MWLM Blog

Holy Mole-y, Now That's Great Characterization!

Lately I've been doing a lot of pondering about something that a favorite author of mine does "right." Funny, as a reviewer and as a teacher constantly critiquing others' work, it seems like I spend a lot of time scrutinizing what a writer has done "wrong," what doesn't work, what falls flat, etc. Not very often do I just spend a few weeks thinking about and admiring something done "right".

Like probably most of you, I am a Janet Evanovich fan. Particularly a Stephanie Plum fan. I have a lot of reasons for this -- quick, easy stories that are entertaining to read, never make me cry, and don't make me feel like I've swallowed a dictionary or a great life truth when I'm done (don't get me wrong -- I'm as much about great life truths as the next guy, but sometimes reading stuff with *such meaning* feels like you're getting a root canal when a TicTac will do, if you know what I mean).

Mostly I love Janet's characters. They're over the top -- INCREDIBLY over the top! -- yet you believe them, right? You believe that a 150-pound woman can take down a 300-pound man, right? You believe cars getting blown up one right after another, packs of dogs chasing down a bounty hunter and getting naughty with her head, a boxed private part being delivered to a doorstep. You believe in grandmas who will do just about anything to look under the cover of a closed casket. But why?

And this is what I've been pondering. No matter what you have to say about Janet's work, one thing you can say for sure is that she knows her characterization. That woman can create any character in the world, put her in any situation in the world, and make you believe it.

My favorite example of this is in Eleven on Top, where Janet does the most amazing thing with characterization ever: she introduces a character that's not even human. I'm talking about Mama Macaroni's mole.

First, she uses the mole to give us a description of Mama Macaroni that is screamingly hilarious while at the same time crystal clear as to who this lady is (she calls the mole something along the lines of the dermatological equivalent of a 12-car pileup on the freeway). This is her creative way of getting us to "see" Mama Macaroni without doing the dreaded Dragnet police blotter thing ("...suspect was 5'2", 176lbs, white hair, gray eyes, large identifying mole on her face...").

But leave it to Janet to take it a step further. She takes that mole and actually makes it a character of its own! Without spoiling anything (just in case you...*gasp!*...haven't read it) I'll just say that this mole shows up time and time again, both physically and in the minds of the major characters. You find yourself wondering about the mole, laughing about the mole, feeling satisfied about knowing what happens with this mole.

She used the mole to give life to her character (it worked) and then gave the mole a life of its own (it worked again!). Brilliant!

So today before you sit down at your keyboard, give some thought about your characterization. You're not Dragnet-ing, are you? You're not giving your characters the tired and boring "...golden spun hair, shimmering eyes, and a sharp, jutting chin..." are you? Or worse, you're not creating characters without giving any thought as to how they're going to be characterized for your readers, are you? Even if you feel comfortable, do some pondering of your own today. Because your characters will make or break your story, and when it's done "right"...holy mole-y your readers will be hooked!

Jennifer Brown is a two-time winner of the Erma Bombeck global humor award (2005 & 2006), and humor columnist, as well as freelance writer and TicTac-lover. Check out her stuff at http://www.freewebs.com/jennifer_brown.

When "There" Becomes "Here"

by Linda Sharp

Yesterday, pre-dawn, found me following my fairly typical early morning routine.

In the hour before having to get the kids up for school, I was already at the keyboard, clearing my inbox, mentally assessing the deadlines of the day, and checking in at CNN.com to, as I often joke to my family, "make sure the world is still out there."

The top headline at the time read, Suspect in Texas murder spree arrested in New York.

Hmmm. I live in Texas.  Hadn't heard about a "spree".  So I clicked on the headline.

I admit, I gave it a very cursory reading.  Six dead.  Austin area - that's interesting, I thought.  I live in the Austin area. House between Jonestown and Lago Vista.  Wow.  That's close.  I drive that stretch every time I go to visit Rudy at work.  Suspect fled to New York, caught there.  Whew.  Glad to know they caught him.  Victims.  A mom, some friends, a bartender, a 15 year old girl.  Man, that's sad.  My daughter is 15. 

And then I went on to the next story, and then about my day.

It would be many hours later that I would find out the truth, and in turn realize something about myself.

For all I preach about never thinking it can't happen to you, near you, to someone you know, in your town; and as much as I constantly beat the "no-place-is-completely-safe" drum to my daughters, it turns out I am just as guilty of thinking these things happen "there", not "here".

You see, yesterday, while in the carpool line, Rudy called.  Did you hear about the murders in Jonestown?

Yes, I read about them, but just briefly.

The girl went to high school with Culley.

My stomach knotted in a way I can't really describe.  It was like someone was doing emotional origami with my intestines.

Minutes later, Culley was in the car telling me about the announcement made in the school, and showing me the letter they had issued regarding the murder of Haylie Faulkner, the 15 year old who should have been a member of Culley's graduating class in 2010.

As I read the information about permission to attend the services when they are finally arranged, the condolences of the staff, the counseling available for the students, I could actually hear my blood flowing in my veins.

This kind of thing doesn't happen here.  Yet somehow, in the blast of a handgun, my town's named has been changed from Leander to Here, Texas.  And my daughter now attends a high school where one of her classmates was brutally murdered in a killing spree which included five other people in two states.

You know, in the great balance sheet of high school life, over the course of the four years, it is the rare school that does not lose a student.  Whether it's the law of averages catching up and killing a wreckless teenage driver, a student with cancer, or an athlete with a heart condition that was not caught until they passed out and died on the football field - these type of deaths, while absolutely tragic, are much more - I do not use this word to be callous - common.

That doesn't make the loss to family and friends any less acute, but somehow, attaching the word murder to a death, makes it that much more of an emotional violation to the psyche.

Murders take place in Iraq.  Murders are those scenes with all the cool moulage (wound make-up), and easily solved in an hour on CSI type dramas.  Murders involve rappers, heads of state, homeless people under bridges.

They don't involve a 15 year old girl in your child's class in high school.

Did Culley personally know Haylie yet?  No, she did not.  But in a school with 2,000+ students, and a plethora of class options and course levels, some paths might not cross until several years in, if at all.

But as Culley observed, I'm sure we shared a lunch period or hallway last year - most freshman do.

She will be attending Haylie's service.  Culley is going to talk to her friends today about going together.  Because as she said to me, Not knowing her doesn't make her less of a person.  And she was a member of MY class.  We need to go.

I will drive Culley and her friends. And I will stand beside them as they bid farewell to a classmate who they did not know, but who leaves their entire class with a heavy heart and the sober lesson that it can happen here.

Rest in peace, Haylie.  LHS will miss you.   

It Doesn't Matter...by Maureen Locher

When you’re a mom it just doesn’t matter… It doesn’t matter that yesterday you awoke at 4:00 a.m. to view the total lunar eclipse jumping up from the computer chair several times to run out into your front yard clad in only your robe to gaze at the disappearing moon. It doesn’t matter that you raced from your house at 8:15 to drive 45 minutes to assist your aging parents in the very new and scary developments surrounding mounting medical problems for both. It doesn’t matter that you cried uncontrollably for 10 minutes while keeping the car on the road. It doesn’t matter that you went to two separate grocery stores shopping for said parents as well as attempting to remember a few of your own family’s necessary supplies (like toilet paper). It doesn’t matter that you were busy every single second at your parents’ exiting their driveway feeling the fervent desire that you had been able to do more. It doesn’t matter that as you turned the ignition you realized you needed gas, and that your son was waiting for you at home ready to steal your car, so he could get to work on time. Luckily, you saw no police on your flight home, and more importantly, no police saw you.

It doesn’t matter that you began editing articles practically as soon as you entered the door and continued doing so for hours, having long since passed the point of exhaustion; you knew you could do it. It doesn’t matter that you really can’t remember when you fell asleep last night , but you most definitely do remember hearing the screech of the alarm clock jarring you from slumber. And you lay there positively sure that it was mere moments ago you rested your tired head on the pillow, but it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter because today is your youngest son’s birthday and he MUST awaken to the long-standing self-inflicted (“your” self-inflicted) tradition of walking down the steps on birthday morning to strands of crepe paper streaming through the doorway. He MUST be greeted with “Happy Birthday” written in a toothpaste greeting across the bathroom mirror. And he MUST sit down to extinguish the flame atop his orange danish as you sing to him. All the chores awaiting you this day do not stir you from your bed, and the undeniable fatigue cannot hold you bound. You tape the crepe, you squeeze the Crest, you light the candle because you love the boy — and that’s what matters. Happy Birthday, Joe!

Maureen is the MWLM copy editor.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

My all-time favorite commercial is the one where a father with an ear-to-ear grin is pushing a shopping cart through a Staples store, gleefully tossing in school supplies as his dejected children follow glumly behind and “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” plays in the background.

“They’re going back!” the announcer tells us. Sweeter words were never spoken.

Last May, in the calm quiet of my house before my kids got home from school, I made a stupid decision. I decided that my little darlings needed a slacker summer. You know the kind of summer I mean – the kind that we had. An unstructured summer spent running through sprinklers, lying in tall grass deflowering dandelions, watching the Road Runner never fail to foil Wile E. Coyote.

I envisioned euphoric days where my children, their imaginations fired by boundless freedom, would write their own plays, rediscover the innocence of youth, perhaps dip into Tolkien or even Tolstoy (it could happen). I wanted them to savor their summer before it slipped away like a melting scoop of ice cream.

That was in May, when I clearly had too much time on my hands and would appear to have been smoking something.

In June, the bloom came off the rose just a bit. With school out, we went on vacation, enjoying round-the-clock togetherness as we attempted to bolster our family bonds while simultaneously blowing our budget. By the end of the month, our family bond had been bolstered to such an extent that it felt like an iron collar around our necks. My husband, his face wearing the liberated look of an escaped convict, went back to work.   

But I, still deeply in a delusional phase, recommitted myself to giving my kids a season of sloth. I was determined that my fantasy of summertime fun and creativity, unencumbered by a schedule, would come to pass. Only it hasn’t gone quite as I planned.

Oh, my children have definitely been slothful. They’ve slept until noon, then stirred themselves just enough to move to the couch, where they somehow have summoned the energy to fight over the TV remote. And they have shown some true creativity there, managing -- while still lying down -- to punch, kick and bite each other without ever assuming a vertical position. It’s true they haven’t written any plays, but one of them did exhibit an artistic bent – and earn himself a morning of scrubbing toilets – by writing on my walls with ketchup. They have unfortunately not dipped into either Tolkien or Tolstoy, but they have read the words on Popsicle wrappers before tossing them on the table.

With the onset of August, the lazy days of summer have begun to really drive me crazy. My laconic teenage son – the one destined for a job as a comedian or possibly a member of Congress – tells me that his religion forbids any activity between sunup and sundown. I congratulate him on his faithful adherence to his faith. Even our Labrador seems nearly comatose in these dog days.

The other members of my lay-about lot are deeply involved in endless, banal bickering. They argue over the color of the sky or which one of them is the biggest brat (dead even, I’d say) or whether Mom or Dad has more wrinkles (wisely, they chose Dad). They’ve all become a bunch of hibernating bears, apparently storing up fat for the winter by barely moving. They’re even too weak, poor things, to feed themselves.

“Mom!” they will wail from the living room, where they have actually become part of the furniture and now require dusting. “We’re hungry! Can you bring us food?”

Fortunately, all this annoying inertia is about to end. They are, indeed, going back to school.  And next summer, so help me, they’re going to camp.

© Jackie Papandrew 2007

Jackie Papandrew's award-winning humor appears weekly in newspapers in the United States and Canada, as well as on numerous websites. She is a coffee addict who is overly fond of chocolate. She's mom to a motley crew of children and pets and wife to a very patient man who should have escaped while he had the chance. Read more of Jackie's humor at her website, JackiePapandrew.com

Coldcocked by Flannigan's Right Hook

A couple weeks ago, The Hub and I got a whole night out together. Our first in...sit down...eight years. We decided to celebrate by spending the night in Weston, Missouri, the town where we fell in love, where we spent our wedding night, and where we were inspired with our first son's name.

Part of our decision to go to Weston was O'Malley's -- a cool Irish pub a mere thirty or so steps from our B&B room door -- a place we always made sure we visited whenever we were in Weston when we were younger. That's where we discovered how much things can change in the span of just eight years:

1) Eight years ago, I was still mostly in my '20s. And I mean really mostly in my '20s, not the mostly in my '20s that I am now (which is to say, not at all in my '20s). Back then I needed to carry ID to order a beer. Two weeks ago, I carried my ID. The only thing I used it for was to get a wedge of beer cheese out from between two molars.

2) Eight years ago, I would've run out of money before I ran out of ability to walk. We were poor back then. Now I could afford enough of some drink called an Irish Car Bomb I was able to smell my liver smoldering. Or maybe it was my Visa.

3) Eight years ago, the bar would've closed way too early. Two weeks ago, I was checking my watch at 10:00, wondering if I'm going to be missing anything good on Leno.

Not that we were without fun. There was this great band called Flannigan's Right Hook tearing up the stage when we got there. That is, if you can call four former orchestra jocks with a guitar, a drum set, a cello-like instrument (okay, maybe it was actually a cello. Or, if my Irish Car Bomb memory serves me correctly, it could also have been a giant talking salmon), and a fiddle tearing up a place. Let's just say in my memory they were the best musical act I'd seen in like...well, eight years. They even seemed to cater to old-timers like myself, playing Eleanor Rigby, Heart of Gold, and a version of The Devil Went Down to Georgia that had me so rowdy I think I tore something.

It was a high time for The Browns that night.

Which brings me to my ultimate discovery of what's changed in eight years.

The aftermath.

The next day my head hurt. My stomach ached. I swear I peed dust. My tongue had been replaced by a very absorbent diaper. My eyes burned. I was greasy. I smelled like smoke. I had six new zits. My shorts were too tight. My shoes hurt. And...good Lord, help me...the most embarrassing...

My arms were sore from clapping above my head too much.

It may be another eight years before they let us out alone again. Thank God.

Class Act

By Linda Sharp

This morning marked another of life's little milestones.

School started.

And while that, in itself, is not momentous - wait, scratch that - it IS momentous to a parent like me who has spent the past couple weeks salivating as I marked each day off the calendar, desperate to reclaim a tad of my sanity and restore some semblance of routine to my waking hours.

OK, fine.  I admit it.  After dropping off the last child, I damn near resembled a Senekot ad - jumping into the air, pumping my fist with 'I feel good" glory - the central block of my day is no longer constipated with kids fighting over the last popsicle or slice of pizza, wanting to go to the mall/pool/movie, hosting the zillion friends they seem to attract like lint, and buying more popsicles and pizza. 

But back to the "momentous" portion...

This school year finds that I now have TWO daughters in high school, and my baby - no longer my baby, I suppose - is in middle school. 

And while one could marvel at the whole David Blaineness of this feat - after all, I have not gotten any older, they have - I am basking in the glow of "I-think-we're-doing-a-good-job-at-raising-them".

I present the following evidence:

1. Twas the night before a new school year, and all through my house, not a creature was nervous, not even my spouse (who HATES that he now has TWO daughters attending school with SENIOR boys)

The girls spent the evening showering, Nairing, assembling the perfect first-day-o'-school outfits (even the youngest whose biggest fashion consideration is usually which T-shirt to wear each day), and excitedly chatting to friends on their phones.

This morning, not a nerve to be seen.  If anything, they paced, wishing the clock would move forward faster so they could get to the schools.

As a parent, these are satisfying signs indeed.  It reflects self assuredness, confidence, inner strength.

(Fine - it also reflects a desire to get to school and check out the new crop of boys and the longer hair they will be sporting thanks to Zac Efron and that damned High School Musical 2.)

2.  Sibling chivalry NOT rivalry.

Culley is now a sophomore - familiar with her school which truly resembles a mutant sea creature - tentacles and tumors sprouting here and there, appendaged hallways that all look alike, a numbering process that somehow puts the 400s right next to the 700s - and while 10th graders don't yet 'rule the school', they are no longer Fish either. 

Kendall is the incoming Freshman.  To new eyes, that building is daunting.  And the hallways between classes resemble a sardine can - there are over 2,000 students commuting from one class to the next.

Culley has not only been coaching Kendall about what to expect, she took her to the high school last Friday and walked her schedule with her so she has a better grasp of where rooms are, and most importantly, Culley showed her little known shortcuts she discovered during her own first year.

This morning they walked in together, and even though they can sibling catfight with the best of them, I have no doubt Culley will be watching out for her kid sister daily.

As for Kendall?  She may front bravado all she wants, but inside I know she knows exactly how lucky she is to have Culley as her sister.  In one year, Culley has paved quite an in-road and there are far worse things than being related to one of the nicest, hottest (I'm quoting male sources here), teacher-liked kids in school.

And as for our youngest?  Well, she and Kendall don't exactly spare one another's feelings under this roof.  They are fierce rivals - they both play soccer, so oneupmanship rules - but in all other ways, could not be more different if they tried.

They do love each other just as fiercely, however, and Kendall has had Carson's back in the weeks leading up to this day - giving her the lowdown on the teachers, school layout, principal, etc, as she passes the torch for the school she is leaving down to her little sister.

3.  Not a backward glance.

For me, this has always been the biggest indicator that Rudy and I are doing something right.  From the day Culley first entered preschool when she was two, independence has been the watchword.  As dramatic, weepy scenes played out all around us, Culley walked bravely into her future and her new classroom with barely a wave over her shoulder.

Sorry Mom, Dad - frontiers to cover, you can leave now.

That is how they all left me this morning.  And it again made me realize that the stupid platitude I made up years ago, and spout regularly, must not only have taken root in their minds, but is flowering in their souls:

The horizon is a wonderful place - that is where all things are possible.

And as much as I am enjoying this newly reclaimed peace - the only sound in the house is the tinkle of Lola's collar bell, and my fingers on the keyboard (ok, yes, CNN is on in the background too - shut up, I'm addicted and you know this) - a part of me cannot wait to see them this afternoon and hear all about what they have found on their new horizons.

Unsharpened #2 pencils and the excitement of new possibilities.  Does it really get much better than this?

Learn more about internationally read author and columnist Linda Sharp at www.lindasharp.com , check in with her daily via her popular blog, Don't Get Me Started, and pick up a copy of her latest release, Femail: A Comic Collision In Cyberspace available at booksellers now.email

By Linda Sharp

This morning marked another of life's little milestones.

School started.

And while that, in itself, is not momentous - wait, scratch that - it IS momentous to a parent like me who has spent the past couple weeks salivating as I marked each day off the calendar, desperate to reclaim a tad of my sanity and restore some semblance of routine to my waking hours.

OK, fine.  I admit it.  After dropping off the last child, I damn near resembled a Senekot ad - jumping into the air, pumping my fist with 'I feel good" glory - the central block of my day is no longer constipated with kids fighting over the last popsicle or slice of pizza, wanting to go to the mall/pool/movie, hosting the zillion friends they seem to attract like lint, and buying more popsicles and pizza. 

But back to the "momentous" portion...

This school year finds that I now have TWO daughters in high school, and my baby - no longer my baby, I suppose - is in middle school. 

And while one could marvel at the whole David Blaineness of this feat - after all, I have not gotten any older, they have - I am basking in the glow of "I-think-we're-doing-a-good-job-at-raising-them".

I present the following evidence:

1. Twas the night before a new school year, and all through my house, not a creature was nervous, not even my spouse (who HATES that he now has TWO daughters attending school with SENIOR boys)

The girls spent the evening showering, Nairing, assembling the perfect first-day-o'-school outfits (even the youngest whose biggest fashion consideration is usually which T-shirt to wear each day), and excitedly chatting to friends on their phones.

This morning, not a nerve to be seen.  If anything, they paced, wishing the clock would move forward faster so they could get to the schools.

As a parent, these are satisfying signs indeed.  It reflects self assuredness, confidence, inner strength.

(Fine - it also reflects a desire to get to school and check out the new crop of boys and the longer hair they will be sporting thanks to Zac Efron and that damned High School Musical 2.)

2.  Sibling chivalry NOT rivalry.

Culley is now a sophomore - familiar with her school which truly resembles a mutant sea creature - tentacles and tumors sprouting here and there, appendaged hallways that all look alike, a numbering process that somehow puts the 400s right next to the 700s - and while 10th graders don't yet 'rule the school', they are no longer Fish either. 

Kendall is the incoming Freshman.  To new eyes, that building is daunting.  And the hallways between classes resemble a sardine can - there are over 2,000 students commuting from one class to the next.

Culley has not only been coaching Kendall about what to expect, she took her to the high school last Friday and walked her schedule with her so she has a better grasp of where rooms are, and most importantly, Culley showed her little known shortcuts she discovered during her own first year.

This morning they walked in together, and even though they can sibling catfight with the best of them, I have no doubt Culley will be watching out for her kid sister daily.

As for Kendall?  She may front bravado all she wants, but inside I know she knows exactly how lucky she is to have Culley as her sister.  In one year, Culley has paved quite an in-road and there are far worse things than being related to one of the nicest, hottest (I'm quoting male sources here), teacher-liked kids in school.

And as for our youngest?  Well, she and Kendall don't exactly spare one another's feelings under this roof.  They are fierce rivals - they both play soccer, so oneupmanship rules - but in all other ways, could not be more different if they tried.

They do love each other just as fiercely, however, and Kendall has had Carson's back in the weeks leading up to this day - giving her the lowdown on the teachers, school layout, principal, etc, as she passes the torch for the school she is leaving down to her little sister.

3.  Not a backward glance.

For me, this has always been the biggest indicator that Rudy and I are doing something right.  From the day Culley first entered preschool when she was two, independence has been the watchword.  As dramatic, weepy scenes played out all around us, Culley walked bravely into her future and her new classroom with barely a wave over her shoulder.

Sorry Mom, Dad - frontiers to cover, you can leave now.

That is how they all left me this morning.  And it again made me realize that the stupid platitude I made up years ago, and spout regularly, must not only have taken root in their minds, but is flowering in their souls:

The horizon is a wonderful place - that is where all things are possible.

And as much as I am enjoying this newly reclaimed peace - the only sound in the house is the tinkle of Lola's collar bell, and my fingers on the keyboard (ok, yes, CNN is on in the background too - shut up, I'm addicted and you know this) - a part of me cannot wait to see them this afternoon and hear all about what they have found on their new horizons.

Unsharpened #2 pencils and the excitement of new possibilities.  Does it really get much better than this?

Learn more about internationally read author and columnist Linda Sharp at www.lindasharp.com , check in with her daily via her popular blog, Don't Get Me Started, and pick up a copy of her latest release, Femail: A Comic Collision In Cyberspace available at booksellers now.email

Crazy Ohio Weather

As I was watching the local news in Cincinnati late tonight, I was surprised to see the news stations scrolling the names of approximately 20 schools that would be closed or dismissing students early due to the heat on Thursday.  They are expecting the hottest day of the week to be Friday, so tomorrow is only a preview.  Ugh....

I keep trying to convince our new neighbors from Maine that this is not a typical Cincinnati summer.  Some time in December we will long for one of these hot days. But for now, we are simply trying to stay cool.

Bittersweet Maturing

I wish my relations with my parents were better than they are, however they have been continuously strained since I married my husband eight years ago.  We never actually got along well in the first place; however, the effort was at least made.  My mother was upset with the idea I was marrying into a home town she thought she left behind ages ago, as well as a family she thought she would never have to associate with again after she had left. 

Oh how the twists of fate do turn and I live there on a farm with my ever growing family and husband.  Things were going quite well until my mother labeled my sons as hellions and my daughter the perfect little princess.  This meant the boys were no longer welcome at her house but my daughter was.  Let’s face it, a museum like house does not bode well with a 3 and a 4 year old boy who love dirt, playing outside, and like making loud obnoxious noises with their mouths for the sheer joy of it. 

However, things took a turn decidedly for the worst at the beginning of the year with the ice storm of the century that knocked power out across multiple states.  All the hotels were full and we needed a place to stay to keep our 9 month old warm.  That meant my in-laws were out and my folks were in because they had electricity.  Whoa Nellie.  To cut to the chase, we left after a short 36 hour stay because my mother requested I stay with the baby and my daughter while my husband and the two boys left.  I don’t think so.  So, we packed up again and moved in with my in-laws, who had no electricity but at least had a gas burning stove to keep the house warm.  They had also found a generator and within hours we had limited power to the farm house. 

That was the tip of the iceberg.  It seems like ever since then, relationships have been EXTREMELY strained, but I did my best to ignore it.  However, this last week my parents felt that they have reached the breaking point with how things were going.  My father called this last Saturday to explain my mother feelings were extremely hurt and that they were both torn up by our behavior. 

Yes, things were markedly strained, however, relations were tolerable.  Or so I thought.  After my father explained how my mother felt unwanted in my household and in her old hometown I really didn’t know what to say.  And I told him so.  I did not bring up the ice storm hard feelings.  I did not bring up the fact they ignored my sons.  I didn’t bring up that they never come up for dinner when invited or that my mother is always making snide and rude comments to my husband about what she thought was his short comings as a father and provider.  I did not bring up that they continually socialized with my brother and sister and left my husband and me out because we have small children.  I just sat on the other end of the phone and listened. 

What was the point in arguing or trying to reason with them?  Obviously they felt wronged and I was the culprit because I can control my husband actions and my mother’s mouth.  Yeah.  I hung up the phone feeling very empty.  Empty because I knew this was coming yet uncertain when it would.  I wasn’t angry.  I didn’t cry.  I just accepted it for what it was and told my husband.  What else could I do? 

Sometimes children grow up before their parents do.  In this case, I did it before I turned 30 and my mother hit retirement age.  This life lesson is bittersweet, which is for sure.

Marsha Kaslon, Managing Editor

Back to School

Yes here in Arizona the kids are already back in school.  My girls just finished their second week today.  My days have been nice and quiet once more.  It's amazing how quickly one gets use to eating lunch alone again.  Though my diet isn't great - eating alone I can get use to; cooking for one isn't something I do well.  I prefer to stare at my computer screen, listening to my tummy grumble.  I tell myself I should go fix something to eat, but it's hard when there are no ther voices whining they're hungry too.

The first week back at school I went with my husband to the doctor's office.  Before school began, he visited the ER twice with abdominal pain.  He drove himself there, because someone had to watch the girls.  When he came back the second time looking and feelinf worse than when he left, I told him no more doctor visits without a second pair of ears.  I made a follow-up with the primary doctor and went along.

Well it looks like age and a nine year old surgery is catching up to him.  The doctor thinks hubby has adhesions from his splenectomy.  Apparently adhesions do not show up on CT scans or x-rays, but they can cause abdominal cramping digesting certain foods.  Wonder how he'd survive on the solitary junk food diet of a stay-at-home mom cooking for one?

Veronica

Upcoming news for MWLM

Hello MWLM readers.  I hope everyone is enjoying summer.  I am so excited!  Mom Writer's Literary Magazine has been approached by Maria Bailey from BlueSuitMom.com (BSM Media).  Maria is wonderful and a dear friend - please check out her site if you haven't already. 

We will be working with Ellen Cockrill who is the Senior Vice President of Animation for Universal Studios Family Productions.  Ellen is also the producer of The Land Before Time television series, which can also be seen on Cartoon Network. Can you imagine?  Please watch for our interview with Ellen Cockrill in our spring 2008 issue!

We will also be working with Lori McKenna.  Lori is a mother of five and an acclaimed singer-songwriter who was thrust into the limelight last year when superstar Faith Hill included three of Lori's songs on her Number One album Fireflies.  Lori has just released her own album, Unglamorous, which was produced by Tim McGraw and award-winning producer Byron Gallimore. This proves, once again, that this singer-songwriter stay-at-home mom is the real deal!!  You betcha!  Please watch for Lori McKenna as our feature cover story summer 2008!

Thanks again to everyone for their support for mom writers!

Happy reading and writing,

Paula Schmitt, Publisher MWLM