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A Mother’s Day Shadow

meanderingthroughmidlife

mother's day

Mother’s Day was once a Day of Tears.  It shadowed my birthday, which invariably landed within a day or two of that somber Sunday.  Often, I would find myself curled up with a comforter, popcorn, and a Diet Coke. My movie of choice: Aliens.

Why?

My mom passed away at the tender age of 46 from pancreatic cancer, almost exactly six months from the day my stepfather died from a sudden heart attack.  This was after months of agonizing promises and care for a woman I hardly knew, and barely liked.

You see, probably like many kids, Mother’s Day meant my father taking my sister and I out to pick out flowers while threatening us to be good on Her day, or else.  No one told him he needed to follow the same rule.

When my parents divorced, I lived with Mom, and looking like my father meant that I was him, even if I wasn’t.  And maybe this was not true, but to my teenage brain, it was my truth.

Mom’s death meant the end to her suffering.  And a little bit of ours.  But the loss of both parents felt like a black hole had opened up beneath my feet.  I had no choice but to be an adult.  None.

For years, the holiday haunted me.

Especially when I was informed that my eggs were too old and I would have no child of my own.  Wanting a child and not being able to have one felt like the end for me.  Not that I had always wanted a child, but when I saw just how badly my better half wanted children, I was devastated. Work became nearly unbearable.  How could I teach others’ children knowing that I could not have my own?

But I did.  I beat the odds.  A combination of acupuncture, diet, and Reiki helped me.  I discovered I was pregnant the Tuesday before Thanksgiving in 2007.  I think my first two words were “Oh Shit.”

I really wanted my Mom.

Today I understand her a little bit better.  I know she did her best.

And the Universe has presented many women who have filled the gap for me.  Each of them has magically appeared when I needed her the most.

I have a loving son whom I could not be more proud of, and a husband with whom I have shared nearly half my life.   And then there is my 99 year-old grandmother, one of my few links to Mom, who I know is looking down on us.

So cherish your mom, and your motherly friends today.  But be mindful of those in pain.  Swallow your grumbles and bless the moment with friends and family by being present for them.  Show gratitude.  For your Mom is why you are on this Earth, whether you thought she loved you or not.  Believe that you are the blessing to others that you are and today share the love with those who mother you.

Fondly,

JMonell

 

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Aging Up

meanderingthroughmidlife

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Saturday is that day, the day I age up.

So many people say, “You’re only as old as you feel.”  But as I dash closer to the fifty yard line, I can feel a new urgency.  Anxieties have taken up residence in my brain, spinning thoughts faster than I thought possible.  How will we afford retirement?  What about the Munchkin’s college?  And a new urge to get healthy, which is chased by fears of illnesses one sees nightly on pharmaceutical advertisements that are crammed between scenes of my few favorite shows.

Oh shit.  I am getting old….er.

Switches are going off.  Do I really need work shoes with only a few weeks of school left?  Should we really invest in an extended warranty for the computer?  Gotta get the eyes checked…can barely read my favorite books anymore.

Sure there have been signs.  Like the shock I had after blowing out my knee two years ago while stepping out of a tree.  Or the fact that my newest colleague was a student when I first started teaching.  Then there’s the dryness of my skin on the back of my hands that reminds me of my grandmother.  And then my husband reminded me that we have been together for nearly half of our lives.

But somehow, I ignored these signs and focused on the day to day tasks that seem to have defined my life for the past ten years.  Work. Cook. Care for Munchkin.  Care for hubby.  Work.  Clean.  Volunteer when possible.  Soccer.  Church.  School. Soccer. Church. School. Write.

Damn.  What happened to my dreams? How did I let them slip away like sand?  Have they slipped away?  Is there still time?  Langston Hughes wrote of a “Dream Deferred”.  Maybe that’s what has happened to my dreams.  Not dead.  Just deferred.

It’s funny that for this birthday, all I want is time.  Time to relax.   Time to meditate.  Time to figure out who is this new old…er me.

Happy Writing!

JMonell

 

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Stress and Writing, or the not of…

meanderingthroughmidlife

stress

 

I am blessed.  I thrive on stress.  Usually.

But as I get older, I have noticed that just behind Stress is Distress.  Burn out actually, which is followed by RAGE.

There was a time when working full-time, going to graduate school, and trying to write felt like juggling oranges.  Sweet ones.  But now, I feel like the oranges are on fire.

So I make deals with myself.  I will start writing again when… the house is cleaned, the students’ essays are graded, Nana’s party arrangements are made, make it to the gym once per week, sign Munchkin up for camp, soccer season ends, school calms down, etc., etc., etc.

My life becomes like the pet hamster in his exercise ball.  I can see the end, but I keep rolling over and over and over.  I can’t break through the clear block to actually do something.  The frenetic energy makes me feel like the Taz from Looney Tunes stuck in slime, the kind you make with your kid on a rainy day with food coloring and Elmer’s.  Insert image here.

Writing during these moments rarely happens because as I plod along further into middle age, my tolerance decreases and I fall back to “But life was supposed to be like…”  Thoughts spin. My body twitches, especially the left eyelid.   And then I just want to drool in front of the TV.  If I am lucky, I will pick up a book.

But write?

It seems easier to call up a friend and vent.

Writing down those erratic thoughts can make my hand cramp.  And for the story I’ve been working on for three months?  Well, that is just about as disjointed as a bad sitcom.

But writing down those troubled thoughts in the privacy of the page makes you face the truth, whatever shape and size it is.  No matter how ugly it is. Truth is truth.  Mostly.

I need to be calm when I sit down to write.

Life needs to be somewhat neat and organized for me to punch words onto a page.

That’s what middle age has done to me.  Slowed me down.  But maybe that’s what’s supposed to happen anyway.

So dear audience, tell me how you do it.  How do you write when your life is enveloped in chaos?  Love to hear from you!

Happy Writing,

JMonell

 

 

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Kids and Reading: for Parents’ Eyes Only

meanderingthroughmidlife

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Happy Sunday everyone! And hopefully, happy Spring too.

A few times this weekend I have had conversations with moms who moan about their child’s ability to read, or lack of desire to read.  It’s nothing new to be asked questions about reading instruction, since it is the day job, but what struck me was how the moms approached reading as something little Johnny or Jane should do well because of school.

Somehow, reading = school.

And that’s a shame.  Really.

As an educator, I admit that the literacy systems in place today do little to encourage the love of reading.  Recently, school has been seen as a business and there are days I feel much more like a data analyst than a teacher.  High stakes testing has accelerated a stressful learning environment that focuses on getting from A to B, not on enjoying the journey of learning.

But when a parent continues that message at home by quizzing Johnny or Jane about what happened in a story just before bed, Johnny and Jane are taking school to sleep.

So here’s my two cents.  Do read with your child before bed.  Get into bed.  Snuggle up.  And read.  That’s it.

 

See, reading before bed is not so much about the book.  It’s about the time they spend with you.  Taking fifteen minutes to read aloud while sitting together will tell your child that you value them enough to take the time be with them.

It’s about your relationship with your child.

So when Johnny and Jane go to school the next day and are asked to read, they remember spending time with you.  The positive emotions you had while reading together transfers to the school experience.  And a “spoon full of sugar might help the medicine go down.”

Show your child that you value reading.  Let them see you read.  Fill your house with books.  Take them to the library.

DON’T JUST GIVE THEM A TABLET.

But that’s just my two cents.

Now, you’ll have to excuse me.  I’m off to continue The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler with my nine-year old.

Happy Reading!

JMonell

 

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Flame Wars

meanderingthroughmidlife

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Sorry I’ve been away for so long! I don’t know what happened to March, or the first part of April.  But life has been more hectic than normal, and my muse has buried her head through the snow to just below the screaming daffodils in my backyard.

But I was jarred when I read a comment under a social media post by a friend, who happens to be a writer.  The comment intimated that my friend had his ass handed to him on another post, a post that had to do with diversity in anthologies.  The person who commented was shocked at the lack of respect for my friend, and rightly so.

So I called my buddy to find out what happened.  And the conversation troubled me.

Now, it wasn’t the first post I had come across in recent weeks that had to do with diversity in anthologies, specifically horror.  Paul Doro asks about the prevalence of white men in Mainstream Horror: Where is the Diversity?

While Doro is speaking of film, there has been a lot of discussion about speculative fiction as well.  Should anthology editors require that submissions include the writer’s gender, race, and sexual preference?

I don’t think so.

This is not a new debate.  Many female speculative fiction writers, past and present, have used pseudonyms to hide their gender, and their identity.  BTW, I do the same.  In response to discrimination, women writers have created their own groups to support themselves.  Just look at Broad Universe.

But these recent posts are about race, gender, and sexuality.

So let me digress.

John Barthes  in his essay, “The Death of an Author” asserted that a reader must “separate a literary work from its creator in order to liberate the text from interpretive tyranny” (Wikipedia “The Death of An Author”).  The reader must regard the text as a singularity, and make his/her/their own interpretation of the text, therefore creating a relationship with it.  If a reader has that relationship, then the reader has a better chance of allowing the text to be evocative, and dare I say, memorable.  Maybe memorable enough to purchase the book.

It’s the reader that has the power to choose which texts should be published.  If a magazine, book, novella, script is not favorable to a large enough audience, then it dies on its own.  If it is beloved by a large audience, it does not matter how well-written the text is, or who wrote it.  Why else do we have Amazon and Goodreads reviews?

Popular opinion is powerful in the marketplace.

Now I am not saying that diversity shouldn’t be welcomed in the world of publishing.  Absolutely not.

But I’m not sure that affirmative action has a place in publishing.

Texts should speak for themselves, not for the writer who penned it.  Good texts are good texts.  They exist on their own, regardless of who penned them.  Can we ignore great art just because we don’t like the person?

I am saying that having flame wars between our brethren isn’t useful to any of us, except for those who wish to stoke the fires of discontent on social media.  Write on brothers and sisters! God knows the world needs more art.

Cheers!

JMonell

 

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The Great Divide

meanderingthroughmidlife

point of view

Today a colleague celebrated her birthday.

And I am twice her age.

In fact, I remember when she was a student at the school when I first started teaching.  While she was not my student, I can remember her walking through the hallways with friends, laughing and happy.

So as I munched on bagels with other teachers this morning, wishing her congrats between bites, I pondered about what makes us different, besides our age.

The newer colleagues think differently.  While I felt that earning the salary I do was the reward for years of dedicated service, they feel that I should work harder because I get paid more.  Working nights and weekends is commonplace even though I am nearly twenty-years into my career.  Many of the newer ones walk out at 3:15 without any papers, bags, or chromebooks.  And if I stay late, only we veterans can still be found at the copy machine after 4:00 p.m.  Some younger colleagues are so attached to their cell phones that I watch them play their games as they walk into the bathrooms.  I hide every glance at my muted phone buried within my purse.    During faculty meetings, I look forward to hearing from our union rep.  Others pack up, peck at their phone, or peer behind colleagues at the parking lot.  I struggle with new tech.  I used to struggle with tech period.  Younger colleagues dance circles around me with the latest apps and extensions, and I cling to the old ways: Let’s read aloud together.  What’s wrong with paper?

At first, I was frustrated.  I didn’t understand why people can’t follow the rules.  You know, the rules that have been in perpetuity that govern how we act at work.  Only my work world is now inside out.  The rules are no longer the rules because of  younger populist opinion.  Civility between colleagues is relegated to social media where we behave as is we like each other, alot.  We are supposed to be one unit, one team.  Instead the divide between old and new has become more apparent and wider than ever.

There’s this idiom: if you can’t beat them, join them.  So I decided to listen.  I tried to feel them out.  Look for explanations.  Find common ground.  I kept silent and heard their suggestions, some of which were very good.

And while I may not agree with their all their beliefs, and codes for living, I do feel that I understand why so many of the younger colleagues act the way they do.

And I try not to judge them.

But it’s hard.

And I feel old.

Which is why I run home so many nights with dreams of writing flowing as I grip the car’s steering wheel.

JMonell

 

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For love of a furry child…

meanderingthroughmidlife

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It’s been too long since I’ve posted on this blog, but 2018 has turned out to be quite a roller coaster, much of which has plunged and twisted.  And this was the case this week when our two- year old cat, Hudson went to have a teeth cleaning, and ended up having fourteen teeth removed.

Yes, I said fourteen.

Turns out that Hudson has stomatitis.

We had no idea.

Yeah, he had putrid breath.  But there was no drooling, no crying, and he was still so affectionate that we never thought that something so serious was happening.  And he is two.  Two.  That’s it.

Yes, he is a rescue.  We believe in rescuing cats rather than paying a breeder.  Hudson and Ripley are both rescue cats who spend most of their time inside.  Our last cats were the same and we rarely took them to the vet after the one almost died because of a vaccination.

Last year when I blew out my right knee, money was tight.  We didn’t take the cats for a check-up.  Not when it usually costs about $400.00 for the two of them.  And I wasn’t so sure that it was needed.  So we put it off.

Until now.

I would be lying if I didn’t confess that the thought of a $2000.00 vet bill didn’t make me pause.  Colleagues gasped, “You’re gonna spend that on your cat?”   And yes, for a moment, euthanasia crossed my mind, especially after googling stomatitis.  I don’t want any animal in pain.  For a brief moment I wondered if the Vet would adopt him.

And then I remembered that he is one of our furry children.  We would do anything for our son.  Anything.  I am sure you would too.

When we adopted Hudson, we heard this horrible story about how he and the rest of the litter were locked in a barn so their mother could not feed them.  The Farmer/owner left them to die.  A rescue group was called and they went in to take the litter of kittens.

And when we adopted him, we made a vow to care for him.

Even if that means a ton of money.

Children are expensive.  And when we have them in our lives, in our families, and in our society, we have taken a vow to raise them and care for them the best that we can, furry or not.

Recent events have made me believe that we are living in the Upside Down from STRANGER THINGS.

Are we really taking care of our children when so many don’t have enough food, live in shelters, and are victims of abuse?  Is putting guns in the hands of  teachers who job it is to TEACH them the best answer?  Do our schools need to have every door locked with an armed cop roaming about?  Isn’t that a prison?

As Americans, we’d better figure this out.

The problems our society faces are too complicated for a simplistic answer.  And when we fail our children, we fail as a nation.

“United we stand, divided we fall.”

JMonell

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Death

meanderingthroughmidlife

images

My heart is broken.  Six weeks into 2018 and there have been so many who have passed on from this world hopefully into the next.

First it was LeGuin, whose Left Hand of Darkness shaped my early college experience.  As a middle-aged adult I remember reading how she stood up for women writers.NPR’s tribute  speaks of her need to be counted as a writer and as a mother.

And then it was Dallas Mayr, AKA Jack Ketchum, a man I had met a few times at Necon, GSHW meetings, and a friend’s birthday.  Dallas was generous and warm, an everyday man who wrote about the darkest side of human nature.  When I heard of his passing, I ran to the basement to rummage through the book shelves for Peaceable Kingdom and its personal inscription, wondering how I had not thought of him often.  Entertainment Weekly heralded his death to the masses, complete with Stephen King’s tribute.  And to think I shared a drink and a meal with Dallas.

I wanted to write this post just after Dallas’ death, but I didn’t have it in me to put any words down.

Then a friend died.  An older woman I had wished to know better, and had intended to visit, but didn’t because of life’s hectic nature.  I remember thinking how I would visit her in her nursing home room. She had liked the cookies I had brought the last time.  Maybe I would ask a friend to come.  Only I didn’t.

And then this week, the unthinkable happened again.  The Parkland School Shooting.  As an educator, I am afraid, afraid of when it will happen in our school.  It has happened so often in America and yet we play out the same response, pray, debate, and drop the subject.  As a mother, I cried and ran home to hug my son.  I pray everyday it won’t happen in his school.  The memory of him recounting the first time he had a lock down drill in kindergarten shook me.  Children should not have to experience such things.

Death is so often casually dealt with.  Some grieve.  Some ignore it.  But one thing is true to me, the Grim Reaper is walking about our purple mountains, our fruitful plains,  from sea to shining sea.

May we transform to become better human beings.

JMonell

 

 

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Writing Through Chaos

meanderingthroughmidlife

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So I didn’t write last week.  Except for this blog.

The short story I started two weeks ago is still sitting in a word doc waiting for me.  And I confess that I’m a bit stuck.  For me, writing is a discipline.  Kinda like working out.  Most weeks, I have a plan, but if I deviate, then the plan shatters.

It’s no way to write.

When I was younger, I could commit pages of verbal vomit to a doc.  The words would just flow from beneath my fingers onto the page.  Images would shoot between my eyes, guiding the story.  It wouldn’t matter how much housework had to be done, or papers needed to be graded.  Writing came easier than it does now.

Now I need to plan.  Pantsing a piece hardly happens.  And if it does, then it falls like a poorly constructed Jenga tower.  The problem is that time is tight.  Taking the time to plan my writing in advance of stapling my ass to the chair in front of the desk is like planning my workouts.  Daily life can derail me. I’ve adopted a new mantra “Just Skip It” instead of “Just Do It.”

So I have been thinking about giving up WORD and GOOGLE DOCs to jump into the pond with Scrivner.  I do like to be organized.  And I think that some of the outlining options would help me craft tighter tales.  The problem I have is that I want to be able to move from my Windows desktop to my IPAD.  A friend told me I’d have to buy both Scrivner for Windows and for IOS.  And then I’d have to use Dropbox to move files from one platform to another.

This sounds complicated.

So I’d like to hear from you.  Do you use Scrivner?  Is it worth the money?  How has it helped you?  Or did you try it and find it bothersome?  Please send me some comments! 🙂

Hope to hear from you!

JMonell

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Chaos Theory

meanderingthroughmidlife

Chaos theory word cloud glowing

It’s almost 8:00 p.m. on Wednesday night. Time to watch XFiles.  Be back later.

Bet you weren’t expecting that were you…  I love the Xfiles.  The show grounds me in a simpler time.  DH and I used to watch it as part of our “date night”.  And tonight, I need grounding.

Most of the time things run pretty smoothly, but this week Chaos Theory has reigned.  It began with some bumps in the road of my life last week with a sick grandmother and a frozen water pipe.  But then all hell broke loose.  Microwave died.  DH accidentally sliced off part of his thumb.  Cell phone software was corrupted and required an hour phone call with an Apple tech.  And today, Munchkin, who rarely rides the bus, but needed to because of the delayed opening, banged his head pretty hard when a Mercedes rammed into the back of the bus.

There is nothing like getting a phone call at work telling you that your child is being taken to the hospital.  Nothing.

And being middle-aged, I found myself unnaturally calm.

I had the wherewithal to scribble assignments on the white board in the front of my classroom and label the handouts for the remaining classes.  I even turned off the computer, locked up my laptop, and grabbed a diet coke from my mini-fridge along with some pretzels.

Don’t judge me.  I was starving.  And I know how long emergency room visits can be.

I didn’t even speed on the way home.  Or panic when DH got to the hospital to find out that Munchkin wasn’t there.  I was really good.

Until I saw my Munchkin red-faced and teary-eyed standing next to the other injured child.  And then I felt his fear and his relief in seeing me.  The tears welled up and my hands shook a bit.

And then Mommy mode took over again.  Fill out forms.  Hand over insurance card.  Listen to PA and her instructions.

All the while my poor DH who had just had a very difficult follow-up for the thumb with his doctor sat in disbelief.  How much shit can one week dole out?  “My boss isn’t going to believe me,” he said.

The twenty-something me would have been hysterical.  The thirty-something me mad as hell at the woman driving the Mercedes.  But the late forty-something me has had some experience under her belt.  I’ve been through rough patches before.  And I’ve got a little faith.

Late forty-something me lives by “it is what it is”.  I have been practicing non-judgement and mindfulness.  Meditation is important to me.  And so is surrender.  We can’t control what happens to us.  We can only control our reactions.  The rest we have to let go.

If only I knew that when I was younger.

We live in a world where you hear about nuclear missile drills and false alarms.  We witness Mother Nature’s wrath in her crazy weather patterns.  We have leaders who toss words about like cheap dirty underwear, not caring about the repercussions of their word choices.  Every day we hear about human horrors: abuse, murder, corruption.  We are at the whim of corporations and their greed or politicians and their policies.

And truthfully, we cannot control these things.  We can only control our reactions.  Trying to be calm in the middle of the storm is like sitting in the middle of a merry-go round.  If you slide toward the edges, you will fall off.  If you sit in the middle of your soul, you will still witness and feel the effects of Chaos, but you will be able to control your reactions and give yourself the space to breathe.

Namaste,

JMonell