing in the Pits?” and “The Grass is Greener Over the Septic Tank” multiple times and what I didn’t understand I just filed away for later. But I knew I loved this woman, I loved how she took the dust bunnies out from under the bed and made them perform like trained monkeys. I got to meet her when she spoke in Evansville and I don’t know who was more excited, me, or Erma. It could not have been every day that she would meet a 10 year old girl so enamored of Housewife Humor.

Madeline L’Engle…I have not read nearly enough of her but what I have read is beautiful and funny and frightening.  I met her I beleive in 1992…she was kind and had a wonderful eastern accent. We talked about L.M. Montgomery. She loved Emily of New Moon, I’m all Anne of Green Gables. Touching her hand was touching greatness.

In 2003, shortly after the birth of my son Jarvis my mom brought me a book from the library. It was a memoir called “A Girl Named Zippy” and it was by a woman named Haven Kimmel. “I really think you’ll like this.” It looked a cute, fun read. I imagined it would be corny tales from the farm, told by a zany woman who wears purple with a red hat that does not match.

Wow. I was not expecting that. First of all, she’s no old lady, but instead is the exact age of my Aunt Dawn, who is FOREVER YOUNG and also not old at all. And the book was not just screamingly funny but also haunting and sad and dark and did I mention funny? Let me quote an example. The protagonist, Zippy, is talking to her mother about how to honor her now out-grown bicycle, and considers propping it against a shed, planting some flowers and maybe even putting up a sign so people would know what a treasure this old bike is.

“Like a shrine, you mean,” said Mom, blatently trying to teach me a new word.

“Yes, like a Shrine.” As far as I knew, Shrines wore absurd hats and drove miniature cars in circles during the Mooreland Fair Parade, and were praised, inexplicably, for burning children. Although actually, if I were perfectly honest, I could think of a couple kids who could use a good frying.”

After I read that line I very nearly gave up writing. I mean seriously, what is the point?

The thing that got me the most about this book and it’s follow-up, “She Got Up Off The Couch” were the details, the things I recognized. Her upbringing in Mooreland, IN in the 1970s felt so incredibly FAMILIAR, to the point that if I ever write anything autobiographical I would have to go through her books with a fine tooth comb and make sure I didn’t write about the same things, because it would not be hard. And while being compared to Ms. Kimmel, while being a huge honor, could also be literary death, with us both being from the Hoosier State.

That’s the thing about her novels too…the way she describes things and really zeros in on the landscape, on personalities, on the details that had no name until she described them. It’s little things …like a description of a glass lighting fixture filled with dead bugs. But make no mistake about Ms. Kimmel, she is whip-smart and funny and poignant but sometimes I feel like I will need a master’s degree in 20 different subjects just to help me understand what she’s talking about. And that spurs me on as well.

I confess I’m a comfort reader, and I read all of my favorite books, including ones from childhood, in rotation. So Zippy and Couch have taken quite a beating. They have been read in bed, and in the tub, and in the car. They have been stepped on, and had food spilled on them, and it’s all in the name of love, I promise. And with each reading I just loved them more and more, these books are my good old friends, now.

When I discovered Haven had a new website and blog I was extremely happy. When she actually answered some of my comments I was hopelessly geeked. And when I found out she would be speaking in Indianapolis well, let the circle be unbroken!

My husband has more than once left me at home while he traveled to the Transformers Convention (yes, the toy, not the electrical tower), including once, driving all the way to Texas. I told him “This is my Transformer’s Convention.” And he knew I was right. So on Thursday all five of us drove up to Indy to spend the day. It was meant to be two days, but I didn’t get a paycheck I was expecting. So, no hotel, and instead of a whole day at the Children’s Museum we had only two hours, which may someday be proven to be child abuse. There was a poop incident, and we had to rush to see everything, and we couldn’t really spend any time discussing the things we saw. We are going back.

We had to rush quick to McDonald’s and to the boy’s joy yes, they had LEGO Batman and to my joy they had Madame Alexander Wizard of Oz Dolls, and Alice accidentally wound up with two. Then we had to hoof it to the little independent bookstore, Big Hat Books, and wouldn’t you know it, there was a STREET FESTIVAL going on and we almost didn’t make it.

But I made it, and there was a canopy set up in the back, and wine served in paper cups. The proprietors were ASTOUNDED that I had driven 4 hours to be there. Just as I was getting up to get some wine I saw she was coming. Amazing that someone who was essentially a feral child looked so elegant and poised. She was very thin, thinner than in photos. The lady sitting next to me said “I wonder if that’s her.” “Yes, that’s her,” I said and felt like running and hiding. But instead I just sat down.

The explanations of the chapter titles were miniature lectures on myth and psychoanalysis, she quoted both Freud and Scooby Doo in the same story. The reading of her book was hilarious, and unlike some writers she actually has the right voice to read her own work (I submit to you Erma Bombeck, and Dave Berry, who should have always hired voice-over artists.) The book itself…what can I say? It’s disturbing and full of the Kimmel touch, of remembrances and descriptions of things I didn’t know you could describe until I saw them there, it made me feel smarter and dumber at the same time. I have to go load up on Freud and Jung and Edith Hamilton now, but it didn’t make me enjoy IODINE any less.

When it came time for questions I could see that it was my duty to do the one thing that no one else would and ask about the people in the memoirs…”Where Are They Now?” I could see the question made her a tiny bit uncomfortable, and I was uncomfortable asking it. I kept waiting for the woman who told Haven that she was so glad that she finally wrote a book that used her education to do it (and oh my, while that woman was talking it was all I could do not to curl up in a ball. I was so embarrassed. ) But she then gave us an answer that was joyously funny and tender, and I quit being sorry I asked.

And when I met her, she was kind and sweet and when I told her who I was she was genuinely delighted to meet me and my children, and initiated a hug and if I had been thinking clearly I would have thought “I have touched the hem of her garment and now I can write” but I was so happy that I just thought “Oh, how nice!”

I’m pretty sure I babbled incoherently and said stupid things, however. For instance, I introduced her to my son, Jarvis, which is her maiden name. I read the book after he was born, and I decided I named him after her without knowing it. But when I told her this I said “I asked my mom, ‘Why does she keep saying Jarvis?’ and mom said ‘Honey…it’s her last name.” Well, that’s not quite what happened. The first time she is referred to as Jarvis I sat straight up and was so confused…because I was really digging on this book and then, HELLO, there is my son’s name which I promise I had no idea was surname until that moment. So, still stupid, but not quite as stupid as I described it. Though one of the nice things about Haven is that everyone else looks kind of dumb in comparison, but she’s so nice about it that you can’t even care.

So, in honor of someone who feels like an old friend, I am going to reccomend the books of Haven Kimmel. And if you don’t like what she has to say, pay attention to the way she says it.

I laid back and stared at the brown paneling. Dr. H had left the room to let it all sink in, and I cried silently. As the Novocaine activated and slowly turned my mouth to rubber this thought stayed sharp and stabbing. Any chance I had at being pretty was about to be twisted out with a pair of pliers.

I kept telling my mom that I still had baby teeth, but she didn’t believe me. After holding my brother Ed down on the couch and yanking out a tooth that turned out to have a root like an icicle I think she felt it best something she shouldn’t worry herself with. When they wanted to fall out, they would. But nothing is ever that simple in this family. I kept noticing that while my smile was even and somewhat straight, my canines weren’t pointy but instead looked like a couple of pieces of shoe-peg corn.

Finally, at age 16 my dentist noticed this and decided to do some X-rays. Sure enough, my canine teeth had not descended. Being part of my body they decided to be difficult and artsy and were in fact, hiding. Instead of lining up neatly along my gums and doing their job of dissolving my baby teeth roots they were squatting in the roof of my mouth like a couple of teenage runaways. One tooth doing this seems insolent, two seems like a conspiracy. My eye teeth were like siamese twins refusing surgery. They wanted to be together. Separating them was their only shot at a normal life, but being part of my body they were terrified of gainful employment.

The dreaded word was spoken. Braces. Braces when you are 12 are a rite of passage, a necessary ugly duckling maneuver on the way to swan-hood. All the beautiful girls in their magenta and orange sweaters from PASTA, white jeans, and matching bow flats had braces. The cheerleaders with their sun-browned skin and hot-rolled hair and bangs teased in rows, blooming out of their foreheads like a prom corsage.

They all had braces and so I wanted some. I wanted to be them. I grew so attached to one of them, Ashley Wells, that I made up excuses to hang around her. We didn’t have any classes together, and the lunch table was obviously out. I discovered she always brushed her teeth after lunch to dislodge food particles stuck in her braces. Doctors orders. I took to bringing my own travel toothpaste and brush to school and casually began brushing my teeth one sink over. When questioned about my aberrant behavior I made up something about having cavity prone tooth. This actually turned out to be true, and I was cultivating a good habit. But I was embarrassed at being found out. I gave up on lunchtime brushing and popularity.

Now, they were all having their braces taken off and reveling in their straight, bleached teeth. And my yellow teeth were finding a commonality 4 years too late, which seems to be a trend with me.

So I was dispatched to Dr. Helman, an orthodontist, for a consultation, and he sent me to his brother Dr. Helman, a dentist, for the preliminary surgery. My miniature canines would be dispatched, along with a tooth on the bottom that was crowding my other teeth like a fat guy on a bus seat. So far so good. Then I would have braces put on the remaining teeth.

But this was not going to solve the problems of the holes left where my meat-tearers needed to be. A solution of fiendish cleverness emerged from my orthodontist’s brain. They would unearth my teeth through surgical excavation, cutting a giant hole in the roof of the my mouth. I sort of imagined the discovery of my teeth as being akin to opening the tomb of Tutankammen or unearthing a frozen Mastodon.  And the similarities don’t end there. My teeth would literally have to be dragged into place with CHAINS. Brackets would be glued, chains attached and rubber bands would be tied to the chains, and the other end tied to my braces. It would take months, maybe years.

But at the time I wasn’t thinking of how painful this would be (and trust me, it was awful.) I wasn’t mourning the loss of bubble gum, or thinking about how for two years I wouldn’t be allowed to bite into an apple (one of life’s supreme pleasures, I have learned) or even a sandwich. I was thinking about those holes in my smile, and the metal they’d be covered with. How once again, there would be something making me other,only this time it wouldn’t be a Carol Brady haircut or a shorts outfit printed with frogs, but something in my face.

I contemplated this in the orange vinyl chair, tears streaming down. I tried to pretend it was because those shots really hurt. I laid back and listened to the cracking of bone and twisting of root, but I knew it was really the sound of my heart breaking. The teeth laid one by one on the white paper tray like bloody flower petals whispering “He loves me, He loves me not” before they are ripped, scattered and forgotten.

I told myself, if you just got married, you’d get better. Then, if you were a mother, you’d HAVE to get better. Then, if you just took the right vitamins and ate the right food, you’d find your golden ticket to wellness. I shunned pharmaceuticals as a crutch of the weak and foolish. I didn’t take drugs when I was birthing my babies, even the 10 lb girl I was in labor with for 36 hours. What I failed to recognize is that birth was 36 hours, but my life had been going for 30 years or more and I was still being tortured by who I was.

I finally realized, after visiting a psycologist and talking to a good friend, that I had nothing left to lose by trying to fix my broken brain chemistry. Depression and mental illness run in my family on both sides. And most assuredly, it is an illness, like diabetes or other chronic, deadly conditions. It was not being “sad” so much as physical heaviness and constantly feeling like my brain was full of rocks. I was constantly cycling, from super mom who makes homemade chicken stock and cookies to a semi-comatose sack who is constantly irritated and could barely speak to her beautiful children. It had to stop.

I’ve been on the generic for Prozac for over a month now, and…I’m astounded. I am even. I am level. The moments of profound, nasty irritation are essentially gone. The “edge” is gone…that thing that made me brittle, that filled me with anger, that made me feel like I was falling down a well and pull myself up onto the bucket before my lungs exploded. The water never reaches past my knees now. I can now honestly say that if I am stressed, or sad, it is from actual circumstances that I can cope with, rather than my body just rebelling against me for no reason.

I have damage control to do. I have to re-establish bonds with children that I have tormented with my ugliness, my hatefulness. And I have to work out my faith with fear and trembling, because for years I beleived I had a spiritual problem to be healed from. It can shake up your love for God when you feel he has let you down. I’m not sure it’s him, more things I have believed in my stead-fast ignorance . We’ll be alright, we always are. I just need to work it out.

To all the friends who I have dumped on over the years, I apologize. It was always amazing to know that I was making a complete ass out of myself in front of people whose griefs I could not comprehend. There were things jumping around in my brain that I was unable to cope with, and I’m sorry you had to listen to the incoherent ramblings of a sick person all the time.

To everyone who feels the way I have…you are not a bad person. You need help. It’s not your fault. Please don’t hesitate to seek help, to give yourself a foothold in this world.

Any Questions?

*continued from Part 1*

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

I still didn’t get it. Why would I be led in this direction, and have all signs point this way, only to not get this job I was so desperately seeking?

I was angry. I was bitter. I was depressed. I was certain the woman who got “my” job was a fool, someone who could not do the job anywhere nearly as well as I could. I fantasized that she would fall flat on her face, and they would come to me to pick up the pieces.

Finally, I decided to email the person responsible for hiring and ask him point blank what I could do to be his first choice the next time. And when I read his response, I wept again, though not for the reasons you might think. He told me who had gotten the job, and why.

I knew the woman, and she is a wonderful person.

Kim read my writing when I was 17 years old and published a piece of mine in the small supplement paper she was editing, call “Best Bets.” I wrote a couple of articles for her, and she asked me to help out at a music festival she was promoting that year. We parted ways when I was dealing with my own personal, teenage issues and she went on to a career as head of Public Relations at General Electric. She and her husband had adopted 6 (count ‘em!) children from Hungary. I had read about this in the newspaper and was humbled that I had been privileged to work with such a unique person, and I had prayed that our paths might cross again.

The knowledge that she was the person I was competing against was at once humbling, and mind-boggling. Kim was not only far, far more qualified than me, but she needed the job so much more. I knew that this would be her chance to be more available to all 8 of her children. The idea that they would even bother to interview anyone else shocked me, and the fact that they considered me competition for even one second was astounding.

And I wanted her to know. I desperately wanted to tell her about this emotional roller coaster, and offer her my support and hopefully she might even hire me as a lowly underling. I wanted to call her, but I couldn’t get her number due to human resources policy. So, I sent her a private message on the forum a few weeks later. And I heard…nothing. I was a bit devastated. I thought the fact that I had been in the running might dissuade her from talking to me. But of course, I have a history of being wrong about these kinds of things, and I was wrong again!

She never got my message, because she had trouble with her log-in. And when she sent me a message it was completely of her own volition. She had noticed me…on the message boards, and she had read some of my writing around town, and she wanted to hire me. She didn’t know it was me, the 17 year old she had taken under her wing some 13 years ago, but when she found out she was delighted. And so was I.

And so that’s what God was doing…it was a strange, bumpy, path, but it led to something great. I am working 10 hours a week for a woman I wholly respect, doing a job I thoroughly enjoy. I am allowed to be myself, and I have time to devote to other things. Because I’m not sure God wants me to be anything but ultimately, a writer. I recently had another career aspiration, involving something I was sure was an untapped market in Evansville, till I met a girl who had already tapped it. And so I am back again, to writing. And it feels right.

Part 1- The Job That Got Away

My father’s family insists that when I was a child, I wanted to be a comedian. I have no memories of such an aspiration. Actress? Check. Writer? Check. District Attorney? I didn’t actually know what that was, but if it meant being extremely elegant and standing up for your beliefs and dating a hot man-beast like Catherine Chandler did on my favorite show Beauty and the Beast then yeah, I could be that.

Actress and writer stuck around for a while, but pretty much anytime I realize that a real job would require a) copious amounts of school and b) Working. HARD. then I would quickly lose interest. There was one job I never stopped considering from at least the age of four, however, when I breastfed my dolls and that was being a MOMMY. Preferably to bunches of kids. It’s the toughest job I’ll ever love and if I had known how colossally bad I could be at it sometimes then maybe I would have run away from that too, but it’s tough to argue with your biological urges. I was programmed to procreate.

And so, upon the death of my precious grandfather I dropped out of school for the third time, got married and got pregnant. I quit my $6 an hour job at the classical radio station and I quit my $8 an hour job working as a hospital file clerk and I got into the business of mommying. I had two more babies and hmm…why am I not fulfilled? Well, the reasons for that are far-reaching and something we will go into in a later blog, but there was something important going on.

As I mentioned in another blog, the writing was kind of important. And it was something I ignored for literally years and years of my life. When I started writing again it was a form of redemption for me. And I began to feel things welling up inside me. Ambition! A desire to help support my family!

I have been making a little bit of money writing for the Evansville Courier Westside, and News 4 U, and Evansville Parent and I was immensely grateful, but we’ve still been living a bit hand to mouth (in the American sense only.) I really wanted to do something else to help out while Hugh finishes his accounting degree.

There was a job I kept hearing about. A job running a website in town, called www.evansvillemoms.com. Job Title? Head Mom.

Now, the idea of having a job running a website seems a bit like a fairy tale, really. Work From Home? A job about being a Mom? That involves the INTERNET (that lovely place I met my husband.) Writing? Promotion? How much could something like that actually pay? Would it pay…anything? But this job kept coming up. From my friend Jenni, who somehow had heard something about it. From a girl named Kara, who I happened to meet while doing a story on the EduKids homeschool co-op. She knew the head mom in Knoxville and had heard rumors of a position in Evansville. I started emailing Knoxville’s head mom but I was still incredibly fuzzy on the whole thing. And then my sister-in-law Jondi saw the job posted on Yahoo Hot Jobs. So I pulled a resume out of thin air (how do you do a resume when you haven’t worked in 5 years, except for a little free-lance writing?) and sent it in.

And I got called in for an interview.

I nearly wet my pants.

Now, I still knew absolutely nothing about this job. There was a certain amount of money that I wanted to make, and it wasn’t much, but I thought it might help out. If the job made that much I’d be happy. And even though I had no idea what this job was really like I decided to go for the gusto.

I went shopping. First I went to Wal-Mart and bought a cute knit top and matching skirt, but ultimately I returned it for something with a bit more panache. So I went to Target where all the truly upscale dames shop, and I found the perfect corporate costume. A blue pin-striped skirt, $5. A white short sleeve button up shirt, $12. Red flats, $9. A red snakeskin bag. $30. And a blue and white polka dot scarf, $7. And I topped off the look with some silver earrings I bought at Kohls the night before. It actually looked smashing. I was complimented on it by someone in line behind me at The Courier Press office, just as I was being given a visitor’s badge that read #1. A very good sign.

I’ll cut to the chase. I was extremely intimidated, especially when I was told the salary. Let’s just say it was considerably more than what my husband makes, and he has a bachelor’s degree. It was also techincally 40 hours a week, and while it was work from home, it was definitely WORK. It was not a job. It was a career. Somehow I knew I was in over my head, and I couldn’t figure out what I was doing there. Over 50 people applied for this job? They were only interviewing three? I was one of them? Whaaa?

By the second interview I didn’t care. I was going to fake it till I made it. That job was mine. If I had to put my kids in public school and daycare (only part-time!), if I had to hire a cleaning lady, whatever, then I would make it work. I would change my clothes. I would tone down my personality. I would find someway to become magically organized, and I would make it work. I had GREAT ideas, and when would I ever find another job that used my talents for writing and working with the public that paid so incredibly well and DIDN’T REQUIRE A COLLEGE DEGREE?

I couldn’t stop talking about it…I couldn’t stop telling everyone about this incredible job that I was sure to get. The wait was murderous. It was all happening the SAME WEEK my brother was getting married and that was the only thing that managed to keep my mind off the culmination of destiny.

And then…it happened. I was having a manicure, and my sister-in-law’s mother got a call on her cell phone. From my husband! It was a message to call back about the job. I did so…with my heart in my throat, yet certain it was good news.

I now know that it was good news. At the time I did not realize this, and I sat, weeping in the beauty parlor and feeling like a fool.

Why did this happen? Why was I led in this direction? There are so many small details that I have left out…maybe even things I have blocked out due to the extreme grief that I was pulled into the weeks after this event. I called my friends constantly, dissolving in tears. I could barely take care of the kids, or cook. I was completely blindsided by this turn of events.

*To Be Continued*

Today he wanted to write a WALL-E book. He dictated, and I typed. We worked out a few plot points, but for the most part it’s exactly as it was told to me. He told me there will be no pictures, because, like Harry Potter, WALL-E is a BIG book. I suggested he draw some illustrations for the chapter pages, because he can draw an excellent WALL-E likeness.

So, here are two WALL-E fan fiction stories, and one teaser. Hopefully there will more to come.

WALL-E was on the garbage planet with his girlfriend Eve. Suddenly a big ship came down. The little white robot and WALL-E went into it. There was all kinds of stuff in it. There were no robots in the ship. She thought it was an alarm so she just had to just check around all in the ship. Suddenly another ship came down and there were two ships, then more and more and more ships. And then all villains came out of these ships. Then there was something else. It was Eve but she was caught. And WALL-E had nothing to do because he was little.

Chapter 2 WALL-E saves Eve
When WALL-E saw that Eve was captured what should he have done? WALL-E went after the villains in the first ship and the first ship had Eve in it and WALL-E had somewhere behind so he went behind the boxes so he’d have somewhere to hide so the bad guys wouldn’t know that WALL-E followed them into the ship.

So, WALL-E went behind the boxes. What he found there was a clue. And an unbelievable thing- nothing there! There was something else there. Wall-E kept looking for someplace in the ship to eat.

Chapter 3 WALL-E believes the ship

Wall-E believes the ship is haunted. Wall had the unknowsent to get the ship off until he got his girlfriend Eve. And WALL-E just raced and raced to Eve. At last Eve was saved. WALL-E fighted the villains. And the next morning it was a beautiful day outside and WAll-E and his girlfriend lived happily ever after. The End.

Wall-E and the Velveteen Prince

Chapter 1

The Nice Christmas Day

It was snowy outside and so Wall-E and Eve went out to play in the snow. They made snowballs and then when it was springtime everything got to be good. When it was summer Wall-E played outside with Eve also. Then Wall-E decided to go for a wheel walk today. Eve said “Where are we going today Wall-E?” and Wall-E said “to the park.” Then on the way to the park they went the wrong way. But on the way to the park they got lost. So they went to a house that was a castle. There was a queen. A very, very mad queen. So Wall-E and his girlfriend asked directions to the park. The queen said “If you tell me that I will destroy you guys.” So Wall-E and Eve wheeled away as fast as they can. But the queens workers came and catched them.

Chapter 2

Put them in the Boiling Water

So, as they catched, well, there seemed to be one little thing. Now these two metal robots go into the boiling water. They didn’t burn up because they were metal.

Chapter 3

Fight with the Velveteen Prince

As Wall-E did it good, good things began to go wrong. As we were saying with this story, Wall-E did anything. And so to a very nice Colactos and then the queen had a very large cat that could eat up Wall-E. The cat was named Velveteen Prince and he had a very large teeth and he scratched with his teeth and no part of Wall E came off because he was metal. Wall-E fighted the cat and fighted the queen and fighted the queens workers and Wall-E and his girlfriend lived happily ever after. The End.

Wall-E and the Soldiers

Chapter 1

Science of Science

Wall-E and Eve were at a lab. So at the lab they saw someone that was a soldier. They looked all over the lab and all over the lab there were just soldiers. And also Wall-E went to the solider building and all the soldiers shooted Wall-E and said “Get him, Get him, Get him” but no part of Wall-E got dead because he was metal. The soldier said “What’s wrong…the shooting won’t help! I don’t believe it and he’s not even being dead!” So Wall-E turned into a garbage box so he can be much better. Then Wall-E said “I guess I should run away with my wheels!”

Chapter 2

Wall-E Lost

TO BE CONTINUED…

My instincts were spot on, except for the mythical creature part. My 1 year old daughter Alice was recently discovered with blue hands, blue spots on her dress and a sweet, blue tinged smile, holding a turquoise marker that had been decapitated. And for the next forty-eight hours I changed approximately 8 diapers that were a frightening shade of kelly green.

When I was a child green poop meant one thing. Purple Kool-Aid. Something about purple food coloring always wreaked havoc on our digestive tracts and we wound up with poop the color of pea soup. This color was far more vivid. It would be right at home on an 80s wet-look mermaid-skirted bridesmaid dress.

As I wiped my daughter’s turquoise-tinged bottom so many times that day I knew this moment needed to be recorded for posterity. Poop happens. It’s an integral part of parenting and a source of great humor. So, if you are not a fan of toilet humor then I do apologize. You might want to stop reading now.

Right now Linus is really obsessed with poop. I read in a potty training book that it is completely normal for a child to describe his or her bowel movements in great detail, but that still did not prepare me for his “Baby Jesus in the Swadding Clothes Poop.” In retrospect I probably should have salvaged that one and sold it on eBay. He has also lovingly shown me a Mama Bear and Baby Bear, and a poop that truly was shaped like a Mouth, as well as a myriad of snakes and letters of the alphabet. It’s gotten to the point where I have started mentally describing my own bowel movements. I very nearly called Jarvis in to show him the wonderful J I had made, but I stopped myself in time.

One of Linus’s favorite toys is a skinned male torso that sits next to the children’s encyclopedias. (Incidentally, this is one of my favorite baby shower gifts ever, from my dear Fritzi, who knows better than anyone how much I’d prefer a human anatomical model over another rattle any day.) This torso comes with cards that describe various internal organs and when you insert them into the torso said organ lights up. I explained to my boys what each organ was and what it did. Now Linus loves to grab the visible man and bark like a cigar-smoking gangster “YA WANNA KNOW WHERE THE POOP IS?” He then inserts a card that makes the small intestine light up like a neon sign at a tapeworm diner. “THEEEEEERE’S the POOP!.”

Of course, Jarvis has also had his share of poop moments in years past, such as the day Hugh found him calmly sticking a toy flute into his diaper and smearing the contents on the living room floor. He then looked up and said rather matter-of-factly “I have poo-poo.” Yes. Yes you do.

My most disgusting poop story also comes from Jarvis. I’m not sure I need to reproduce it here. Let’s just say that when you are changing a newborn it’s important to remember the word “explosive” applies, and changing diapers naked is never a good idea.