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FEATURE ESSAYS Mom Writer Janet Evanovich: Success is truly a family affair
Janet Evanovich is not only one of us – a mom writer; her writing business is a family affair. Evanovich, Inc. is a family business with Janet’s daughter Alex and son Peter working fulltime. Peter, a Dartmouth College graduate, assumes responsibility for everything financial. Alex, a film and photography school graduate, created the Web site, which gets about four and a half million hits a month. Alex does it all – the graphics, the mail, the comics, the store, the online advertising and the newsletter. Janet’s husband, Pete, uses his doctorate in mathematics from Rutgers University to manage all aspects of the business and tries to keep Janet on time (according to Janet this is a thankless, impossible job)... Continue reading Mom Writer Janet Evanovich: Success is truly a family affair Guest Features Harry Potty-Mouth and the Bath Chamber of Doom Lord Voldemort, the arch-nemesis of Harry Potter, has taken up residence in our toilet. He just moved in about two weeks ago, soon after my 4-year-old son caught a brief glimpse of the trailer for the upcoming film "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire." Unfortunately, the glimpse, in all its brevity, contained a nanosecond of the evil wizard. Ever since then, Reilly refuses to go to the toilet unaccompanied for fear that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is lurking in the u-bend, waiting to pop out at any moment. I'm not sure what will happen then. I don't think Reilly has thought that part out either. Perhaps he will turn him into a Disney princess or other despised object... Continue reading Harry Potty-Mouth and the Bath Chamber of Doom
Stepmother of the Bride Our 40-minute phone call draws to an end with a rehash of the wedding budget nearing its outer limits, and a much-needed venting. Why can't her sisters decide whether to wear matching hair ornaments? We're frustrated – we don't really care what they wear, we just want it settled. And, oh yes, a new wrinkle with the groom's family – a cousin's wedding is being scheduled for the same day. Will Monica change hers? Sighs of disbelief hiss over the wires. Signing off, we complain about how much time all this is taking from our work. Monica lives in Ohio; I'm in New Jersey. It's our third call this week... Continue reading Stepmother of the Bride
A Change of Heart Unexpectedly and at a relatively young age, thirty-six to be exact, I became a grandmother. I wasn’t even gray yet, and crow’s feet, well, when I looked closer that day I spotted a few at my temples. It’s funny how simple little things end up being the catalyst that changes our lives forever. I had great aspirations for my sixteen-year-old middle daughter. Most importantly, I wished for her heart to sing throughout her life. In 1986 everything seemed to be falling into place for her. You know, a 4.0 grade point average, riding her prize Arabian and working at the stables to help pay for training and upcoming elaborate shows. And college? Well, she wanted to attend UC Davis in Sacramento, California and become a veterinarian. But then the unthinkable happened... Continue reading A Change of Heart
Progeny As part of the recipe, I have this image: I visualize twins, four years old (they look like me at that age, fair skin, freckles dotting the nose and cheeks, blondish-reddish hair), tussling in the front yard under the spread of the ornamental crabapple tree. Like the tree they are hardy, do well in full sun and grow easily. Watching as they grab each other's arm and twirl, faster, faster and faster until one loses grip causing them to tumble to the ground. Pinkish, fragrant, petals of the crabapple have long since fallen and the imaginary children collapse on roots that are pushing upwards through the soil. Being young, they don’t notice bumps or bruises and they spring with a yelp, darting after the orange tabby that spills from a branch of simple green leaves. The barefooted boy rushes ahead, yelling for his sister to hurry. I watch and listen from the living room bay window and wonder if they’ll remember the rule to not leave the yard. Laughter bubbles, floats and flits through the screen door; mingling with the dee-dee of the black capped chickadee and the song of the house sparrow. The boy stops short at the edge of the grass, turns to see if I’m watching. I wave. He hesitates, waves, and pushes his sister to the ground in an attempt to launch a game of chase. Bounding to freedom, the cat shoots to the neighbor’s yard. I smell the dreamt up chocolate chip cookies that my partner is making for the children. I hear her slide a sheet from the oven and place it on the counter. She walks towards me, ready to beckon the children. I am full, satiated and happy. I imagine and want all of this...
Cuss Can When I was a teenager in the ‘70s and proclaimed myself a feminist, I made the mistake of equating the power of liberation with that of being offensive. To my extreme gratification, people in Roswell, New Mexico, where I grew up, were shocked to hear a freckle-faced farm-girl utter fuck or shit or fuckingshit with every other breath. Continue reading Cuss Can
The Wall There is only one wall that separates us. I can hear his every move as if we are in the same room. Three loud taps on a table and I know that he's packing his cigarettes. There is the clanking of silverware, the banging of drawers, the soothing rush of water shooting from the showerhead. I'm amazed at how intimate these noises are. The time is 3 a.m. and his engineer boots are heavy on the wood floor. His footsteps are followed by the click-clack of a woman's heals. Her giggle is raspy and loud and then there is silence. I hold onto Starr, cradling her little body, trying so hard not to squeeze her too tightly. Lately it's as though I want to crush her until there is no risk of the world getting near her. Clenching my jaw, desperate for sleep I count in my head. One-one thousand, two-one thousand...
Simone “Mommy, am I your favorite?” four-year-old Simone asks while we’re snuggling on the sofa one day. She looks deep into my eyes, awaiting an answer. “What makes you ask that?” I say, pondering if I subconsciously play favorites. “Because I’m the smallest and you love me the most, right?” I search for words… It all started one September. I didn’t need a home pregnancy test to confirm my suspicion. I was with child – for the third time – a good year earlier than planned... Continue reading Simone
Good Night Sweet Princess Our ritual goes something like this: After I’ve done the dishes and the kids have had their baths, after pajamas are on and a Cinderella toothbrush has done its job, when we’ve put Evan to bed and Sarah has gone back to the bathroom because she realizes she has to go again and yes, wash her hands, we lie down on Sarah’s pillow and cuddle close for her bedtime stories. When we get into bed, we try to leave the day behind, across the drawbridge away from our kingdom. We’ve left behind the hands on hips, the tantrums, the ineffective timeouts and my dwindling patience. I lie down with my princess, the enchantingly beautiful spitfire who amazes me each day. The child I want to feel good about herself without being arrogant. The child I want to adore her family, and make good choices, and play sports (but only if she wants to) and always be safe. The four and a half year old who is exhausted and just wants bedtime stories from her Mom...
Butterfly She peeks at me as she squats under a rack of women's blouses, mostly hidden from view. I smile at her tiny face and the dirt smudge across her cheek. Her eyes dance with playfulness as she reaches out and grabs at her mother's legs. I am sitting in a faux velvet chair outside the dressing rooms; the sentry while my daughter tries on evening gowns. We are shopping for her senior prom, only a month away. At 18, she is finishing her senior year with one foot planted firmly in our home and the other already out the door. In the fall, she will go to college and leave home, leave me. I struggle with her parting and can't believe the time will come so soon. It's as though I looked away, and now she's grown...
Alex I went to a baby shower yesterday. It is her first child and she’s worried that this child will take over her life. “I don’t want motherhood to define me,” she said. “I want to be me first. Not just a mother.” Her friends murmured around her and I smiled a smile inside me as I helped myself to another strawberry. The juice was tart and sweet at the same time and a tiny bit dribbled down my chin. I caught it with my finger and watched it glow at the tip of my finger. Blood red and sparkling. Perfectly caught in that moment. The sunlight through the windows caught the tiny drop on the end of my finger and made it blaze with depth and color. Motherhood is the greatest pain and the greatest transformation there is. It is a force more powerful than anything in the world. Mariama Ba says in her book “So Long a Letter,” “To become a mother is to love without beginning and without end...”
One Step Forward, Two Steps...Crash! If you had told me in childhood that I would take up jogging as an adult, I, loping awkwardly around my school for the dreaded PE mile with the grace of a drunken sailor, would have tripped and fallen flat on my face. Ok, so maybe I would have done that anyway. Jogging's appeal, however, shot up dramatically when I became a mother – along with anything else that provides a moment of precious solitude. Cleaning toilets, managing not a wink of sleep on a red eye, sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic with the air conditioner broken. These all have acquired a certain charm, the sparkling sheen of a spontaneous trip to get ice cream while studying for finals. In fact, not sleeping on the red-eye has all the makings of a pajama party. Who knew having a child could provide silver linings to such hated activities?
Secret Wizards The unknown wizard crept into my office and found her way to my desk drawer. In the drawer, she placed two wiggly eyes and a crayon. Now you may be saying, “So what.” What harm could they cause? However, you do not know these wizards as I know these wizards. They are small and devious, but do not let their size or age fool you. They do nothing that is innocent. If they placed eyes and crayons in my drawer, they have an ulterior motive, known only to them. Could these things be magicked? Are they there to watch me and relay the message to their mistresses, or could they be there only as a masquerade to make me feel watched?
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