I had an argument with Rebel Dancing Daughter yesterday, and I swear I could hear my late mother’s voice channeling through me.

Here’s what happened: Rebel Dancing Daughter came downstairs in a cheetah bra and a skimpy red dress.

The dress had spaghetti straps and a low neckline. Too much bust.

The hem was way too high. Too much leg.

We were going to the mall. I crossed my arms and glared like Godzilla then said to her, keeping in mind Excellent Mothering Techniques, “Oh, HELL no! You are not wearing that.”

(My mother used to say that to me, too, minus the ‘hell.’)

Rebel Dancing Daughter shot back with, “Yes, I am!”

And I said, eyeing an outfit that was barely more than what a stripper would fling herself around a pole in, “You are not going out in public like that.”

(Those were my mother’s words, too!)

Rebel Dancing Daughter huffed and puffed and said, “Yes I am! It’s fine! This is what I’m wearing.” (I said this when I was her age, too.)

Then she crossed her arms, like mine.

And I said, “You are not.”

“You know you’re a control freak, right, mom?”

“I know it and I like it. Change.”

She sighed. It was the sigh that says, “You are an utter and ridiculous pain, mom. You are out of date and out of style. You are old.”

Fortunately, I do not care that my children think this of me.

Rebel Dancing Daughter tried to make her case. “This dress is long enough. Look! The hem comes to my fingertips.”

I peered down at her, her arms now straight and defiant by her side. “If you wear that dress and an ant coughs underneath you your dress will fly up and someone will see your va jay jay.”

“Mom!” She said that, ‘mom!’ in a loud and admonishing tone. “No one uses that word, ‘va jay jay.’”

“I just did and I am someone.”

(My mother would not have used the word ‘va jay jay,’ just to clarify, out of respect to her. Her parents were from the South so, obviously.)

“Mom!” Again, loud and admonishing. As if I needed to be admonished. I am the boss here. I am The Mother.

“You are not wearing that. You know my rules.” I put my palm to my chest, above my boobs. “Boobs in. Your boobs are not in. Your dress is too low on top, too high on the bottom. No one needs to be flashed by your bottom. Change or we don’t go.”

“Fine, fine!” Stomp, stomp, up the stairs. “Fine!”

“So,” I thought to my little self, “She will change into a new outfit now. She will be dressed appropriately.”

Rebel Dancing Daughter stomped back down. She was wearing pajama bottoms under her skimpy spaghetti strap dress. “There! I’m covered.”

We began yet again and I had to use Excellent Mothering Techniques. I rolled my eyes. “You look silly. I am not taking you out in your pajamas. What? You’re going to sleep in the mall? You’re going to take a nap at Macy’s? I’m leaving. Get dressed or I’m driving off without you.”

Rebel Dancing daughter can be rebellious. She likes to dance in high heels and go to parties. But she knows when a fight is lost. She knows when Boss Mother is not changing her mind.

Stomp, stomp, stomp. She got re – dressed. All parts covered this time around. She looked very nice.

I laughed to myself as we drove to the mall.

I swear, I have become my mother, who I still miss so much, all these years later. Not so polite, not so gentle, but I open my mouth and my momma’s words fall straight out, as if she’s in there, in me, her love still there, her impact on my life eternal.

I snuck a peek at beautiful Rebel Dancing Daughter, my mother’s granddaughter. One day, years ahead, when she has an argument with her daughter, and my words fall out of her mouth, she will laugh, too.

I reached for her hand. She held it. I do adore that kid.

My momma would be so proud of her.

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From the New York Times, a quote from the late Elie Wiesel, Auschwitz and Buchenwald survivor, and the author of Night, one of the most brilliant, heart wrenching books I have ever read:

“If I survived, it must be for some reason,” he told Michiko Kakutani of The New York Times in an interview in 1981. “I must do something with my life. It is too serious to play games with anymore, because in my place, someone else could have been saved. And so I speak for that person. On the other hand, I know I cannot.”

He spoke, we listened, the world has lost one of its very best people.

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Well, this was a bit of a surprise to me, but three of my books are on sale, cheap and sweet, on Amazon kindle for a tiny bit of time. My Very Best Friend is $4.99. Such A Pretty Face is $2.99, and The Last Time I Was Me is $6.99.

That would be a grand total of $14.97 if you bought all three if you need some summer reads. Books, beach, beer. Maybe not in that order.

Anyhow, in one book the women ride their bikes, in their negligees, at midnight. There’s a colorful secret hiding in a shed in the second, and in the third Jeanne Stewart runs naked along a river because her anger management counselor told her to do so to get rid of her – wait for it – anger.

Cheers, all.

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Even after raising three kids I can’t confidently advise anyone else on how to parent.

I do believe, though, that there are three absolute rules to follow:

One, make sure they are fed and watered. You would feed and water cattle, wouldn’t you? Children are no different.

Two, clothe them even if they throw fits and insist on wearing only a frilly yellow tutu and nothing else when they are two years old.

Three, do not let them grab and eat the goldfish straight out of the tank.

Other than that I have often found parenting baffling.

For example, when Adventurous Singing Daughter was young why did she like to eat sand so much? That could not have been tasty. Why did she repeatedly try to eat spiders? How many spiders did she eat when I glanced away for just ONE second?

Why did Rebel Dancing Daughter wear the same two dresses over and over for years when she was a little girl? I bought them at garage sales. One had fruits, the other flowers. Why did I bother buying her other clothes when she wouldn’t wear them anyhow?

And Darling Laughing Son. What was the fascination with carrying around a metal spatula when he was two? Why did he have to stubbornly wield my long wooden spoon like a sword when he was in the stroller?

So many years have gone by since then.

Rebel Dancing Daughter is now trotting around Europe and has been offered a job in the Ukraine after graduation. I want her to go to the Ukraine about as much as I want my left arm to fall off my body and start hitting innocent people.

Adventurous Singing Daughter is heading to college in the fall but what she would really like to do is circle the globe and have – wait for it – adventures. She is going to college because we will not fund such globetrotting, so off she slogs.

And Darling Laughing Son? Well, that kid has a wild streak. He wants to keep his wild streak. We want to beat it out of him.

It is in these parenting moments, sometimes hard, sometimes hotly argumentative, sometimes baffling, that I often remember holding their hands when they were little.

I held their hands when we went to the zoo, the library, the park, the river. I held their hands when we danced, when they cried, when we played in a pool or read stories. Those sweet, tiny, warm hands.

Now I feel those sweet hands slipping away. They’re older. They are often gone, away at school, away in a different country.

I am older, too. I tire easily. I want to put my feet up and drink coffee. I want to daydream by my garden.

Sometimes it truly saddens me, that that part of life, the raising the kids part, is going.

And yet. As the kids are flying off, I feel myself flying, too. I have been working and raising children for twenty two years.

And now, finally, there is time. Time for me. Time for Innocent Husband. Time for change.

Time to love the kids as they get older and become themselves.

Time to travel, read, do something new.

Time to hold hands.

***
I love you Adventurous Singing Daughter, Darling Laughing Son, and Rebel Dancing Daughter.

No matter where you fly off to, I will always be here, my hand outstretched, a hug waiting for you. Be safe, be kind, be you.

Do not eat sand or spiders. Wear more than two dresses. Be careful with that wild streak. And call yo momma.

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Need a beach read?

Need a little romance?

Our anthology, Beach Season, is on sale for $1.99, on kindle. That’s one hundred and ninety nine pennies for four fun stories from Lisa Jackson, Holly Chamberlin and Rosalind Noonan.

https://www.amazon.com/Beach-Season-Lisa-Jackson-ebook/dp/B00ONTR61A/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1464793885&sr=8-1

Here are chapters one and two from my story, June’s Lace.

Chapter One

Ten Things I’m Worried About:

1. Too many wedding dresses
2. Not enough wedding dresses
3. Grayson
4. Going broke
5. Losing my home
6. Never finding an unbroken, black butterfly shell
7. The upcoming interview with the fashion writer.
8. Not having peppermint sticks in my life
9. Turning back into the person I used to be
10. Always being worried

Chapter Two

“No. Absolutely not.” I gripped the phone with white knuckles as I paced around my yellow studio. “I will never agree to that.”

“Ha. I knew you wouldn’t accept those unacceptable terms, June,” Cherie Poitras, my divorce attorney, cackled.  “Your soon to be ex-husband has a monstrous addiction to being a jerk but don’t worry, we’re not quitting. Quitting causes my hot flashes to flare.”

“I don’t want your hot flashes to flare, Cherie. And I’m not quitting, either. I can’t.”  I yanked opened the French doors to my second story deck as lightning zigged and zagged across the night sky through the bubbling, black clouds, the waves of the Pacific ocean crashing down the hill from my blue home. “If I could catch a lightning strike, I’d pitch it at him.”

“It would be thrilling to see that,” Cherie declared. “So vengefully Mother Nature – ish.”

“What a rat.” I shut the doors with a bang, then thought of my other life, the life before this one, and shuddered. I could not go back to it, and I was working as hard as I could to ensure that that wouldn’t happen.  There wasn’t enough silk and satin in that other life. There wasn’t any kindness, either. Or softness. “I so want this to end.”

“He’s sadistically stubborn. I have been buried in motions, requests for mediation, time for him to recover from his fake illness, his counseling appointments, attempts to reconcile…he’s tried everything. The paperwork alone could reach from Oregon to Arkansas and flip over two bulls and a tractor.”

“That’s what we’re dealing with, Cherie, bull.” I ran a hand through my long, blonde, messy hair. It got stuck in a tangle.

“Sure are, sweets.”

“He’s doing this so I’ll come back to him.”

“That’s true. He’s a tenacious, rabid bull dog.”

“I don’t ever want anything to do with the rabid bull dog again.” I was so mad, even my bones seemed to ache. Cherie wished me a, “Happy wedding dress sewing evening,” and I wished her the best of luck being a ferocious attorney who scares the pants off all the male attorneys in Portland and went back to stomping around my studio.

My studio is filled with odd and found things. I need the color and creativity for inspiration for the non – traditional wedding dresses I sew. Weathered, light blue shutters from a demolished house are nailed to a wall.  Two foot tall pink letters spell out my name, June.

On a huge canvas, I painted six foot tall purple tulips with eyes, smiles and pink tutus. I propped that painting against a wall next to a collection of mailboxes in the shapes of a pig, elephant, dragon, dog, and monkey.  The monkey mailbox scares me.

I dipped a strawberry into melted chocolate and kept stomping about.  I eat when I get upset or stressed, and this had not proved to be good for the size of my bottom. Fifteen extra pounds in two years. After only four more strawberries, okay seven, and more pacing, I took a deep breath and tried to wrestle myself away from my past and back into who I am now, who I am trying most desperately to become.

“Remember, June,” I said aloud  as my anger and worry surged, like the waves of the Oregon coast below me. “You are in your sky lighted studio. Not a cold, beige home in the city. You are living amidst stacks of colorful and slinky fabrics, buttons, flowers, faux pearls and gems, and lace. You are not living amidst legal briefs and crammed courtrooms working as an attorney with other stressed out, maniac attorneys hyped up on their massive egos.”

My tired eyes rested, as they so often did, on my Scottish tartan, our ancestor’s tartan, which I’d hung vertically on my wall.  When I’d hung it in our modern home in Portland, he’d ripped it down and hid it from me for a month. “Tacky June, it’s tacky. We’re not kilt wearing heathens.”

I am a wedding dress designer in the middle of a soul-crushing divorce. I am a wedding dress designer who will never again marry.  I am a wedding dress designer who has about as much faith in marriage as I do that the Oregon coast will never see another drop of rain.

A blast of wind, then a hail of rain pummeled my French doors.I ate yet another chocolate strawberry. I have been told my eyes are the color of dark chocolate. Not a bad analogy.  I washed the strawberry down with lemonade, then a carrot.

No, I have no faith in marriage.

None.

It was a bad day. It became worse after the next phone call.

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My childhood was a little bit quirky.

One of the quirky things about it was my sweet mother’s utter distaste for TV.

Bette Jean kept our black and white TV in the closet. Yes, in the closet. As if the TV was a wretched family secret that had to be locked away.

Our TV was as heavy as a crate of steel and as wide as a Mack truck. It was a looming black and gray blob. The unwieldy antennae looked like it came off a space ship. It had to be adjusted, stabilized, propped up. The picture was none too clear, often fuzzy.

The Blob had a handle on top and had to be heaved out of the closet and up onto a bench in the family room so we could watch it. You could darn near throw your back out hauling that TV in and out, but our inevitable broken backs and whining did not prevent my mother from insisting that we haul it right back into the closet the minute our show was over.

Bette Jean thought the TV was unsightly and she thought that the vast majority of TV shows were unsightly, too, and should not be watched. It rightly followed that she should not spend any hard earned money on a new TV and that TV should be somewhat difficult to view.

Now no one else’s mother thought this. Everyone else in the neighborhood had a color TV. Everyone else in the country probably had a colored TV. But not us. Oh, no. Many years after color TVs came out, we watched the ole’ black and white.

That TV was pretty embarrassing for a kid who really wanted to fit in but knew from a very early age she wasn’t quite going to.

Friends would say, “Where’s your TV, Cathy?” And I would, with great shame, open the door to the dark closet, as if I was letting out a roaring monster. Or the wretched family secret.

The only thing I could compare not having a colored TV to, at that time, is not having a refrigerator.  In place of a refrigerator, you would have stacks of ice in your kitchen. Or, perhaps instead of an oven, you would have a cave in the kitchen that held hot rocks.

So what were we allowed to watch? Very few shows. One was The Waltons. For those of you too young to know, this was a show set on a farm in Virginia. It was about seven kids and their parents during the Great Depression. They prayed at dinner. We could also watch the Brady Bunch now and then. Bewitched.

Only good, clean, wholesome family shows.

We were also allowed to watch Saturday morning cartoons. I don’t think my mother liked us watching cartoons, (also unsightly) but she had four kids, she was wiped out, and the cartoons allowed her to sleep in a couple of hours one day a week.

Bette Jean could not sleep in on Sunday, God forbid, because she and my father had to cattle prod four kids out to Catholic mass, hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee, do not let your children watch TV.

So why the aversion to television shows? That’s a pretty simple answer. My mother was an English teacher.  She believed in books. Books were far superior to any show.

She also believed that children should play outside. So we headed out the door to play hide and seek and kick the can and had all sorts of fun, and when we headed back in we often dove into the world of books.

I think of her and that hulking TV in the closet sometimes when I’m watching a show. My favorites? Property Brothers. Fixer Upper. Madam Secretary. A couple of reality shows I’m really too embarrassed to admit that I watch. My TV is up in a cabinet. The screen has to be three times the size of The Blob.

I like my shows, but Bette Jean had it right.

There is a rare show that is better than a great book.

Playing outside is really fun.

I hope to do more reading and more playing outside this summer, and less TV.

I’m going to wish you the same. And let me know if you put your TV in the closet. Bette Jean would really like that.

*** This is a photo of my parents’ first house in Huntington Beach, California, about 1965. It’s where the anti – TV saga began before we moved to Oregon and The Blob found a new home in the closet.

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What are the little things in life that bring you the most joy?

Can I tell you a little, tiny story, oh please?

Animals often make me laugh, especially this one. I am the aunt to this adorable dog, Rex. Full blown German Shepherd and damn proud of it. Here’s the funny thing: He has a favorite TV show. Every Saturday he watches a show called Lucky Dog. He LOVES it. He can barely contain himself and his excitement. It is a glorious day when Lucky Dog is on!

Sometimes he tries to scratch the TV screen so he, too, can play with the dogs on the show. He also runs around the back of the TV to FIND them, as if they’re hiding.

He reminds me, once again, that it’s the little things we love to do in life that bring the most joy. For me, it’s books, gardening, the beach. For Rex, it’s Lucky Dog.

What is it for you?

Responses from facebook….come join me there, too!

Joleen Wheeler Driving my family crazy brings me great joy! Doing outlandish pranks that makes them laugh’

Unlike · Reply · 3 · May 25 at 10:14am

Marina Elias Starbuck I am the proud owner of a German Shepherd, and they are goofy dogs! smile emoticon

Unlike · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 10:32am

Marina Elias Starbuck

Unlike · Reply · 5 · May 25 at 10:32am

Cathy Lamb Absolutely adorable, Marina Elias Starbuck. Look at that rabbit!

Marina Elias Starbuck It’s one of her many ‘babies’ that she cares for. She carries them around, and grooms them! She never chews them

Alissa Schad Almost anything i get to do with my Adam. He is so special and i LOVE his innocence on life. I believe they are here to teach us. One of my favorite is candy cigarettes @ Kareoke, concerts with him (this one Lynard Skynard pulled him on stage during a Simple Kind of Man ) and the beach

Unlike · Reply · 3 · May 25 at 11:29am

Alissa Schad

Unlike · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 11:30am

Adria Cimino That is adorable, Cathy! Our cat’s favorite movie was “Microcosmos” a French movie that showed bugs up close in their natural environment. Lelee would look behind the TV, thinking that’s where the ants had gone… smile emoticon

Cathy Lamb Terry Torres Maloney They are at my house now too!

Jaymi Couch This is Jackson. He is a rescued Plott Hound and he is such a love. But he’s got this very strange habit. He likes things touching his head and/or back. He will slo-o-o-wly walk around and under a fake ficus tree (to the point where you kinda have to l…See More

Unlike · Reply · 8 · May 25 at 12:19pm

Kimberly Brock My dachshund does this smile emoticon

Sonja Yoerg When I’m writing I often feel like a rescued plot hound.

Kim Spensley My favorite show is Lucky Dog too!!!! smile emoticon

Cathy Lamb Kim Spensley You should watch it with Rex!

Like · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 9:46pm

Kim Spensley I would love to!! wink emoticon

Like · Reply · May 25 at 9:51pm

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Sherie Nash That is so sweet…I love watching ‘Rizzoli and Isles’, reading…of course, my granddaughter is my heart…I love baking. I love going to church…I love my girls, my ‘girls’ and I love yard sales and going to Value Village and Frenchies, it’s like a drug really…totally relaxing for me….especially finding perfect baby clothes…doesn’t even matter if I have a baby…someone does.

Unlike · Reply · 2 · May 25 at 12:55pm

Kelly J. Phillips I have an old overstuffed chair I bought from a friend for $25. I keep my favorite Redskins Football blanket on the broken footstool. (One of the small legs are missing) but it’s awesome and so very comfy. I have a side table for my coffee and everyon…See More

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Cathy Lamb I so need a “reading chair,” Kelly J. Phillips

Jeannine Mallory Since I never had children, I find great joy when I am with dogs. I love to watch their faces , their antics, and just about anything they do. A dog can lower my blood pressure.

Unlike · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 2:05pm

Cathy Davis These 3 and of course reading!!!!

Unlike · Reply · 2 · May 25 at 4:01pm

Cathy Lamb You betcha, Cathy Davis

Like · Reply · May 25 at 9:47pm

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Dusti Douglass This is Parker, one of my greatest joys since I have no children. I love good stories in any form, crafts, travel, and cooking. These and my partner, Tracy, bring me most of the joy in my life. 😀

Unlike · Reply · 4 · May 25 at 4:49pm

Jeannine Mallory Good-looking kitters.

Like · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 4:55pm

Dusti Douglass Thank you – she’s a diva. 😉

Like · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 4:59pm

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Cynthia Dix I wish I had pictures of Family Cat #2 watching Rin Tin Tin Canine Cop! He would hear the theme music and come streaking through the house! He’d sit, bolt upright, in front of the tv, and Watch! You could see his head move as he tracked the action across the screen, and his ears flickered as he paid attention to the sound. Cracked me up!!

Unlike · Reply · 2 · May 25 at 5:02pm

Brandi Megan Granett Archery. Pure joy.

Unlike · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 6:35pm

Cathy Lamb Brandi Megan Granett Geez. Look at those arrows!

Like · Reply · May 25 at 9:47pm

Brandi Megan Granett I love my sport wink emoticon

Like · Reply · May 26 at 6:58am

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Robert Andweave This. These two.

Unlike · Reply · 3 · May 25 at 6:45pm

Cathy Lamb Both adorable Robert Andweave

Like · Reply · May 25 at 9:47pm

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Mandy Boelter Lange My husband, my kitties, my books. A few of my joys in life!! This picture is one of our kitties, Lacey, enjoying a show about big cats. I think those are lynxes on the screen. 😻😻

Unlike · Reply · 2 · May 25 at 7:42pm · Edited

Karen Sconiers White 😂😂😂😂Sweet boy!!!

Unlike · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 7:57pm

Cathy Lamb And where is the photo, Karen Sconiers White? Hmmmm????

Like · Reply · May 25 at 9:49pm

Karen Sconiers White Sadly I’m on tour and away from my funny furry people or I would send a photo of my puppy staring at the screen on the back porch thinking she has a chance at all the birds flying by. 😂🐶🐾

Like · Reply · May 26 at 4:48am

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Natalie Ivory These two most of all bring the greatest joy.. (hence why her middle name is Joy lol).. Also working on my genealogy, walks in the woods, gardening, and reading. I love how all the things I love keep me grounded. (also naps, I love those too.. They make me happy lol)

Unlike · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 8:01pm

Sandra Jean Lawrence I would post a pic, but I’m at work. My chocolate lab, Dixie, LOVES the laser pointer, to the point of quivering and drooling when we reach for it.

Unlike · Reply · 1 · May 25 at 8:58pm

Susan Gloss Parsons Right now, for me, it’s smiles from this little guy

Unlike · Reply · 4 · May 26 at 5:14am

Cathy Lamb replied · 1 Reply

Ruchi Brunvand Too funny!

 

Amy Rogers My 3 year old’s angel heart, my horses, coffee, and being back in the West. When we moved back from Georgia, my husband bought me a coffee at McD’s in Laramie, WY on the drive. The cup said, “Welcome Home”. I cried. My daughter’s heart transplant i…See More

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 25 at 12:29pm

Cathy Lamb Amy Rogers So glad your daughter’s heart transplant went well. Best gift ever ever ever. Post her picture!

Like · Reply · 1 · Commented on by Cathy Lamb · May 25 at 9:52pm

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Ginger Cabrera They bring me the most joy in life.

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Cathy Lamb Ginger Cabrera And they are all adorable.

Like · Reply · 1 · Commented on by Cathy Lamb · May 25 at 9:53pm

Barbara McGrath My artwork does it for me as does reading!!!

Unlike · Reply · Message · 2 · May 25 at 12:33pm

Cathy Lamb Barbara McGrath WOW and WOW and WOW. I love that!!

Like · Reply · Commented on by Cathy Lamb · May 25 at 9:53pm

Lenisa Alvey That dog is adorable. For me it is books, most definitely, as well as gardening.

Unlike · Reply · Message · 2 · May 25 at 11:23am

Cathy Lamb Lenisa Alvey Yep. Me, too.

Like · Reply · Commented on by Cathy Lamb · May 25 at 9:53pm

Molly Duncan Campbell Here’s one of my heartthrobs.

Unlike · Reply · Message · 2 · May 25 at 10:26am

Cathy Lamb I love him, Molly Duncan Campbell!!

Like · Reply · 1 · Commented on by Cathy Lamb · May 25 at 10:27am

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Rochelle Deans What an awesome dog. Right now, many of my small joys come from my two-year-old. When she’s not driving me up the wall, she is adorable, and says the most… interesting things. I have a feeling she’ll be a great storyteller one day.

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 25 at 10:40am

Sheri Poff My four year old basset hound Todd. He brings joy to the family! He is boss! Very stubborn! He loves to play and do little mischievous things for fun! He is very smart! He actually catches on to names of people and things very quickly! He is one spoiled rotten basset hound! We love him!

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 26 at 9:15am

Anne Hovey Brandolini Reading on the porch with my dog curled up next to me. My 65 pound lab pit mix who thinks he’s a lap dog.

Unlike · Reply · Message · 2 · May 25 at 1:11pm

Kathleen Bylsma Poor 17 year old Rascal atands patiently staring into the conor on the front porch, even thought the door is open wink emoticon He still loves his walks and is very spry!

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 25 at 11:58am

Dana Kennedy Criger This is my baby, River. She is totally like a little human with 4 legs. Love her!

Unlike · Reply · Message · 2 · May 25 at 3:17pm

Tammy Anderson Good story. Our loves are the same three but I have to add in shopping and movies.

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 25 at 10:18am

Jill Hammond This is a pic of my dog Bogey watching DogTv.

Unlike · Reply · Message · 2 · May 25 at 10:36am

CharmNal Nsmartalec My most favorite beings in this world – fun at the lake !

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 25 at 3:55pm

Christy Leigh Thank you for the story. This is precious !!!! ❤️

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 25 at 10:15am

Carol Woods Poppy the wonder dog!

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 25 at 5:03pm

Sheri Poff My 4 year old Basset Hound Todd –

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 26 at 9:21am

Molly Duncan Campbell Love!

Unlike · Reply · Message · 1 · May 25 at 10:25am

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I love writing.

Usually.

But what you are looking at now is the first page of a stack of pages that makes my brain short circuit.  It makes me think about holding a paper bag over my face and having an elephant sized anxiety attack.

It makes me wonder why I did not train to be a trapeze artist instead of being a writer. (True reasons I can’t do that job:  I am way too heavy, not flexible, scared of heights, and don’t like flying through the air while spinning.)

These are page proofs.

That is their official name. “Page Proofs.”

The unofficial name is “Welcome, Writer, To 10 Days Of Editing Hell.”

This is the last chance  for a writer to find and edit errors before the book goes to print.

This is chapter one, page one, of my next book The Language of Sisters, out in September.

Here are the things I’d rather do than edit page proofs.

1. Chase a jaguar.
2. Run from a jaguar
3. Learn how to get a rattlesnake to dance out of a basket
4. Dress like a ghost and parade around town while cackling.
5. Eat dandelions.
6. Dance around a pole in a bikini though I have given birth to three children.

By the time I get this intimidating stack of pages I have edited my book eleven times. Yes, eleven. It is obsessive, I know.

I don’t want to read it a twelfth time, bash me in the head, jangle my bones, slap me on the butt with a banana, I so don’t.

I edit about 50 of these pages a day.  This should not be compared to reading, for fun and games and delight, a book. Especially a book that is so scary you go hide in a closet or a book so gripping you are out of your own head and in a different world.

No, this is 50 pages I have to read as if I am pulling a fine toothed comb through every word on the page while reciting, by memorization, every word in the dictionary and all American grammar rules.

I cannot miss a missing ‘to,’ in this manuscript.

I cannot miss a needed comma.

I cannot miss a comma that SHOULDN’T be there.

I cannot semi – sleep through a passage, especially when I realize to my UTTER HORROR that I have made a HUGE mistake in my story. (Hear me scream, beat my chest, say bad words!)

When I realize that I truly, utterly SCREWED UP, I have to write a pleading note to, in my case, Paula, my copy editor, who is a saint, and BEG her to make the change. I beg and beg and beg. I am pathetic.

And when I find ANOTHER ERROR and I realize I have SCREWED UP AGAIN, despite already editing the book eleven freakin’ times, the begging begins once more.

(Please, Paula, please. Whimper. Sob. Whine.)

It’s quite humbling.

One time I brought a dead girl back to life at the end of the book when I accidentally gave her something to say.

Another time I changed the race of a character from the beginning of the book to the end.

I have messed up names and locations.

Still another time I…well, let’s not talk about THAT error.

Everything must be perfect. Perfect is extremely difficult. Unattainable. But I try.

When the proofs are mailed back, there is a sense of relief.

The book is done.

I am done.

My eyes are fuzzy, my hair unwashed, and I have odd nervous ticks coming up here and there. I am sleepless, my insomnia a living devil in my bed, but the book is off and I can do no more.

On to the next story until the hellish page proofs arrive at my front door, giggling evilly at me in that really mean way only page proofs can do.

But I do hope you enjoy The Language of Sisters, I truly, really, totally do.

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In March, Innocent Husband and I celebrated 23 years of marriage.

Twenty three years.

Three kids, one cat, two birds.

We’ve loved and laughed and had some thunder and lightning type arguments, although in our latter years we’ve really mellowed out.

We’ve gone through beautiful years, tough years, and a few that were brutal.

We buried our mothers in 2002, after both wonderful women fought cancer with strength and courage.

We buried our beloved fathers in 2007. One died from cancer, one from kidney and heart failure.

We’ve gone through the teenage years with our kids.

We’ve addressed all the problems that come with life, sometimes agreeing, sometimes not. We have never pretended our marriage has been perfect, because it has not been.

But we’ve fished, hiked, and skied, although I am a bad skier. We’ve had great Italian food and Thai drunken noodles. We’ve seen glowing sunsets along the beach and up in the snowy mountains.

We have loved and adored our dear children, the number one focus of our whole lives.

So one would think that we would celebrate our 23rd anniversary. Do something fun and exciting. We are still married, despite it all. We still laugh. We are a family, we are the Lambs.

But we were sick on our anniversary.

I brought soup to my brother, who was sick, along with his wife and son, and brought their wretched cold home with me.

So on our anniversary, we sniffled and coughed and exchanged cards.  We felt like hell. We looked like hell. We got coffee and went on a drive through the country. We saw the big red barn, a golden field, a hawk. Then we came home and collapsed on the couch.

We both agreed it was a relief to celebrate simply, to celebrate easily, to have no stress or expectations for a party or romantic dinner, that we could sneeze and hold hands and wish each other, “Happy Anniversary, baby.”

You’re still sexy, Innocent Husband, yes you are. Looking forward to a few more decades with you.

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