Just Say No

I was inspired by Tracy's recent post, How Do You Do It, in which she hands out some very practical advice for working moms. I especially like her suggestion about learning how to say "no."

I'm getting better at being a naysayer. This year, I've agreed to arrange arts assemblies at our Fine School (lower and upper divisions), which is a fairly easy job, all things considered, and now I feel free to say "no" to absolutely everything else that's asked of me.

Write auction copy for the Annual Our Fine School auction? Nope, can't do it. Fill in for the lunchtime reader who's come down with a sudden case of the sniffles? No, no, gosh, sorry, but no. Help out with the Ellis Island recreation for the third grade? No, I don't think so.

(By the way, I have no idea how I made the Ellis Island list, given that I don't have a third grader. It makes me afraid that having volunteered to be the Arts Assembly Lady, I'm now considered an easy mark and have made lists all across the Our Fine School Universe. Well, they'll learn soon enough, won't they? Though the Ellis Island thing does actually sound interesting ...)

Saying "no" is an art. I've learned to say it immediately, the very second my presence is requested. I used to fiddle-faddle around and say I'd get back to you, could I think about that for a day or two and drop you an email? For awhile, during my transition phase from doormat to Ms. Negative, I used the Man as my excuse. "Gosh, I really need to check with my husband about that."

But now I just say "no." To soften the blow, sometimes I'll say, "No, I'm sorry, I just don't have time for that right now." As I've watched the new PTA president visibly age after just a few months of service, I feel my confidence grow. Saying yes will cause you to prematurely wrinkle. Stay away from it.

***

The baking continues. The big hits so far (other than cookies and pies, of course) are waffles and honeywheat bread. The pretzels and crackers were eaten, but not with any overly-great enthusiasm. Listen, if my kids want to become the sort of people who snack on bread and jam or whole grain waffles popped into the toaster (I've been making big batches and freezing them), who am I to complain? Beats Twinkies.

Okay, well, I'm off to Will's Cub Scout meeting, where they'll be racing rockets tonight. The Man was out until midnight last night helping set up the wires they'll race the rockets on. This is a new thing the Scouts are doing this year. Do I have any reason to believe it will work, that the boys won't end up spending the evening throwing their little brightly painted, balsa wood rockets at each other and then stomping all over them?

No, no I do not.

Trying to Bring it Back to Normal

Okay, I'm home.

Home! I'm home! I'm home with absolutely no plans to get on another airplane in the near or distant future. Which is good, because I think I got some bad Dramamine this past trip. I had to lie down for an hour when I got home Sunday. Anyone reading this who gets motion sickness will understand that horrible feeling of closing your eyes while the plane descends and hoping, hoping, hoping that you won't get sick. I didn't, but it was close.

So now I'm home and trying to get back into my routines. I'm also trying to avoid the fact that my house is a shambles. I have bread to bake and books to write, quilts to quilt, socks to knit. Must I clean the bathroom as well?

Fact #1: If I don't, nobody else will.

Fact #2: The bathroom will not clean itself.

Fact #3: While I'm a hussy and a slacker on the best of days when it comes to housecleaning, even I have my limits.

Fact #4: When I walked into the downstairs this morning and looked around, I realized my limits had been reached. It's gone from being your average sort of "sink could use a scrub" bathroom to a rather prolific petri dish of wonders and, yes, I believe, fungi.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will clean the bathroom and de-crud the stove top and fold the laundry and mow the kitchen floor. I will think about the upcoming holidays. I have this crazy thought that maybe I'll get my Christmas shopping done early so I might actually have a spiritual experience sometime around December 25th. It's never happened before, but a girl can dream.

Tonight I'm going to continue to enjoy the feeling of not flying. Of not anticipating my next trip and planning my life around it. Of having long stretches of days to do what needs to get done--and, even better, doing what I want to do, like write books and bake bread, quilt quilts and knit socks. Sounds dreamy!

And whenever I have to walk into the bathroom, I'll just close my eyes.

It's good to be home.

Living the Vida Local

So we've got the winter wheat planted. I bought the seed off of Amazon.com, which is where I'm pretty sure most farmers do their shopping. It was just one of those whims the Man and I had. The Man swears he can catch yeast from the air, so who knows--maybe we'll have an entirely local loaf of bread. Well, except for the salt. And the grain bought on the Internet.

As far as I can tell, it's impossible to live an entirely local life, and I have no intention of giving up coffee, sugar, salt or bananas. But we've decided that it would make an interesting family project to try to live more locally than we do now. As oil prices creep up (along with amounts of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere), living locally seems less like a game to play on your way to a book contract and more like a way of life we're all going to have to adopt sooner or later.

Here on the farm, we're starting with food. Hence the pretzels of two posts ago, and the wheat thins I made this weekend, which were a little too delicious. "This tastes like a Christmas cookie!" Jack exclaimed after biting into one). Yesterday I made chicken broth from a stewing chicken I got at the farmers' market. And butternut squash soup, also from local sources. And whole wheat bread made from local wheat. And today, more bread.

In case you were wondering, this is a lot of work. In fact, I'm starting to wonder, why not buy food at the grocery story while the buying is good? If the Peak Oil theorists are right, major chain grocery stores will be a thing of the past in ten or fifteen years (there won't be any oil to fuel the trucks bringing us our tomatoes from across the country)--so why not live large now?

Still, homemade bread is just better, and so is chicken broth made from a chicken you bought from a farmer named Dale. I like Dale. I've bought two chickens from her now. We've bonded. Maybe next spring, I'll give her some wheat.

***

Re: my last post--The consensus seems to be that too much driving wears a girl out. I've always felt that to be true, especially when it's warm outside. I have no idea how to stop all this driving, though, other than doing a better job of consolidating my errands. What I really need is a personal assistant. Or a wife. Either will do.

***

If I don't stop eating Almond Joys, I'm going to explode by Thursday. Well, they're tiny Almond Joys, so maybe I'll make it until Friday. Trick or Treat, indeed!

Why Am I Not Tired?

It's 3:09 on Friday afternoon. The boys didn't have school today, so I got to sleep in until 8. Will and I popped over to Target around 9:30 to pick up a few things (which, Target being Target, turned into about fifteen things), and were home by 10.

I've cleaned the kitchen, made a birthday cake (Will's birthday is Sunday, but we're having the family party tonight), worked on a quilt, made lunch, cleaned the living room, straightened out the attic (which is to say moved a few boxes around to make it look like progress has been made in the ongoing decluttering project--total illusion) and picked up my study. I've composed two lengthy emails, made a business call, and organized the mud room.

In short, it's been a busy, productive day. Usually by this time on a weekday, the boys in school, I'd be ready for a nap, even without all the cleaning and baking. But while I feel vaguely tired, I'm not at all nappy. It's like this on Saturdays, too. I hardly ever feel tired on Saturdays.

Why do you think that is? Does it make a difference to start the day off slowly instead of herding children out the door into the car? Does it make a difference when most of the day is spent at home? Is it running a million errands in the minivan that wears me out? Even on days when I don't have errands, I drive the boys to school in the morning, pick up Will at 2:40, and then run out again to pick up Jack at 3:20, and yep, I feel tired and ready for a nap the minute I get home.

Am I energized by having my family at home, even if I'm ignoring them? I do find it cozy and nice to have the boys and the Man at home when all of us are doing projects and puttering and generally just hanging out. Should I start homeschooling?

While I love feeling tired at the end of a day well spent, I hate it when I run out of steam mid-afternoon. It was that way for me all week. This was a week of school parties and birthday present shopping and meetings and appointments. I spent three hours yesterday in Will's second grade classroom helping kids stuff candy corn and popcorn into rubber gloves--don't ask.

I hate chopped up days, when I'm in and out of the car. I think the pioneers had hard lives, but at least they didn't have to do afternoon pick-up.

So how is it for you? Are there days where you happily go-go-go from morning to night, while other days you barely make it to 4? When do you have the most energy? What saps your strength? Should I move to the woods and refuse to sign up to help with school parties?

Please advise.

Inconsistent Pretzels

(Pretzels? Or dog treats? Who can say, really?)

So I made pretzels today. They are not the world's greatest pretzels; some are almost too hard to bite into, others are more like bread sticks. This inconsistency exists because I have the Absolute Worst Oven in the World. I hate my oven so much. I'd be better off with a wood stove. I'd be better off with a Bic lighter.

Anyway, now that I'm back home--yay! I'm home!--I've been feeling the urge to cook and bake and generally be domestic in a culinary sort of way. On Saturday I braved the farmers' market and bought a stewing chicken, and on Sunday I made chicken soup. It took all day, but it's the best soup I've ever had. I also made cheddar-scallion rolls with--get this--whole wheat flour from the farmers' market. Local flour! I didn't even know they made such a thing.

By the way, I have to say that I'm really enjoying the farmers' market this fall. In the summer, it's just too overwhelming for me. I go a few times to stock up on meat, but otherwise, I mostly stay away. But a month or so ago I went to see my fiddle teacher play with his band and discovered a vastly more chilled out market . That's because all the farmers sell in autumn is kale. Nobody knows what to do with kale, so they go to Whole Foods and buy tomatoes shipped in from California.

But I know what to do with kale, which is to cook it up with white beans and turkey sausage, and then feel virtuous as all get-out for eating kale.

***

I've been thinking about making pretzels for a while. My kids eat them by the ton, for one thing, and it's got to be cheaper to make them. Also, if I make pretzels, who knows--maybe I'll get a reputation as "that pretzel-making mom." As in, "She's so cool, she makes her own pretzels." Wouldn't that be an awesome reputation to have?

But pretzels, I fear, are in the category of baking which bagels also reside. It's the boil/bake thing, and I think to pull it off you have to have a real baker's oven. Or a real oven, period. My homemade bagels have been interesting, and chewy in a pleasant sort of way, but you'd never confuse them with real bagels.

And my pretzels? Well, you're definitely taking a risk with any expensive dental work--crowns, caps, that sort of thing. Still, for the title of "Number One Pretzel Mom," I say they're worth it. Well worth it, my friends.

A Brief Return

Just popping in to say hi. I'm back from the mountains, where I actually had access to the Internet was just too dad-gum tired to post. I have no idea how teachers do it. I spent four days doing school presentations and now I need to chill out for the next four months.

I will have to wait until next week to chill out, however. On Thursday, I'm going up to Attleboro, MA, to give a speech and visit some middle school classes about one of my books. I'll be back Friday, and then I only have one more trip for the foreseeable future. Yay!

I wanted to report something I saw today, which has to be really, really high on my list for The Most Idiotic Parenting I've Ever Seen. I was walking across the library parking lot, when I noticed a driver being incredibly careful as she pulled out of her parking spot, tapping lightly on her horn as she drove. At first I couldn't figure out what she was up to, but then I saw the three-year-old on his scooter and understood.

Yes, right there in the middle of the library parking lot was a little kid riding a scooter. His mom was standing at the back of her car, hatchback open, changing her baby's diaper. Scooter Boy went back and forth from the car to the parking space opposite.

I'm trying to remember the last time I've been so dumbfounded. Really? Letting your kid entertain himself by riding his scooter in the parking lot of the public library is somehow a good idea?

What touched me was how careful all the drivers were as they pulled out. They saw the kid, and they pulled out of their parking spots at approximately twenty yards per hour. It was as though collectively everybody in that parking lot was more concerned about that little boy than his mom.

I never know what to do in these situations. Dress down the mom? Go stand by the little boy until she finished diapering the baby? In the end, I did what everybody did--I backed out of my spot very, very slowly, keeping my eye on the little boy the whole time.

I know that every mom in the world has pulled moves that later she can't believe. You leave the three-month-old baby on the bed while you run to get the phone, praying he doesn't suddenly learn to roll over in your absence and fall off the bed (in my case, he did). You don't strap on the belt on the diaper changing pad that's on top of a high changing table (that's when Will learned to roll over--onto the brick fire place). You run a yellow light with the kids in the car and almost get hit. You wake up in the middle of the night completely panicked, the memory of what almost happened making your heart race.

But let the toddler ride his scooter in the parking lot while you change a diaper? That's not a "I'll just be out of the room for five seconds" sort of thing. That's insane.

Oh, I should have said something. Would you have said something? Tell me what.

***

Back next week, and much more regularly, I hope!

It's Thursday, Must be Time for Another Post

It's not that it's been a slow week. It's more like my head feels like it's been stuffed with feathers. And cotton. And what is delicately known as, well, you know. Okay, I really hate the word mucus, but that is what my life has been about lately.

And do you really want me to blog about that?

I didn't think so.

I actually started a post earlier this week called "I Find It All Irritating." It was mucus-related, sure. But I also spent quite a few paragraphs talking about my children's homework situation. Which is excessive. And ridiculous. Grounds for homeschooling.

Unfortunately, it's hard to be funny when your head is stuffed and you can't smell or hear or anything. It was a very whiny post. Very unattractive. Though I really am steamed about how much homework my second grade son gets. I understand that Americans are way behind the rest of the world academically, but we're way ahead when it comes to childhood obesity, and that should count for something. Let's just call it a draw and let the second graders play outside after school like it says in the Bible.

One nice thing to report: Will has taken up playing the harmonica. He found the harmonica in the special "Where We Hide the Harmonica from the Children" hiding place in the attic. But you know what? He's a very responsible harmonica player. No wild wheezing, no painfully high screeches. He makes up songs. They are nice songs like, "This Song Sounds Like a Song about a Parade," and "The Tampa Bay Rays Rule!"

And since I can't hear, I think they are very lovely songs, indeed.

I'm going to the mountains next week to drive around and visit schools and talk about the wonders of being a writer, which mostly seem to consist of driving around and visiting schools to talk about the wonders of being a writer. I hope I'm going to be able to access the Internet from my hotel room, one, so I can watch Netflix on my computer, and two, so I can keep up with my blog-o-sphere duties. If you don't hear from me, it's because I'm pretty famous for not being able to do stuff like access the Internet from a hotel room.

But with any luck, and if I remember to take my camera, I will be back next week with photos of the mountains in autumn. Until then, I hope you don't catch my cold. If I were you, I'd go squirt some of that antibiotic Germ-X stuff on your hands right now. And then drink some tea and eat some chocolate. You don't want to take any chances.