Summer Reading Book (s)?

When I was in school, we had required summer reading lists. Every year. With multiple books we were required to read. End-of-summer / back-to-school meant buying clothes, pencils, notebooks, and a backpack. It also meant preparing ourselves to prove we did our summer reading. In grade school, we had to write book reports. When we entered junior high, we were tested on the reading.  

Okay, I suppose I'm old(ish) but, wow, have things changed that much? Get this. My kids have to read a book over the summer. One. Book. AND they don't technically have to read it—this is a request not a requirement. Reading a book is "great!" and "encouraged!" but not "required". Consequently, my kids will not be tested on or even asked about the book(s) they read because they weren't expected to read any.

Also, there is a page trying to talk students (or parents?) into this one book by spouting "summer slide" statistics and research about expanded vocabulary and increased success in school.

There is a list of book suggestions, yes, but they are "popular books" including comic books and magazines. I'm not looking for a fight. My kids read both of the above and some of them are fantastic but I'm talking summer reading here. I don't understand how we went from a required list of specific books to a suggested list of popular books in one generation. What has happened?

Okay, it's been twenty thirty years since I was in grade school and things are bound to change a bit in that time but, honestly, taking away summer reading? It's still there, technically, but it's really not. Not with the mild, mousy voice of it-would-be-so-neat-if-you-could-maybe-possibly-read-one-book-or-something-with-words-on-it-this-summer.


Did you have summer reading when you were in school? Do your children? Did they read this summer? If so, was it for fun or because their school required it? 

Texting

I had something else planned for today but felt like sharing. Or, maybe, over-sharing. But who's judging?

This week on Twitter, for Friday Phrases, the prompt was "Submerged / Under the Sea". I wrote this:

The text had a location and six words 
that gave me the instant sensation I was submerged in icy water. 

"We just got in an accident."

This week, I wasn't telling a story in 140 characters or less. Well, I suppose, technically, I was but the story wasn't fiction. I received this text from my husband Thursday evening. The "we" in this text was my husband and my two children. I called him. He told me where they were and that he had to go because the ambulance was there. I had to drive. 15 minutes away. A quarter of an hour that, clichés be damned, felt like a lifetime. Shaking, scared out of my mind but paying close attention to the road (because the last thing we needed was another accident), I drove those fifteen minutes. Before I saw my children, I saw what was left of my husband’s car.

Then I saw them and ran. They were shaking, crying, burned, and bruised, but they were whole and alive and hugging me. 

It was a long night. Everyone was looked over in the ER as I hovered and fretted. It was crowded. The doctors and nurses kept us all together in one, little exam room. That simple act is something I am wildly grateful for. My husband’s burns were bandaged and all the x-rays were normal. No one was broken. Not physically. My 7-yr-old is still sleeping in our room. My 10-yr-old Aspie is working through this logically with what parts of the car were scattered on the road and what was and was not left in the car.

I could have lost my world, my entire world, a few days ago. I didn’t. I get that. But I could have. I have no words for the feeling I get when I think about it, which I’ve been trying like hell not to do.

So, although this was not my intent for today’s post, here it is. 

And here is this. The girl who almost killed my family ran a red light at full speed because she was looking at her cell phone—texting or playing a game or reading a map or I don’t give a damn. It’s simple. If you are looking at your phone, you are not looking at the road.

 

Networking: A Necessary Evil for Introverted Writers

I wrote a letter to my younger self as part of Carrie Butler and PK Hrezo's blogfest called
How I Found The Write Path .

  This letter is supposed to come from writers who now know what they're doing. Hmm. Some of this is write on (har) and I actually do have some experience and decent advice to give. But I have a long way to go on my path. I'm headed to a writer's conference this week (the same one I talk about in the letter, actually) and I realize networking is something I continue to struggle with. Let's see how this week goes. Here's to me not crying. Cheers! 

Networking: A Necessary Evil for Introverted Writers

Dear writing-is-the-only-thing-I’ve-ever-wanted-to-do Sarah,

Yes, yes, you’ve been writing stories since you could hold a pencil. Some are still in your scrapbook. Whatever. You have a lot to learn, love. I’ll concede that you’re young and naïve but that’s all you’re getting from me. Except advice. Which is this: get off yer ass.

Your “if I write it, they will come” attitude is helping you go nowhere. Sort of quickly. But wait! There’s more! If you act now, you will be a published writer. You won’t be paid mass amounts of money, but your writing will be out there, in the world, being read, by real people. Cool, huh?

When you’re about to leave your precious thirties, the decade you love so much, you make a decision that will lead to much crying and stress. Do it anyway and thank me later. That decision is horrifying to you and requires that you put yourself out there. Yourself and your writing. Don’t whine at me that you’ve sent amazing stories out sporadically only to have them rejected. Twenty submissions? Wow. That’s a crapload. Over thirty years? Not so much. Don’t argue with me that you’re trying—you’re not.

Being a writer is not a romantic skip through the daisies in a flowing gauzy gown. It’s a nasty trudge through the mud in pajamas. Uphill. In the rain. With wolves chasing you.

Okay, sweets, here’s the deal. Writing is a business. You have to do ghastly things like meet with people, join social media, go to conferences, and talk to agents. I’m sorry, I really am, but you have to…network. Are you okay? I’ll give you a minute.

At your very first conference, you will cry. In front of people. It’s pretty funny. Now, I mean. It’s funny now. I’m laughing with you not at you? Oh, never mind. And when an editor does not ask “Are you on Twitter?” but “What’s your Twitter handle?” you will get a reality slap because you are not on Twitter. You will then join Twitter. And you will cry. But this time it’s at home so no one will see you. Hugs.

The writing life is not about hanging in your yoga pants typing at your laptop with a cuppa. It’s real, dirty work. But you love writing, you need it, and that will keep you going—submitting, networking, and promoting. Those aren’t easy tasks for an introvert like you, but you can do it.

You know how to write. You’ve been writing for many years. You taught writing for many years. Pick your confidence up out of the dirt, dust it off, and put it back where it belongs. Ignore negativity. Also, please continue to ignore the rules of grammar and “good writing”. Throwing those rules out the proverbial window is crucial to keeping your voice.

 So there it is, love. Be your own bad self. Own your shit. Don’t give up. Use your voice. Be authentic. And, for the love of toads and crickets, ditch the doubts!

Onward,

Older, wiser, not-growing-old-as-gracefully-as-you-said-you-would Sarah

P.S. Please do try to develop a touch of that thing called patience. Look it up. Your editors might not get back to you for weeks. Some litmags, newspapers, and print magazines will take months. Some won’t respond at all. It's frustrating. Feel free to punch a pillow and throw some swear words around. It's not a temper tantrum, it's "venting". Totally mature. Just don’t yank your hair out—you’re getting older and you need it. The grey ones are fine. Get those ones. 

MVP (plural?)

A few years ago, my son's teacher had this brilliant idea to give out stars to her students. Sounds okay so far, right? The stars were big. Bright yellow. And said “I AM A SUPER STAR!” on them. When we had a meeting, the teacher said all her students were “super shining super stars!” All the students were the best. Isn’t that special?

No, it’s not.

I called my friend with "Seriously?!" and “Can you believe this?!” and “How preposterous!” and so on until she cut me off. I could practically hear her roll her eyes. She said, “That's nothing. Last year, my kid’s entire team got an MVP award. Every. Single. Player.”

So, “most” valuable player is now everyone? How does that work?

Why is it that coaches, teachers, daycare providers, principals, et al. feel this need to include every single child in the “best” category?

They are not doing these kids any favors. 

Children have strengths and weaknesses. We all do. Why are we telling them they are the best at everything?

Is this a confidence-building thing? Because, I have to say, if you told me I was the best singer you'd ever heard and I went on stage and humiliated myself, not only would my confidence be shredded but so would our friendship.  

I refuse to tell my son he is the best baseball player I've ever seen when he can't catch a single ball. I'm not praising my other son for being the most incredible dancer when he trips over his own feet just walking. (You don't want to hear about his dancing.) So there. I've said it. My kids are awesome. They are loved. And both of them are stars at a few things—but not at everything.  

Not every child is the cutest, smartest, most athletic, most musical, best this, best that, best everything in the world. They are not. This is something we must accept. They will too. And they'll be better off for it.

Methinks I'm not going to get a Most Valuable Blogger award for this post. What are your thoughts about this "every child is the best" attitude?

The Power of Growing and Gathering

Last year, I got out the shovel to dig up my lavender plants and throw them in the woods. They looked like giant dead spiders—thin, dry bare branches sticking out at all angles. Not a purple flower in sight. The summer before that, I only harvested a handful of stalks. These lavender plants were gone and I had to face it. But I couldn’t. I put away the shovel and watched them get buried under all the snow that fell on us this past winter (and spring).

My (pathetic) harvest

Why didn’t I get rid of them? Part of it, I’m sure, is because I love lavender. Maybe another part of me didn’t want to "kill" them. I wanted to be absolutely, positively certain they were already dead. I think another part might be my feelings about these plants. Weird, I know. And I’m just getting started.

I don’t garden. I understand that many people like gardening and find it relaxing. I don’t. I find it work. Hard work. I also have a notoriously brown thumb and cannot keep a house plant alive for more than a month.

A few years ago, I had healthy lavender plants producing fragrant purple flowers. The skinny stalks grew so tall, I thought they would break but they never did. They were strong. Teeny, tiny, purple flowers started opening, a shade deeper than the buds that hadn’t yet bloomed. And that smell…heavenly. Did I mention how much I love lavender?

I’ve always purchased dried lavender in shops but these were mine. I got to see them grow, water them, and harvest them. I enjoyed the process from start to finish. Reaching into the plants and picking a full stem of lavender, gathering them together, hanging bundles around the house to dry, filling a bowl with dried lavender.

Lavender!

When I pick fresh stems, my fingers are lavender-scented for hours. When I sit in the sun and gather stems together, tying them with string, I feel a connection to these things. (I said this was going to be weird.) When I hang bundles up, I appreciate the charming beauty of drying herbs. When I strip the stem of its dried flowers, I fill my special “lavender bowl” with fragrant buds and I completely zone out. The whole experience is so grounding, meditative, and rewarding.

A few days ago, I was playing in the backyard with my kids when I saw some purple peeking out from behind a whatever shrub (I have no idea what it is). I scurried back to my four little lavender plants and what to my wondering eyes should appear? Bright, beautiful flowers smiling at me. Don’t mock. It was a moment. I had a moment. I plopped on the ground in the middle of the plants and just kept picking stems until I couldn’t hold any more. I handed a bundle to my son and continued harvesting. It was like my own tiny miracle in the midst of the mess of a summer I’ve been having.

I have no real point here. Just sharing some joy. I hope you have some lavender bloom in your life soon.

One day's worth. More is blossoming out there...

Spiderman? Is that you?

I have a serious phobia. Tons of people are afraid of spiders, I know, but I think I’ve discovered a new form of this: Arachnohairophobia. The fear of spiders landing on your head and not being able to find them and the nasty things crawling around in your hair.

So we spotted a spider today. From across the room. It was BIG. I’m talking like quarter-sized. And fat. I didn’t want to go near it but I did not want to leave and come back into the room and wonder where the hell it was. So I sent my little one upstairs (we are careful to make sure my kids watch out for anthills so they don’t step on the ants by mistake) and I grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be a cute animals coloring book, walked over to the spider and thwacked it. I swear, when that thing landed, it made an audible *plop*. A loud one. I have never actually heard that before. There was…stuff on the coloring book, too. Lots of it. And that frickin’ thing was just sitting on the chair like a dead body I’d have to wrap up and stuff in the trunk of my car. It was disgusting. It took seven tissues for me to pick the remains up and, even though I knew I had gotten the thing, I was compelled to run upstairs and take a shower. My skin was slightly pink and my scalp tingled in an unpleasant way due to my manic scrubbing.

My 7-year-old son takes karate. He’s awesome at it and I love that because I worried about him not doing well at sports. I am not extraordinarily athletic. I mean, I can drive and play Angry Birds and stuff but I’m not super strong or anything. But, when I see a BIG spider near me or I walk into a spider web (those frickin’ things are, like, invisible!) I could mop the floor with any of the kids in my son’s class. Don’t scoff—these are trained karate kids. Ones I would not have been able to take if it wasn’t for the spider-phobia thing.

I feel badly that my little boy heard me shriek (and quite possibly heard the spider hit the chair with that loud plopping), that I ran upstairs all flushed saying over and over to him how "Okay!" I was, and that he didn't eat lunch until after 2 PM because I just had to wash the non-existent spider out of my hair. I feel badly about all these things but sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.

Forgiven

The wise and witty Geoff Le Pard commented on my Bite Size Memoir over at Lisa Reiter's blog. The topic was Childhood Illnesses and I wrote about my son.

Because he was a baby, we, as parents, had to make decisions for him as all parents do. But because he was sick, some of those decisions involved going to the hospital and being tested and having medical procedures. The last line of my flash memoir was remembering thinking that my son wouldn't forgive me. That is ridiculous, of course, because he was an infant. So, really, it was me. I questioned my decisions and got caught up in guilt and forgiveness.

So, back to the comment that Geoff made. It has been buzzing around my brain since he posted it. It is so rich and so true and so simple.  

"My experience for what it’s worth is they [children] forgive pretty much everything if you don’t burden them with your guilt."

If you yell at your kids, say 'no' when you probably should have said 'yes', miss their soccer game, forget to send their permission slip in for a school field trip, or lose their favorite stuffed animal, forgive yourself. Easier said than done. But you must. Because, chances are, your kids don't care half as much as you do. And, chances are, if you are riddled with guilt, you will burden them with it. Then, chances are, you will wind up with a child who doesn't forgive because he is constantly being reminded of this awful thing you did. But, chances are, if you don't continue to remind them and apologize for the next ten years, they will forgive and forget.