Dwindling

There was a layer of frost on the grass this morning when I woke up.

We need to pick the zucchini before it shrivels. It's one of the first things to go. That, and the basil. My mother-in-law is trimming basil leaves and making copious amounts of pesto to put in the freezer.

We're a family of mice storing up for the winter.

The grapes are plentiful, swollen and heavy on the vine. My father-in-law picks them and puts them in the biggest mixing bowl I've ever seen. Then, my mother-in-law washes them and packs them in the dehydrator, belly to belly.

I never liked eating raisins before. Oatmeal raisin cookies made me gag. If I were starving and all you had to offer me were raisins, I'd probably choose starvation. (Okay, maybe I'd eat a couple.) But that's because I never tried eating Nai Nai's homemade raisins. These last couple days I've been a raisin addict, popping them like they're Jelly Bellies. Warm off the rack are especially nice.

Even with all these good things happening this fall, I still don't think I'm ready to relinquish summer. This morning I took a walk and saw the hydrangeas brittle and beige. Touch them and they crumble. The sunflowers bow, stalks yellow. The tips of the tree leaves burn bright orange. I stepped on a large one that had already fallen. It crunched. Anna said, "What's that?"

In the sunlight my children bend their heads back, close their eyes, bask; in the shade they huddle, entwining legs and arms, shiver and cry. In bare feet, a walk across the grass is warm and soft one minute, frigid and soggy the next, passing from sunlit spots to shadow. It's sad to look across and see your old friend the basil bush, pruned down to almost nothing. Stunted.

I don't know this place in fall; it will be a world unexplored. Learning to put on a coat again, to wear socks. Reserving an extra ten minutes before we walk out the door to make sure everyone is bundled. Car heaters pumping hot air. Lots of baking. Hot chocolate every morning. Sniffing the air for the first snow.

Time to dig out the winter clothes from the boxes in the garage. Time to wake up when it's still dark. Time to accept summer's inevitable dwindle.

Grammar Doctor

I had a fun writing experience last night. I pulled out the laptop and showed one of the scenes from my work in progress (WIP) to my doctor father-in-law.

The scene I showed him took place in a hospital, and I wanted to make sure what I'd written was realistic.

He read the first sentence of the scene. "Um. You do know you're not supposed to start a sentence with 'and' or 'but,' right?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's stylistic, but I do have to be careful I don't overuse it ... thanks."

He kept reading. "Now you want her to look really awful, right?"

"Right."

"Well, you wouldn't describe her bruise as bright purple. You'd use a word like 'deep' or something else. Bruises are never bright. They're dull."

"Okay."

He read the next sentence. "I don't know if I agree with this word choice...." He read the sentence aloud. "I don't know. I'd probably choose different wording there."

I chuckled to myself. "Okay." Apparently, I was getting a grammar and style lesson along with the medical expertise. Two-for-one deal!

The rest of the critique was mostly about medical details: if my character would actually be wearing an oxygen mask at this stage in her treatment; how badly she had actually broken her arm; details about amnesia. All in all, it was an incredibly enlightening session.

At the end, my father-in-law went upstairs to bed, and I worked on the edits he suggested. Including, by the way, the sentences that began with "and" or "but" and a complete reworking of the paragraph where he would have used different wording.

Later he told my mother-in-law, "Boy, I might have a new profession here. Professional medical expert for novelists."

I know I'd hire him!

Something for Grandma and Grandpa in Hong Kong

We celebrated Sophie's 1st birthday today.

Only one week late.
Nai Nai and Papa weren't here last weekend, so we saved the celebration for today.

She loved the candle and the singing.

Here is her first tentative examination of the cupcake.
Like many one year olds, Sophie started off uncertain...

...quickly learned that frosting is messy (& fun)...

...and finally became a full-blown cake-addict.

After taking a bath, she was ready for presents.
A pull-frog from Nai Nai and Papa,
A Bible from Aunt Christina and Uncle Benji,
A puzzle from Aunt Amy,
A bead toy from Mommy and Daddy,
And a naked doll with no hair from Anna.

Happy Birthday, sensationally sweet Sophie!

Candy Corn

I know for sure my China-born children aren't real Americans. Not one of them likes candy corn.

When I was first thinking about mentioning this fact on my blog, I was going to write something like this after it: Guess my kids are eggs like me.

But then three thoughts struck me.

First, a lot of people might not know what an "egg" is. At least, not in the sense I'm using it here. So, let me explain. An "egg" is someone who's Caucasian on the outside and Asian on the inside. It usually refers to people like me who have lived most of their lives in Asian countries, who have habits and customs that are Asian, but who, on the outside, look completely -- um -- white.

My second thought was that perhaps this term, "egg", isn't quite politically correct.

My third thought, springing from the second, was that this term, while perhaps not politically correct, is more importantly inaccurate and kind of stupid.

Because, honestly, when have you ever seen a "yellow" Chinese person?

Asian people have ranges of skin tone just like any other race, but not one of those skin tones is yellow. It's just like expecting to see a "red" Native American walking down the street. How did my pasty-white ancestors ever come up with these color descriptors?

My lovely daughter Olivia is ethnically Chinese. She has very beautiful brown skin. In the summer it's deep brown. In the winter it's light brown. I don't think anyone would ever look at her and think "yellow."

And in China, as I've mentioned before on this blog, Chinese women all want to have pale skin. They buy beauty products that make their skin whiter. I have never seen such a bunch of truly white people in my life.

Even as I write this, looking down at my own arms, I see a yellow tinge, maybe left over from newborn days when I had jaundice. Or perhaps the result of the electric light bulb casting its artificial, orange-ish glow on me as I type. Still, I would wager that I'm yellower than any Chinese person I've ever met.

So, maybe I should switch that. I'm not an egg. I'm candy corn. Completely mixed up ... and loving it.

Lost

My oldest daughter Olivia is an avid reader. She's in second grade this year, but she can read a standard chapter book in less than an hour. Usually at around the forty-minute mark she throws the book down and proclaims, "I'm done!"

And I stare at her every single time. Shell shocked, every single time. "You're done? Already?"

I bought her six books through the scholastic book order at school. They came on Thursday and she finished reading them all over the weekend. I just couldn't help but think, "I just spent money on what?" I need to make even better use of our public library so my family doesn't go bankrupt from Olivia's reading habit. (Good problem to have, by the way. Very good problem.)

Two weeks ago she begged me to go to the library and get more Mandie books. Has anyone out there ever read a Mandie book?

I hope I'm not stepping on too many toes when I say I hate Mandie books. I loathe Mandie books. I despise Mandie books.

When Olivia asks me to read to her from a Mandie book I usually have to take a deep breath and repeat the mantra: "This is how you show love to Olivia. Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice."

I try not to make comments as I'm reading. But (confession) sometimes I do.

"Why do we need to read an entire chapter about Mandie and all her friends deciding what they're going to do next?" Seriously. Every Mandie book I've ever read has two or three chapters that involves the characters sitting around talking and making plans about what they're going to do that afternoon or the next day. It's boring! I did plenty of that sitting around making plans when I was in high school, but I don't want to read about other people doing it. Boring! Boring! Boring!

The last one I read to Olivia had several chapters about Mandie planning what her cat, Snowball, was going to do next. "Well, what are we going to do with Snowball ... and where should we put Snowball while we walk outside ... and where, oh where did Snowball go? We must find him before we leave!"

I think I said it out loud, even though it was naughty of me: "Mandie, I don't care what you do with the darn cat. Just put him somewhere and get on with the story!"

Still, I yawn and snarl my way through Mandie books for my daughter's sake. And I even bring them home from the library when she asks me to.

All this sacrifice, though, has only landed me in a quandary. One of the Mandie books I brought home from the library two weeks ago has gone missing. Missing. I've torn the house apart looking for that ridiculous book, and what especially irks me is that if I can't find it, I'm going to have to PAY for it.

It would be one thing if it was a book I loved. I'd know that eventually it would turn up, and if I'd paid for it already, it would be mine. Mine! Hoorah! But no. No celebration. This is a Mandie book.

Oh well, I guess if I have to pay for it and if it turns up somewhere I can give it to someone who likes Mandie. I'm sure there are lots of you out there. Anyone wanna 'fess up? (After all my ranting and raving, you'd be a brave soul.)

Thumbtack Romance

Saturday was windy. We opened the door to let in the breeze.

I wasn't surprised that two papers from the cork board fluttered to the ground. I picked them up.

I forgot to look for the tack that had been holding them up until it was too late.

Clunk, clunk, clunk (my bare feet against the cork floor). Yow!

Now, I'm not usually queasy about medical emergencies. (Well, besides the time my father-in-law removed a cyst from my husband's earlobe and I almost passed out. That's another story entirely.) But there was something about seeing that thumbtack embedded in the ball of my foot that made me want to puke.

I hopped around, trying to get a good hold on it to pull it out. My husband sat at the table staring at the laptop. I kept saying, "Help me, help me," and couldn't figure out why he didn't move.

Isn't it amazing how when we're in pain or panic, any sense of time we might've had flies out the window? It probably took less than ten seconds for me to pop that thumb tack out. Not really long enough for anything I was doing or saying to make sense to my poor husband who happened to be engrossed in some completely harmless Saturday morning entertainment: fantasy baseball scores. One minute he was reading about Ichiro's batting average,the next he was hearing an unspecified cry for help from a melodramatic spouse hopping around on one foot.

What's a guy supposed to do?

After removing the tack, I limped into the bathroom and sat on the floor with my face in the toilet, doing my Lamaze breathing because I was positive I was going to vomit.

Strange how something so incredibly insignificant could effect me so much.

I didn't lose my breakfast. Thankfully. I flushed the toilet and listened to the water gurgle. Then Aaron came in to make sure I was all right. Good man. He sat by me, rubbing my arm, until I felt well enough to hobble out into the front room to get a Band-aid.

Today he and I rendezvoused at the health center to get tetanus shots. He needed one too because he sliced open his finger on a cat food can.

Some days this rigmarole is our romance: sharing injuries that involve metal objects penetrating the skin; being a physical presence when someone's contemplating puking; going to the health clinic to get tetanus shots together (I'd call that a date!).

That's companionship. That's what every woman wants -- minus the thumb tack in her foot.

FitG Update: Just Like That

Wow wow wow.

I haven't done this since I read the Anne of Green Gables series as a fourteen year old.

I actually finished this book in a matter of hours. I stayed up late reading Just Like That last night. Then I woke up early this morning, and lay in bed for awhile thinking how stupid it was to lie in bed awake thinking about a book when I could be getting up and reading it. So I pushed the warm covers aside, curled up in a comfy chair in the front room, and finished it.

Finished it. Mothers of four young children don't usually do this sort of thing.

Wham bam thank you ma'am. I need to make another trip to the library.

I wasn't surprised when I read the author's bio on the back jacket flap after I finished the book. Marsha Qualey has written quite a few books, and her writing shows it. She's a smooth writer, confident in the world she has created, and her characters are interesting and realistic.

And she wrote a great first chapter. I've never been so hooked by a first chapter in my life.

The book is deeply secular, so don't read it expecting any profound revelations. I guess what hooked me the most was just the unpredictability of it all. Qualey and I must have completely different ways of thinking about things, about life, because the characters said and did things I wasn't expecting at all. And I liked that. It was refreshing.

There was a dark thread running throughout with themes of death and loss, so it wasn't a shallow book by any means. But at the same time the book didn't answer any questions. It told a simple story with a satisfying ending. And that was all. It didn't preach at you. I also liked that.

The simple story with a complicated problem -- two people thrown together by tragedy -- was the perfect showcase for deliciously multi-layered characters. The main character Hanna is incredibly interesting. I'd always heard that your main character is supposed to be the most interesting person in your book, but I couldn't find a lot of examples of this in the fiction I was reading. I mean, think of Charles Dickens, for example. His main characters tend to be a little boring. It's his cast of supporting actors that are the fascinating ones. They always drive the plot, tinker with the main character's destiny, throw those splashes of flamboyant color into his work.

In Just Like That, Hanna truly is the most interesting character. That's not to say the other characters aren't interesting too; they are. But Hanna is outspoken, bold, determined, stubborn, and likable without being over the top. Best of all, she's unpredictable. You don't know what she's going to do next, what she'll feel strongly about, how she'll exercise her unique combination of impulsiveness and restraint. She's intuitive and strong. She does things in this book I would never have the gumption to do. And she makes dumb mistakes sometimes, too. Like we all do.

So, on my next trip to the library -- which might even be TODAY -- I'm going to check the shelves for other Marsha Qualey books. I'm not sure how long I can go without a good night's sleep, but I may have to get a stack of Marsha Qualey and see how long I can hold out.

I'm a glutton for punishment.

FitG Update: The Blind Faith Hotel

My main goal in joining the Fill-in-the-Gaps 100 Book Project was to read more YA.

Because I'm trying to be a YA writer, it only makes sense to read more of what I write.

My only problem is, I'm having trouble finding many of the titles on my 100 book project list at my local library. Plus, now that I'm actually looking around an American library, I'm realizing a lot of what I had on my list that I thought would be YA isn't YA.

I have a lot of Newbery Medal winners on my list, but after looking for titles in the library and reading Bud, Not Buddy (which is an excellent middle-grade book, by the way), I realized most of the books on my list are middle grade.

So, I resorted to plan B, scrapped my list, and perused the YA section instead, looking for realistic, contemporary fiction. Since there aren't any RULES in the FitG project, I figure I can just replace some of the books on the list with these random books I'm picking off the shelves.

My first random pick was what I would consider a literary YA novel called The Blind Faith Hotel, by Pamela Todd.

Definitely character-driven, I think Pamela Todd's novel was wonderful in many ways. The writing was beautiful. Really beautiful. And she had some pretty funny dialogue thrown in there too, especially between main character, Zoe, and her self-centered older sister, Nelia.

The problem for me was that with a character-driven plot, I'd expect to feel like I knew the characters extremely well at the end. With this one, I got all the slow-moving, slow-developing plot of a literary novel, but not much of the character depth.

There was beautiful writing, yes, but there were three different times where I got so tired of the long, meandering plot that I almost abandoned the book all together. And you know, I read a lot of classics. I'm used to meandering plots!

The jacket copy talks about the main character Zoe and how "a brush with the law lands her in a work program at a local nature preserve." The only problem is, this particular event doesn't even start to happen until half-way through the book.

There's another main character mentioned in the jacket copy; a boy named Ivy who is the main character's love interest. We see Ivy once from far away about a fourth of the way into the book. We see him a little later, again, from a distance. Half way through the book he's still not even a central character. I think it wasn't until I was two-thirds of the way through that he actually says something. And then instantly we're expected to know him, to invite him in, and treat him like a central character.

When something actually HAPPENS at the end of the book, I didn't feel like I knew Ivy well enough to really care. I knew that he was well-built and wild. And I knew Zoe liked him, and other facts about him. But that's all they were. Facts. The writer didn't really show me enough about him. His introduction felt rushed. Here she wrote a long, drawn-out beginning, and thenc contented herself to choppy generalizations when describing Zoe and Ivy's relationship.

It's always interesting to be a person-who-writes critiquing another person's book. I'm probably harder on other writers than I should be. And when it all comes down to it, Pamela Todd is published and I'm not. So she must be doing something right.

To be fair, she's doing a lot right. She has a wonderful writing style, so I think her books can only get better. Her descriptions of the prairies are incredible. I could see exactly what she wanted to show me through her words. If anything needs work, it's pacing and character development. Pacing may be slightly easier to improve; character development is hard. But practice makes perfect.

Would I pick up another Pamela Todd book again if I saw one? Hmm. I think I'd have to be blown away by the jacket copy and if the first chapter didn't absolutely grab me, I would be quick to abandon it.

Lasts

A new friend told me about a book about Lasts. We're so eager to celebrate Firsts, we often forget to acknowledge Lasts.

It is more difficult to acknowledge Lasts, because so many times we don't realize Lasts are happening....

The last time your child runs to you with his arms open for a hug.

The last time she sucks her thumb.

The last time he sits on your lap and lets you ruffle his hair.

The last time she sleeps in your bed all night.

The last time she asks you to read her a story.

With Lasts, you wake up one morning, maybe several mornings later, maybe weeks later and it dawns on you, "My baby doesn't do that anymore."

So, today I'm honoring a Last. It's an easier one of which to take note, because it's all about a date and less about an accomplishment.

It's the last day I'm going to have a baby in my house. My baby Sophie, my last baby, turns one year old tomorrow.

Now I just need to make sure I enjoy every minute of kissing her sweet, chubby cheeks, because one morning I'll wake up and she won't have them anymore.

I Recommend: The Day the Babies Crawled Away

I have a new favorite picture book writer.

Peggy Rathmann is the incredible author who not only wrote Office Buckle and Gloria, but my all time favorite Ruby the Copycat.

Now, however, Ruby the Copycat has a rival. I am absolutely in love with a book I brought home from the library last week. And my kids are in love with it too.

It's called

The Day the Babies Crawled Away.

Not only is the art amazing -- it's all done in silhouettes -- but the concept is AWESOME: a little boy rescues a bunch of babies who have crawled away from their parents. He's just a kid himself, but he performs a heroic deed and brings the whole gaggle of babies safely home.

My kids love the artistic detail in this book (especially the littlest baby who hangs upside down from everything). There's tons to look at, so the book never gets old. They find it hilarious.

And I can't say enough about the artwork. The silhouettes remind me of Chinese paper cuttings. Simply beautiful.

I'm not usually a big fan of rhyming picture books, but I think if anyone can pull off a rhyming book (besides Dr. Seuss and Roald Dahl), it's probably Peggy Rathmann. She's gifted.

So, if you have small children -- and even if you don't -- next time you're at the library or book store, look for this book. Your kids will love it and you won't get sick of reading it over and over and over and over to them. I was actually excited when they'd pull it out of the library book pile for the fiftieth time. "Oh good. Yes, let's read it one more time!"

Quiet Time

After two hours in Target, we drove home on the freeway. I had my worship CD blasting and I was singing at the top of my lungs.

"Mommy!" Anna yelled from her car seat. "Turn off the music!"

"Ask me nicely, please," I said.

"Mommy, please turn off the music," Anna said.

I turned off the music.

"Is that better?" I asked.

"Yes."

We continued down the freeway. I didn't even realize I was still singing to myself.

"Mommy!" Anna yelled. "BE QUIET!"

"Anna, ask me nicely."

"Mommy, please be quiet."

"But honey," I said, "I need to sing. I just have a song in my heart."

"But Mommy," Anna replied. "I just have sleep in my heart."

Fast Jesus

At six-thirty a.m., still groggy, I opened the hallway door and stepped into the kitchen.

What's that sound?

I walked over to the refrigerator. Yes, it was coming from the refrigerator.

I looked behind the refrigerator. Yes, the sound was definitely coming from back there. Chew, chew, chew, chew, chew -- the persistent, high pitch of water gurgling.

"What is that sound?" I asked Aaron and his dad. They were both sitting at the kitchen table.

"I think it's just the ice maker," Aaron said.

Boy, I guess I've never been up early enough to hear the ice maker making ice.

After Aaron left for school, I was busy getting the kids their breakfasts. They were lined up at the counter with plates of waffles in front of them. Olivia was in her usual morning attire: underwear, draped in her pink leopard-print fleece blanket. Gabe was fully dressed. Anna was in her pajamas. They were all huddled around the birthday present we'd purchased for their cousin Josiah: a G.I. Joe guy with a snow mobile. We are giving him the present tonight. Until then, my kids get to enjoy looking at the package.

I noticed suddenly that the sound was louder. Much louder. CHEW, CHEW, CHEW, CHEW, CHUG, CHUG, CHUG.

I checked behind the refrigerator again, but I still couldn't see anything. Boy, this thing's busy making ice!

But as I walked through the kitchen, my eye caught the reflection of water glistening along the base of the cabinets. I crouched down, my eyes tracking the water back to its source.

Of course the water came from underneath the refrigerator.

Which would be a semi-normal kitchen mishap. If it weren't leaking all over my mother-in-law's brand new cork floor.

The brand new cork floor that must be instantly cleaned if a cup of water is spilled on it, that must be hurriedly wiped if a wet shirt drips on it. The cork floor that wet children fresh from the swimming pool are not permitted to walk upon.

"WATER!" I screamed. "WATER!"

The G.I. Joe man was forgotten. The children sat at attention, then scurried from their stools like squirrels.

"Olivia! Run out and find Papa!" I cried. She was closest to the back door. I knew Grandpa usually spends his mornings before work laboring in the back garden.

Olivia started for the door, but turned with panic in her face. "I'm just in my underwear!"

"Gabe," I cried. "It's up to you! Run out and find Papa!"

Gabe ran. And I went for the rags under the sink. I grabbed an old night shirt, a holey dress and a pair of frayed underwear and plowed back into the kitchen to mop up the water.

Gabe came flying back through the screen door. "He's not there!"

"He must be upstairs!" I cried. "I'll go! You guys stay here!"

I ran up the stairs two at a time. The door of the bathroom was closed. Grandpa was probably taking a shower.

I knocked. "The refrigerator's leaking," I said through the door.

Instantly I heard Nai Nai's voice from her bedroom. "The refrigerators leaking?!" The bedroom door flew open.

Okay, I could stop panicking then. I had someone else to panic for me.

Nai Nai and I rattled down the stairs together. The children were assembled in the kitchen, staring at the water.

I pulled out the refrigerator. By that time Papa had gotten out of the shower and come downstairs, fully dressed. Physicians are always wonderful in emergencies.

I discovered that the small white hose delivered water to the ice machine was spraying, so I stopped the hole with my finger until Papa could turn the water off.

"Thank you Jesus that you saw this before it was too late," Nai Nai said to me, bringing more towels to mop up the water.

The base board paint had bubbled, but the cork floor was saved.

"What if this had happened in the middle of the night?" Nai Nai said, shuddering. "Thank you, Jesus! ... Next time I'm not getting a refrigerator with an ice machine in it, that's for sure."

"Thank you, Jesus!" Anna chirped from her seat at the counter. "He sure is a fast Jesus."

Epiphany

When I lived in China I thought my problems with Gmail were because I lived in China.

The Chinese government frequently blocked websites: Facebook, blogspot, nothing was sacred.

But now that I live in America, I realize Gmail just has problems. Often. I've been able to get into my inbox once this week. And I didn't even have time to write any emails back before it shut down again.

So, writing buddies, if you're out there trying to email me through Gmail, I'm sorry if you think I'm ignoring you. I'm not.

I'm just learning that it doesn't matter which side of the iron curtain I happen to be on, sometimes the internet just doesn't work. What an epiphany!

Friday Night Lights

I didn't miss out on much growing up in Hong Kong. My life was full, rewarding.

But I did miss out on one notable thing: High School American Football.

Now I'm making up for it.

We're in full-swing football season here in Prosser. The red and white varsity Mustangs play every Friday night, and freshmen play on Monday. So, that's our lives right now: Monday and Friday at the Art Fiker stadium, watching Daddy coaching from the sidelines, cheering on our new team.

Last Friday night a girl rode a horse (yes, a real live horse) across the field before the game started. She must've been a talented equestrian because she held the pole of an enormous flag, unfurled behind her in the September breeze.

Every time the Mustangs score (which is a lot because they're good), a guy at the top of the stadium rings a huge bronze bell. Last week that bell rang seven times. Because we were busy spanking Redmond.

Ever since I went to my first football game at PLU twelve years ago, I've loved watching football. Good thing, too, because now it's ... life.

I sit in the stands on my little PLU seat cushion, bouncing a baby on my knee, stuffing french fries out of a Burger King bag into my mouth. We all take trips up and down the stairs for bathroom visits. The kids sip at my super-sized Dr. Pepper. The evening cools, the kids get tired. I hear, "When are we going home?" Gabe lies face down on an empty bench. I make a mental note to bring a sleeping bag next time.

So, no, I guess this isn't a real high school experience. It's high school plus four kids. But the Friday night lights are bright and there's a coach down there who's pretty cute. I think I'm going to like being the Mustang's #1 fan.

Goodbye Nazi-Mom

If there's one thing I love about American life so far it's school.

And I'm surprised I'm saying that. Because I had my doubts about how my children would fit into public school after attending a private Christian school in China.

But after having Olivia in school for four years in China, having our kids in American public school is just ... relaxing.

We don't have to leave the house for school until 8a.m. And if we're a few minutes later than that, it's okay, because school doesn't technically start until 8:20.

Also, our kids get home at 2:30 every day. That's a full hour earlier than they arrived home when we were in China.

Not only that, but every Wednesday they get out at 1:30.

And there is essentially no homework.

Sorry, I should rephrase that. Olivia does have homework. She gets it all in a folder at the beginning of the week and has to turn it in on Friday.

In the folder are: ten spelling words; one or two sheets of math (addition and subtraction); and this week she has one sheet of letter tracing.

So, basically, for one whole week Olivia has about as much homework as she had in one day in China.

For the Asians reading this blog, I know what you're thinking: Doesn't it make you upset that American school is so easy? Aren't you worried about your child being under-challenged?

I have to admit, the Asian part of me is bothered by this.

But the American part of me is celebrating. Because my little girl gets to be a little girl. She gets to come home and play.

I don't have to stand over her for an hour delivering a lecture through clenched teeth like I did in China that sounded something like this: "Olivia, if you will just get it done and stop whining and complaining, then you can go play!" Because it just didn't work to play first and do homework later. It just didn't. Because after dinner she fell apart. She needed to be in bed because she had to get up at 6:30 to get ready for school.

And Olivia dragged her feet over homework. She hated it.

Last night she was writing out spelling words and sentences. "This is so much fun, I just can't stop!" Wow, that came out of my daughter's mouth. Amazing.

I almost giggled.

I've been driving around town absurdly happy lately. Absurdly happy. Because my kids are coming home from school early and we can just play.

Play!

Sigh. Goodbye Nazi-Mom. I don't have to be you anymore.

Rain in Summer City

Three days ago the sky clouded over. Gray. Blue. Bruised-looking.

Then it poured. Clattering against the concrete path in the backyard. Gurgling through the drainpipes.

The smell wafted into the house through the open screen door. Cold. Fresh. The kind of smell that tingles in your nostrils.

Strange. While I was working I kept looking up and wondering, "What's that noise?"

Oh yeah, it's raining.

Strange. Because this has always been our summer city.

We've only known bright blue sky, scorching heat, jump-in-the-pool-or-you'll-fry kind of days.

Not this rattling, torrential splattering, this thundering sky, this purple horizon billowing black.

My Dirty Laundry

I don't like to think I take things for granted. But I do.

Our washing machine was broken all week.

Today the Sears delivery men brought us a new one. So, I'm up doing laundry tonight.

Yippee!

You don't say "Yippee!" about doing laundry late at night unless you haven't had a washing machine for a week. And unless you have four small, messy children with lots of dirty clothes.

Actually, though, I have a confession to make. *Blush* I can't blame my children this time. I had to use the OxiClean liberally tonight, but it wasn't on their clothes. It was on mine.

I hate mystery stains. I must be a messy eater because I inevitably put on shirts -- supposedly clean shirts, mind you -- with mystery stains on them.

This morning I put on four shirts and all four of them were mystery stained. We were so short on clothes anyway, because of the broken washing machine, that I had to wear a shirt I feel like I've already worn every day this week. It's white, but it has a big brown fish on the front, so it must be at least partially immune to mystery staining.

Another reason to say "Yippee!" about doing laundry is that I'm using a brand new washing machine. Not just any washing machine, either. A washing machine that has four temperatures of water: Hot, Warm, Cool, and Tap Cold.

I love that there's a temperature called Tap Cold.

Because Tap describes Cold, and I love any washing machine that uses adjectives on their machines. Good job, Kenmore!

So tonight I'm washing all my OxiCleaned shirts on Cool water. Tomorrow maybe I'll use Tap Cold and see what the difference is.

Purr, I love laundry.

Binge Writing

I've already apologized to my mother-in-law because I didn't do my dishes this morning. The dishes I left sitting there after our Boise State football party last night: two empty cookie Tupperwares and a salad bowl.

And now I need to apologize to all my other friends who I've been ignoring. People are sending me emails, Facebook messages, and I'm not replying.

Because I'm binge writing.

It's horrible and wonderful all at the same time.

I wake up. I get the kids off to school. I go on a walk. I read my Bible.

Then I binge write.

Binge writing is akin to binge drinking. But instead of counting empty beer bottles, you count pages written.

It involves writing every waking second.

I pause to answer a child's question. Today I even paused long enough to take the kids to the library and to the playground.

But whenever there's a spare moment, even a two-second-long moment when nobody's crying for me; like, if they're happily playing or looking at books or eating lunch, you'll find me at the computer, pounding out my novel.

As a result, these edits are flying out faster than a speed roller skater on roller skates.

So, sorry if I'm ignoring you. I'll surface for air -- and emails -- soon.

After the book's done, that is.

WIP Wednesday: Staying Positive

My husband and in-laws are all out in the living room watching What About Bob. And what am I doing, writing fanatic that I am?

Well, at this very moment I'm blogging. Duh. But before this very moment I was busy entering another writing contest. This time, it's to win a scholarship to an incredible agent-author conference in NYC. You can check out the rules here. Oooh, I'd really like to go to New York.

Now that I'm entering this contest, I'm also scrambling with some finishing touches to the novel I'm entering: V-Day. I got comments back from writer-pal Florence last week. As always, she did a great job slicing open my novel and showing me the weak spots.

So I'm pecking away on third-round edits. Totally fun. Just as good as rollerskating. Maybe better. I'm getting everything ready so that maybe, just maybe, IF I win, I'll have something fabulous to show those NY agents.

I know it's a big IF. This business is ruthless. And there are hundreds of great books and fabulous ideas out there. But you never know. I have to keep trying, because Nothing will happen if I quit.

Right? Of course right.

High Roller

I've been desperate to go rollerskating ever since we moved back to the U.S.

Desperate.

Is that weird?

If you think so then you probably didn't know that as a child I was a rollerskating fanatic. My friends Christina, Cathy and I were down on the Mei Foo podiums in Hong Kong probably every day after school, doing nothing but skating.

For us, there were two kinds of skating.

The first involved speeding away from security guards who screamed threats at us and ran after us waving their arms. We always pretended we couldn't understand their Chinese or their broken English. Even "No, no, no!" had us looking wide-eyed and innocent.

We'd skate right by the sign that said, in English: "No roller skating, biking or skate boarding." With pictures. Yes, we were naughty kids.

When we weren't skating away from guards, when we found a quiet, wide-open podium with a smooth surface, we'd make up dances. Individual rollerskating dances. That was the second kind of skating. And we'd sing songs as we danced, providing our own music. I still remember how free it felt to fly across the tile of the podium garden, the wind against my face, singing a song nobody else could hear. I attempted turns and arabesques and leaps. I don't remember ever falling down.

Except for one time when I was trying to skate away from my sister, who had an annoying habit of shadowing me and my friends. That was the time I got my skates tangled up with Cathy's and we both came tumbling down. I think I landed on her, but I was the one who broke my arm. Thankfully she didn't get hurt; that would've been pretty unfair since we were trying to escape my sister.

Skating in the Prosser roller rink today was a bit different than skating on the Mei Foo podium. For one thing, there was a black light and disco ball. And music. Loud, thumping music. My kids were jerking around the rink on their little skates, falling over. And I was like speed-racer, competing against myself.

I think I scared my seven-year-old niece. She told me, "Aunt Amy Lynn, you're going too fast. You need to skate in the middle. That's where you're allowed to go fast." She pointed at about ten orange cones set up in an oval in the middle of the rink -- about five square feet of rollerskating space. I was not about to be relegated to skater-prison, so I pointed out that I didn't think I was going that fast. She conceded. But I noticed she didn't come out on the floor much after that. When she did, she held fast to her mom's hand.

I'm sore tonight. Already. I guess that just shows how long it's been since I last donned roller skates. It also may be what I deserve for terrorizing innocent children with my insatiable need for speed. Or maybe it's payback for all the stress I caused those unfortunate security guards all those years ago; after all, they were only doing their jobs.

But it was so much fun coasting around the rink, so relaxing to let my mind wander back to those carefree days on the podium when my skates were laced up and my wheels click-clicked over the grooves in the concrete.

Maybe I'll make rollerskating at the Prosser roller rink a weekly habit. Some hobbies just die hard.