The beauty of the unpublished post

It often happens that I see a trend or a writing prompt online and I think to myself, "Interesting! I should write about that..." Only when I start, I realize that what I'm writing is just a wee bit too personal for me to share online. Then I realize: I don't *have* to share it.

I'm then able to let my true feelings flow onto paper in unbelievably honest and real ways. I don't have to worry about snarky comments, hurting anyone's feelings or being misunderstood. I say what's in my heart and on my mind and don't worry about sounding either too sentimental or too bitchy. I don't often edit what I write...I just let it flow. Some posts are very long. Others are only a few lines. I don't worry about it following a particular style of writing, or finding just the right photo to accompany my words.

If you were to get a glimpse into the drafts folder of my email account or the unpublished posts on this blog you'd see dozens of them. Looking back on some of these "un-shared" thoughts, though, there are three that stand out, hands-down, as some of the most meaningful and well-said things I've ever written. These unpublished posts have helped me understand myself, and each time I re-read them I see the things that are blatantly important to me.

#1: Miss-Britt.com: "Say it out loud, write it down"
This post inspired me to open a new notepad document and write out what I really wanted of my life. I wrote for probably only 10 minutes, but when I was done I realized that nowhere on that list did I mention things that would make me happy...only relationships with people. I also realized that I already had most of those relationships.

#2: Bloggymoms.com: "Describe the best date you ever had" (prompt for Aug 22)
Sound goofy? I thought so, too. Only when I was done I re-read what I'd written and realized that what I thought was a great way of spending time with someone I care about probably wouldn't be seen as so stellar by someone else. Shows a lot about the type of person I am.

#3: Schmutzie.com: "What are the five best decisions of your life?" (inspired by a tweet by Karen)
Like most lists, I wasn't sure I'd be able to come up with five. But when I was done scribbling this out on a few pieces of notebook paper, I was reminded that I'm exactly where I ought to be in my life.

Do you ever write posts and that you never intend to publish?

Thoughts while buzzed on margaritas.

I found this in my drafts folder this morning and I'm not entirely sure why I never published it. I originally wrote this back in July of 2009, when "Blogging with Integrity" was a really hot topic. Either I'm really late to the game on this one or I'm really ahead of the next curve. Let's go with the latter, mmm-kay?

I think the concept of blogging with integrity is great. I mean, don't write shit.

Right?

But I think there's been entirely waaay too much discussion about it all. (And I fully realize I'm contributing to the problem by penning this ode while slightly buzzed on my front porch...my tipsy condition amplified by the fact that my children aren't home and therefore actual THOUGHTS can be formed inside my brain without being interrupted by questions such as, "Mom, is kitty going to DIE?!?")

Yes, I feel like I blog with integrity. I write my true feelings about life in general and while I've accepted a promotional item a time or two and even written reviews for that meager compensation, I will only ever give my honest and true opinions on those products. (Whether or not I make them seem like product reviews is another thing. But then again I typically only get products like canned tomatoes pushed across the proverbial desk at me.)

I don't think we need to place a disclaimer at the start of each post:

WARNING: This post sponsored by the gas that Kraft Mac n Cheese has given me, free of charge this afternoon!

or

BEWARE: Someone gave me an item that's worth $1.89 to try out, and while I really like it, I was given that $1.89 item, so read with caution.

People - whether you have already realized it or not, the reason that companies like Mom bloggers is because

A) Moms make most of the buying decisions in the household and
B) A blog is a media outlet (large, small or otherwise)
C) Our regular readers trust us.
There is an insane amount of value in that equation.

Basically? Don't blow it.

At the same time, isn't everyone's dream to be paid to do what they love? Imagine, if you will, that you're offered this dream job. Its everything you want - flexible hours, no boring office chatter, etc. But there's no pay in it. Would you still do it?

Probably not.

But let's say all of your friends work there. And they make you feel sane. And you get an amazing sense of comeraderie out of the experience AND you can still do all the things you want to do with your kids every day.

Holy freakin' TRIPLE WIN batman.

So who's it going to kill if you're compensated for that time? (And for all the magic power you hold - "BWAHAHAHA! I am MOTHER! FEAR ME!!! Or at least listen to me when I tell you to throw your clothes in the hamper.")

I'm sure you see I have ads on my blog. I get paid for those ads. Period. Done. I really have no tie to the products being advertised, they simply foot the (small) bill for me to write.

I will also continue to accept products for review. While I don't want to dilute the oh-so-deep thoughts I share on this blog, free shit is fun. Who doesn't like free crap? But if you come to me with some ridiculous product that I've never heard of or something I'm really not interested in? I probably won't waste my time on it. Just sayin'. And if I don't like it? Or I'm just not really that impressed with it? I will tell you so, and not waste my readers' time. (I got a sample of a cleaning product a few months ago and initially felt really bad about not being too impressed with it. Then I realized that was stupid. It was made to clean stuff and I already had products that do that. I emailed the PR rep and simply told her so - guilt absolved.)

SO...I may not print out, in large black letters at the top of a post that I'm doing a review, or that I've been paid to write something -- I assume that you're all big boys and girls and now that I've edumicated you about the reasons that bloggers are powerful you'll know you can safely assume someone just may very well have compensated me for my writing prowess - I mean time.

But mostly I'll continue to write crap.

Blueberry pancakes

"Mom, know what you say all the time?"

"No, buddy. What do I say all the time?"

I turned from the dishwasher to see him cock his head slightly to the right. "You say, 'You don't say!'"

I'm sure his impression of me was not far off. I could picture myself cocking my head similarly and laughed. "Do I?"

"Yep. Why do you say that?"

Shaking my head, I turned back to unload another glass. "I don't know, bud. I guess I just do."

"You know who else says that? That lady in the Chocolate and the Factory. You know...not the girl. But the girl's Mom. That one naughty girl who turns into a big blueberry?" He was coloring at the table with the fervor that only a five-year-old can have. "I think we should have blueberries for dinner. Like blueberry pancakes? That would be good."

I shook my head as I recalled the line from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and realized he was right. About the line, and the pancakes.

"You don't say."

Only two.

I sat and watched my youngest boy run and play.

We spent the evening eating and playing at McDonald's. Its truly my definition of hell on earth, but I was ready to do anything for a break from the dark and cold that's been keeping us indoors and making us all stir crazy. I could have sat outside the glass-enclosed germ box, but Will is only two.

My husband laughs at me when I say that. "Hey - take it easy on him! He's only two."

"He's almost three."

"Yeah? But he's not yet. He's still two for another month."

True, he's usually the instigator of the UFC-style take downs that occur in my living room, but he's my baby none-the-less and I'm going to milk this last month of babydom for all its worth. So I sat in the cootie laden aquarium, close to the play structure, with my book.

I watched as he came flying down the slide without a single ounce of fear. Over and over again he climbed the stairs, crawled through a tube and flung himself into the dark tunnel of the slide. Every time, without fail, he'd come out at the end, jumping up and down, clapping his hands.

"I did it! I did it! By myself!"

I told him I saw...that I was watching...but before the words were even out of my mouth he was off again, climbing stairs. I sat back with my book.

His brother, by contrast, tired of the slide after just a few times and found the video games at the far end of the room. At one point, I saw Will walk over and put his brother in a head-lock. (Parents with girls will know these as "hugs".) Satisfied that neither of my children were the ones screaming, I went back to my book.

A few minutes later I did a kid count. There's Nick...no Will. Must watch the end of the slide...he'll be out any minute.

Except there was no Will. Don't worry. He's in there somewhere. He probably just met up with a little buddy inside the tunnel...watch the end of the slide...

A few minutes later there was still no Will. I contemplated looking like the spaz of a Mom who takes her purse and goes crawling into the tubes and slides to look for her missing child, but again told myself he couldn't have gone very far.

I gave it just a few minutes more before my brain started asking itself, But what if he did sneak out the door as someone else left and he's out in the restaurant crying, looking for his Mom? Or what if someone took him?!? They could be long gone by now! YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE TO LOOK FOR HIM -- YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT GUT INSTINCTS!

I decided that the less-spaztastic thing to do would be to have the older boy go in and look for the younger. So I got up and walked over to ask Nick to do just that and there's Will...playing the video game...too short for me to see behind the console, explaining in his made-up not-quite-English English how the game works to some other boy.

He's completely fine. Without me.

And he's only two.

{W}rite of passage: Character

Mariana Askerville paused in the driver’s seat, digging through her purse.

“C’mon, dammit, where the hell are you?!?” She began to pull things out and toss them half-heartedly on the passenger seat of her ’95 Dodge Shadow. Finally, there at the bottom, where it had come unattached from her key ring, was her security badge for the parking structure.

Throwing everything back into her knock-off Coach bag except the badge, cell phone and sunglasses, she cranked the radio – a good song was on. The type of song that made you feel better at the end of a long week.

She was beginning to feel better about things as she backed out of her space, and by the time she had gotten to the bottom of the structure’s ramp, rolling down her window to swipe her card, she had all but forgotten all about her sorry sack of a manager and the mind-numbing tasks he’d had her waste an entire afternoon to complete.

She was singing along as she pulled up next to the kiosk. Leaning out of her window, card in hand, she looked longingly at the bright sunlight that awaited her mere feet away. In order to open the gate, one had to push a red button, listen to a pre-recorded message about entering cash, credit or debit card and wait for a green light before the sensor would recognize the magnetic card being waved in front of it. The entire process took maybe 20 seconds, but on seventy-degree Fridays in May, that 20 seconds felt like 20 minutes.

“C’MON, DAMMIT,” she swore loudly, ducking back inside her car. The ancient guard arm lifted in a jerky way, taking its sweet time before stopping briefly in the “up” position. Knowing she had only moments to make her escape before the arm slapped back down, she hit the gas, lurching forward over a speed bump into the sunlight.

She rolled somewhat to a stop, looked quickly for pedestrians (like, when were people ever walking down this street?) and hit the gas again.

Suddenly there was a squeal of brakes and too late, Mariana saw the dark blue Jaguar coming all too quickly from the right.

“OH SHIT!!!!” she shouted, stomping the brake pedal with both feet. She was answered by a loud crash, and then the sound of metal scraping metal.

When both cars came to a halt, she sat behind the wheel, stick straight, not believing what had just happened. Eyes wide, she looked to her right and found a man behind the wheel staring back at her. He looked furious.

Looking quickly from side to side, she was unsure of what to do first. Dumbly, she looked down at her arms, her torso and then her legs, holding her hands palm-up as she did so. Seeing no bodily damage, she looked up again and the man was gone.

Not good, not good, not good. She couldn’t see any damage inside her vehicle either and figured she should get out. That’s what one did during something like this, right?

Suddenly, it occurred to her that she might have injuries she couldn’t see.

Oh my God, what do they say you should do after an accident? Don’t move your neck? Too late for that. Stay awake? No problem there. Her heart was racing a hundred miles a minute.

Slowly, she eased her driver’s door open and swung her legs around and stood up. Suddenly, there was the driver of the Jag, almost in her face.

“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” he shouted. “WE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!”

Her mouth dropped open, eyes wide. “We- we- well…I’m SORRY. Are you OK?”

“YES, I’M OK, DAMMIT. DO YOU KNOW HOW TO DRIVE?!? WERE YOU WATCHING WHERE YOU WERE GOING?!? You could KILL a person not looking where you’re going like that!” As he continued to yell at her, he got closer and closer, and she backed up until the frame of her car pressed into her back.

“Is everyone alright?” Kenny, the parking structure’s attendant stepped cautiously from his plexiglass booth. “Do you need me to call the cops?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mariana replied at the same time the man shouted, “NO!”

The man’s attention was diverted for a moment and Mariana took the opportunity to get back in her car and shut the door. At the sound of the door closing, the man spun back around to face her. The sight of the horror on her face made him pause. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just a bit…shaken. Are you OK?” He leaned toward the open window, sincerely looking shaken but no longer irate.

“I-I think so,” she stammered. “I have a cell phone.” She held it up where he could see.

At the realization that both parties appeared to be OK and all anger had been diffused, Kenny took a few steps backward toward his office, trying to dismiss himself from the scene. Not turning his back, he stood there, unsure of what to do with his hands.

“I’ll call,” the Jag driver said, pulling out an iPhone and touching its screen quickly. When he had it to his ear, the first car honked.

Horrified, Mariana looked in her rear-view mirror to see a long line of cars snaking up the structure’s ramp and around the corner. At ten after five on a sunny Friday, she could imagine each driver’s impatience, and felt their ire like a weight on her back.

“Maybe we should pull our cars out of the way?” she suggested, nodding down the street. The man ignored her as he gave the dispatcher details, repeating the building’s address and the location of the exit of the parking structure.

Kenny nodded in silence, wanting to appear in charge when he so clearly wasn’t.

Tucking his phone back into his pocket, the man looked up. “Wha? Oh, yeah…” Seeing the idling cars he whirled around to look over his shoulder at the street. “Yeah, we should pull over there.” He walked back to the driver’s side of his car, got in, and turned the key. The engine caught without hesitation.

He backed slowly away from Mariana’s oxidized red Shadow, and once he was clear, whipped the front end around to back up to the curb on the opposite side of the street, back they way he’d come. Once he had moved his vehicle, Mariana started her car, they key to which had to be held to the starting position for a second or two before it roared to life, but that was the case any day. She slowly pulled out of the structure to park along the curb closest to the building.

Turning the key off again, she took a deep breath and then let it out again, noticing her hands were shaky and that she wanted to cry. Instead she grabbed the wheel with both hands until her knuckles were white, feeling each driver who whipped past her giving her the stink eye.

She mentally tried to calculate the cost of the Jag but had no point of reference. Surely it was worth more than she made in a year, maybe even two. Tears pricked the back of her eyes when she remembered she had let her insurance lapse. It had been either that or her rent.

She looked up to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks and took a few deep breaths – in through her nose, out through her mouth – before she felt him staring at her.

WHAT?!? Haven’t you ever seen anyone have a panick attack before?!? she thought angrily.
She decided that she could use some fresh air while they waited and pushed the door open again. Standing in the street, she realized he was still staring. Not wanting to meet his eyes without proper police protection, she turned to walk around the front of her car so she could lean against the passenger side of her car, looking away from the Jag driver.

And that’s when she saw it.

She had known it all along, of course, pushed to the back of her brain the moment the adrenaline started pumping.

He wasn’t staring at her…

He was staring at the ONE WAY sign she had parked in front of…

The sign pointing the OPPOSITE way he’d been driving.

---

Hope, pt. 2

Did you miss part 1? Read it here.

In second grade, I had the same teacher who'd taught my Reading "class" the year before and everything was much the same. Vocabulary and spelling were big subjects that year and along with our regular words, we were given one large word each week to memorize and learn to spell. The day that I spoke out loud to give away the meaning of onomatopoeia? I think I still hear the teacher's blood boiling now.

And when I say 'much the same' I mean exactly the same. At the beginning of the school year they gave me the exact same Golden Retriever book I'd finished early back in first grade. Something must have happened to make them rethink giving me the same assignments for an entire year, because I do remember at some point I was given an hour of 'free play' in the lab next door during reading class instead.

That free play pretty much rocked. They had these really cool electronic games (you know, for 1985)...you'd read a paragraph on a card and then answer a question on what you just read. When I think of it now I would probably compare it with an early LeapFrog game, only in 2-bit and not nearly as cool. To answer the question, you'd stick this pen thing into one of the available holes to select a multiple choice answer. If you got it right a light would come on. If you were wrong, you just kept sticking the pen in the other holes till it lit up.

The best part of that free play was that there was no longer anyone giving me funny looks. No one discouraging me...no one making me think that maybe I'd get a lot less grief if I just played dumb.

And then, come springtime, they brought me back to second grade for creative writing again. I only wish I had the type of parents who had saved some of what I wrote, especially those early days. How cool would those things be to read through now? (Who knows, my first great novel idea could have been in there!)

The years continued on very much like this until I started junior high. That was the year my parents split for good and we moved to a new school district. No one knew me as that tall skinny little kid who sat in the back of the room - that weird-o smarty pants.

Sixth grade was the first time I played dumb. Things weren't good at home to begin with - I may have only been eleven or twelve, but that was the year I began to be left at home with three young brothers to look after, and suddenly I didn't really have time to do that English assignment anyway.

In seventh grade, there was a boy - Damon - who made excuses for me every morning when I was late for school. He'd cover for me in homeroom so our teacher wouldn't see that I was hastily scribbling my way through whatever the assignments had been for the night before.

As much as things royally sucked in those years, I finally found a bit of joy in something new...advanced placement classes. Except they didn't have AP English in junior high, just math, but it turned out that I was pretty darned good at that, too. (I just really freakin' hated it. Either that or it was the bitchy ex-nun of an Algebra teacher I had in eighth grade that turned my stomach. Whichev.)

Then, in high school, slacking became an art. Things at home were worse than they'd ever been. My Mom took a job for which she'd fly overnight to Texas one night a week, and even though someone else was supposed to care for my brothers on those nights, for me, they were often spent digging dirty dishes out of the sink so I could wash them and pour cereal for dinner for the four of us.

We often didn't have a phone or electricity, and there was a two or three month period where we were completely homeless. We finally did get a place of our own again, but those green lot stickers from the storage place are probably still on some of my Mom's furniture to this day.

To say there was too much put upon me at such a young age would be an understatement. It was right about this time, though, that I was placed in Mrs. K's AP English class.

I was sullen. I was moody. I was tired and overworked and I was only sixteen. I had just started dating an older guy who had already begun to emotionally abuse me, telling me that 90% of me was pretty...it was just my face and my still flat chest that needed improvement. He told me if you could stand me on my head, so as to put all the "good parts" up top I just might have something. He told me I would probably never be smart enough or have enough money to actually make it into college. I could go on and on but its not really worth the space.

I was skeptical, too. Here was this stern teacher who finally gave me challenging assignments at a time when I was working an after-school job to literally keep from being on the streets. When she said she expected that we work out our schedules so as to have every assignment turned in on time, no matter what the obstacle, I'm fairly certain she was talking about cheer leading practice and pep rallies. Regardless, she accepted no excuses, and that was probably the best thing for me.

I remember her telling me, in her no-nonsense way that I was bright. So very bright that she wasn't going to accept failure. She encouraged me, when forced to choose a "classic" book for an in-depth report, to pick the longest, most intimidating-looking book from her shelf...East of Eden.

She had faith in me.

I remember coming home from waiting tables, late at night, and picking up Eden. It was like an awakening to me...after all those years, to enjoy reading something again, to have something captivate me. I read the entire book...didn't skim it half-way through and then fake a report and be satisfied with a B- grade. It was the first time ever that I really truly worked hard on an assignment, and really earned that A. (I still remember - I got a 96.9% on that paper.)

And you know what? I saw a glimmer of hope...maybe, somehow...if you prayed and studied and worked until you fell into bed at night with achy bones...maybe you might just get ahead. Maybe I might be able to eek my way ahead, slowly but surely, crawling commando, arm over arm...and some day actually have something to show for my efforts.

The sad thing is I don't even remember that teacher's name. She was the first person ever who made me truly believe that I was smart, that being smart was a good thing, and that I had a teensie bit of potential.

I remember her face...vividly. I think I even made her smile once or twice.

But all of this...this is why...its so hard for me to let go. I've worked so hard to get where I am and I can't just...hope...that I won't be in that position ever again.

Hope.

I learned to read when I was four.

The local paper used to have a section called the Green Sheet, which contained comics and the daily Jumble and crossword puzzles. The story goes that I was perusing the Green Sheet with my Grandma one afternoon when I suddenly began reading the page out loud and never stopped.

I'm not entirely convinced it actually happened that way, but I do remember reading the headline myself when Michael Jackson's hair caught fire. I was in kindergarten and the teacher had brought in the paper - I remember sitting in our circle on the floor and reading the words out loud before she could settle us in our seats. I caught the look of death for talking out of turn.

I remember thinking the Letter People were absolutely the stupidest thing on the face of the planet. I was bored with coloring in Mr. M and his munchy mouth - at home I was already reading books that didn't have pictures on every page. I also lost more teeth that year than any of the other kids and for some reason that made me very proud.

But first grade was where the awkwardness really set in. Cuz, see, I was sent to a small parochial school that wasn't really prepared to deal with kids who already knew how to read. They were just going to take us through the letter people...AGAIN.

So they did what any good school would do - they sent the problem away. I was to spend Reading class with the second graders.

great.

For an hour each day, I trekked down the hall to the second grade classroom. Every day, all conversation would cease as I entered the room and took a seat toward the back. All eyes were on me until the teacher sighed loudly at my distraction and could divert the class's attention back to the front so she could gave her commands. It was clear, without anyone have to say it out loud, that they thought I was simply trying to look superior. I just felt like a weirdo.

Weirdo or not, I quickly showed that crabby-assed teacher that second grade books were below my reading level as well. Instead of working on projects with the rest of the class, I was again singled out. In the back of that classroom, I was given a workbook (with a golden retriever on the cover - I'll never forget that dog with its tongue hanging out on a green background) and told to work at my own pace.

So I did.

It was early spring when I turned in the last of those worksheets. I remember being bored with them as well. They were mostly busywork, and nothing that really was very difficult.

Then...finally...that spring I was given an assignment that I really, truly loved.

Creative writing.

The second grade class had started getting creative writing assignments a few weeks prior, but in my "one man class" status I hadn't been asked to participate. I hadn't really been paying attention to what they were doing to know if it was something I would like or not. I had put on a "don't look at them and they won't tease me" facade. Most days I wouldn't even see them in the room...it was just me and ol' Goldie the Retriever.

But that first day I was allowed to not just read but WRITE? Oh my God...it seemed there were so many ideas in my head and no matter what the instruction I could make up something and write about it. I couldn't believe that this was something they wanted me to do - that they were encouraging me to do.

By the end of my first grade year I had made that mean ol' teacher's eyes go as big as saucers when I turned in not one, not two, but three sheets - filled front and back - of my childish, large script (for I tried to copy the second graders' cursive even though I myself had not yet had that class). If I remember correctly that witch made me feel bad about 'overdoing it' and looking at me as if I were trying to seem important.

I couldn't help it. It just came so easily to me...writing words onto that large lined paper...that dotted blue line hovering in the middle, guiding me...easing me into writing more...

...TO BE CONTINUED...