Tag: writing

Living with teens

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Posted in response to Writing 101 Day 2, Write a list…

10 Reasons I don’t particularly like living with teenagers:

  1. It seems someone is always sleeping in my house.
  2. The laundry piles up and gets out of hand. If we do one load a day, we can stay on top of it.
  3. The grocery bills are steep. And growing.
  4. With people comes We need to get control of the stuff.
  5. Someone’s plans always conflict with someone else’s and it’s my job to juggle the calendar.
  6. Just when I think I know what my teens like to eat, their tastes change.
  7. There are always shoes by the door.
  8. Things can get loud. So far, the neighbors have not called the police, but it’s coming. I know it’s coming.
  9. They make me feel old.
  10. Knowing they’ll soon be off to college, careers, families, even though that means I have done my job.

10 Reasons I love living with teenagers:

  1. There is always someone in the house to give a fresh perspective. If I am stuck or stymied, someone will help me out of my conundrum.
  2. Teenagers can actually reason with me—sometimes better than I would like—unlike when they were younger.
  3. The house is full of life and activity.
  4. We have a lot of great books around our house—kid books, young adult books, grown up books. If you need something to read, you can always find something!
  5. There is always someone to help me with my technological devices, talk me through the glitches, hook up my new printer, or figure out why the DVR is not recording the show I watch.
  6. I can bake cookies without having to eat them all myself.
  7. There is always a pair of shoes by the door that I can slip into if I need to run out to the car late at night (or first thing in the morning).
  8. They keep my young.
  9. The laughter.
  10. The love.

Writing (2)

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This post was written in response to November’s Writing 101 – Day 1 assignment.

It never hurts to re-examine why we write. Back in September, I completed the assignment I write because… which gave some insight as to how I became a writer. That first assignment can be found here: https://positivelyunbroken.com/2015/09/13/writing/ I am re-taking Writing 101 because the need to write is strong. My ability to find the time and structure is weak. So here goes….

I write because I am convinced that the world in which I live will someday live up to my expectations. For now, my life is rough around the edges; stuffed with busyness and work and people who might be too unfriendly or even downright rude. Writing helps me to process and to find a place where I can be at ease, reflect, and be myself.

I write because lately, the need to write has been immediate and pressing. There is something out there that I am missing; I just know it. When my head hits the pillow at night, the ideas are knocking at the door, pushing hard to get in. As I am falling asleep, the barrier between the conscious and the subconscious relaxes. Sometimes, the ideas push hard enough that fingers slip between the door and the casing, slivers of light into a world I have yet to explore. Through writing, I believe I will find the key to that world.

Some days, when I least expect it, I find pieces of ideas scattered across the floor like shards of glass, glinting in the sunlight, begging to be picked up, examined, and assembled into a logical or creative whole. On those days, I have the choice to gingerly tiptoe around them, or to dive in and begin to assemble, using the words I write to bind and develop the found ideas.

As long as the ideas continue to be compelling and urgent, I will continue to write. When the urgency is no longer there, I will dig deeper, searching, until I can dig no more. I write because I am convinced that when the ideas stop appearing, I may also cease to exist.

Superheroes

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The senior English classes at our high school are working on their college essays, which is both brilliant and problematic. It is brilliant because the students will get these essays written and perfected under the instruction of their teacher; it is problematic because my son is not prepared with a topic. He thought he had another month or two to think. He has nothing to write about. Not. A. Thing.

According to this kid, there is nothing that has happened to him that is essay-worthy. And “college-essay-worthy” at that. There are no experiences that define him. I can’t even get a story from him, and I am a woman who believes everyone has a unique and interesting story.

I sat him down, and I talked to him (actually, I followed him around the house to brainstorm with him, but I digress…). We discussed the trips he has taken, the activities in which he is involved, the club he is starting at school, his culinary program, his “broken” family of origin. Still, we came up empty. Nothing.

Each day, I would hear his rants about the essay, his lack of topic, his teacher and her nagging until I finally threw out anything I could think of. “Why don’t you write about your trip to Hawaii?” I suggested.

“Mom,” the sarcasm oozed thick and heavy. “No one wants to hear about my trip to Hawaii.”

“Well, how about when you almost fell in the volcano?” I continued.

“I didn’t almost fall into a volcano—”

“And your father risked his life to save you,” I interrupted.

“My father would never risk his…,” his voice trailed off. “You know, Mom, you might be on to something!” I could almost see the light bulb go off in his head. “I can write about the time my father died trying to save me!”

Um…. That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but that was the direction he took my suggestion. “You can’t really make up your college essay,” I informed him. “They want to know who you are, what defines you.”

“But Mom,” his excitement was evident on his face. “What better essay to write if I’m going to school for creative writing? I’m going to tell my teacher that this is my topic for my essay!” He disappeared into the living room.

I sighed. I had grasped at straws, handing him one without thinking it through in the way a high school senior might. There is a lesson to be learned here … I’m just not sure what it is.

One lesson I know for sure. Every kid wants to believe that his parents might have a touch of superhero… that his parents would do anything to save him, should the need arise. I believe we all need to believe in parental superheroism.

But for parents who are not very “parental,” who think only of themselves (year after year, in situation after situation) and their children know there is not even a speck of superhero, well… they might just find themselves starring in an essay featuring a poorly placed volcano.

Virtual coffee date…

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For Writing 101, Day 10 (which was many days ago…), we were asked to update our readers in a post of a “virtual coffee date.” So here goes….

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If we were having coffee, I would tell you that the school year is getting off to a slow start. Every September, I marvel at how late the sun rises, and yet every September when I wake up at 5:30, it is dark. Just like last year. Getting up at 5:30 is not my favorite thing to do, and the weeks are already feeling long, while the weekend is a mere blink. This year, readjusting to the strict schedule has been taxing to my mind and body. Each day, it seems, I wake up with a new pain that I chalk up to aging for the time being. For now, I will leave those “aging” pieces where they lie.

If we were having coffee, I would tell you how much I love reading the essays of my college freshmen—the narrative essays on a place that shaped them. Through years of reading these essays, I have learned that students don’t choose to write about the elaborate vacations, and the events or places that represent the material parts of life. I have learned that an overwhelming number of students choose the places where they have been able to connect with their families, spend meaningful time together, and feel the love and support that surrounds them. These essays let me know that even though I am not able to take my children on long vacations far away—even though they haven’t had some of the amazing experiences that their peers have had—maybe, just maybe, what I am doing is not so bad.

If we were having coffee, I would tell you how often I hear the phrase “Welcome to my life,” and how very much I despise it. There are so many things people keep secret, not revealing their pain, their failures, and their worries. No one has a right to assume that their life is more difficult than that of another person. Their life is different. Period. Using this phrase only serves to diminish the road traveled by others.

If we were having coffee, I might tell you that I had a challenging summer. I took on a great deal of work—more than usual—because it was available, it was offered and the offer halfway felt like a promotion, and I need to support my family. The workload might not have been such a great idea. Other areas of my life suffered, and I felt as though I was unable to do anything well. I hate not doing things well.

If we were having coffee, I might tell you that I worry a lot about my children. I would tell you that I try my best to keep up with everything that needs to be done, but sometimes things slip. Letting things slip falls under the category of “not doing things well.” Did I mention I hate that? Being a single parent is the toughest thing I’ve ever done, and I need to learn to let go of some of the things that can slip and not be noticed.

If we were having coffee, I would tell you that I am truly blessed to have three teenagers and a boyfriend who love me. I am sure that some days, they love me more than others, but they love me. And that’s what matters. Sometimes, when I am being honest with myself about my life, my past, and my future, I realize that I would not trade a thing. My road is difficult sometimes, but everyone’s is. Some days, I am stronger than I look, and those days are the ones that get me through.

Then again, if we were having coffee, I might have second thoughts about not trading any of it… I can think of one or two toxic people I would trade for something more positive….

 

 

 

 

Past and Future

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This post is in response to Writing 101, Day 7: Start with a quote.

“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”     –Dr. Seuss

Right now in my house, we are navigating senior year of high school. The first senior year. The oldest child. As we move through the daily life of classes and activities, we are also evaluating colleges, considering futures, contemplating resumes and jobs. We are looking outward and forward, to what lies ahead.

Each morning, my son walks out of the house, gets into the car, and drives off to school. As he walks away from me, I can clearly see his two year old self walking down the hall, his toddler feet struggling to hold onto my adult running shoes. The memory of the clop-clop of the shoes hitting the floor and his exaggerated walk as he tries not to trip on the massive shoes makes me chuckle.

I look out the window and see his face through the car windshield as he settles into the driver seat, puts the car in reverse, turns and backs out of the parking space. It is the same face I watched in my rear-view mirror on the boy strapped into the car seat, the five-point harness securely holding him just above the shoulders. Because he is the oldest, at this tender age, he still had the monopoly on my attention. In the mirror, I could see his curiosity and wonder; he would ask a million questions; and he expressed concern that the cars coming toward us might be just a bit too close for his comfort.

I stand and watch as he drives away, and I am thinking about all of the times that he left me behind. When I took him to preschool for the very first time, I stayed with him until he was ready, his warm hand in mine for reassurance. And he finally let go and joined new friends in their play. At four, he rode in a red plastic wagon around the halls of the outpatient surgery center at the hospital before his tonsilectomy. But when they pulled him through the double doors, and I could not accompany him, his face reflected a fear and anxiety that reflected my own and planted a tight knot in my gut.

To him, his daily life is the same as all the other years. Nothing is unusual or different; this year in high school is simply his last year. His reminiscences are not as deep and far-reaching as mine. He is focused on the future. He is thinking about where he will go, what he will become, and when he will see the friends he leaves behind. I am thinking about the future and the man he is becoming, but I am also thinking about this boy as my baby, my toddler, the little boy who was constantly collecting “treasures” that I would have to empty out of his pockets before doing the laundry.

As his childhood transitions to young adulthood, I look back on the many years I have spent raising him—and all of my children. I know that I am blessed to have had this time, and the memories make me smile.

Life Lessons List

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This post is in response to the Writing 101, Day 2 prompt to write a list. I currently have three teenagers, but I have spent my entire adult life working with teenagers. Hence, my list:

Things I’ve learned from teenagers…

  1. Don’t get bogged down in the present. Just keep pushing on.
  2. Have fun. Laughter and fun are important to fostering a healthy outlook.
  3. It’s okay to be silly sometimes.
  4. It’s okay to be sad sometimes.
  5. Always have food on hand. Good food will bring friends. And you never know when you might be hungry.
  6. Other people will have their opinions. You don’t have to agree with them.
  7. When your “friends” don’t treat you right, move on. It’s better to have a handful of good friends than a crowd of superficial ones.
  8. Being nice is an important skill in getting through life. You may want to say something mean, but sometimes it’s best not to.
  9. Look forward to the future. It is full of promise
  10. Young people have good ideas. Sometimes, they have great ideas. Listen to them. They are the future.

   10½. Did I mention food? It’s always about the food.

Writing

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This post was written in response to the Writing 101, Day 1 prompt: I write because….

I write because I grew up in a small town where fitting in was not my forte. I was artistic and academic, borderline hyperactive (before that was a diagnosis) and just about the opposite of athletic. I created “treasures” from items that were tossed aside, and I was overflowing with sass. The combination was one that didn’t work well for a kid navigating the waters of small town school life. At first, the fact that I didn’t fit in mattered to me. But after a while—and too many reminders that my sharp edges and rounded corners didn’t match everyone else’s—I accepted my lot in life.

I write because in kindergarten, a light went on when I learned to squeeze meaning from the squiggly lines that formed words on a page. A door was opened to new adventures and new worlds where I could easily lose myself. The public library and local bookstore became my refuge, and I hid behind the mask of a voracious reader.

I write because sometimes, when I felt lost and alone, reading was not enough. I would take out a notebook, usually in the late hours of the day when dusk turned to darkness. At first, I wrote fiction and poetry, depending on my mood. I would craft stories, churning out page after page, simply to see how much I could write and to watch the page curl under the weight of my words.

I write because as I ventured from adolescence into adulthood, my ideas and my identity were fluid and changing. I wrote my feelings and my dreams into stories as I worked to make sense of the world and my place within it. I wrote stories of realistic fiction with characters who might have been my friends.

I write because when I divorced, I needed a way to pull myself out of the all-consuming black hole that is emotional abuse. Suddenly, I was the character, and the world was my own. There were many soul-searching journal entries. Many nights of listening to the rain outside my window while my thoughts and my words spilled onto the page.

I write because once I freed myself from the abuse and regained my confidence, not writing was no longer an option. Through my journey, I had evolved into a writer. I had discovered a home in creative non-fiction. I discovered that writing my story helps me to live a better life.

I write because I never did find the place where I fit in. But fitting in is over-rated. Writing is a journey that fits perfectly with who I am.

Camp Mail

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Sending letters to camp is not what it used to be. When I was a kid, my mother would send us off to camp, and each day, while she sat at home doing nothing (because what else does a mother do when her children are not home?), she would take out a pad of stationery and write a note about her day and inconsequential things that had happened. I remember the first time my sister went to camp, Mom asked me if I wanted to write her a letter. But then she cautioned, “Don’t write anything that will make her homesick.” I was eight and had no idea what would make my sister homesick. So I drew an elaborate picture, wrote that the cat had sniffed a blueberry, and I signed my name. We still laugh about that letter….

On Sunday, I dropped my son at camp for a week. Now, what with e-mmediate-mail, it’s quicker to drop the letters off with the child’s camp counselor, or in this case, Scout leader. Of course, W’s Scout leaders have worked hard to earn a reputation for handing out mail (the entire week’s worth) on the day parents are coming for pick up. I decided to circumvent that problem, and give the letters directly to W to read on the correct day(s). I labeled the letters with post-its and packed them in a Ziploc bag (the bag will prevent him from reading mail on the wrong day or reading all of the letters at once, of course).

Being seasoned camp-ers, we know all the warnings: Don’t send food, candy, electronics, or any bad news such as news that the dog died. And so…. Because we are cat people, every year, I send a letter to camp informing the child in question that the dog has expired.

On Sunday morning, I sat down at the kitchen table to compose five letters to be read over the coming five days. As the story in the letters began to unfold, I snickered to myself, unable to contain my amusement. W was walking through the kitchen. Knowing I was writing camp mail, he stopped and rolled his eyes. “Mom, what are you writing?”

“You’ll see!” I giggled in response.

Over the next few days, my son will read about our adventures in Paris, eating breakfast with a view of the Eiffel Tower; snorkeling off the coast of Australia; and walking the Great Wall of China. Believe it or not, we were able to walk the entire length of the Wall in one day—between our day in Australia and our trip home in time to pick him up.

On Thursday, my son will read that the dog accompanied us on our trek on the Great Wall, and did a fantastic job! He will read that the dog is doing well, though resting, after his intensive exercise. Sadly, on Friday W will learn that the trek was too much for our pup, and he expired overnight.

Yes, we had a grand adventure while my son was at camp—at least in my over-active imagination. And my son got to read about it from the comfort of his tent.

None of my kids can say camp mail isn’t entertaining!

Liebster Award

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At the end of last week, Susan, at The Best Things in Life nominated me for a Liebster Award. I was thrilled, but before I accepted, I felt like I should achieve some crazy blogging milestone. So maybe I did not achieve a “crazy milestone,” but I posted my 50th post!

In the blogging world, 50 posts is not much—a drop in the perpetual post-bucket. However, for me, it feels pretty big. I put off blogging for a very long time because I was afraid that I would not be able to keep it up. I was afraid my hectic life would get in the way, and my blog would fall by the wayside with only 10 or 15 posts. While my posting has slowed down a bit since my spring teaching picked up at the beginning of February, I have still kept at it. I will get back to posting more regularly.

I took a look at the “Official Rules” for the Liebster Award —which seem to be ever changing and marginally “un”official. (The Liebster Award: The Official Rules). In looking at the rules, I realized that I had a little flexibility. And to me, flexibility means room to color outside the lines, something my creative self adores! But I will try to stay within the bounds of the rules as much as possible.

First of all, many thanks to Susan at The Best Things in Life for finding my blog in this jungle we call the Internet, and then nominating me for this award. Sometimes, finding the good stuff feels like magic, but other times, it seems like pure, dumb luck. As a blogger, I have to get better at the magic aspect of it.

Next, I will answer Susan’s questions:

  1. What state or country do you live in? The U.S.—New Hampshire.
  2. What is the best thing about where you live? Eventually, it stops snowing and spring arrives.
  3. What is your passion? Helping writers to develop their craft. Raising caring, happy children.
  4. How do you relax? Relax? Am I allowed to do that?
  5. Vanilla or chocolate? Um… is coffee an option?
  6. Favorite vacation spot? We have the most wonderful camp that we go to. It’s not really a “vacation spot” per se, but my children and I—and now some of our extended family and wonderful friends—have created some amazing memories there. Because it was the first “vacation spot” I was able to take my children to, it has become a very special place to us.
  7. Favorite band? Too many to mention—lots of bands and lots of solo artists.
  8. Why do you blog? I blog because I find it relaxing. I think that even though I am a little crazy creative and unique, there is much of who I am (to my kids, friends, students, co-workers, pets, etc.) that is part of the universal experience of humanity.
  9. What was the last book you read? I read a lot of YA literature. I just finished Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children for a class I’m teaching.
  10. Weirdest thing you have ever eaten? Lamb’s brain. Served on the half-skull.

And now that I have answered these questions, I will nominate six bloggers—who may, or may not, choose to accept the Liebster award—and pose some questions for them to answer:

EpicGran

Renaissance Musings

Hypedad

Scribbles and Crumbs

Motherhood and all the rest

Bari Nan Cohen

Here are my questions:

  1. Where do you live?
  2. If I were a tourist in your area, what should I absolutely not miss?
  3. How long have you been blogging?
  4. Is there anything you have found surprising or unexpected about blogging?
  5. What are your blogging goals?
  6. In one sentence, tell me about your writing process.
  7. What is the most interesting place you have ever visited?
  8. What is your favorite book/series?
  9. Do you have any pets, and what types?
  10. What is your favorite book?
  11. What is your favorite movie?

I look forward to reading your responses!

Essays

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“I have to work on my history essay,” my son announces.

“Isn’t that due tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yes. But it won’t take long.” To me (a writing teacher), writing an essay seems like something that might take some time. This particular essay involves a bit of research in the gathering of sources, and while it’s not a lengthy piece, this particular teacher is a stickler, to say the least.

“What should my thesis be?” he asks me from the other room, as if I know the assignment and the points he will make. I think about how much easier it would be if he would venture into the kitchen where I am preparing dinner so we could discuss without yelling back and forth. And since I have been struggling with my own writer’s block, I am not feeling particularly adept to be giving advice on how to start writing.

“Think about the points are you going to make,” I say. When pressed, yes, I can hold a writing conference from a different room. “Those need to be part of your thesis. But you probably want to do your research first.”

“I’ll just start writing,” he declares, dismissing any input I might offer at this point in the process. Fine then. He did ask for my help, after all. I swallow hard as the teacher in me wells up, desperately wanting to comment about the research piece.

I go about my business making dinner and finishing up some evening chores. After about half an hour, I start to the basement to tend to the laundry. My son is staring off into space. “You need to focus or you’ll never get that done,” I say in passing.

“Mom…!” he says in his favorite tone of teenage incredulity. “I’m working on it!” He springs from the couch, iPad in hand, and starts following me. “You have to see this….” But I am already down the stairs in the laundry. “Mom, look.” He holds the iPad out for me to see, and three solid paragraphs fill the screen. I am impressed. “See?” he says. “I’ve got this.”

It isn’t long before he is finished, and he brings me the essay to read. Aside from some repetition in two of his points, which I mention, it’s not bad. We work on the thesis, and he returns to the living room to type and reformat. In a few minutes, he says, “I need help with my citations.”

After a brief discussion of whether or not we can work from the same room, we decide he needs the computer, and I need to cook dinner. So, from the kitchen I say, “You’re going to write the author’s last name followed by a comma, then the first name, period….”

“Mom!” my daughter interrupts. “You have that memorized?? That’s so wrong!” Maybe. But since I use it often—as in daily—the memorization came as a side effect.

“Hey Mom! My friend hasn’t even started his paper yet. He’s hoping for a snow day tomorrow!” C laughs.

“Hmm. He does know we had a snow day today, right? Is he planning to write the essay?”

“Who knows,” C says. “But mine’s done!” He pauses for a minute. “I just need a title. What should my title be?”

He struggled with the title longer than he did on writing the entire essay. Which just goes to show, sometimes the easy things can trip us up. Sometimes, we get caught up in the little things in life and end up with writer’s block. As for his friend? He’s still working on the essay. I think he’s stuck on the first sentence.