This is an update on the complete retooling of my finished novel.  As you may remember from last weekish, Ava was was working hard at revamping it.  The bottom line is, the Sisters three have learned immeasurable things about writing over the course of this year.  The story has great bones, but it needs a lot of cosmetic surgery.  I had been whining about how mean and cruel she was being and, without exaggerating, how close I was to vomiting over the entire thing.  Well, I’ll have you know that I am completely on board with the changes she’s making.  The book is still entirely my words, my creation, but she moving and fluffing and molding it into a much better story.

Stay tuned.  As soon as I can, I’ll post a snippet to tease you all.

Sassy was late for school today.  It wasn’t because she was dawdling for once.  She was late because my son is trying to kill me.  I was searching frantically for my wedding rings and the heirloom rings from my grandmothers.  They were mysteriously missing.  At one point, The Bandit gave some cryptic information, that when followed up on, the rings were located in a junky old book bag – the kind you get for free at events.  Inside the bag were about 15 pennies, a couple of broken crayons, some comic books, and around $20,000 in jewelery.  The boy will be the death of me.

Also today, I was talking with Ava via text.  I discovered that she was driving a co-worker around – while texting.  This horrified me to my very marrow.  I would like to make one thing very clear: if Ava and I are going anywhere, I INSIST on driving.  Not that she puts up much of a complaint, mind you.  There are several problems with Ava driving.  #1) She never has any idea where she is going.  I thought about getting her a GPS but, strike me down if I’m lying, she just learned to use the voice mail feature on her cell phone last year.  A GPS is WAAAY too electronic for Ava.  #2) She flat out refuses to do U-Turns and she’s a little iffy on lefts.  It takes her twenty minutes to negotiate all the right hand turns to get her going in the reverse direction.  #3) She’s easily distracted.  She is forever texting me about what others are doing while driving.  Last week, it was the lady teasing her hair – with both hands while driving.  She fails to see the irony that she is also texting me at the same time.  Anyway, never fear – I alerted the authorities that she was out and about.  It’s my civic duty.  And, 100 bucks says her co-worker will never ask her to drive him anywhere, ever again.

Today is Isabella’s birthday.  Yea! I love birthdays – even when they’re not mine.  So, the Sister’s and their respective spouses all met at Isabella’s favorite restaurant for dinner and laughter.  I wore a really cute purple dress.  Unfortunately, my adorable black strappy sandals finally broke.  A moment of silence, please.  The Family Bright went to the mall to get birthday presents for various people, and I conned My Honey out of a really cute pair of silver patent leather wedges with a sling back and open toes.  Adorable and 70% off!  Ava agreed when I texted her a picture of them from the mall parking lot.

Dinner was great and dessert was even better.  After dinner, I headed off to the restroom.  This particular restaurant requires that you actually have to traverse the pass through in order to reach the ladies room.  For those of you who’ve never had the glory of working in a restaurant, the pass through is that really busy area where the wait staff congregates to punch in orders, pick up food and drinks, etc.  If it seems like a stupid floor plan, it is, but when a person has to pee, well you know. 

Just as I reached the rubber mats that lined the pass though, I could feel my feet starting to slip.  My arms started the pinwheeling motion you do to regain your balance.  Time slowed to a breathlessly agonizing pace where you have the time to see the expressions on everyone’s face and can sense with foreboding exactly what is going to happen.  Of the seven employees in the pass, everyone of them was staring at me, their eyes wide, their mouths forming a little “o” of surprise.  There was a split second when I thought everything was going to be OK, but then no.  Both feet shot out from under me, ice cubes went flying, and I landed hard, square on my butt in a puddle of ice cubes and water.

Everyone who knows me will attest that I fall down.  A lot.  I should be used to the embarrassment.  I have life long friends that would love to regail you with story after story of me falling down or hurting myself in some way.  The wait staff swarmed me, the manager offered dry cleaning, free dinner (don’t you know we already paid), medical care, anything.  I just wanted to disappear, of course.  I stood up and looked over at my table.  I could see Ed looking right at me – I gave a jaunty wave. 

I refused the help and the fussing of the staff, assured them that I was fine.  And then I walked with a limp right into the men’s room.

My fingers are itching.  My keyboard is calling to me.  I can even hear it faintly in my sleep.  I have a couple of story ideas and I can’t seem to shake them.  I’ve taken Isabella’s advice and opened up a OneNote notebook and made notes about them, hoping that just getting them down would help clear them from my consciousness.  No dice.  I keep seeing Valkyries everywhere I look.  They’re imaginary, of course.  Valkyries don’t exist – not in the twenty-first century at any rate.  But what if they did exist a thousand years ago?  My mind is a whirl with scenarios. 

And if Valkyries are hanging around, there must be a few Vikings wandering about nearby.  My mother and the Sisters might suggest that I have a thing for a certain Viking right now, and that’s why giant blond men are in my thoughts, but whatever.  I have neither the capacity nor the desire to shoo them away.

And then unbidden, a knight in armor strolls through.  What is he doing here?  It seems a little incongruous, nevertheless, once he takes off his helmet and I can see his battle scarred face, his long, black hair dirty and sweaty from the fight, I know why he’s here.  Have a seat over there, love.  I’ll be with you in a moment.  There are seats available since that Pirate and the Angel have been dealt with.

And every so often, I hear the strains of a fire engine in the back ground, and sometimes the soft nicker of a horse.  Listen up,  Mr. Fireman and Mr. Cowboy, I don’t have time for you right now.  I have a Marquess and an Earl to marry off, first.

 But don’t go far.  I miss you when you’re gone.

I don’t know about you other parents out there, but I’ll tell you what, I’m sick and tired of being “the meanest mom in the entire world”.  Of course, my position is that if anyone ever did anything I ever asked the first 19 times I asked, I wouldn’t have to yell.  How do mother’s all over the world put up with this abuse without going crazy? 

I will happily admit, that while  verbally sparring with my daughter, I am not at my finest hour.  She’s always been very sassy (hence the nickname) and verbally able to express her annoyance at me.  It began at about three years old.  We were sitting at the dinner table, and I was tired of watching her make a mess with her applesauce.

“If you don’t stop screwing around with your dinner…” I made the opened ended threat.

“You’ll what.”  This was not a question.  She was clearly not afraid.  I could see my husband close his eyes.  He was probably sending up a silent prayer.  Obviously, he knew this wouldn’t end well.

“Well first, I’ll take away your applesauce.”

“And second?” she demanded with a defiant little flip of her head.

I am not cowed.  “And second, I’ll send you to your room.”

The Bandit was only about a year old, and he knew better than to interrupt, even at this young age.  He just sat in his highchair watching our exchange like he was seeing a tennis match.  My Honey now held his head in his hands.  He was probably reeling from a vision of his future in this family.

My darling daughter, that I wanted so desperately, that I struggled so hard to carry to term, but was ultimately unsuccessful.  That tiny little 3lb 9oz infant that I spent every waking hour with in the NICU.  That beautiful baby looked me in the eye and said, “Psehaw” with a derisive snort.

Things have not improved.  The drama has only increased.  This child is unbelievably dramatic and can summon crocodile tears in an instant.  This morning I asked 97 times for her to brush her teeth, comb her hair, eat her breakfast and get into the car.  My voice escalated in volume and my blood pressure rose.  Finally the two of us were out the door and marching to the car, some of us more blubbery and pathetic than others. 

“Why do you have to be so mean all the time?”

“Listen. It’s not my job to be nice to you.  It’s my job to turn you into a nice, respectful adult.  Besides, you’re mean to me all the time.  You say hateful things to me everyday.  You don’t think that hurts my feelings?  Now get in the damn car.”

See, not my finest hour.  And then to make matters worse, I’ll spend the whole day at work, upset because we had harsh words in the car.  What if I get hit by a bus and the thing she gets to remember of me is, “Get in the damn car”?  I’ll be feeling all warm and fuzzy by the time I get home, and the first thing out of the little darling’s mouth is, “You forgot to ….!”  Whatever.  It doesn’t even matter what finishes that sentence.  I remember a time when she was twoish and there was a period of time when I was too stupid to make juice.

I know she loves me.  I most definitely love her.  I tell her this at every opportunity.  I also know that our main problem is that my daughter’s temperament and personality is the spitting image of my own.  I have received the Mother’s Curse with interest.  Unfortunately, I think it may do me in.

This is My Assistant.  If he senses that work is taking place, he will happy help by flinging himself on top of stacks of papers, stretch himself atop the key board, or spread his girth over my books.  Here he is today.

Isn’t he handsome?  And look how accommodating he is.  He’s just happy that Roscoe is outside and he can help me unmolested.

The Bandit is breaking my heart.  Sassy started 1st grade last week.  There was a lot of energy spent the week before getting her ready.  The typical stuff: uniforms, school supplies, new lunch box and back pack, etc.  The Bandit expressed the usual amount of frustration that he didn’t get to purchase these things, too. 

One thing on the list of items she needed was 2 shoe boxes.  Well, I’m here to tell you, I’m not giving up any of my shoe boxes.  My shoes are currently living in them.  And besides, the Manolo Blahnik shoe box is every bit as important to me as the shoes nestled inside.  So I purchased a pack of 5 clear plastic ones at Target.  The Bandit has confiscated one of the left over boxes and has been putting together his Kindergarten Box.  He has it full of crayons and sharpened pencils, coloring books and note pads; all the things he thinks he will need for kindergarten.  He takes it apart, and inspects it, and reassembles it often.  He approached me with the box and announced, “I’m ready for kindergarten.  Can I go now?”

I’ve tried to explain that he has to be five years old. But he is so frustrated.  Being four is really hard.  Especially when his sister gets to do some many of the cool things that six year olds get to do.

This morning we were eating breakfast and the kids were picking at each other as usual.  When commanded to stop, Sassy, of course, told her father that The Bandit started it.  My Honey informed her that usually the older kid gets in more trouble than the younger one.  She was outraged as one would expect. 

“Why?” she demanded. 

“Because the bigger kid should know better.”

The Bandit threw his fork on the table and ran to his room wailing, “Now I can’t even get into trouble!”

Poor little boy.  Don’t worry, Sweet Babbaloo, I’m quite certain that won’t be a problem.

For my funeral, I want the classic New Orlean’s Jazz package please.  I want my coffin in a horse drawn carriage led by jazz musicians.  Following behind, I want weeping mourners all dressed in black with veils and everything.  At the grave site, I expect there to be old women wailing and moaning, and I really like at least one of them to fling themselves on my casket.  If you have to pay for this effect, please do so.  It’s important to me.  One last request, please tuck a couple of good books in the casket with me.  Make it at least two – there might be a long wait and I’m a fast reader.

Why am I mentioning this now?  No, I haven’t had any disturbing news from a doctor or anything like that.  It has become the Sister’s goal to whip my first novel into shape – AGAIN.  It’s been a year and 1/2 since I finished it – the first time – and we’ve learned so much since then that we can see big flaws and plot holes, etc that need to be fixed.  I have a plan for obtaining an agent/editor so while we wait impatiently for the mechinations to fall into place, now is the time for the It’s Clearly Love overhaul.  We’ve given ourselves 2 months tops.

Here’s the thing. It’s killing me.  Ava is brutal.  I know she’s taken a chain saw to the book with love and its best interest at heart, but still, it’s excruciating and I want to throwup.  I once read that your book is like a child: you feed it and nourish it and take good care of it, watch it grow and when it’s all done you have to kill it.  Not that I’m advocating killing children, but you see the point right?  She’s killing my baby!  I know I’m over reacting but, regardless, I’m freaking out.

I need a shot of something stiff and a deep cleansing breath…….if you need me, I’ll be sucking my thumb in the fetal position over there.

Yesterday evening, Sassy and I were working on her homework. 

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hmmm”

“Have you ever heard of an éclair?”

Have I ever heard of an éclair? Seriously?  I’ve been to 12 step programs over eclairs.

“Yes, I’ve heard of eclairs.  Why?”

“They’re really good,” Sassy tells me in all seriousness.  Her face was solemn, as if she was imparting something as serious and life altering as the Rosetta Stone.

“Yes, they are,” I agree.  “Where did you eat one?” 

“Clarissa had one in her lunch.  She shared some with me.” 

Clarissa is obviously a nice girl.  I knew she wouldn’t have tasted such a thing at home.  There is no way I’d be sharing something like an éclair.  I buy those when I’m alone and eat them in the car in shame and by myself, as it should be.

When I got up this morning, in bed with me was My Honey, Sassy and The Bandit, and Roscoe (aka The Idiot Dog). No wonder my back hurts. I unwedged my arm to reach over to shut off the alarm and heard a distinctive crackling noise. I found an unopened granola bar in my bed. I knew where it came from.  The Bandit does this a lot; he gets out of bed in the middle of the night and brings snacks back to bed. Usually, my bed. I snorted with annoyance and took the granola bar with me when I left the room.

I was in the shower when My Honey woke up the kids. With his eyes still closed, The Bandit felt around the sheets near where he was sleeping, and asked in a groggy voice, “Where’s my granola bar?”

Of course, My Honey had no idea what he was talking about.

The Bandit insisted that he had a granola bar.

My Honey asked him, “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming about granola bars?”

The Bandit replied, “I don’t think so.”  I just love how he wasn’t 100% sure.

It’s the strangest habit. When he’s going to spend an overnight at either grandma’s house, I always have to check his backpack. It’s usually loaded with food instead of toys. He is insistent that he might need a snack while he’s there. I assure you that neither of his grandmothers starve the children when they visit. In fact, they always get blueberry pancakes from the grandmas. My Honey and I find that suspicious since we never got those from our mothers. Anyway, the boy always acts like we’re taking him off to prison camp or a survival trek in the rain forest the way he sneaks food.