Mostly True.

I try to make the bed first thing in the morning.
The rest?
True dat.

Is Today Tomorrow?

The four year old got out of bed this morning, all warm and rosy cheeked, damp thumb and blanket  still tucked close. "Mom, is today tomorrow?"

And then just now fourteen hours later, same little Miss, thrusts open her bedroom door in the darkness shy of midnight. I turn and she's running down the hall to me, sobbing, frantic and confused.

"I had a really bad dream," she's in my arms. "I went in a rocket ship but you were at the bottom and I was never going to see you again."

I'm here. I'm staying with you, my loves. Today, tomorrow, 
forever and ever and ever.

Today is almost yesterday.

I'm a Sailor Seeking a Yacht to Race the Mack

I did this today.  All in the name of research, kids. If this book truly has some chance at being a "really big thing" I better be sure I've got these sailing/race scenes tight.

My husband and mother promptly sent texts that they love me (with subtle reminders about the risks.) 

I'm waiting for the phone to ring. Stay tuned.

(Learn more about the Race to Mackinac here. )

Time Management

We were eating dinner last night and Elizabeth looked up, a carrot in one hand.

"Mom?" She paused, took a bite. "Why don't princesses wave fast? Instead of slow?"

I stopped to take this in. I laughed, careful not to to make her feel bad about her question. But I pictured a fairy tale princess, a beauty queen, Will's wife Kate, waving really fast, like I would,  if I were forced into a life of polite hand waving.

Hey, hey, hi! Gotta go, gotta run! Let's go, let's go, let's go! Kids, school, groceries, work, laundry, love, the book, life. Ta, ta!

You understand? Muah! 

Image by Ben Van Hook found here 

All Aboard

Dear Amtrak*,

I was 11 and it was June 1983 and our family had round trip tickets on Amtrak from Tomah, Wisconsin to Seattle, Washington.

The train boarded at dusk in front of the old Tomah depot. My younger sister and I were giddy with excitement, an adventure ahead of us, a train ride on the Empire Builder headed out west.  Family and friends came to see us off, everyone caught up in the excitement of our journey by train.

My writer's mind can still picture the scenes that passed by, and the small towns,  the wafts of summer evenings that drifted up into the cabin at every stop, pick-up trucks stopped at train gates, the train whistling hello, strangers lifting caps and waving up at us, lonely prairies, the simple thrill of walking to the dining car, the wilds of Montana and snow capped mountains, the mystery of these different worlds passing by under the comforting rhythmic hymn of the train tracks below.

It is thirty years later. I write. I suppose I fall under the classification, the generalization even of a struggling writer, of course I do. I struggle because I'm a mom of three, and I work full time and writing comes at the end of every day, at 9 pm, when children sleep and crumbs have been swept up and the house is quiet and the laundry and the dishwasher hum their end of day tunes. I write past eleven, past  midnight, some nights closer to one, when I glance at my word count and 48, 097 seems like enough progress. We are getting there, me and this book, this story that won't stop.

That's my journey now. Another trip, alone, me and the laptop and the train, it would seem a luxury, words spinning by, adding up and up and up. I might just reach my destination. And then I'd have another story to tell.

*http://www.thewire.com/culture/2014/02/inside-amtraks-absolutely-awesome-plan-give-free-rides-writers/358332/

I need it to be Spring.

Like you need it to be 5 o'clock 

or Friday

a mess to be cleaned up

the laundry put away

more money in the bank

more time more time more time.

I need it to be Spring.

I need to smell the earth at work

feel the tickle of a breeze

see some change, like green of leaves.

So let's hurry it up, I'm ready to start over

let's skim past 10 degrees, more snow

Been there, done that

moving on and now...

23 days the calendar right here says so.

Spring you hear that?

Come on, let's go.

Original painting by Kristina Wentzell available to purchase on Etsy here.

Monkey Bread

I showed Vivie the moon tonight as we headed into her room, into the rocking chair I've been ending my daughter's days in for the last seven years.

"Moon on, Mom! Tiny bit, moon." She paused.

And then again, in a whisper. "Moon on."

Yes, I nodded. "Pretty, isn't it?"

Yes, she nodded.

She asked me to sing Jingle Bells. I sang the chorus.

"Bed," she said. My first child didn't sleep through the night until she was eighteen months old, thirty-six hours after we'd plunked down $500 at the sleep clinic. The second child, fifteen months. My third one tells me to put her to bed.

I tucked in her tightly, that room is so drafty.

We exchange love yous, 
sweet dreams, 
God bless.

Door shut behind me, I padded down the stairs, into the kitchen, where I microwaved a stick of cold butter from the fridge.

A loaf of frozen dough, unthawed, just starting to rise.
A bowl of brown sugar.
A bowl of cinnamon sugar.
A dash of vanilla to the warm, soupy butter.

And then I broke apart the sticky, puffy dough, deflating it a bit. Gumballs of dough, dunked in butter, then brown sugar, a coating of cinnamon sugar.

It's good, this.  

I looked out the kitchen window into the darkness on the other side, white snow glowing.

The quiet house.
This winding down.

Dough.
Dunk.
Gooey.
Roll.  

I arranged the little chunks in a circle in the bundt pan, twice. A little itch on my cheek, and I nudged it with buttery fingers to stop.

I should be rubbing butter all over my face, maybe I wouldn't look so haggard...

This concoction will be good in the morning, waiting for us, a little present to start the day. The house will smell cozy. My daughters will taste the love. They will remember it when they're in college and eating cereal for most meals. When they're thirtysomething and have little ones of their own. They'll be able to make it without calling me. I think she just...

I hope.

Vivie is singing in her crib. The dough is rising again, up through the sugar and butter.

Moon on.