Anne Lamott: Inspiration in the Flesh

When I first started writing, Anne Lamott's words fueled me.

In Bird by Bird, she freed me to write "shitty first drafts" by airing out the dirty secret that all good writers have to write them to get good second drafts and terrific third drafts.

In Operating Instructions, her raw yet poetic observations about the little details that make up motherhood inspired me to see and record the beauty of a snotty, red-faced tantrum. She gave me the courage to capture it all, the highs and the lows, the joys and the misery, with unflinching honesty. Every time one of my kids delays bedtime with a request for a glass of water, her description of trudging back up the stairs, like a dinosaur dragging his giant tail pops in my brain and makes me smile.

When I saw that Anne Lamott was coming to the Chicago suburbs to promote the paperback edition of her latest novel, Imperfect Birds, I was as giddy as a little kid counting down to Easter. I couldn't believe that I was going to have a chance to be in the same room with the woman who had been inspiring me for so long, to hear her speak and answer questions.

At first I was almost surprised to see how small she seemed, standing up at the podium like a tiny Medusa with a head full of dreadlocks. But then a hand went up in the semi-circle of folding chairs, and someone in the crowd of eclectic fans asked a question, and the conversation flowed fast and furious, electric with inspiration. She spoke about:

Beauty and Her Mother's Flawed Expectations
"My life was changed irrevocably when I was 16 and Ms Magazine came out. It was a one-way ticket to self-loathing. I was marinaded in my mother's anxiety that only men mattered."
"To refuse to diet is an act of generosity to all women. It's a refusal to judge yourself."

Raising Strong Girls
"The stakes are high with our girls and that's why we need to be their lighthouses. We need to show them that the respect they are so desperate for can only come from within."

Mining Her Pain to Write
"I am the happiest person I know yet over a third of my life really threw me. It was scary, and it was hard, and it hurt. I drank myself pretty close to death. I loved cocaine and meth and pills and it was awful, so painful. ... It feels awful to get that burnt, charredness off of us, but only through writing can we do that."

Hating Being a Guest on The Colbert Report
"Being on Colbert was the most stressful thing I've ever done and I would never do it again. I worried about it for two weeks. I tried to tell myself that I was not here to be fodder for an entertainment show, that I was a precious city on a hill, a beautiful daughter of god, but I still worried myself sick."

We could have talked all night, asking questions about writing, motherhood and faith, but the time went too fast. She closed by reading excepts from her novels, filled with deeply human characters who fart, curse, love and hate. I loved hearing her read her words, and watching her smile as she introduced her characters like old friends you can't help but love.

Terrible Parenting Moments: Missing the Bus

In a few weeks, the Silicon Valley Mom Blogs will be permanently redirected to Technorati.com. I'm indulging in a walk down memory lane, reading my old posts there, filled with the angst of juggling motherhood. As I work, the kids are at home, enjoying their first day of spring break with a babysitter. A few years ago, having a calm afternoon was just a dream.

Last fall, on a beautiful September day full of lingering summer heat, Bella stepped onto the bus for her first day of kindergarten. She had been a shy and often tentative child for the first five years of her life, but she didn't hesitate as she skipped onto the bus. She had been looking forward to kindergarten all summer and she was thrilled to be riding the bus to school. She was ready.

When Bella returned that first day, she walked off the bus slowly but proudly. I could tell that she wanted to run into my arms, but was self-conscious about acting as cool as all the second and third graders around her. Her beaming grin, however, was not tempered by any inhibitions. She'd had a great day and was thrilled to find me at the agreed upon spot to tell me all about it. She'd stepped out into a new world, confident that the security of home would be awaiting her triumphant return.

Our neighborhood is the only one in our town to enjoy the benefits of busing. Most of my friends rush around town, dropping off their kids at preschool and elementary school, moving slowly through drop-off and pick-up lines while anxiously calculating whether they'll be late for their next pick-up. I have it easy. After picking up Jack from preschool, I bring everybody home for a quick lunch. I walk Bella out to the end of our driveway, the bus picks her up, and I walk back into my house. I then put Juliette down for a long nap, and use the next three and half hours to work out, write, and have some quality one on one time with Jack. Life with the bus couldn't be more convenient.

So I really had no excuse when I forgot to pick up Bella. I had been having a nice afternoon. I had caught the end of Gossip Girl while working out on the elliptical. I had completed the latest mission on Club Penguin with Jack. When Juliette had woken up, smiling and babbling, I had picked her up and walked over to my neighbor's for a playdate. I had even remembered to bring a clean diaper and sippy cups with cold water. Juliette was soon crawling among a new set of baby toys, while Jack was playing trains nicely with his playmate; once I had assured myself that all my children were happy and accounted for, I settled in to catch up with my friend.

My friend interrupted me in the middle of a story to ask, "When does Bella get home on the bus?" My heart literally skipped a beat as I realized I had committed my worst nightmare: I had forgotten one of my children. In my dreams, it had always been the baby in her carseat that I forgot next to the car. Instead, I'd forgotten my eldest, the one who would remember.

I sprinted out of the house, barefoot, and started running after the bus as it went along its route through our neighborhood. If I didn't catch it, the driver would return to school with Bella, a fifteen minute ride, and leave her with the secretary. As I ran faster than I ever had before, I was picturing a large empty yellow school bus echoing with Bella's sobs as the stone faced driver rode on.

I caught up with the bus a few blocks later. Bella came down the steps, tears streaming down her face. I gathered her into my arms and held her tight, apologizing over and over again. She just kept repeating, "You weren't there. You forgot about me. I was so scared." I showed her my bloody feet, but my silliness of running down the street without shoes did not cheer her up. I had broken her trust and it would take a lot more work and time to repair. I hadn't been there when she counted on me.

Night Terrors

Whenever one of those cop shows with stories ripped out of the headlines comes on the TV, I change the channel, as quickly as I can rip the remote out of my husband's hand. I can't watch them; they're way too scary. It takes me weeks to recover from watching just one episode, especially if it's during a week my husband is traveling out of town.

I run through the house after the kids go to sleep, forcing myself to check closets and empty rooms, peering anxiously at the darkened street, wondering how many soccer mom loving serial killers are hiding in the bushes. When I finally throw myself in bed and hide my head under the illusion of safety of the blanket, my heart thuds. If my husband calls to wish me goodnight and rave about the hotel pool
at his California hotel, I hang up quickly, too terrified to talk longer and hear the line go dead when my foul-breathed rapist cuts our phone line.

A Suburban Mom's Cheap Thrill
It's all an act of course, a suburban mom's cheap thrill, no different than when I terrorized myself with marathon horror nights of Nightmare on Elm Street and Psycho as a teen. When danger looms, the routine of homework, dinner, bath and bed seems richer, bathed with a sentimental glow, the last few moments of simple domesticity before her life was irrevocably changed. The cheap thrills are so much more fun than the real terror I face every night inside my house, in the form of my three sleeping children.

Giant Rag Dolls at Rest
I pass them as I race to bed, after having triple checked the front door lock, and they look so peaceful snuggled up in their beds. I tuck their blankets back around their carelessly strewn limbs, and rearrange their bodies easily, like giant rag dolls at rest. You'd never guess by looking at their innocent faces that in the next few hours, one or more of them will morph into a trained stealth warrior.

Ruthless Covert Operatives
Each of my kids has his own well-honed infiltration strategy to reach their shared goal of my bed. They will do anything to worm their icy little feet under my warm blanket and push me out into the night with a surgical kick to my kidneys. These angelic sleeping children are really ruthless covert operatives who will stop at nothing to reach their objective. They only activate once I've gone to sleep for a few hours and reached that deep satisfying stage 2 REM sleep. They seem to know that I'm dreaming of lying on a warm Caribbean beach listening to Ben Affleck confess to a forbidden love for me. Just as Ben touches my cheek, whispering that he knows he can never have me, they strike.

They only rarely strike together. A mission is only truly successful if the parental bed is conquered alone. On the nights that two agents activate simultaneously, or worse, reach the bed only to discover that another agent has already beat them to the destination, their reaction can be ruthless, and highly
dangerous to all present.

The Polite Warrior
Each child has his or her own very unique style. Juliette prepares for her mission as though she were going on a long journey, packing carefully coordinated pink and purple pastel purses with stuffed animal friends. When she appears at my bedside, she wields her manners and her 4-year old cuteness like a weapon. She caresses my face with her soft and oh so smelly lovey softly and asks, “Mommy, may my stuffies and I please come into your bed?” Don't be fooled by her veneer of civility. A negativeanswer will bring on phase two of her attack plan, ear-splitting screams and a torrent of tears. I've learned that it's much easier to keep things civil, acquiesce with a smile, and welcome her cuddly body and her menagerie into my lair.


Junior Rambo
7-year old Jack prefers a direct Rambo-like approach. He marches in, slamming doors open, still angry about whatever nightmare disturbed his sleep. As the mother and source of all his neuroses, I am unquestionably to blame for his bad dream. He assaults the bed without apologies, treating my sleepingbody as enemy territory to be beaten into submission. Shocked out of my illicit date with Ben, I am
too stunned to do anything other than surrender to his barked orders to “Move over!” Jack's invasions usually leave me with PTSD.

the Diva Tween
My toughest night attacks come from 9-year old Bella. Fortunately, her nocturnal visits are a much rarer occurrence. Groggy with sleep, I am no match for her tween attitude. She shakes me awake and disarms me with diva requests. “Mom! I am just so hot and uncomfortable! Please get up and change my sheets, wash my favorite pjs, and get me some ice cold water.” It's all delivered with a cool nonchalance, a toss of the hair, and often a bonus eye roll, as if having to even utter these demands is beneath her, because I should have guessed her needs and already attended to them. Facing that storm of attitude, all I can do is move over to the cold side of the bed, so that Bella can sigh and get in my warm nest condescendingly, as though she were doing me a favor.

Maybe I should start watching CSI and face my fear that they'll feature a serial killer who targets moms too lazy to hit the gym. Then I can fall asleep on the couch and finally spend an entire uninterrupted night. My sleeping agents will never find me in the den, will they?

I submitted this piece last night for my audition for the Listen to your Mother Show. If I make it, I'll be performing it live on May 7 in front of a large audience, giving power to my words by sharing it with others. Now that the chaos of moving is beginning to recede, I'm trying to pick up the pen and write more. It feels great to return to the blank page. I had forgotten how much it centers me and stills my demons.

Update - did not get selected for the show, better luck next year. In the meantime, still feeling the warm glow of picking up the pen again.

Chasing the Gray

The first time I found one, I studied it for a long time.  I wanted to be sure it wasn't a trick of the eye or a reflection from the light. How had I not noticed it before?  It was as long as the rest of my hair.  As I observed it, the contrast between my dark auburn shoulder-length hair and this impossibly long bright white hair seemed to grow.

When I finally plucked it, I held the undeniable proof of my mortality between my thumb and forefinger.  It had a coarse texture, a certain kinkiness.  I held it up to the light, marveling at my body's new creation, the product of a tough pregnancy and a month of sleepless nights caring for a newborn.  I wanted to place it in a special box, marked milestone body secretions, but Bella began whimpering and I threw it carelessly into the toilet before rushing to soothe my first-born.

It's been seven years since I plucked my first gray hair.  Many of its brothers and sisters have followed it down the toilet.  My amusement over this new phenomenon rapidly gave way to depression and then acceptance as I found gray hairs more and more frequently.  What began as an occasional game of "pluck that sucker" has turned into a nightly twenty-minute grooming ritual.  I am no longer eradicating their presence, just minimizing their impact.  One warm summer night this summer, I felt a sharp pain as one of my friends plucked a tantalizing gray stray. The time has come to embrace a new solution.

I do not come from a line that grays gracefully.  Our gray hair does not add new interesting highlights.  Instead, they clash, stand out and shock, giving an overall appearance of dirty and greasy hair.  My sisters and I always joked about one aunt in particular who was partial to wearing mumus to accentuate the Cruella effect of the few brown streaks amongst her gray.   I now have nightmares that I will look at a picture of her and see the resemblance to myself. 

I have been discussing my hair dye options with my hairdresser for a few years now, but have always found a reason to postpone the inevitable.  But I've run out of excuses.  There are no more planned pregnancies on the horizon.  My hair has finally stopped falling out in clumps from the post-partum hormones.  And the gray is spreading.

It's time.  Time to find new shampoos for color-treated hair.   Time to double (or is it triple?) the cost of my haircuts.  Time to change the texture of my soft hair.  Time to embrace this new beauty routine.  But maybe, just maybe, it's finally time to try life as a red-head.

Firsts - A Writing Motherhood Post & Chat

Today is the Writing Motherhood Post & Chat - a day when a circle of blogs will be blogging about "firsts" - first words, first steps, first days of school, first days without kids... in response to a writing prompt in Lisa Garrigues' book Writing Motherhood.  You can win a copy of the book, by linking your firsts at any of the blogs listed at Mom Blog Marketing.

At my house, firsts are as important as they've ever been, but their recording has dwindled.

I chronicled all of Bella's first dutifully, as I imagined my mother in law did with her sons. First smile, first tooth, first word - nothing was too trivial - I have them all neatly documented, often with pictures in Bella's baby book. I have a wrinkled and grease-stained piece of paper with dozens of words and dates as I tracked Bella's expanding vocabulary, early proof that I had given birth to a genius. Pictures capture her first carousel ride, her first birthday party. My camera captured my adorable little Bella on her big day, but my more experienced mother eyes now see a baby in a purple gingham smocked dress obviously overwhelmed by all the fuss. It's all in the book, painstakingly documented.

Jack has a book too. He actually has three, but two are blank. Only one has any writing or objects in it. The hospital gave it to us, all personalized with his birth information. I filled it during my last morning there, waiting for Steve to pick us up to take us home. Jack was already dressed in his gender neutral preemie onesie and sleeping soundly in Bella's hand-me-down car seat. I took the matching picture to Bella's hospital departure shot, packed our bags, and then used the rest of my free time, the last I would have for a long long time, to start his baby book. I filled out all I had learned about him in our first 72 hours together: his name, his birth weight, and his birth length. I slipped in the ink print of his tiny little feet and the hideous sample of his nursery picture. Then I closed the book. In the next few months, I hurriedly tucked in a few items so they wouldn't get thrown out: his rainbow-striped hospital cap, our hospital bracelets, and even a couple of pictures from his birth, but I never wrote in it again.

All of Juliette's books are blank. I just carry in my head the certainty that most of her firsts were earlier than her siblings. I celebrated Jack and Juliette's milestones just as much to their face, but I only captured my first's firsts.

You're Invited... to write about motherhood

Last September I signed up for a writing class at our local Y called Writing Motherhood. I had known about the class for years, and had always been intrigued by it, but the timing was never right for me. I also had a big obstacle in my way, keeping me from exploring writing. Although I was busy taking care of my kids and getting pregnant, but that wasn't my issue. My hang up was that I was scared that I would have nothing to say. I always said that I wanted to write a book one day, but I kept postponing starting.

I don't know what possessed me to sign up for the class, but it changed my life. I met Lisa Garrigues, the teacher and author of Writing Motherhood and she empowered me to write ... about everything. From dirty diapers to divorce, she showed me the poetry in my life.

Since taking her class, I've filled four notebooks with my scribblings. I've started this blog and have met wonderful people across the world. I've submitted a few articles for publication - have gotten rejected a bunch of times - but recently found out that our local Parent Pages is going to publish a piece I wrote about becoming a Jersey Girl. And suddenly I have a new goal to work towards as I emerge from the infant years - freelance writer. I wouldn't have done any of it if I hadn't signed up for Lisa's class.

Lisa's book has recently come out in paperback (I did a giveaway of it a few months ago), and I'm helping her to get some blog buzz by organizing a special event next Tuesday: the Writing Motherhood Post & Chat. A dozen or more blogs are going to be giving away a copy of Writing Motherhood to all their readers who write about Firsts - first words and other firsts - first shoes, first day of kindergarten, first day of college, any piece of writing that begins with the words "the first time..." To enter to win, just go to one or all of these blogs and either share a link of your post on your blog about firsts or comment about it on their blog.

The best part of the event is that Lisa is going to be commenting on everyone's posts all day on Tuesday - sharing some of her empowering feedback and great writing tips.

I'll be posting about some firsts on Tuesday - I hope you will too! Here is a list of the participating blogs - just go to any of them, or all of them on Tuesday and link to your post or just enter your "first" story in their comments. Good luck!:
- A Frog in my Soup
- It's My Life
- Monkey Business
- Laura Williams Musings
- Mama Bird Diaries
- Mommy Vents
- Not Just a Working Mom
- The 3Rs - Reading, 'Riting, and Randomness
- Role Mommy
- This Week for Dinner
- Nouvelle Blogger

Writing Motherhood Winner

I've just selected a winner for the Writing Motherhood giveaway using Random.org. The winner is ... Heather. I've sent her an email to get her address and who she would like the book dedicated to. Thanks to everyone for participating and being so candid about your writing aspirations (or lack of).

I'm going to announce another great giveaway in the next few days. It involves some pretty amazing tickets for your entire family.

Writing Motherhood Giveaway & Book Club

Today is book club day at NJ Moms Blog and its sister sites. We're talking about Lisa Garrigues' book Writing Motherhood, which has just come out in paperback. Lisa Garrigues has had a big impact on my life: through her book and the class she teaches in town, she inspired me to pick up the pen and start writing last September. I had always wanted to write, but I kept waiting for divine inspiration to strike. The topics I thought about never seemed interesting or important enough. Lisa showed me that my life is full of rich material and empowered me to begin writing about it. With the help of the writing invitations throughout her book, I am now on my fourth mother's notebook and my pen is still flowing every day. In addition to writing starts, Writing Motherhood is also a moving memoir of Lisa's journey through motherhood.

GIVEAWAY! I'm going to be giving away a signed copy of Lisa's book to celebrate this day. To enter, please write a comment to this post letting me know whether you are a writer or would like to be a writer someday. Do you have a story you've always wanted to tell? You can comment about that too. I'll pick the winner at random next week.

Definitely check out the posts at NJ Mom's Blog. All the participants have written about their worst mothering moment or the rules in their house. I chose my worst mothering moment: Missing the bus.

Here's a little excerpt:
"Last fall, on a beautiful September day full of lingering summer heat, Bella stepped onto the bus for her first day of kindergarten. She had been a shy and often tentative child for the first five years of her life, but she didn't hesitate as she skipped onto the bus. She had been looking forward to kindergarten all summer and she was thrilled to be riding the bus to school. She was ready.

When Bella returned that first day, she walked off the bus slowly but proudly. I could tell that she wanted to run into my arms, but was self-conscious about acting as cool as all the second and third graders around her. Her beaming grin, however, was not tempered by any inhibitions. She'd had a great day and was thrilled to find me at the agreed upon spot to tell me all about it. She'd stepped out into a new world, confident that the security of home would be awaiting her triumphant return.

Click here to read more....

the Mythical Mother Bond

TI've always heard about the universal bond of motherhood, but I've never really bought the concept.  Sure, I've had little bonding moments with old ladies in the supermarket checkout line about how quickly these years will fly by and with random women who reach out and touch my flabby pregnant belly at inopportune moments.  I've always smiled and nodded and gone on my way, occasionally getting annoyed when they hold me up.  But six and a half years into motherhood, I've never really been impressed by the mythical mother connection.

Today I saw this bond in action, and it was amazing to behold.  I was speed shopping at the Gap Outlet in Paramus, trying to get summer shirts for my three kids in ten minutes so as to leave myself enough time to browse for purses in Century 21.  The Gap Outlet is particularly depressing right now because most of the mall is being gutted to make way for a Target and a Whole Foods.  The mall has always been eerily deserted, but today it was filled with a mix of bargain shoppers and portly workers in hard hats.  I had wedged myself between two other women and was rifling through the toddler sales rack, ready to pounce on any cute 18-24 month t-shirts.  I've never fully recovered from having the last adorable patchwork boy's shorts in a 2T ripped out of my hands by a hardcore
shopper two years ago.  Completely focused on my mission, it took a few
minutes before a growing commotion reached my ears.  A young woman with
a cascade of wavy brown hair down her back came running into our section.  She was shouting, "Anna?  Anna?!!  Anna??!!!!"  Confused by her growing panic, she was almost running in circles, like a dog chasing its tail.  One of the saleswomen called out to her, "Did youlose your child?  What is she wearing?"  The mother didn't stop running around while she answered, "I don't know!  I don't remember! Anna??!!!"  She had a pronounced Spanish accent.  Her voice was quivering, on the edge of complete panic, and she was crying.

The saleswoman picked up her walkie-talkie to tell her supervisor about the missing child.  The mother had run out of our section, and I could hear her desperate cries echoing throughout the stark store.  I was shaking, imagining the terror this woman was going through.  I stepped back from the sale rack and began looking around the fixtures of the infant and toddler section.  I suddenly realized that all the other women in the store were doing the same thing.  Young, old, White, Black, and Hispanic: each woman present had stopped shopping and was now searching for the missing child.  Without a single word, a full sweep was organized. 

Suddenly we heard a cry, "We found her!  We found her!"  I turned the corner and saw the mother crying while ferociously clutching a confused toddler girl with golden curls.    The proud saleswoman was telling everyone around that she had found the baby crawling around in the fitting rooms.  A group of women had surrounded the mother and child.  They were patting her on the back, touching the baby's hair, and telling them how relieved they were that everything had worked out okay.  I wiped a tear and exchanged a few "Thank God" comments with women around me who were also staring at the scene.  Then, as quickly as it had come, the unity disappeared now that the danger was averted.  I turned back to the sale rack and looked at my watch.  I found myself thinking, "What a careless mother.  She should have been keeping a closer eye on a child that young."