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Archives for January 2014

My Little Mommy Experiment

January 9, 2014 • 5 Comments

When I was pregnant with my first child, I heard this a lot from mothers: “Being is a parent is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” I would smile and nod, secretly thinking that these women must have led pretty cushy lives if the act of raising a child could lead them to such a conclusion. I was confident that my experience would be completely different. After all, at the age of thirty-five, I had survived more than my share of drama including a wilderness lifestyle, near-death experiences, and truly disastrous parenting. As a model, I’d succeeded in an industry notorious for failure, had traveled the world on my own from the age of fourteen, and lived through many of the issues associated with bad childhoods and jet-setting lifestyles. I was certain that I would, if not breeze through parenthood, at least find it a lot easier than life’s other challenges.

Nine years and three children later, I am here to tell you what you’ve probably heard a million times before: Being a parent is the hardest thing I’ve ever done–by far. In fact, I sometimes wonder if everyone else has a secret to making it easier that I’m just not clued into. Mind you, I’ve never had childcare and I’ve looked after my children at home while running a business and writing a book, but even the “easy” days with the children often seem difficult. I know from observing other children and other parents’ comments to me that my children are, if anything, normally on the more “well-behaved” end of the spectrum. But still, I sometimes find myself thinking, oh my god, this is just too hard. Is this normal? Do other people’s kids have this many meltdowns/tantrums/fights/ per day, or do I just have a harder time coping with it than other moms?

So I decided to do a little experiment. On one particularly awful day about six months ago, I decided that instead of crying, I would document it. While the kids slept, I wrote down everything that had happened that day. My intention was to use it to compare notes with another mom, which never actually happened…until today. I am going to share it here for two reasons–first, because I would love to hear your own thoughts and stories, and second, because I want other parents out there to understand this: if you are ever struggling, you are not alone.

Let me preface this by saying the most obvious thing in the world–that I love and adore my children beyond description, and that the following story has nothing to do with my love for them or my understanding that they were simply going about their business of being normal children. And no, this was not a typical day–my husband being out of town and my being ill, among other things, contributed to the mayhem. But to be honest, it was also not the worst parenting day I’ve ever had!

I wake up at 8AM, exhausted from not enough sleep. When I say “wake up”, I mean the time I actually get out of bed, as opposed to the five or six times I’ve been awoken in the night by children and insomnia. Quite simply, my two youngest children are horrible sleepers.

            As I change Ayla’s (17 months) diaper, Emerson (3) goes to the bathroom. I go in to check on his progress, as he has recently been potty trained. The toilet seat is covered in pee from his attempt at emptying the potty’s contents into the toilet. Mixing praise with admonishment, I clean up the mess. He throws a tantrum when I won’t let him unwind the entire toilet paper roll. While this is happening, Ayla hits her head on the corner of the countertop and starts screaming. I run to her, which only increases Em’s cries. I end up with both of them in my arms, each screaming in an ear.

            Breakfast time. I get Em’s cereal, which he proceeds to spill all over himself and the counter. I clean it up and get new clothes for him. He throws a fit when I try to dress him, though, because he wants to wear a shirt that’s in the laundry. I finally get him settled with a toy and head to the bathroom for a shower. I put Ayla up on the countertop to play with the water and toothbrushes to distract her while I shower. Halfway through she starts screaming because her leg gets caught behind the faucet, so I get out of the shower to help her–and see that she’s put enough toilet paper into the sink to make the water nearly run over the edge. Soaking wet, I fix the problem and get back in the shower, even though she’s screaming inconsolably by now because I’ve done away with her beloved TP. The cries continue as I dry off, put lotion on, and dry my hair. No makeup for me today, as I can’t bear even one more minute of this crying. I scoop Ayla up and bring her into my bedroom, trying to distract her with my hairbrush. As I’m getting dressed, Em wanders into the bedroom and starts jumping on the bed. Ayla joins him, finally distracted from her misery, and there is peace for exactly one minute, which I use to pull my clothes on and attempt to accessorize. Then Ayla pulls Em’s hair, and all hell breaks loose. I spend the next twenty minutes alternately comforting and scolding each of them.

            I make my way into the kitchen, and get myself a coffee and a piece of toast while I try to check my email. As I’m doing this, my phone rings. It’s Avery’s (almost 8) school, saying he is sick and would I please come and pick him up. Avery, who has a different dad than my other two kids, was dropped him off at school this morning by his father and it’s my day to get him back. It’s pouring rain out, so I stuff the kids into boots and jackets and head out the door. Before I pick Avery up I need to hit the post office, a place that’s famous for bringing out the worst behavior in my two youngest. Bracing myself, I get them out of the car and speak to Em about expectations, good behavior and subsequent rewards, which he seems to understand. But the minute we get in line, my worries are founded. The store is eerily quiet, the silence punctuated only by my children’s gleeful laughter as they try to rip envelopes from hooks and the sound of my own manic voice demanding they stop. There are four women in line ahead of us and one behind. I watch as one by one, their eyes avert and their lips purse. Emerson finally settles down when he discovers a cool card on the counter with coins in it. I warn him to be careful, and miraculously, he is. He turns it over in his hands, asking questions, until the post lady plucks it from his fingers and says, “let’s not ruin it, or no one will want to buy it.” Steam emits from my ears as I pluck it out of her hand and pointedly return it to my son. “Since when is looking at something ruining it?” I growl at her, slamming my package down on the counter. Yep, told her.

            When we get to Avery’s school, I park thirty feet from the entrance and ask Em to wait in the car with a now-sleeping Ayla, because I know I will be back in two minutes flat and getting them in and out of the rain again will be a huge ordeal. He agrees, but by the time I get back into the car with Avery (who seems absolutely fine to me, btw) Em is screaming as if he’s been attacked by an ax murderer. I comfort him, apologize, and drive to the grocery store to pick up some soup for Avery. Once there, Ayla commandeers a mini shopping basket on wheels and starts running wild with it. As I chase after her, Em decides it’s all a big fun game and grabs his own cart, mowing down unimpressed shoppers as he runs in the opposite direction from me. I put Avery in charge of going after him while I round Ayla up. I pick her up and she starts to scream, so I put her under my arm like a football, where she writhes furiously. Ignoring dirty looks, I herd Emerson to the cash register while Avery badgers me with requests for gum and chocolate. As I’m typing my info into the pinpad to pay, Ayla and Em start ripping the wrappers off chocolate bars. This is when I yell. Loudly. Stuffing the bars back into their wrappers, I throw Ayla over my shoulder and grab Em’s arm and pull them out to the van, Avery in tow. When we get to the car, Ayla tries to escape into the backseat, so I grab her and plunk her into her car seat. As she screams and arches her back, I manage to buckle her in only by pressing my elbow into her chest while yanking the straps around her body.

            Back at home, it’s lunchtime. Avery likes the lentil soup I bought, but Em and Ayla both take one bite and ask for pickles instead. I bribe Emerson into finishing his soup by promising we’ll make cookies later, but Ayla is a different matter. I give her a bowl of mashed carrots and peas, which she normally loves, but she protests by throwing it across the room and leaving a splattered orange mess across the floor, window, and chair. As I’m cleaning it up, Em asks if he can watch The Incredibles. I put the DVD in, and then make the huge mistake of turning it on for him. He utterly and completely melts down, insisting he wanted to be the one to press the PLAY button. I concede to temper the storm, even though this means ten minutes of pressing buttons to get back to the beginning of the DVD, all the while listening to Ayla scream because she slammed her finger in a door, she can’t get a toy from under the bed, and the cat ran away from her. Em finally gets to press his beloved PLAY button, he settles down, and I run to Ayla. As I’m comforting her, Avery comes by with the cat’s toy and randomly whips it at Ayla’s face. It doesn’t hit her, but she starts to scream, so it’s time for a teaching moment with Avery.

            It’s cookie-making time. The kids clamor around me, competing for counter space. I turn my back for a minute to use the microwave, and Ayla gets hold of the egg carton. I make a lunge for it, but it’s too late. Three eggs fall onto the counter, breaking into a messy puddle of yellow. I look at the clock, wondering if it’s too early for a glass of wine.

            While the kids eat their cookies, I finally manageto check my email. There is a message from my editor that needs to be attended to. As I’m responding to it, Ayla climbs up beside me and starts pressing buttons on my laptop with her chocolate-smeared fingers. I bat her hand away, so she tries to close the computer screen as I’m typing. Just as I’m finishing up the email, my husband, who is out of town, calls on Skype. Em and Avery come rushing in at the sound of his voice. We chat for a few minutes, me bridling Ayla all the while as she tries to kiss the computer screen and hammer buttons. Suddenly her laughter turns to a cry, and she throws up all over the keyboard. Lightning fast, I grab a cloth and clean it up before it can drip into the cracks. Remy tells me he needs to head to a meeting and says goodbye. The minute his face disappears from the screen, Em melts down into an inconsolable puddle of misery because he didn’t get to press the hang-up button. I let it ride for a bit, but when his tune hasn’t changed ten minutes later, I try to call Remy back. He doesn’t answer, which sends Em into such a state of outrage that I carry him into the bedroom, place him in a chair and close the door so he can cry it out.

            By late afternoon, the clouds have magically disappeared along with Avery’s mystery ailment, so I send all the kids outside to jump on the trampoline. Ayla, wise for her months, decides to don her helmet. For the next thirty minutes, I act as umpire and nurse as my children collide, laugh, scream, and sustain injuries the likes of WWF.

            Dinnertime. I’m currently battling a cold and a pulled muscle in my back, so I go on a house-wide search for Advil. As I’m looking, the children follow me everywhere like pint-sized groupies, getting underfoot and front-of face, pulling everything from cabinets. No Advil, no Tylenol. The thought of piling the kids into the car to go and get some is unbearable, so I call upon my neighbor, who kindly dispatches a bottle of Tylenol over via my messenger Avery. Hooray–the best thing that’s happened today.

            Since Remy is out of town, I’m making deli pizza and broccoli for dinner. I set the kids up with building blocks and leave them in the living room. As I put toppings on the pizza and chop the broccoli (about ten minutes time), I intervene no less than four fights between the three of them and assign two time-outs. At one point, Em yells at the cat when she retaliates against a fur pull from Ayla. “Don’t hurt my sweet baby girl!” he says. It’s adorable, but I can’t help thinking of a cartoon I once saw of a hunter running to the rescue of a lion stuck on some train tracks because he wanted to have the thrill of the kill for himself. And I’m right, because a few minutes later Ayla is screaming bloody murder about a swat over the head from Em.            

            My phone rings as I’m sliding the pizza into the oven. It’s my friend Shannon, who I’ve been trying to catch up with for two weeks. Within five minutes, Ayla is shrieking to get up in my arms, Em is yelling about a show he wants to watch, and Avery is tapping me on the shoulder because he wants me to input my password for an update on a video game. I pick Ayla up and put her on my boob (17 months old, sooooo ready to wean her) and input the password as I’m talking. Em finally gives up and announces that he needs to poop. I actually relax for a moment, until Em comes out of the bathroom, bottomless, and proceeds to make a long brown smear on the sofa with his bum. I excuse myself from my phone call, grab his arm and haul him back into the bathroom. There, I review potty procedure with him, but by this time he’s moved onto more pressing matters. “Mommy. My wee-wee is too long!” he says, gazing down at it in horror, and indeed it is. I assure him it will shrink back to its normal state once he stops touching it, and then I go into the kitchen and open a bottle of wine. It’s only five o’clock, which means three more hours until the kids’ bedtime.

            Since Poppie is out of town, the kids get to sleep in bed with me. Em drifts off and Avery lies still, but Ayla is hell on wheels, rolling around and kicking her brothers. I get up with her, put Neil Diamond on, and she finally settles into my arms. While I’m dancing around the darkened room with her, Avery gets up twice to report first a tummy ache and then a headache. I know he’s looking for sleep-time stall tactics, so I simply tell him to go back to bed. When Ayla finally drifts off, I lay down with her. Like magnets, the boys roll toward me. I sit up and look at the landscape of our bed. We have a king size mattress, and four bodies are crowded onto one-third of it, leaving me with a pencil-like sliver of space at the very edge. I lay down again and close my eye, reflecting on my day. I think of Em this morning, when he saw me in my nightie and said, “I like your dress, Mommy, it’s really cute!”. I think of Ayla, who stubbed her toe and then spent the next few minutes trying to kiss it better. I think of Avery, who told Remy he looked like a Minecraft head when his picture froze on Skype. And then I think of the key gems from my own mouth today, which included, “your sister is not a drum” “no playing on the iPad while you’re pooping” and “the toilet brush is not for brushing our hair”. And, despite my exhaustion, I actually start to giggle. Quietly, of course, so I don’t wake the little ones beside me. For they are angels, after all.

So, there you have it. Tell me, fellow mommies (and daddies!), how does this day rate compared to your experience…horrible, average, or (gulp!) better than normal?

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My little angels on a better day

Xoxo Cea

 

 

 

Olive You So Much

January 8, 2014 • 4 Comments

My 23-month-old daughter is addicted to olives. And when I say addicted, I mean this: I’ve never taken crack and have no idea what its hold feels like, but I can only imagine that Ayla is dealing with the toddler equivalent. I mean, it’s bad. Deep in the throes of her dependence, she’ll do anything to score one of her beloved little fruits, including breaking into the fridge, turning on the charm, screaming, thrashing, and even forgoing sweets in favor (which I guess is a good thing). I don’t dare cook with them, for no sooner will they be chopped than my back will turn and the lot will be devoured. She’ll take any type, although she does favor small, black, pitted Kalamatas. When we go to the grocery store, I have to sneak them into the cart lest she spy the container and furiously try to rip the lid off to get her fix. As just happened the other day, in fact. There we were, breezing happily through the deli section when she caught me doing the deed. She made a grab for the tub, and I gently pried it out of her vice grip. She started to howl, so in the interest of trying to avoid a scene, I gave her “one olive for each hand”. She swallowed them whole and started screeching for more. Determined to finish my shopping and not give in–not to mention that my 3-year-old son was busy “shopping” for everything in sight–I remained firm and tucked the addictive substance under a floppy head of lettuce.

Well. Have you ever seen a toddler shriek so fiercely they throw up? That’s exactly what happened, right there at Extra Foods, in front of an audience of both sympathetic bystanders and highly annoyed fellow shoppers. And it didn’t end there. My normally sweet little angel proceeded to scream in the car until we arrived home, whereupon she stopped long enough to down a handful of her beloved morsels like a child starved. Using my best distraction tactics, I eased the tub back into the refrigerator and slowly backed away. But then I saw her eyes set upon her empty bowl, and I knew beyond a doubt that hell was once again about to break loose.

So what does all of this have to do with writing? Not much, except to say that the olive issue has become one of my daily battles as I’m attempting to practice my craft. Pursuing a writing career with young children and no childcare is both possible (which is why I love it) and very challenging (which is why some days I feel like drinking before noon). Often I’m forced to write in the eye of the hurricane, with the kids running around me, and lately a lot of that storm has involved the dreaded O-word. So, is it time for an intervention and trip to Mediterranean food rehab? Stay tuned…

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Don’t let the angel face fool you! 

Xox Cea

From There to Here in Eleven Months, or Editing the Manuscript: Fantasy vs Reality

January 6, 2014 • 18 Comments

One week ago, I took a package down to the post office and slapped it onto the counter with a silly grin. Never mind the odd glance from the cashier; I was there to mail the final proofread pages of my manuscript back to my publisher, and it was my moment to celebrate! After all, after eleven months of editing my soon-to-be-released memoir, North of Normal, my work was done. Um, say what? Could this really be true? Not venturing into the bottomless-pit-of-fodder of the 30+ drafts I’ve worked on over six years to make my book good enough to get an agent, and then a publisher (I’ll save that for another day), what I will talk about here is the difference between what I imagined the editing process would be like versus its reality.

Before I got a publishing deal, I spent more than a little bit of time staring off into space when I should have been writing, daydreaming about what it must be like on the other side. From my own terrain, that of a hopeful would-be author, I imagined the editing process would go something like this:

1. Editor reads manuscript, loves it and buys it

2. Editor goes through manuscript, marking where I should delete or expand, and returns it to me

3. I make requested changes

4. Editor rereads, praises changes and sends to proofreader

5. My book goes to print

Can someone say this chick is green? As it turned out, there was a whole team of lovely folks whose job it was to help me rewrite, reevaluate, and rejig my book. In actuality, the process looked a lot like this:

1. Canadian editor reads my manuscript and buys it, and a week later a US editor reads my manuscript and buys it. They even tell me they love it! Yay, I got the first point right.

2. Since my book is bought by HarperCollins in both Canada and the US (not always the case – often they are bought by difference publishing houses in different countries), my two editors decide between them that Iris from Canada will be my main editor. I must say here that both she and Claire, my US editor, have been two of the most awesome people I have ever e-met (they are in Toronto and New York respectively, so we haven’t met in person yet). Encouraging, insightful and respectful, they’ve been way more enjoyable to work with than I could have predicted.

3. Nearly two months after Iris buys my book, I haven’t heard another word from her by either phone or email. I know that my pub date is more than a year away, so there’s no big rush, but secretly I’m freaking out a little that she’s completely forgotten about my book/reread it and decided she hates it and just doesn’t know how to tell me. But then my first advance installment arrives in the mail, and I relax a bit. Surely they wouldn’t be sending me money if they’d changed their minds? I muster up my courage and send Iris a check-in email. She responds enthusiastically, apologizes for being busy and tells me she’s looking forward to getting started on my book. Phew!

4. Three weeks later, I get a detailed email from Iris with the changes she’d like to see to my manuscript. Because I’m highly motivated/obsessive-compulsive, I bang out the edits in about two weeks. Iris seems a little taken aback by my speed, but praises my efforts and tells me she hopes to read it in the next few weeks. I grin gamely and vow to craft out with the kids every day to keep my mind off her future potential reaction.

5. As promised, I get a detailed response from Iris about a month later. Overall she’s happy, but she wants a few more tweaks. My husband occupies the kids, I work on the ms over the weekend and send it back to Iris on Monday. Once more, she admires my speed and politely tells me she’ll get to it “as soon as I can”. I sigh and break out the glue gun again.

6. A couple weeks later, Iris lets me know she’s happy with the changes and ready to send it to copyediting. Hooray! I assume this is the last step until first pass pages. Hahaha.

7. About a month later, I get an email from a lovely woman named Noelle. She is the managing editor at HarperCollins, and she lets me know that both she and my freelance copy editor, Allyson, have read the ms and are sending it back to me with their markups. Excitedly, I open the document to take a look. Omg, horror of horrors. There is virtually not one single page of my whole, entire, ninety-thousand-word manuscript that does not have a red (for Allyson) or blue (for Noelle) comment or edit on it. Instructed to either accept or reject changes with my own color, green, I get to work. I seriously cannot believe how many times I use the words “terrified” (nineteen) and “crunched” (twelve). Thank god for thesaurus.com.

8. After sending the ms back to Noelle, she and Allyson (who is amazingly fabulous, by the way, the perfect combo of brilliant, critical and reassuring) both reread it and return it to me for a few further tweaks. I’m doing an awesome job, Noelle tells me, which makes me embarrassingly and disproportionately happy. And as soon as I finish this round of edits, she adds, the ms will be ready to send to Claire. My tummy feels a little nauseous, just for a sec.

9. Though I adore Claire, she intimidates me the tiniest bit. At this point I haven’t communicated with her a lot yet, and she’s such a legend in the business that I can’t help worrying a bit about her reaction. Claire reads the book and gets back to me with her comments. Thankfully there aren’t many of them, because they are all valid and, um, served without sugar. Ack!

10. I incorporate changes based on Claire’s comments and send the ms back to her and Iris. Perfect, Iris says, now she’ll just forward it on to legal. Say what? There’s another little twinge in my tummy, but this time it’s similar to the way a customs officer makes me feel like a criminal just for coming through his lineup. No worries, Iris assures me, their lawyer just need to be on the lookout for possible libel issues because my story is a true one.

11. HarperCollins’ US lawyer reads the ms and calls me to go over a few things. She just wants a couple of identifying features changed, and that’s that. She lets me know she’ll be sending it on to the HC Canadian lawyer next, and we end our final email convo by exchanging cute pics of our kids. Happy day.

12. A week or so later, I hear from Iris again. She’s had their Canadian lawyer look at it and sends me a list of her notes. Clearly, things in Canada are a little different. The Canadian lawyer not only wants several additional changes, she also wants some validation that my story is real. I know there have been some issues with fictionalized memoirs over the years, so this turn of events is not totally unexpected. I send photos, school and divorce records, and a list of contact people from my former lives. Iris has a brief and reportedly pleasant phone conversation with my father, and everything’s A-okay. I stop obsessing.

13. I get one more email from Noelle, asking me to deal with a few last-minute tweaks from Allyson, my copy editor. I do so, and Noelle sends the ms on to Iris.

14. Iris asks me to draft the changes suggested by the lawyers. She then sends my response on to Doug, her assistant, to key these edits in so that we don’t get too many drafts circulating, of which there are currently about twenty between myself, Noelle, Claire, Iris, Doug and my agent Jackie. A bit of confusion ensues as to which one is the most recent.

15. Doug inputs the final changes and sends the ms back to me for approval. I accept, he sends back a message saying it is now going to proofreading before being sent to typesetting. Once again, I assume my job is done. Not so.

16. A few weeks later, I receive a package in the mail from HarperCollins Canada – my typeset manuscript!! I spend a few minutes drooling over the layout and marveling at its physical likeness to a real book. Then, while my husband plays with the kids at the park that weekend, I sit on a nearby bench and proofread and mark it up as instructed. As much as I had been dreading reading my ms for the thousandth time, to my surprise, I enjoy the process. The typeset pages give me enough distance from my own writing to feel like I am actually reading – yes, a real book!

17. Three weeks before Christmas, I receive a very special item in the mail: an advance reader copy of my book. This is essentially an exact mockup of the book, minus input of final proofreading edits and reviews on the back cover. I hold it in my hands, and for a moment I really am filled with the feeling I had hoped for: a sense of pride and accomplishment.

18. Just before Christmas, I receive my US first pass pages to proofread and mark up. I complete the edits on a day just before New Year’s, and voila – here we are. A much more involved, detailed and rewarding experience than I’d ever imagined. I’m happy and relieved to be finished, but also a little achy inside, because despite everything, I really did enjoy writing this book, as well as – yes – the editing process. I guess that can only mean one thing: time to start writing another one!Image

My husband holding my advance reader copy, peekaboo Emerson in the background

Xoxo Cea

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Nearly Normal

North of Normal

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Copyright 2021 Cea Sunrise Person