“Are they in the desert? Is he an alien? What’s on his arm? Is that from the aliens? Did he get shot? Who are they?  Are they the aliens? Is that their dog? Does the dog die? Just tell me now, does the dog die?  Did he just kill them? That town is really small. Whose house is that? Did he just break into that house? I thought he was a good guy? Why does that guy want to shoot him?  What happened to him? Why is he making that face?  Where’s the dog? Who is that guy? Is he going to shoot him?  Is he like a bully? What happens if they don’t give him their money? Oh. Did he just kick him or hit him in the balls? Why did he shoot that other guy? What did she say? So is that his dog now?  Who is she? Does she die? Are they going to kiss later? Why are they arresting him? What happened to the cows? Why is everyone in this movie so old? That’s not Han Solo. Is Han Solo going to kill that guy? Is he the bully’s dad? Is that little boy going to die? Is he going to be taken by aliens? Why doesn’t he remember? Is that the boy’s dad? He’s a good fighter. Are those the aliens? Is that Han Solo’s army? Where is the dog?”

“SHUT UP!!!!”

Fun times:)

I find I’m not so much sad as tired that another year has ended.  I aged this year, and while I don’t really like that, I know that it was necessary.  I’ve grown this year and I guess that’s all you can really hope for when looking back on a year of experiences.

So good-bye 2011.  I hope that what you’ve taught me will be useful in 2012:)

I keep reading the announcement over and over waiting for it to sink in.  I even asked my editor the other day, “So, I’ll really be able to go into a bookstore and actually buy my book?”

She chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, when you get to hold the ARC (Advance Reader Copy) in your hands, then it will start feeling real.”

I  hope so.  Because right now, even as I work through my editorial letter, even as I consider book covers and author pages, even though my insanely incredible agent Joanna (@josvolpe) keeps assuring me that, yes this is really happening, it feels too incredible to actually be real.

But it is – I’m going to be a published fantasy author!  *squee*

I’ll be launching a new website next month and will be sending out the link to everyone I’ve ever met.  (Just a forewarning)  But I’ll still keep this blog going – I’ll always need to a place to keep record of my kids’ fabulous adventures, even while embarking on some new adventures of my own;)

“What are you doing?” I shouted.

My 7yo daughter calmly replied, “I’m pretending to be a dying venomous duck.”

My 9yo son added, “And I’m the angry German leprechaun that’s killing her.  Oh, and I live at Home Depot.”

“Home Depot?” My daughter said with way too much enthusiasm, ” I LOVE Home Depot!” At which point she burst into song.  “Home De-pot, The Home De-pot, it’s the perfect place for purple people!”

“Argh!” my son shouted covering his ears, “My poor leprechaun ears!”

I’ll consider it fate’s little gift to me that I didn’t get a speeding ticket racing them to school.

My daughter, on the other hand, LOVES my hair.  She loves brushing it, petting it, trying to put it in new styles that she wants to see in her own long red hair.  This morning, she was brushing it while I got ready.

“You know, when I brush your hair standing behind you like this, it’s like you’re a babysitter, or a teenager, or someone a lot younger than you really are.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“No offense or anything.  It’s just that I can’t see the little lines by your eyes when I stand behind …”

“Roxy – stop talking.”

Another reason I don’t take time on my hair: avoiding unwanted critique from the always present peanut gallery.

“Er, okay,” I said, admittedly taken back a bit by her enthusiasm.  “We can do the 2 mile ‘fun walk’, and maybe get Aunt Molly or Aunt Kelly to do it with us.”

“And then after we do it, I won’t have diabetes anymore?” 

Her bright eyes stared up at me with all the hope that I never knew she was holding back.  She’s been so mature and accepting since her diagnosis, it never occurred to me that her cooperation was actually resignation.

My heart sank as I shook my head and said, “No, sweetheart, you’ll still have diabetes.  This is just to raise money so …”

“But you said it was for a cure!”  The excited hope faded as her eyes filled with tears and my heart broke a little more.

With her face buried in my tummy, I hugged her tight and explained how doctors and scientists were trying to find a cure so maybe someday she wouldn’t have it anymore.  But the walk was to help give money so they could keep trying.  Before my eyes, I watched this little girl rub the tears from her face, take a deep breath, and age about ten years.  Her moment of giving in to the fear and frustration of her life had passed and back was the resignation and acceptance.  “Can I wear a side pony-tail today for school?” she sighed.  “We’re dancing in gym class and I want to be able to whip my hair back and forth.”

It was more than a week later, that she came to me and asked if we were going to walk in that diabetes walk.  I’d actually put the flyer in the throw-away mail pile that tends to accumulate on our kitchen island, assuming it would be a few years before I brought it up again.  But she’d decided it would be fun if Aunt Molly and Aunt Kelly could come up and walk with her.  And maybe we could all wear purple.

So we are walking in the JDRF Walk for a Cure this October 29th in Indianapolis.  Our team is Roxy’s Team and if anyone would want to donate, I’ve attached a link to Roxy’s site.  I’ve never done a walk-for-a-cure before.  Apparently if Roxy raises $100, she gets a t-shirt.   I have a feeling it will be the best $100 t-shirt she’s ever had.

http://www2.jdrf.org/site/TR/Walk-IN/Chapter-IndianaState4195?px=1700746&pg=personal&fr_id=1486

7-year-old daughter: “Why don’t we just take mom’s car?”

Husband: “Because all the good CD’s are in my car.  If we can’t find my other keys then I’ll have to move all the good CD’s into mom’s car. Then I’ll have to move them back into my car after we find the other keys.  It’s a vicious cycle.”

My 9-year-old son entered the room: “Are you talking about mom?”

Husband: “What?”

9-year-old son: “Didn’t you just say a vicious psycho?”

Yeah. This is what I deal with on holiday weekends.  Feel the love.

You were love.  Simple and unconditional.  The kind that hugs just because you feel like it, laughs because kisses sometimes tickle.  You smiled when others smiled.  You saw the faces closest to you and fascinated at every expression.  You saw the world around you, and you didn’t care that it was full of things you didn’t understand.  You awed in every feel, every smell, every new sight and sound. Your eyes wide to every new amazement.  You loved.

My heart clenches at your absence. But looking at the world the way you saw it – I can’t help but smile.  I will have moments of heartache, moments of sorrow, of confusion.  Of anger.  I pray that in those moments, I will not dwell too long on what might have been.  But rather rejoice in what was.  Love.

“Will you just get out,” I hissed at him.  He inched closer.

I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore him when thunder crashed again.  For an instant I thought I heard a metallic scrap.  I looked at the dog.  His ears perked up.  That’s when the light fixture directly above me fell from the ceiling and landed on my lap.  I jumped in my seat as the dog yelped and raced from the room.

Sitting in total darkness now, I heard my son call out from the other side of the cracked-open bathroom door.  “Hey mom, the dog knocked one of the pictures off the wall ’cause he was running so fast down the stairs.  Can you make me some numchucks out of my old soccer socks?”

Some moments just seem to define what it is to be a mom.  Holding a broken light fixture while sitting on the toilet talking about homemade martial arts weapons - most definitely a mom-defining moment:)

Me: You have your class kick ball game today, did you put on lots of deodorant?

Son: Yes.

Me: Come here, let me smell.

Son: Ugh! *stomps upstairs* *sounds of rummaging in the kids’ bathroom* *comes back downstairs*

Son: Here. *he shoves his armpit in my face.”

Me: Good. Now let me smell the other one.

Son: Ugh!  *stomps back upstairs*

The scary part? This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.