The Not-So-Savvy-Shopper or A Somewhat DELIcious Experience

It was with great anticipation a few weeks ago, that I headed out to attend the Daily Herald’s Savvy Shopper class. Though I’d been cutting coupons and receiving the Savvy Shopper emails for quite some time, I didn’t really have the hang of the program, nor was I saving money like I wanted to.

Amy, the Savvy Shopper, promised to change that. And at the end of her class that was jam- packed with information, I could see why. I left inspired—and somewhat overwhelmed—armed with her syllabus as well as a full page of notes. I couldn’t wait to get started, to shop and save.

After spending considerable time putting together my shopping binder, I headed to Smiths for my first Savvy Shopping experience. Once there I matched cereal sales to coupons for killer deals. Then it was on to the granola bars which, sadly, Smiths was out of. But no problem, per Amy’s suggestion, I’d simply ask for a rain check at the checkout.
Next, I headed to the beer aisle, in search of a nifty thing called a “beer rebate.” Feeling more than a little sheepish, I walked slowly up the aisle, studying each case of beer, looking for a tear pad with a rebate that would save me serious cash. I hoped not to run into any neighbors while I was shopping and could only imagine—if I did—the phone calls my husband might be receiving.

Bishop, are you aware your wife was in Smiths on Monday morning, shopping for alcoholic beverages?!

But then, just as Amy had promised, there it was—a tear pad on top of a pack of Budweiser. As quickly as possible I ripped one off (one and only one, I want to be a savvy shopper, not a greedy one) and left the Coors behind. Once I was safely ensconced on the bread aisle, I read the rebate form and found that if I bought $15.00 worth of deli items, I would get $15.00 back. How simple. How exciting! Though I’d been embarrassed to be seen searching amongst the beer, I had no qualms about Budweiser picking up the tab for my dinner. I bought a pizza, some lunch meat (both rare treats at our house), and some feta cheese for a spinach salad (all it took to convince my husband that this was a good program).

The rest of the shopping trip went well. I matched more coupons, then headed to the checkout to make my purchases and see my savings.

About this time—and because it had taken more time to shop—my sweet, three-month-old son decided he’d had enough and began howling. He doesn’t really cry, but makes a very loud scream-howl type of sound when he is hungry. It is not pleasant, and there’s nothing that will quiet him at this point, except me. And I wasn’t exactly available to nurse at that moment.

Hurrying as fast as I could, I threw the groceries on the conveyer belt and handed the cashier my coupons and fresh values card. In return he gave me a slightly irritated look that I read as Bad Mom. Can’t you get your kid to be quiet? I couldn’t, and felt far worse for Andrew, hungry as he was, than the impatient employee.

As I stood there, trying to calm my son, and thinking about his need to eat, a phenomenon known to all nursing mothers kicked in—my milk let down. It was then I remembered I wasn’t wearing any nursing pads (for those non-nursing readers, these are wonderful little pads that are worn in your bra to collect your milk, so your shirts aren’t constantly and embarrassingly wet). In my haste to get everyone out the door to carpool, I’d skipped the make-up and the nursing pads. And while I didn’t really care that the male cashier was seeing me without mascara, I did care that in about thirty seconds he’d be seeing me with two round, wet spots on the front of my black, fitted shirt.

Panic set in, and I did the only thing I could think of—I pulled my diaper bag backpack off my shoulder and clutched it to my chest, as if I were afraid someone was about to rob me and make off with the Huggies inside. You can imagine just how savvy I was feeling right about then. The cashier was giving me an even stranger look now, and I didn’t dare glance down to see if my shirt was the reason why. It seemed to take forever for the last few items to ring up—and even longer for him to deduct my coupons, which by now, I really didn’t care about. In fact, I probably would have paid twice the price for all the items in my cart, JUST TO GET OUT OF THE STORE FASTER!

The courtesy clerk asked if I needed any help.

“Yes,” I felt like saying. Isn’t it obvious I need a lot of help? I’m the mother of five—five (and that is a scary number, I’m telling you). I have to keep track of schedules from four different schools. I have to worry about college applications an AP exam dates for my oldest. Two of my children are in braces—at two different orthodontists, of course. I have science fairs, birthday parties, field trips, and check-ups to coordinate. I have to remember what appointments my husband has and when. I spend my evenings running around our kitchen table, helping my girls with geometry, algebra, biology, and health. I do at least four loads of laundry every day, and I’ve constantly got a sink full of dishes because all these kids are always fixing food, eating us out of house and home. Which is why I decided that now, during the most insane period of my life, is a great time to learn to be a savvy shopper, so we could maybe get our grocery bill to be less than our mortgage! Except that this youngest child, my baby, doesn’t seem to care for this program. He doesn’t care about groceries—won’t even take a bottle. He only wants to nurse and will continue to scream until he does. So hurry and get those groceries bagged, buddy!

At last the cashier handed me my receipt, and still holding the diaper bag to my chest, I grabbed my cart and steered my screaming infant out of the store. As I loaded my car, I realized I’d forgotten to get the rain checks, but even the thought of getting my family’s favorite granola bars for free was not enough to get me back inside.

Andrew screamed, and my milk ran in rivulets down the center of my shirt the whole drive home. My savings did not feel like much of a victory, but rather a mess. Sort of like everything else in my life right now. I fed Andrew, put the food away, did more laundry, washed more dishes. Then my family came home.

They were astonished to find a pizza in the freezer, something to drink other than water or milk (and no, it wasn’t beer, though I could use a good, strong drink by about 4:00 each day), and something for their lunches besides peanut butter and jelly. Everyone was appreciative and excited. Some even showed it by being a little more helpful. I felt the tiniest bit savvy when one of my kids—upon seeing Salami in the fridge—said, “cool, Mom.”

Guess food really is the way to their hearts. It was enough that I’ll try savvy shopping again . . . in a month or two.

Sleepy, But Smitten


 

 

 

 

So I missed my goal again last week—the one about blogging every Thursday. It isn’t that I’ve got nothing to say. In fact there are so many, many great things to blog about and . . . so little time. And I’m still running on so little sleep. Our sweet boy, now ten weeks old, is still a bit (more than a bit, actually) of a night owl. The result is that I’ve got a cumulative sleep-deprivation building up, and it’s starting to mess with my brain. I’m beginning to crave sleep the way some people crave chocolate or a great steak. Closing my eyes for more than an hour or two at a time has become my new obsession, my fondest desire, my favorite dream . . . oh, except I don’t have those right now. You have to achieve REM sleep for dreams to occur. Sigh. Someday we’ll get there again. But I’m not complaining. As you can see from the above pictures, Andrew is adorable. We may all be zombies around here, but we’re also completely smitten by the little guy. Day or night, as the case may be, we’re madly in love with him and enjoying every tired minute.
But I am so behind on my blogs. For example, have you noticed the cool little button on the top right of my page? I’ll tell you all about it soon, and about the great new book it’s showcasing by author Annette Lyon. If you like historical fiction, are interested in learning more about the Manti temple, or simply want to read a great love story, this book is for you.
There is also exciting news from author and good friend LuAnn Staheli. When Hearts Conjoin, the book she ghost wrote about the conjoined Herrin twins, has just been released and is already selling like crazy—and for good reason. What a fascinating story. Go, LuAnn! More on that book soon too.
Have I mentioned that Heather Moore’s (H.B. Moore on her books) novel Abinadi is a Whitney finalist? Last year Heather won the Whitney award for best historical novel, and it’s easy to see why she’s in the running again. Her meticulous research, combined with excellent storytelling, makes Abinadi a must read. As with Heather’s other scripture-based novels, this one will make you think about the scriptures, and the people in them, as you never have before. Good luck Heather! Winners will be announced April 25th. Visit the Whitney site if you’d like more information.
And one last piece of exciting news (especially for young readers), author J. Scott Savage’s next Farworld book will be released this September. Farworld, Land keep is a sequel to his best-selling Farworld Water keep that was released last fall. Personally, I can’t wait to see what happens to Kyja and Marcus and where this next book will take them.
In the meantime, I’m hopeful I’ll get to take a nap sometime soon 🙂

Kicking and Screaming

Last Friday was our daughters’ school skate night at Classic Skating. As is our tradition—for the past umpteen years—we loaded the Suburban with kids, scooters, and stroller and headed out. Once there my husband and I blatantly ignored the sign suggesting that those over age 25 NOT skate, and we got our wheels and laced up.

Soon we were out on the floor rolling to such classics as YMCA and Thriller—just like they played back in the day when we were the students. Of course I’d made sure to wear my glow-in-the-dark white, and when the lights were low, my husband and I linked hands for the Snowball skate. Ahhh . . . memories.

Perhaps that’s why I always have fun at skate night. It reminds me of a time when life was simpler. A time when I communicated with my friends via the avacado green telephone in our kitchen. If I needed privacy while talking, I stretched the spiral cord around the corner and into my bedroom where I could sit on the carpet with my back against the door.

This was also a time when TV was free. We simply pushed the “On” button and turned the knob to one of five channels.

When it came time for writing the dreaded term paper, I sat down at our IBM Selectric typewriter. And while I typed, I stuck a cassette tape into the boombox on top of my dresser.

Yes, life was good—and simple. At the tender age of twelve I could operate every electronic device in our home, including our brand new microwave that took up approximately three feet of the kitchen counter.

Life is good now too, but it isn’t so simple anymore. Now, along with the two cordless phones in our home—phones that are always dead and can never be located, as our children don’t seem to understand the concept of hanging them up—I have a cell phone, where my family can reach me at the worst possible times.

“Mom, rehearsal got out early, and the director is locking up the building. Can you come and get me right now?” As I’m 3/4 of the way through the grocery shopping on the other side of town.

“Mom, I slipped at recess and got mud on my pants, can you bring me some new ones?” When I’m in the dressing room at Penneys trying on pants—pants I desperately need, by the way. If I fell in the mud I’d be in trouble with only one pair that fits right now!

“Mom!” Uncontolled sobbing into phone. “I—need—” More sobbing.

Me–“What? What do you need? Which child is this?” While cars behind me beep because I haven’t moved and the light has been green for ten seconds.

See what I mean? Cell phones, while a blessing, have also really complicated my life. Occasionally I forget to bring mine with me when I’m out. The result is usually two hours of uninterupted bliss, during which I actually accomplish what I went out for in the first place.

Along with communicating by phone here, there, and everywhere, I have an email account with 2400 unread messages (and no, I’m not exaggerating. As of this morning the exact total was 2426). It isn’t that I never respond to email—I do every day. It’s just that a lot of good info comes my way from the various links I’m on (writing, parenting etc.), and I feel the need to read them . . . I’m just not sure when that will happen.

As if keeping up with email I already had wasn’t too much for me, I joined Goodreads a while back. At first I thought it would be great fun, rating books I’d read and getting reading suggestions from others. Wrong! Aside from the fact that I haven’t found the time to rate the books I’ve read these past few months, I can’t begin to keep up with all that my friends are reading. Just the subject line on several of my unopened emails is enough to overwhelm me.

You have 64 new updates from your friends . . .

For a while I kept a notebook next to my computer and jotted down books that sounded good. When the list reached five pages I threw it out—and quit opening my Goodreads mail. It was too depressing. Even as fast as I read, I’ll never be able to get to all those great books.

Then my previous editor, Angela Eschler, asked for a recommendation on Linkedin. Because Angela is so awesome and truly a brilliant editor, I was happy to accomodate her request. But I had to join Linkedin to do that. Little did I realize that other people would want to link in with me. And it’s not that I don’t want to—it’s that I have very limited time at the computer. And I most often choose to use that to write . . . except not on this blog.

Which is yet another technilogical wonder I both love and can’t seem to handle. Blogging is such fun . . . blogging eats up the time I should be working on that troubled chapter. My friends on Writers in Heels all seem to blog on a very regular basis and they write more books each year than I do. I’m not sure what my problem is, but if I blog once a month these days I’m doing really good.

Unfortunately my technology overload syndrome extends beyond the computer. Our telvision requires four remotes—one to control the TV, one for the satellite, one to run the DVD player, and one for the VCR (yes, we still have one of those)—and I can never keep them all straight. Good thing probably, as that keeps me from wasting valuable time watching the 100+ channels that came with our media package. I pay for this media package via automatic bill pay, which I do love, though online banking is something I now make time for each day.

My husband has also been trying to convince me of the merits of other online venues. On Valentine’s Day, when we were out to dinner with family, my sister-in-law shared with us some of the latest Facebook posts from our oldest daughter. These—in particular one about a party at our house when we were going to be out of town–prompted my husband to get with the program and get on Facebook. And within a few days’ time, I had a third teenager staring at the computer for hours on end.

“You’ve got to try this!” Dixon told me. “Look who’s on here. I haven’t seen him since high school.”

“Great,” I mumbled, thinking that I hadn’t seen the bottom of the laundry basket for about six weeks and that ranked a little higher on my priority list.

Thinking he was helping me out, my husband signed me up for Facebook. He, along with several authors I know, assured me it would be great for networking and promoting my next book. And I’m sure it would, if I had the time to write on walls and all that. As it is, I’m acquiring even more emails now—emails that I could simply erase if not for the fact that they involve people I know and therefore feel compelled to respond to . . . or at least save on my email until too many months have passed for a response to make sense.

And so the emails, like my laundry, continue to pile up. I’m forever behind both online and at home. I’m not sure when it will get better. I think I’ll cry if it gets worse.

My husband recently suggested we get TIVO, so we can watch all those shows we think look good but we ultimately miss because prime time at our house is help-with-algebra-and-biology-homework time.

Are you crazy?! was my thought process after this suggestion. If we start saving television shows I’m really sunk. If I miss something now—too bad. But if I know it’s waiting for me, it’ll be one more thing on my long to-do list. So I’m putting my foot down this time. There will be no more new technology in this house for a while. Perhaps I’m living in the wrong century, but you’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming into this next one because I want to live–away from all our gadgets sometimes. Like right now, when I plan to take my son out of his motorized swing and hold him in my arms while I sit in our old, creaky rocking chair.

At least I know how that works.

Brothers at last




For the past sixteen years our home has had a decidedly feminine aura about it. Pink princess wallpaper, canopy beds, fairy tea parties, American Girl dolls, Easy Bake ovens, blessing and baptism dresses, ballet slippers, dance recitals and the like have filled our life with all things girly. They have been sweet and wonderful years . . . except for those occasions when the unpleasant female traits (whining, crying, pouting) took over. How I love and adore my girls! How blessed I’ve been to be the mother of three lovely daughters. And how much fun we have together— baking, shopping, scrapbooking, painting toenails. I have a true girly girl, a more tomboyish girl, and one in between. I have one in grade school, one in middle school, and one in high school. And each is delightful in her own way. I love being their mother, and I love that they have each other as sisters.

I also love my son. At his arrival as our firstborn, eighteen years ago today, I originally wasn’t quite sure I was up to the task of raising a boy. After all, I’d only had sisters myself. I felt clueless about all things boy; that I had one was a little scary. But not for long. In the space of about a heartbeat, I fell madly in love with the little guy. He proceeded to fill our lives with wonder, his curiosity bringing a lot of laughter and joy to our home. He’s always kept us on our toes, with never a dull moment inbetween. I love being his mother, and I’ve always felt bad that he didn’t have a brother. In our home, with its overwhelming female population (even the dog is a girl), he’s survived and even thrived, but for quite some time we’ve both felt something—or someone—was missing.

Periodically, over the past several years, he would say things to me like, “you know, Mom, you could have another baby.”

To which I’d often reply, “You’re funny, son.”

When this continued as he grew older I started to think, Huh?! What kind of teenage boy tells his mother this? Aren’t teens supposed to be selfish and self-centered and all that? And he definitely had his moments (okay, days, weeks—years) in that stage, but the idea of one more child—specifically a little boy—continued to nag at the back of my mind. After a while, the nagging turned to dreaming about this little boy, and before I’d realized what was happening, I could not stop thinking of him. Someone really was missing.

Yikes!

By the time my husband and I figured this out, we were into our late thirties. Time was ticking, and our family was growing older. And just because we felt there was one more child meant for us did not mean he was going to arrive easily—or anytime soon.

Over three years and a few complications later, he’s finally made it. Andrew Fielding Holmes arrived January 2, weighing in at 7 lbs 14 oz. Six weeks later he’s about 10 pounds, and the rest of the family is about a month behind on their sleep. But it’s worth the sleep loss, the chaos, the craziness of having five children ages one month to eighteen. It’s worth every bit of stress and sleep deprivation when I see my boys together. Though there are many years separating them, they already have a special bond—one I’m certain was formed long before either arrived in this world.

So happy birthday, Spencer—your first with your brother. Though you’re on the brink of adulthood, ready and eager to take off into the world, we hope (and imagine) you’ll stick around a little longer. If for no other reason than to give Andrew some balance in our house of girls.

Dress for Success

We’ve all heard many times that how we dress more often than not will reflect how we feel, act, perform etc. I’ve tried to explain this concept to my teenagers—as they slink off to school in sweats with holes in them—and I’ve certainly felt it myself lately, as I spend these last few weeks of pregnancy wandering around in mumu-type attire. I look dowdy, therefore I feel dowdy. Oh how I can’t wait to wear jeans with a zipper again! But that’s a whole other subject.

This morning the “how we dress is how we feel and act” concept really hit home with an incident involving my two youngest daughters. This week is spirit week at their charter school—a wonderful and timely break from the ususal uniform dress code—and today is pajama day. Unfortunately, neither of my daughters currently have a stellar selection of pajamas. My seventh grader took this in stride, borrowing a pair of her brother’s plaid pajama pants and pinning them so they wouldn’t fall off her narrow hips (sure hoping that pin stays in place today!), but my third grader was beside herself this morning, concerned over her year-or-two old fleece poodle pajamas that were clearly several inches too short.

After examining them, I told her I could let out the hem, so at 7:30 this morning, I was frantically unpicking stitches, hoping that extra inch might make her feel a little better. But it didn’t take long for me to remember that fleece and unpicking don’t go well together. At the least I was going to end up with a hole or two–probably making my daughter’s angst worse. When I broke the news to her that she’d just have to wear the PJ’s short, she had near tears in her eyes and said, “Please Mom, can I have new pajamas for Christmas this year?”

I assured her that, yes, she could (as I knew a pair were already under the tree), and then it occured to me that I should simply give them to her early—as in this morning. Now lest you get the impression we’re impoverished, let me assure you we’re not. But we are frugal, and we simply don’t buy things for our children at any other times except for Christmas and their birthdays. And even then gifts often tend to run on the practical side. Along with a few treats, they know their stockings will also have tubes of toothpaste, shampoo, and a new pack of socks in them. This is how they’ve grown up, so we’ve never really had any complaining. And my daughter wasn’t complaining this morning, but I could tell how much the too-short PJ’s were affecting her. And so on a spur of the moment whim, I told her to go look in the very back of the tree for a red American Girl bag.

Her eyes got big when I said this, and I could see the wheels turning in her mind American Girl? My mom got me something from American Girl? And I get to open it now?!Her older sister helped her locate the package, and with great delight I watched as Hannah tore into it and discovered the pink, silky polka dot pajamas she’s wanted for at least a few Christmases now. It was with great debate that I’d ordered these a few weeks back, as the products in that catalog are so out of our budget. But I’d happened to have a $10.00 off coupon, and I’d rationalized the purchase (that still ate up 1/3 of my $100. per child Christmas allowance)because Hannah is my last little girl, and there won’t be too many more Christmases when she wants little girl things. In about two seconds this morning, I realized I’d made the right decision—both in the splurge and in letting her open them early.

“Oh, Mom,” she first exclaimed. Then, “They’re exactly the one’s I wanted.” Shock in her voice. “They’re beautiful. They’re perfect. I love them.” And on and on her gushing went. It was one of those parent moments we savor, and I was truly loving it—other than feeling guilty my husband wasn’t home to enjoy it too.

On went the new pajamas, and there was much twirling in front of the mirror. Hair was curled, the bunny slippers (also a couple of years old, but still in good shape) were located and declared a perfect match. Hannah couldn’t stop exclaiming over how soft and pretty the fabric was. In a matter of a few minutes, I’d watched my daughter go from near despair to complete joy—all because of a pair of pajamas.

As I curled her hair, I brought her back down to earth again, reminding her that it was Thursday, the day of the spelling pretest. All year she has struggled with spelling, though it is her sincerest desire to do as well as her peers. One of her most fervent wishes is to get one hundred percent on Thursday, so she won’t have to retake the test Friday. Thus far, she hasn’t even come close. But this morning, as I quizzed her on words, she rattled them all off–as if she’d been spelling them for years.

“Hannah,” I said, when we’d gone through the whole list. “You just got them all right. You can get 100% today!” There was more joy on her face, as she realized her accomplishment.

“I can, can’t I?” She was thrilled with this realization, and ran out to her carpool confident and excited to go to school in those beautiful pajamas and to do her best in spelling. From here on out, I will remember this morning fondly as the morning of the wonderful pink, silky pajamas. Pure magic.

Throughout all of this emotion, my seventh grader had also enjoyed her sister’s happiness, but I wanted to give Alyssa some of her own as well. The previous night my husband and I had already discussed giving her one of her presents early—before she attends her first ever dance tomorrow. She’s been dreading this dance, as “boys are gross” (yay for her, I say. Just keep thinking that until you’re twenty-five), but her friend on the student council has persuaded her to come. As the dance is “best dress” this brought up a whole other problem—Alyssa’s best dress wardrobe being not a whole lot better than her pajama selection.

So this morning, following the great pajama incident, I let her open one of her presents as well, a darling ice-blue twin set she can wear with either of her two practical skirts—white or black. It was another score. She loved it, exclaimed over it, and suddenly couldn’t wait to get dressed up and attend the dance tomorrow. Feeling pretty at your first dance is so important. And she is pretty, even in her brother’s pinned up PJ’s today, but sometimes a girl just needs a little something to make them feel special. I’m betting that new outfit will do just that tomorrow, and she’ll have a confident smile on her face as she heads to the school gym, for a winter wonderland dance with all those gross boys.

My Big, Fat Domesstic Weekend

Martha Stuart I am not.

Yet every so often I’m infused with a strange surge of creative energy that’s part HGTV, part Molly Mormon—you know that perfect woman who makes every meal from scratch, knits all the socks for her family, and has a house of order? Usually these creative juices start flowing in conjunction with my husband going out of town. Which makes absolutely no sense at all, considering a couple of basic math formulas all mothers know.

2 Parents – 1 parent = 1 parent left to do all the homework, driving, feeding, and cleaning up after all offspring.

And

1 mom divided by 4 children (nearly 5 the way the one I’m carrying around is making his presence known latetly) = a cranky, frazzled, overworked, sleep-deprived woman.

In other words, a weekend when my husband is away is not the perfect time to take on a boatload of projects. Nevertheless, as I waved goodbye to my husband and his buddies Friday morning as they headed south for the St. George Marathon, the Molly in me kicked into high gear.

I was going to craft! I was going to sew! I was going to bake! I was going to organize!

I was insane.

First on the agenda was some festive decorating. My eight-year-old puts great stock in these things, so right away she and I headed for the garden to harvest the pumpkins and relocate them to the front porch (I use porch in the loosest of terms. In reality we have a stoop.) But alas, pumpkins were not all that was waiting for us in the garden. To my great dismay (and I mean dismay–never has a woman been more sorrowful upon entering her garden)there were easily over 100 red, ripe tomatoes waiting to be picked . . . and washed, skinned, chopped up, seasoned, simmered, and canned. UGH! Normally I love tomatoes, and I love the homemade marinara sauce I make each year, but I’ve been making it since August, and it’s October now. I am tired of tomatoes.

But I couldn’t just let them go to waste. Ditto for the green beans hanging off the vines. Nevermind that each time I open my freezer, baggies of frozen green beans drop on my toes. In this economy, waste not want not. Fortunately, my daughter is a good sport. She went after the green beans while I tackled the tomatoes.

And it was a bit of a tackle position, as our garden (the garden that is approximately 1/4 of our large backyard) has morphed into a jungle of sorts. If I wanted those tomatoes (maybe want isn’t really the right word) I was going to have to get down and dirty.

This I did, leaning over, bending, stretching as much as my pregnant body would let me. I have problems enough these days, just standing, as my hand-me-down maternity pants don’t like to stay up where they belong. But my problems multiplied when I leaned over, reaching across the tangle of tomato plants to get to the ripest fruit—inevitably in the middle of the bunch. Keeping my jeans up became the minor issue. Getting me back up became a serious problem. And to any neighbors who happened to be watching and having a laugh at my expense, may I remind you which neighbor—in the event of a food crisis—would be able to feed your family lassagna for approximately six months!

My daughter was no help. When I called to her, she sort of rolled her eyes (hanging around her teenage sister too much), and said, “just get up Mom.” Ha! Easy for her to say. When you’re forty-five pounds you can get anywhere.

In the end, “harvesting” took an additional hour, and I was a scratched up, muddy mess. With three full bags of tomatoes by the back door, My daughter and I set about decorating the front. She arranged the pumpkins, while I hung the wreath (newly-purchased, as the one from the last several years has vanished somewhere in the depths of our garage), arranged the cornstalks, and attempted to string the spider webs. In the past, our now-twelve-year-old daughter has been in charge of the webbage on the front of the house. And she’s done an admirable job of it. But now she’s moved on to to more important things like going to the mall and having sleepovers, so the sppoky stuff was left up to me. After twenty minutes, I had fuzzy, sticky gauze all over me (in addition to the garden dirt), and the house looked like it had been attacked by cotton balls. Apparently my web-stretching skills leave something to be desired.

About now I was more than ready to be done (and all the work of those darn tomatoes was still looming), but my eight-year-old had other ideas—like creating a graveyard in the front flowerbed. I tried pointing out to her that we already had a graveyard there with all the dead flowers (I gave up on watering sometime last month), but she was already jumping up and down, describing her ideas. These ideas involved large cardboard boxes and paint—two things she loves. And of course I couldn’t quash that kind of creativity. So I spent another forty minutes (again bending over) ripping out dead flowers in preparation for our spooky graveyard.

By now I was tired and cranky (you see the formula coming to pass already), so it was a good time to give the Martha in me a break. Unfortunately that “break” involved driving children all over the valley for an hour and a half. By the time I returned home, my mood had not improved.

With everyone temporarily out of the house, I decided to ignore the tomatoes a while longer and get working on my sister’s birthday present—an awesome jean quilt that I’ve been working on since she was about five (she’s turning 30). I’d decided this was the weekend to finish it, as her birthday is coming up quickly on the 10th. And I’d done much of the tedious stuff—cutting squares, sewing them together etc. All I had to do now, before quilting, was to snip all the seams every quarter inch, so the blanket would have that cool, “frayed” look. I settled in front of the TV with my scissors and a mountain of jean. Thirty minutes later, I had formed two blisters and had hand cramps. What the heck was I thinking to make a quilt like this?! Just because my sister is young and hip does not mean she needs fraying on her jean blanket. If only I’d sewn the seams on the inside like a normal blanket—a normal person.

But I was already 84 squares (and about that many years) into this project; it was too late to turn back now. I set the quilt top aside and took some time to read Junie B. Jones with my daughter.

Much later when everyone was in bed—or in their rooms at least—I turned on that evil HGTV channel and started yet another project (the quilt and tomatoes were just too depressing). This one seemed simple and quick. I was cutting out flannel burp cloths, so that tomorrow, during conference, I could crochet the edges. My neighbor had promised me this was easy and fun to do. I was a little skeptical, as my only memories of crocheting are when my grandmother’s attempts to teach me drove her to swearing and throwing things.

Good thing my neighbor has more patience. It only took her an hour and fifteen minutes Saturday morning to teach me the most basic of all crochet stitches (by then we’d both given up on the fancier ones her beautiful burp cloths, bibs, and baby blankets are edged with). Armed with my new skill, I crocheted my way through afternoon conference, covering approximately five inches in the two hours! Thus far, this was my biggest accomplishment of the weekend, and I was practically glowing.

With this renewed sense of homemakerism, I decided to get going on the marinara sauce, so that when my husand returned home, he would have the delicious home-cooked aroma to greet him. Again, my youngest stepped in to help and I let her, as cooking and peeling three bags worth of tomatoes (wet, muddy bags, as I’d left them out in the rain) is a big job. While she found great delight in popping the skins off (and popping several tomatoes all over the recently-mopped kitchen floor), I got busy blending and mixing. It only took us three and a half hours and we had an overflowing pot of marinara started. Somehow I summoned the energy to mop the floor, wash the jars, and make our traditional conference cinnamon rolls.

About this time my husband returned home. He was stiff and sore from running his 26.2earlier in the day (and then driving four hours home and sitting another two hours in Priesthood session) and was ready for a back, leg, and foot massage. I, on the other hand, had been on my feet most of the weekend and had bent, stretched and lifted much more than I should have. Everything from my little toe to my ankles and calves were retaining water, and I was beyond exhausted. But since my most of my domestic plans hadn’t worked out, I decided the least I could do was be a good wife. He got his massage. And I spent another hour that night on my last big project of the weekend, de-junking my fifteen-year-old’s room. With her out of town at the Shakespeare festival, it was just too good an opportunity to miss.

However, by the time I’d removed many garbage bags from her room, I definitely fit the formula. Exhausted, cranky, over-worked, frazzled, frustrated . . . you name it.

Sunday was peaceful. The cinnamon rolls were delicious, and I crocheted my way around 3/4 of the burp cloth. My girls worked on their samplers during conference; the marinara simmered and thickened all day.

But things were bad this morning when I woke up to the “after conference mess.” The sink was piled high with dishes, pillows and blankets were scatterd all over the family room. I was behind on laundry, as all my other projects had taken precedence over the weekend. There was plenty to be depressed about at 6:15 Monday morning. But the worst . . . my marinara. Having simmered over 24 hours, it was ready to be bottled. Easily I had another eight to ten quarts, except . . . the handles had fallen off my big pot. They lay on either side of the stove, red sauce oozing out the holes where they had been. I was mystified. A lot of things have broken around here lately—both cars, our computer, our printer, the vacuum etc. But my pot?! Whoever heard of a pot breaking? Not me, unless it involved a child attempting to cook macaroni and cheese without adding any liquid (then your pot breaks and you have a small fire).

I summoned my husband who concluded that the acidity of the tomatoes had somehow worn through the metal, causing the handles to fall off. He also concluded that the sauce was likely now tainted with metal and should, therefore, be thrown out. I about lost it at this point. THROWN OUT?! Three days of work down the drain? I wasn’t sure whether to scream or cry or crawl back in bed and throw the covers over my head. Instead I faced my messy house, the disaster on my stove, and carpool.

And so the results of my domestic weekend . . .
-Zero jars of marinara sauce, a very sticky stove, and a lifetime warranty pot in the garbage (guess it was a short lifetime)
-One frayed-edges jean quilt at about the same stage it was three days ago, two new blisters
-One burp cloth nearly finished (only another five inches), and three more cut out
-One teenager’ss room as messy as it was when she left (she brought home twice as much as she left with and dumped it all on the floor)
-Wet, globby, fallen over Halloween decor

But hey, it was still worth it. Last night I got a fantastic foot massage, and today, when my husband came home for lunch, he finally noticed the flower bed had been weeded. And even more good news—the contract for my latest book with Covenant arrived in the mail. It looks like they’ve changed the title, and it won’t be out until next summer, but any money I make I plan to use toward purchasing store-bought marinara and a nice birthday present for my sister.

Highlights of Summer

So I haven’t exactly been a consistent blogger this summer. And I’m sure, if asked, my children would tell you that I’ve laid around like a slug the past few months. But, in spite of the lack of writing and activity this past season, it was a great one. And many, many times I thought of coming downstairs to our computer, logging on, and sharing some of those moments. It was usually about then that I started feeling sick again and—well, enough about that. Here instead, is the highlight reel from summer of 2008.

In May, a few days before Mother’s Day, I found out I might get the opportunity to be a mother again. I was euphoric and teary and scared all at once, especially remembering last Mother’s Day when I was still devastated from our latest loss and could barely drag myself to church. But mostly this May I was hopeful and grateful, for the children already sitting beside me and the possibility of a new life.

Also in May my mother came for a two week visit. Two whole weeks–I can’t remember the last time we’ve had that much time together (maybe like 20 years ago, just before I got married), and I was in heaven. She came during some of the worst of my sickness and took care of me. She mothered me. And it had been a very long time since I’d had someone do that too. We had great conversations. She sewed American Girl clothes with my youngest, saw my girls dance for the first time, and imparted wisdom (similar to that which I attempt to dispense) to my teenagers. I cried when we took her to the airport to go home. Unfortunately, neither of us live in the financial realm where frequent cross country trips are a possibility. She has a husband, eight dogs, and a teaching job. My family keeps me close to home. We don’t have the same cell phone carriers, so we even have to watch our minutes when we call. But for those two weeks in May, it was wonderful to have her here and so much a part of our lives.

In June we heard the miraculous sound of a heartbeat—other than mine—beating strong inside me. And on a day I thought for sure that heartbeat had ceased, I saw the first images of our baby, alive and well. Ultrasounds have certainly improved in the last eight years, and it was amazing—at only eleven weeks—to see that little face, hand pressed next to it, as if deep in contemplation. Probably our baby was thinking hard—something along the lines of . . .What have I done? Agreeing to come to this crazy family?!

July was the month of our much-anticipated family vacation to Aspen Grove. I found myself rejoicing that the ride was short, not only because of gas prices, but because of my constant state of “car sickness.” Though it took us only thirty minutes to get there, Aspen Grove truly was like being in another world—an absolutely fantastic one.

The first afternoon our two teenagers were whining about having to take time off work and away from friends to go to “some stupid camp.” By the end of day two, they were asking if we could do this vacation again next year. Everyone in our family from our youngest on up had a great week. We played together, made new friends, ate way more than we should have, and truly had the “time of our lives.” Some highlights of our week included watching our youngest daughter decked out in a “fro” wig perform YMCA the last night of camp, seeing our son dancing with his sisters (and actually having fun) at the family dance night, watching our oldest daughter make it up to the top of the rope course—a huge feat for her, watching our middle daughter try three times and then successfully make it to the top of the rock wall, taking a wheel-thrown pottery class with my husband (Ghost anyone? Yeah right! I had clay everywhere—including a chunk I found in my ear later that night), taking second place in the Aspen family follies, and many, many more things. Over the years our family has has taken some amazing vacations, but we all agreed Aspen Grove was the best. Yes, it was even worth going without AC in our Suburban one more summer.

August too was full of fun. Our teenagers took off for Texas and California, leaving me some time alone with our two youngest girls. Two dollar Tuesdays at Thanksgiving Point turned out to be a great date for the three of us, and I spent a delightful day in their company. There was no fighting all day, and much gratitude on their part. It was one of those rare, perfect days of motherhood, when everyone got along, acted as if they were the other’s best friend, and appreciated everything they were able to do. From playing in the sand at the dinosaur museum, to wandering the gardens together, to the wagon ride in the rain, it was a delightful day, one that made me so grateful for my girls.

August also gave us one more big reason to be grateful—this time for the little boy that will be joining our family in a few months. What relief and gratitude we felt, seeing his picture again, and learning he was well and healthy. It’s been nearly eighteen years since we’ve had a baby boy, and we couldn’t be more delighted. If all goes well, we’ll be having his baby blessing the same weekend our son gets his Eagle. As someone said to us, “what wonderful bookends.”

Dixon and I celebrated twenty years of wedded bliss in August as well. And I have to say it truly has been blissful (oh, except for that part involving teenagers). I’d always imagined we’d spend our 20th on a secluded beach somewhere in the South Pacific, but alas, I needed to stick close to home, being pregnant and all. So instead, we sent the kids away to Grandma’s and stayed home by ourselves. Can I say that I highly recommend this?! It was so much fun! On our anniversary night we went out to Ottavios and had a delicious dinner. We also kept with tradition and did sealings at the temple. How fortunate we are in the LDS faith to be able to hear our wedding vows again and kneel across the altar from each other—as we did on our wedding day—whenever we wish.

The following day we got to sleep in (divine) went to Kneaders for breakfast (yum! yum! yum!),ordered pizza (the good expensive kind with all the toppings—none of this cheese only stuff for the kids) for dinner, and ate it in our bedroom while watching an entire season of
The Office. Yes, I realize that watching this show likely wipes out some of the blessings we might have received from temple attendance, but all I can say is that sometimes you just have to laugh. And no one laughs harder than my husband does when watching this show.

All in all, I suppose it wasn’t quite the celebration I’d always imagined our 20th would be. But it was a good indication to me that things are every bit as wonderful as when we married so many years ago. We’re still best friends, the same things are still important to us, and we still have a great time just hanging out together.

I am so blessed.

Finally, one of the best things about this summer is that it’s just about over—and I’ve survived! We’re on the home stretch now, two trimesters down, one to go. And we’re entering my very favorite time of year.

Fall—with all of its colors, holidays, and writing time. And with that, back to my work-in-progress.

Michele’s Three Step Guide For Beating Writer’s Depression—or Lessons Learned From Green Gables

Last week on the LDS Storymaker list, a very talented author asked others how they deal with the depression writers encounter—those times we feel everything we’ve ever written is garbage and we’d be better off flipping burgers at the local fast food joint. The slew of responses from many other talented authors showed clearly that a nerve had been hit. Self-doubt, depression, and times of downright misery are all part of the writing package. I’ve experienced them myself, and was in fact in the very throes of one last week while this email thread was going round. Instead of responding on the list I decided to blog about it—so those not yet published will know what they’re in for and know they aren’t alone!

Before I share my tried and true method for rising out of the writer’s depression mire, I want to explain that I know and understand real depression. My two oldest children have dealt with this (and consequently, so has our whole family) for several years. Clinical depression is a very real thing, and sometimes both medical and psychological help are needed to deal with this condition. And it is a very real condition. As I’ve explained to my children in the past, just as diabetics need to take insulin to keep their blood sugar levels in balance, some people need to take medication to keep their chemical levels in balance.

Fortunately, beating writer’s depression requires no medication—not even large doses of chocolate! Though many will disagree with me on this 😀

Step 1. Be Sad

Last week I received an email from my publisher explaining they still weren’t happy with my latest manuscript and wanted an additional rewrite, 80 pages cut etc. I was sad—really sad. And, as Anne Shirley (Green Gables, anyone?), I descended into the “depths of despair” in about two minutes. Writers, as a whole, are a pretty emotional lot, and I’m probably one of the worst. This is a real plus when you’re writing an emotionally packed scene; it’s a real negative when you’re dealing with rejection. As I reread this latest rejection, I sat at my computer and bawled—thinking positive, reaffirming things like, “I’m never going to get this book published. That’s it, I’m never writing again. I just wasted a year of my life for what?!” and, “it’s probably for the best. Now I can catch up on the ironing.”

In short, I was wallowing big time.

Some of my writer friends (Jeff) tell me I’m a pessimist, but really the opposite is true. I’ve experienced some pretty rough times in my life (and getting a rejection doesn’t even make the list), and with every trial I manage to bounce back fairly quick. But first I wallow. And when I’m there—as my husband has learned—let me be. The first step to feeling better is to feel bad. The Lord gave us tear ducts for a reason—use them.

Step 2. Get Mad

I can only cry for so long—an hour tops, usually, and then anger kicks in. My thoughts now turn to . . . “Do they not realize I put blood, sweat, and tears into that manuscript?!” While I’m sure Anne found it immensely satisfying to tell off Rachel Lynde and crack that slate over Gilbert Blythe’s head, I am a bit more practical in my anger. During my mad stage, I’ll often crank up the stereo and run on the treadmill, or scrub the top layer off our floors or attack some poor, unsuspecting bush in the yard. This time, I was fortunate in that I had a project I’d been putting off for some time. Our bathroom wallpaper needed to be removed and the walls painted. Scraping off wallpaper and scrubbing the walls clean proved a very effective release for my anger. Rolling on the fresh coat of paint while I thought through things (more logically now) soothed the last of my irrational state away, and a few hours later I had a sparkling new bathroom to show for it. Later that night as I brushed my teeth and admired our freshly-painted walls, I couldn’t help but feel a little better, as at least I’d accomplished something that day.

Step 3. Get to work

When I say work, I don’t mean cleaning or painting (those things become luxuries when you’re a writer), I’m talking about writing. If the project is at all salvageable, then get back to it and pour what blood, sweat and tears you have left into the thing. If it isn’t—if you’ve literally been rejected by every agent on the planet—then maybe it’s time to shelve it for a while and come back later when you can look at it more objectively. But until then, you’ve still got to work if you want to feel better. Since the time I last submitted something to my publisher (six weeks ago), I’ve worked on three different projects and finally settled into one. And while I really hope I can work something out on the manuscript giving me grief right now, if I can’t, I’m ready to forge ahead with the next project. Write something that makes you laugh. Or start something completely new. Put pen to paper and begin writing one of the stories that’s been nagging in the back of your mind for a while. You might be pleasantly surprised (as I was recently) at how quickly the idea blossoms when you start to write it.

Writers should never put all their eggs in one basket—or all their hopes into one manuscript. To do so is to really set yourself up for a fall. If you’re a writer, you have plenty of stories in you. Now is the time to get working and get another one going (if you haven’t already). Kind of like the game Parchesi, you need to get another man out and start moving him around the board.

Perhaps one of the reasons I love the Anne of Green Gables series so much, is that we see this same pattern in her life. She wallows. She gets good and angry. She gets back to work. After dealing with Gilbert’s blow about, “high falluting mumbo-jumbo,” and enduring the baking powder fiasco, Anne does not despair forever her dreams of writing. During a particularly lonely time, she gets back to work again and finally finds success.

Get back to work, and you will too.

What I Meant to Say

My wonderful, supportive husband—this guy is the reason I write romance.

The ladies of the LDS Women’s Book Review Podcast—Sheila,Hillary, and Shanda.

James Dashner and Brandon Sanderson. I know famous people 🙂

My most awesome editor for Counting Stars, Angela Eschler.

Josi Kilpack, winner of the Whitney for best suspense. Sheep’s Clothing was terrifyingly real—especially for those of us with teens.

Annette and Heather, my critique buds. These ladies should have had their names on my trophy as well. They, along with the rest of our group, taught me everything I know about writing.

WARNING: This is going to be a long post (even for me, which is saying a lot). If you are a writer and haven’t met your word count today, get outta here and come back later. If you’re a SAHM whose children need food or a diaper change, please attend to their needs first. If you’re at work . . . just make sure your boss is out of the office!

This past weekend I had the opportunity to attend the 5th annual LDS Storymakers conference. It was fantastic, and later I’ll have to write a separate blog about the two days packed with great workshops and speakers.

The weekend culminated Saturday evening with the Whitney Awards Gala. As I mentioned a couple of blogs ago, I’d been nominated for two Whitneys, and I was looking forward to a great evening with my husband and a bunch of famous people. I didn’t have any expectation of winning—as I was up against ladies like Rachel Nunes and Stephanie Meyers in the romance category and Jessica Day George (I predicted that one right) in the new author category. But in a way that took a lot of pressure off the night for me. I didn’t worry about, “what if’s,” but I did want to look nice. And in that quest, I did two things—purchased new nylons (no wrapping my toes around holes tonight!), and set my hair in painful curlers and got little sleep the night before. I’d hoped for sexy legs and a classy updo.

Unfortunately, I had failure on both accounts.

Shortly before the Whitney dinner (and I mean shortly, cause people kept talking to me in the hall—which was way cool. An author can never hear too many times that someone loved her story) I went up to our hotel room and joined my husband who had biked up from Provo for the evening. I changed into my dress and opened the brand new nylons. I’d purchased the “long” variety because that was all I’d been able to find at the store during my fifteen- minutes-between-carpool-stop on Thursday. Though I’m nowhere near 5’8″ as the chart on the back said I should be, I was hopeful that the nylons would work out all right anyway. They didn’t. But instead of being too long, they were horribly short—the label confirmed they were mispackaged, as I’d guessed when they only came up to my knees.

My husband sat on the bed and held the top of the nylons. I walked backward across the room, pulling on the feet, attempting to stretch the things into submission. I put them back on and a minute later was waddling. Clearly this was not going to work out. Frustrated—and with about a minute before we were supposed to head downstairs—I ripped the nylons off, threw them on the floor and had a very two-year-oldish tantrum. Of all the nights! I was a little depressed as I looked down at my glaringly white legs (it’s March—they haven’t seen the sun in months). In addition to the white leg problem, I was also now without the benefit of the super control top—hopefully-hide-the-given-birth-four-times-abs-of-flab-problem—the pantyhose would have provided.

First lessons of the night: Holey nylons are better than no nylons, and open the package at the store.

I suppose baring my white legs and having to suck in my stomach all night wouldn’t have been too bad, but my problems only began there. My hair wasn’t cooperating either. Earlier I had pinned it up on top of my head—as Julie and Josi had theirs so stylishly done—but by ten a.m. I’d given up, taken it down and taken some Advil. Unfortunately, I get headaches easily, and it was a case of comfort over beauty. But that comfort left me with a head of messy curls that looked nothing like Jewel’s smoothly styled ones. But again, I had no time to do anything about either problem, so away we went.

Lesson two: Go with what God gives you. I have straight hair, and you can bet I’ll wear it that way (as my smart friend, Annette did) next year.

On our way downstairs I noticed my husband had a cut on his chin from shaving. His knee was also hurting; he’d done something to it on the bike ride up. So we limped along together (after two days in high heels, my feet were killing me), and I had the reaffirming feeling that we were made for each other.

It was a, “this is why I write fiction” moment. Things never quite turn out as I imagine them . . . Her hair trailed down in a riot of gorgeous curls as the tall, dark, handsome man beside her swept her up in his arms, kissing her passionately as the elevator descended . . .

Reality was we both made it to our table without tripping.

We soon forgot our woes and enjoyed our awesome tablemates—my good friend, Heather Moore and her husband, Rob Wells and his wife, and Dean Hughes and his wife. Fame all around me. It was very cool. Other famous people I was dying to meet, like Shannon Hale and Jessica Day George, flitted around the room. The yummy dinner was served, and I forgot all about my messy hair and white legs. My legs were, in fact, hidden by the long tablecloth, so I decided it wouldn’t hurt if I took my shoes off too. Again, I’ll always choose comfort over beauty—or in this case, basic etiquette.

At some point early in the program we stood and applauded, and I was careful to keep my bare feet under the table. As we sat down again, I had the thought that I should put my shoes back on. Of course I ignored this.

It was time for the winner to be announced in the romance category. I sighed to myself, feeling a little bummed that Stephanie Meyers wasn’t in attendance. I wondered who would be accepting the award for her.

And then Annette called my name.

My husband smiled this awesome smile at me, and I realized I had to go up there and say something, and I didn’t even know where my shoes were. Somehow I managed to find them under the table and get up to the podium.

Lesson 3: When at a formal dinner, always keep your footwear on, or at least where you can locate it without having to stick your head under the table. And when you hear those little promptings—LISTEN!

As I walked up front, I remember thinking that it was the coolest thing in the world that it was Annette who called my name. More than anyone else, this woman is the one responsible for me being there in the first place. She was the first one to read (I mean really read my writing—and it came back looking like she’d sliced open a major artery while doing so), and it was she who invited me join a critique group with other amazing writers, LuAnn and Stephanie. From there our group grew to include Jeff, Heather, Lynda, and James, and it just kept getting better.

I knew I wanted to thank these people, but the first thoughts that came to my mind were how many times I’d entered (at a mere $50.00 a shot) the national RWA Golden Heart Contest and never even been a finalist. How was it possible then, that I was a winner in a contest I didn’t even enter, didn’t have to pay for—and was in fact receiving money from? I’m never going to fulfill that Golden Heart dream now—published authors are not eligible—but the dream I was suddenly living was so much better. That’s what I wanted to express and am afraid I failed to do so. This is what I meant to say.

I wish I hadn’t waited so long to try, and dug my heels in against so much, the LDS fiction market. For years I never imagined this path, but since deciding to give it a try, I’ve had one great experience after another.

I should have known it would be this way. Annette, LuAnn, Heather, Stephanie, Lynda, Jeff, and James are all such great people. And dang smart too. I should have listened to them much earlier. I think I tried thanking them Saturday night, but I’m sure I didn’t express enough how grateful I am for the way they so generously share their talents and time. When I started with our group, I didn’t even know how to use quote marks correctly. I had imagination, but it ended there. How blessed I am that they didn’t vote me out of the group that first month. If not for these wonderful people, I’d have never been published, let alone received an award for my writing.

Even after all of their guidance and my best efforts, my writing still needed something more. Enter Angela Eschler, my talented and oh-so-patient editor. I completely forgot to thank her, and all those others at Covenant who helped in so many ways. Forgive me, please! I’ve never had such a difficult time forming coherent thought as I did during those few minutes Saturday night.

But here’s the thing about Angela. A great editor is much like a coach in being able to see what a project needs and knowing how to get that out of the author. If not for Angela, two of the scenes I get the most emails about would not be in the book. Originally, the scene where Caroline is breastfeeding her baby was cut. I begged for it to stay, and Angela went to bat for me, taking a risk with something a little outside the normal boundaries Covenant publishes. Another scene—Mark’s tragic surgery—didn’t even exist when I turned in Counting Stars. Angela knew something was missing and encouraged me to write more about this heartbreaking section of the book. I did and turned in a funeral scene. She sent it back and in her very non-demanding way, told me it wasn’t quite there. I tried again—spent a good long time sitting at my computer, exploring Jane’s feelings, dredging up some of my own sorrows, and crying as I wrote the chapter that ended up in the book. Aside from being a marvelous coach, Angela and the Covenant team were also very thorough. It really irritates me when I hear someone say that LDS books are not well edited. I cannot imagine any better editing than was done for my book. Everything was double and triple checked, and so many people, from the artists to the copyeditors, worked to make it the best it could be. A huge thanks to all of you—especially Angela.

Fourth lesson of the night: Even if you don’t think you have a prayer of winning, think about what you’d say and who you’d like to thank if you did. Messy hair and white legs don’t matter in the long run, but forgetting to thank important people does.

Finally I attempted to thank the wonderful man sitting a few feet in front of me. My husband Dixon is absolutely the best husband a woman—and writer—could ever imagine. He is the reason I write romance, the reason that after twenty years of marriage I still know what it’s like to be madly and passionately in love.

Dixon has sacrificed an awful lot for me to pursue my writing dreams—and I’m not just talking about all that money we’ve dropped in pursuit of a Golden Heart. I’m talking about his time. Eight years of critique group at approximately thirty-five weeks per year, times four hours each of those weeks equals an astounding one thousand one hundred twenty hours that he’s been running things at home so I could work on my writing. In addition to that, there are those Saturdays (several a year) when he sends me to the library for six hours at a time, while he stays at home, does laundry, helps with homework, and everything else that needs to be done. When I left early Friday morning to attend the conference, I left Dixon with a list including, getting our two teens out the door to seminary, packing four lunches, reviewing spelling words with our youngest, curling two daughters’ hair and making sure they looked good for school pictures, driving six children to elementary school (and picking them up later), grocery shopping, preparing dinner, taking the teens to and from work, and helping with homework. Of course he did all that (and much more) without complaint. He is so awesome.

As I returned to my seat Saturday night, I remembered a florist’s card I’d carried in my purse for several years now. It originally came with a dozen roses that Dixon bought me, following a particularly painful rejection from a national agent (she’d requested my entire manuscript, only to then reject it—triple ouch!). The card reads, “Michele, Don’t give up!! It will happen. I know you can do it. Dix” He believed in me when I couldn’t anymore, and I’m so grateful for that and for his unconditional love. Heaven knows I am not the perfect wife. But he always treats me like I am.

The day last spring when we picked up my box of books from Covenant was very much like crossing the finish line in the marathons he runs. Saturday night, he cheered for me, just as I cheered for him when he finished his first triathalon last year. It’s the best thing in the world when we see the payoff for all the hard work we’ve put in. And no one else knows better than we do, how hard each of us work at our individual goals. Dixon isn’t through yet—he’s got Ironman dreams. I’ve got dreams too, and he knows them. How blessed I feel to be able to work toward them with such a great companion at my side.

And how blessed I feel to be surrounded by such great people and in such a wonderful place. Publishing in the LDS market has been the best experience. I’m excited and grateful to be where I am, and I can’t wait to see what the coming years bring. There are so many talented people involved on all sides, that I think we’re truly heading toward those days when we will see, “Miltons and Shakespeares of our own,” as Orson F. Whitney predicted.

Finally, I meant to thank Rob, Stephanie, Kerry, James, Crystal, B.J., and Julie for all their hard work—for taking an excellent idea and making it a reality. I can’t imagine the hours you must have put in, and I hope I can join your ranks in the future, helping with this great program. I’d love to be at the podium again next year, but this time opening an envelope and reading a name, making someone else’s dream come true.

Posted by Michele Holmes at 8:50 AM 10 comments

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

The Band Van

Last Thursday night I’d just fallen asleep when I was awakened by my seventeen-year-old son.

“Mom! You gotta see this. Come quick.”

The bedroom light glared, illuminating my son, hopping up and down in the doorway. Had he been about ten years younger, I would have ordered him into the bathroom at once. Instead, I left the comfort of my bed and donned robe and slippers to see what was up. Already a little leery of what that might be (recent experience in the form of a bazillion watt, six-foot tall amp weighing on my mind), I followed him to the front door and outside.

And there, gracing our driveway, was an old, ugly, Dodge van conversion—with teenage boys swarming all over it.

“What is it?” I asked, though I could clearly see that at one time it had passed as a motor vehicle.

“It’s our band van,” Spencer exclaimed. “Isn’t it sweet? I just bought it.”

“You what?!” I was awake now.

“I bought it from the Tongan family around the corner—just $300.”

Feeling dizzy, I sat down hard on the step while Spencer continued explaining the intricacies of his van—the van that would now be parked in our driveway. The realtor we’d just listed our house with was going to be thrilled.

“Come see the inside, Mom.” Spencer ran down the walk. After a minute I followed, determined to see it all—the bad, the worse, and the truly awful. The side doors opened as I approached.

“All the doors open and close. And it’s only missing one window.” Spencer’s friend, sitting in the driver’s seat, informed me. The van shook as his brother scaled the ladder on the back and beat on the roof.

“It’s solid!” he shouted down to us.

I peeked inside. It was was dirty and smelly and—

“Isn’t it sweet?” Spencer asked. “We already took the other two captain’s chairs out, so we can redo the carpet. And we’ll keep them out when we’re transporting our equipment. But when we take road trips to Moab, the seats will be great.”

I frowned as I eyed the couch in back. “Just who are you thinking of going to Moab with?” I looked around at all the boys and spoke in my sternest voice. “This is not going to be a van that’s a rockin. No girls—got it?”

“This van’s going to rock all right,” Spencer’s friend, Jordan said. “With music. The tape player even works.”

“It’s just for moving our band equipment, Mom,” Spencer said. “And for taking road trips. It’s perfect.” He was practically glowing.

It was suddenly hard not to share his enthusiasm. His grin was infectious, and in his eyes I saw reflections of my own youth. I realized he was right. For him the van was perfect. He was feeling on top of the world, and for a few minutes, anyway, I understood why.

For a mere $300. he’d just purchased a good piece of freedom and independence. Not only would these wheels get him around town and beyond (or so he hopes), but they’d solve the transportation problem for his band. Now—when they’re soon in hot demand—they’ll be able to travel to their gigs.

I never had a band, never had musical aspirations like he does, but I did have a car and a lot of dreams as a youth. As I stood in my robe and slippers in our driveway, looking at “the beast,” as the boys had already dubbed it, I was transported back in time to 1985, to the glorious day I got my driver’s license and to the little Le Car my father purchased for me. I remember well the exhilarating freedom that little car brought me. I remember stuffing it full of girls and luggage and heading off to French camp the summer between my junior and senior years of high school—and getting grounded from my car when I returned home. Seems I wasn’t supposed to drive that many girls, that far, on California’s busy highways. I think I recall knowing this beforehand, but how could I resist driving my French car to French camp? I still remember pulling into the parking lot, my friends, standing up in the back, waving wildly through the sun roof. Good times. Fun memories.

I sold that little car to help pay for my freshman year at BYU, but when I returned home the next summer, my stepfather was very generous, letting me drive his Honda all over the place. I remember driving down to Marriotts Great America and getting lost at night in San Francisco on the way home. My friend from Colorado checked the door locks and hunkered down in her seat as we drove through some less-than-desirable parts of town trying to find our way to the Golden Gate. We eventually did and spent a couple more days in the city that week, exploring everything from Chinatown to Pier 39, Saks 5th Avenue, and beyond. Ah youth . . . when having fun was the central part of our life. School, work, marriage, babies, mortgages, retirement, and our own teenagers were all in the distant future. The present was the time for exploring the world and having fun.

How could I have forgotten?

I hurried into the house and called my husband’s cell phone, bracing him for the sight that was to greet him when he returned home from a late night taking care of bishop responsibilities. Fortunately, like me, he isn’t too old to remember how it was to be young and to have transportation—no matter how hideous (he drove a Maverick that had seen better days). And when he returned home, he spent some time with Spencer, listening as he pointed out all the fine features on the band van.

Since last Thursday, said van has undergone a few changes: carpet removed (and AC line accidentally cut in the process. Thanks, good neighbor for helping the boys repair it), and a free-for-all paint job(ie. all the various leftover paint we had in our garage) on the outside of the van. Teenage priorities being what they are, the boys are “tricking it out” before they pursue seeing if it will pass inspection. Once it does that, there’s just one more detail Spencer needs to take care of to put the grand plan for the band van into action . . .

We hope he’ll have his license soon.

Wart and the Whitneys

A couple of weeks ago my daughter B (name withheld to protect the guilty) had the opportunity to go to the district science fair at the American Leadership Academy in Spanish Fork. This is the second year her project has made it to the district level, and she was pretty excited. I have to admit that, at first, I was not. The term science fair roughly translates to, “lots of work for Mom,” and district level means, “more work for Mom.” However, daughter B and partner did nearly everything themselves this year (aside from transportation and photography), and on the afternoon of the district fair, I packed them and the project into our suburban and headed south.

Once we were there, I had a good time, and the kids did too—repeatedly rehearsing their presentation, going to different Bill Nye-type science classes, watching a magic show, and eating pizza and hanging out with their friends. The event started at 4:00 and ended shortly before ten. I headed home around 7:00, when they went in for judging. Daughter B’s, partner’s dad took over from there. Hint to parents who may not yet have experienced, “the science fair”–Always have your child work with a partner. We’ve done this two years in a row, and it’s been a very good thing. Nothing like splitting the stress with another set of parents 🙂

When daughter B arrived home later that evening, I wasn’t sure if she was really my child or not. Normally she is easy-going and a source of great joy in our home, but the girl who walked through the door brought a storm cloud of out-of-control emotion with her. She marched up the steps, threw her belongings down and, with a scowl that stretched across her entire face, proceeded to unleash a tirade of anger and accusations, all directed toward an individual named Wart. When I finally got her calmed down, I discovered that Wart (name changed by my daughter) had won the only spot from their school to go on to the regional competition.

I was still baffled by my daughter’s odd behavior. After all, she hadn’t won last year, and it wasn’t a big deal. I reminded her of this.

“But Emily won last year, and she’s nice, so I was happy for her.”

“Wart isn’t nice?” I guessed.

“He’s horrid, Mom. And he cheated. He bought his mice for the project at Petco, and one of the rules was that you couldn’t buy animals at a pet store. Then he left them in the garage and they froze to death!”

“That’s too bad,” I said, silently wondering if Wart’s mom felt the same way. After all, what do you do with three science fair mice, after the fair is over? If it were me, I wouldn’t have been too excited about the prospect of three new pets. But still, my daughter had a point about animal cruelty.

“And that’s not all,” she continued. “He bribed the judges tonight. He bragged about it afterward.”

This accusation seemed a little over-the-top. “The judges were BYU students—probably a pretty honest bunch. I doubt they were bribed with a candy bar or anything else. Wart was probably just teasing. Boys your age do that a lot, you know.”

“I know,” she huffed as the first tear slid down her cheek. “But I really wanted to win a medal.”

Ahhhh . . . Now I got it. Daughter B, while easy-going, is also our most competitive child. Whatever she does, she likes to do it well, and she’ll keep at it until she does. The nine medals and two trophies in her room attest to this. She’s a bit of a perfectionist, something that has worried my husband and I on more than one occasion.

So I softened my words, put my arm around her, and comforted her as best I could. I reminded her what a great job she and her partner had done on their project. I told her it was an honor that she was one of a handful of kids who made it to the district level—two years in a row. I talked about the fun evening we’d shared together—free of her siblings—the things she’d learned doing the project, the fact that she was good at science. Her dad joined us, and we both told her how much we love her and how proud we are of all her accomplishments.

She went to bed a while later, somewhat mollified. And as I headed to bed myself, it struck me that the words of wisdom I’d just imparted to my daughter, were exactly how I felt about the upcoming Whitney awards. I also realized there were probably a few people I ought to express those feelings to.

For those reading this who may not know what I’m talking about, the Whitney Awards—named such for prominent LDS church member Orson F. Whitney—honor the best of LDS fiction. Counting Stars is a finalist this year in both the romance category and, best book by new author, category. That it’s there in either of those is pretty cool, and I sincerely thank all the people who nominated it. It was kind and thoughtful of you, and I truly appreciate such great fans.

However, after reading all those other books that Counting Stars is up against, I imagine the Whitney award results will, for me, be somewhat similar to the outcome of my daughter’s science fair. While I put my all into that story—laughed, cried, fell in love with the characters, pulled my hair out in frustration trying to make it all come together—it was just my best effort and not necessarily equal to someone else’s best. For example, Stephanie Meyer’s New York Times bestseller, Eclipse is also a finalist in the romance category. Whether you like what Mrs. Meyer writes or not (and I happen to like it quite a bit), if you’ve read her books, you will probably agree that she is a very good writer. If I’d been truly honest with my vote (LDStorymaker members each had one vote), I’d have chosen Eclipse for best romance of the year. But I’m not that noble 🙂 After realizing I’d missed my deadline for a June release and would not be getting another check until next February, I decided I would go ahead and vote for myself, on the off chance that it mattered. I’m certain Mrs. Meyer makes a tiny bit more than I do with her writing 🙂

But when all is said and done, and the night is over, I imagine that I will feel happy for whoever brings home the trophies. I’ve read and enjoyed the entries and am happy to say there are no “Warts,” only several well-deserving authors. I feel privileged to be listed among them, and I’m looking forward to an evening out with my husband and friends. Being a Whitney Award finalist is very much the icing on the cake to a dream come true. After spending seven years trying to get a book published, making it to “district level” the first time around is pretty amazing. But the real reward came months ago, when your emails and letters gave me what a writer dreams of the most—readers who love her story. I thank you for those letters, my trophy of words, that has become most precious and inspiring.