 Oh, how I envy the well-decorated Christmas tree with all its matching ribbons, ornaments, and pretty tree topper. I see these trees in department stores, magazines, and friends homes and I’m in awe.
Now, our Christmas tree (we have two by the way and this statement applies to both) is not so “matching” and the ornaments are extremely random—from homemade ornaments we make each year, to BYU and the UofU ornaments we have hanging at equal heights at the top of the tree so no team is considered better than the other. I do have the tree all in red lights, red and silver ornaments, red LCD ribbon (super cool by the way) wrapped around it with a matching red star perched on the top. But that is where all matching ends. Our tree is not magazine worthy by any means. But our tree is remarkable and I love it. Because I know that when the day comes in which I have this ultra-gorgeous looking tree, my children will have grown and moved away. They will have taken with them the ornaments we make each year as a family tradition, the ballet girl, the princess crown, the Monsters Inc, the paper bird, the school-made ornaments (I still hang Caden’s preschool ornament), the trains, the horse, the Carebear, and Hello Kitty. Maybe our tree isn’t fancy, but all you have to do is point to nearly ornament and I can tell you a little something about why it is there. The white and blue ceramic ornament—my church Sunday school teacher made it for me when I was twelve. The cream colored heart with two little red birds—the ornament I made for Scott when we were engaged to be married. There is an ornament for our first Christmas together, and one for each child’s birth. There are ornaments made by cousins and ones given to us by family members. Each is unique and wonderful, and each tells a story. I love my tree. It’s a little goofy looking (a string of lights died on it just the other day) but that’s okay. It looks great to me.
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Last night, I took the children shopping to purchase a gift for the person who’s name they drew. They were given their budget and sent loose to pick the perfect gift their sibling would enjoy.
Normally, when I go to the store with the kids, it’s usually a “me, me, me” kind of moment—Can I have a little toy?; Can I have a treat?; Oh, I hope Santa brings me this and this and this . . . But this time at the store was wonderfully different. They each came back with their basket and their special gift hidden by their hoodies so the other ones couldn’t see. Oh, my little Calder! He can be such a pill and such a selfish little bugger (ya gotta love him), was more excited than I had ever seen him be. NOT because of what he hoped his big brother picked out for him, but for the gift he picked out for his sister. “I bet she’s gonna love it? Huh?” or “When I saw the price, I KNEW I had to get it for her. I just had to.” or “It’s more than just a toy. She can play with it. It stands, plays music, lights up, and she can play with it on the computer too. She’ll play with it all day! Do you think she’s gonna like it?” Over and over he asks that, “Do you think she’s gonna like it?” Even this morning, he kept telling her how much she’s going to love his gift to her. For his sake, I hope she does. (I’m certain she will). That is sweet. The smile on my face is huge. They each took turns wrapping these special gifts and placing them under the tree. Callie teases Caden and tells him that she bought him a snow globe (it’s that shape, but it isn’t). The funny thing, Caden believes her and is upset that she spoiled the surprise. What a gullible kid. Last night as well, we curled up on the couch and my little Callie yelled out “I call snuggling with mom!” (Now keep in mind, very rarely does Calder like to snuggle. Sometimes, but not usually. And Caden, my snuggling with him is more of me tackling him and holding him down. He’s much too big and too cool for that. So when Callie calls snuggling with mom, I quickly accept. She’s only going to be little once. They grow up too soon). This is Christmas. Snuggling. Movies. Loving one another. Oh, and as an early Christmas present to me—Caden cut his shaggy hair. Yippee! He hugged me and said, "Merry Christmas, Mom." Wow. I can see his ears—his ears!!! I haven’t seen those in months. It makes me teary. There is nothing more fabulous than church the Sunday before Christmas. With the stand completely filled with some of the best singers I have ever had the pleasure of hearing, I knew it was going to be good. It was one of those “rub-your-hands-together” moment and smile as big as a little kid. And oh, my goodness! Our ward choir is fantastic and amazingly gifted. Chills. I got me some chills—that’s the best feeling ever. Violin, organ, piano, and harmonic voices all at once—fantastic! It was beautiful and inspirational to say the least. I love Christmas music, especially those songs that depict the birth, life, and love of the Jesus Christ. Absolutely perfect. It was everything I needed and more. I work with some of the greatest ladies I know in the Young Women program. They are inspirational, smart, funny, and super cool. I adore them and their friendships completely. The Christmas program that was prepared was beautiful. The girls were amazingly quiet and the spirit was incredible. I could not have asked for more in setting the mood for the upcoming week and preparing to celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Now, in the search of finding me some Christmas Spirit, there was a setback. Life likes to take twists and turns and mess with your mind like that. But it’s okay. Ain’t nothin’ gonna get me down. The night went on to be much better. Good friends, fantastic food, and wonderful conversation helped tremendously to pull the spirit back around. There are so many of you out there that I love—MUUU-AHH (throwing a big kiss your way). Thank you. Thank you for your friendship, love, and support. Last night, in an act of unity and love, all three of my children got along peacefully, watched “The Christmas Story,” and then fell asleep together in the family room by the glow of white Christmas lights. Watching them sleep, I know that finding the Christmas Spirit is something I have to push forward and do—for them. Life can get messy, and the three of them are unfortunately getting mixed up in it, and it’s important for me to not allow the mess to ruin what should be the most wonderful time of the year. We will have a beautiful, wonderful, magical Christmas, no matter what. I hope you all will too. In my plight (fancy word) to become less of a Scrooge and to try and find my holiday spirit, I had put a plan into action (see previous blog). Here is how day one proceeded:
Last night we piled the kids in the van (some more willing than others) and we drove to Layton where we had a wonderful dinner at the Noodle Co, together as a family. By the end of dinner, all 3 kids were happy and gave less attitude. With Christmas music playing on the radio, we went and saw the Layton City Park lights. Christmas dinosaurs, mermaids, dolphins, bears, unicorns, and snakes all lit up the park and the kids enjoyed pointing out the various light-sculpted figurines. The line to drive through was long, but we were patient, sang songs together and enjoyed ourselves. Had we dressed better for the weather, walking through the park would have been ideal. Next year maybe. But for me, and I really even think for the kids as well, the highlight of the evening was the spur of the moment idea to go and visit my step-mother-in-law’s parents, who happen to live in Layton as well. Her parent’s, the Quintana’s, are absolutely wonderful. Even though Scott is the “step-son” of their oldest daughter, you’d never know it by them. They treat us with absolute kindness and love. Mr. Quintana has had his unfair share of life’s heath issues this past year or two—ranging from a brain clot that led to surgery and the removal of a large section of his skull, to more recently having been diagnoses with pancreatic cancer, which has kept him from being able to have his skull replaced (he is simply too weak for more surgery). This 86-year-old man told us “I’m a fighter. I’m hanging in there and maybe I’ll get me a gold-plated skull someday.” And he smiled continually—one of the best smiles I have ever seen. This family is a close-knit, very loving family. When we showed up at their door at 8:30pm, not only were Mr. and Mrs. Quintana there, but three of their five daughters and a son-law were there as well. We were quickly ushered inside the magical winter wonderland they had created in their home, complete with tree, lights, moving Christmas village and various Christmas décor that took up every inch of their small home. The kids were enthralled. We were hugged and welcomed by everyone, and were quickly told to sit and stay. I don’t know how long Mr. Quinta has. His health and time here on earth is slipping away. But watching his family care and love him was inspirational. My prayers go out to them. I am completely grateful Scott had the idea to stop by and visit with them. Because having done so, really brought with it a great sense of the Christmas spirit I was desperately in need of. This is what Christmas is all about. It truly is. I hope my children take away from that experience as much as I did. It wasn’t about the Noodle Co. or the lights at the park—it’s about family and time, and the people we love.  It’s early morning. My household's sleeping, and I, in my pj’s, snuggle under a quilt and write this blog entry by the glowing lights of the Christmas tree. Outside the snow falls peacefully, blanketing the ground.
And all I can say is, thank goodness. I need another dusting of white snow. I need the Christmas lights. I need the quiet. Because, here it is, exactly one week before Christmas day and I have yet to be touched by the holiday spirit. It just doesn’t feel like Christmas to me. Between facing the crowds in big department stores, the rush to purchase that “one last gift,” still needing to mail out Christmas cards, finishing up school projects, and the unexpected glitches that life sometimes tosses our way—I’m Scrooged. I am. What do I want this year for Christmas? At this exact moment at 7:02 am, all I want is peace and happiness. That’s not too much to ask, is it? Just peace of mind and happiness for all. Santa, I’ve been good this year, I swear . . . Okay, maybe I’ve been a little bad, but that’s what makes me interesting . . . but still Santa, please send some peace and happiness my way. Lay your magic on me, baby. I have one week to find the holiday spirit, and by golly, I’m going to find it too—ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me either. And I have a plan . . . I will fill our home with the sounds of Christmas—music, laughter (this one will be a little hard to pull off—don’t look at him, don’t breathe her air, don’t touch each other), and old Christmas movies. I will read a Christmas book each night to my children, like in the tradition of years past and of which, somehow, has been cast aside this particular year. I will even fill the house with the smells of Christmas . . . Oh, I bet you thought I was going to say by baking right? Well, you’re sorta right . . . by encouraging my bread-making husband to bake bread and oatmeal cookies. I will burn fragrant candles as well. (Sorry, that’s all I got for the Christmas smells section. Baking is not my thing). I will snuggle with my children. I will remind them of the true meaning of Christmas. I will wear a holiday sweater—okay, I don’t have a holiday sweater, but I would wear it if I had one. I will wear red and green in a combo effort to feel cheery, how’s that? And in the midst of that goodness, how can I not feel the Christmas spirit, right? How can I not find the peace I’m looking for? I refuse to let this holiday season slip by without having fully enjoyed it. That would be horrible and unfair. This is supposed to be a wonderful time of year, a beautiful time of year, and I want to be fully immersed in it. And I plan to, too. So beware, I may start singing carols and start wearing little tree ornaments from my ears (holiday earrings in case you weren’t certain what that meant), because I’m taking back my Christmas, and I will do what I have to, to do it too. Merry Christmas everyone . . . fa, la,la,la,la . . . la,la,la,la (insert raspberry sound here). I don’t want to be a Grinch.
I don’t want to be lack-luster. But a smile on my face Seems rather hard to muster. The lines are too long. The people not nice. Already today, I’ve been to the store twice. My anxiety level is rising. My blood pressure is too. Every time I think I’m just about done, I find one more thing to do. So if you don’t get a card, Or a plate of treats so fine, It’s not that I don’t like ya, It’s just that I’ve lost my mind. Merry Christmas y’all. I’ll try harder next year--Angela A novel has to tell a story. It has to be intriguing and produce enough emotion to propel the reader forward, to keep us turning the page even when a chapter has ended. We want to break out the flashlight and huddle in our beds so we can continue reading far into the night. A reader wants to feel so connected to a character that they worry for them, care for them, must know what’s going to happen next, and if that character will receive their happy ending when all is said and done.
It will not matter how fantastic the words are if a reader feels a disconnect or, quite frankly, the story is rather dull. Without naming titles of books, I have read a few of these types of novels—the writing is beautiful, but the story not so much. It becomes a chore instead of a joy. I find myself losing interest half way through the book and I end up setting it aside with no plans to ever pick it up again. And then, of course, there are the books on the market in which the writing is so poor it’s laughable. Again, I will not name names. Yet, the story is interesting—interesting enough to make teenage girls and their mothers swoon, pick a team, and stand in line at midnight for the movie premier. Laughable writing aside, this author is rolling in the dough. Her success? She wrote a good story—she did. She made it different and interesting. She made the reader want more—three books more. That’s an accomplishment and something all writers strive for. (I want that. Not the bad writing part, but the three books more part). Because, here’s the thing, no matter how wonderfully written a book is, no matter how pretty the words are, it won’t matter if the reader doesn’t care enough to know what’s going to happen next. If the reader doesn’t feel a oneness with at least one of the main characters, then the author has failed. It’s as simple as that. The story has to be good. Fancy writing, natural dialogue, and beautiful narrative will mean nothing, if the story is boring, if the plot is dull, if the reader doesn’t care about the characters. The best books are the ones that can accomplish both things—beautiful writing with a beautiful, passionate story. There are many of these out there and I count myself lucky when I happen to stumble upon one. A good book I will devour in only a couple of sittings. A bad book I will donate to the local thrift store. As writers, it is beneficial to read bad books. Sounds silly, but it’s not. It’s an opportunity to see where the author went wrong and for us to avoid making that same mistake in our own work. In fact, we will probably learn more from the bad books than we ever will from the good. In an article called “The Love of a Good Story” by Robin Garland, she interviews a long-time story consultant and agent, Lisa Cron. Lisa has this to say (which I found so well put, that I quote her directly): “Make no mistake, great writing is secondary. Because if a reader doesn’t care what happens next, who cares how well it’s written. In the trade, such exquisitely rendered, story-less novels are referred to as a beautifully written ‘so what?’ “ For myself, I strive to become a writer that can mesh both—good writing with a fantastic story. I’m still working on that. But if nothing else, I want my readers to keep turning the page. I want them to feel as though they can’t set the book down for even a moment. If I can accomplish that, I will be utterly thrilled. If I can make it beautiful at the same time, that’s a bonus. But I do know that I never want to be a beautifully written “so what?” I love the impact of a word. I love the feel of the keyboard beneath my fingertips and watching a world, a world that did not exist, come alive as I write.
I have always loved that. In elementary school, when the teacher would give us our assignment of drawing a picture (an artist I most certainly am not) and then write a story about it, my inner writer would be cheering. It excited me. A research paper? I loved it. Keep a daily journal in a spiral notebook for English—I will. Now ask me how I felt about Math, Chemistry and Home Economics . . . I didn’t like them at all. I scraped by enough in math, barely. Chemistry was a bad mistake (I’ll have to tell you about blowing up gas bubbles and the trouble that caused later). Home Economics--WHOA. My pillowcases came unstitched. My baby quilt was a dangerous choking hazard. My sewing machine always jammed. My food always burned, and never, EVER, did it look like the teacher’s demonstration. I took one year of Home Economics and knew I had enough of that (thus my lack of home economic skills in this here present day). Simply put, I knew Home Economics was not my forte. I did try wood shop, but the machines scared me to death (at the beginning of the term, the teacher showed us a video of people falling onto drill bits and becoming impaled or losing limbs from the same machines we were expected to use—super nice, huh?). But, boy oh boy, Creative Writing and English . . . I was sliding into my desk, just ready to be told to go ahead and write something. I went on to get my B.A. in English from Utah State University (technical writing emphasis, because EVERYONE knows fiction writers make squat). By the way, technical writing is not fun. Has very little to do with creativity. Not very enjoyable at all. Yep, a degree in English. I can’t spell. I can’t diagram a sentence to save my life, and my grammatical skills are lacking. But guess what? They gave me the degree anyway and it’s mine . . . wah,ha,ha . . . it’s mine. No take backs. So here I am, how many years later, wanting to become a professional writer. I am a writer. I embrace that title. But once I actually get paid for my writing, then I can call myself a professional writer. Professional Writer—sounds nice, has a lovely ring to it. Money sounds nice too :) But in the world of subjective publication and all the various hoops an aspiring writer has to jump through and doors that need to be knocked on to become a professional writer, I may as well be aspiring to become the president of the moon or a dancing fairy princess. The writing world is a tough world. And for the most part, a writers world is solitary as well. It’s just you and a blank piece of paper, or in my case a blank screen with a blinking, ever mocking, curser. So writing is tough and lonely. Just me in my pj's (like I am right now) and my laptop. But this past year has been remarkable. I have surrounded myself with some wonderful, crazy, inspiring writers, and by doing so, have opened my solitary world of writing to others. I’m not so solitary anymore. I have had more people read my work than I have EVER had. I have people to push me from behind and make me do things that I KNOW I would have never been courageous enough to do on my own--querying agents for one thing. I have jumped through hoops. I’ve made it past some hurdles--I actually have an agent presenting my work to publishers. So it’s been an exciting year for sure. From November 2009 to November of 2010 I have written three completed books (though two are in need of editing) and I am 2/3rds done with a fourth. That’s pretty good for me. I’m thrilled. What an awesome year. Oh, and I have a blog . . . who'd a thunk? I pray next year will be just as generous and wonderful as this year has been. Fingers crossed. My little 10-month-old niece is a gem of a baby. She’s happy and content—a very, very good baby.
But I’m exhausted. And really it had nothing to do with the baby herself. Overall, last night she did well. She slept in the playpen until around 2:00 am and then I put her in bed with me where she slept until around 7:00am. She’s a wiggler, and if the pacifier falls out of her mouth it wakes her up. But she didn’t cry, just fussed until it was out back in and then she was out once more. Why am I tired you ask? Because all night I had dreams about the baby—taking care of the baby, diapering the baby, losing the baby. I just talked to Scott a minute ago and I told him I dreamt about caring for my niece, and he asked me if I remembered getting up out of bed and searching around the playpen for something during the night saying her baby stuff was missing. Well, I don’t remember any of that, but it’s very plausible. No wonder I’m tired. Not only did I take care of a real baby during the day, but I ended up caring for a dream baby during the night. So right now, I am still in my pjs and I’m planning on a nap. I’m sleepy. I love that little cutie pie, squishy face, angel girl, and I would be more than willing to keep her overnight again. But the dream baby has got to go. Okay, not really—not in THAT sense (but I got you to read my blog. I'm tricky like that).
But, there is a baby at my home—my beautiful, super smart, extremely adorable 10 month old niece. I’ve been watching her all morning and will be keeping her over night until tomorrow. This will be interesting to say the least. On Monday, my brother-in-law (the baby’s dad) had surgery on his left arm. My sister (the baby’s mom) fell and broke her right arm and had surgery on Thursday. The two parents were instructed to lift nothing more than a pencil with their bad arms. So, as a family, everyone is jumping on board to help care for this little munchkin. Tonight is my night. So far, all I manage to do is yell at my own children: “Put the baby down”; “Stop touching her”; “Don’t eat her cheerios”; “Stop it! You’re making me and the baby very, very angry”; “It’s only pee. Don’t be a wimp”; “Get off her toy, you’re too big for that!” And my favorite: “This is why we can’t have any more babies! You’re mauling it!” (Yes, I said “it”. I shouldn’t have. “It” is a “her.” I know that, but “it” came out of my mouth. AND I am not planning on having anymore babies. I was just trying to make a point). I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m pretty sure I can manage to keep her safe and alive until she is back with her parents tomorrow. It’s been years, but I think I can do it. A good friend said, “Keep the baby away from the knives and you should be good to go.” So that is my plan. But as far as what to feed her and when she’s hungry, well, she better let me know. If she needs her diaper changed, well, again, she better let me know. But so far, she ain’t talking. Here’s another glitch in the “Keeping the baby overnight scenario”: This baby HATES Scott. She always cries when he looks at her (though I must say, today she just gives him the evil eye and has yet to bust out into tears. This is progress). The reason she does not like Scott, I believe, stems from the time I was watching her when she was 3 months old (and less mobile). Scott was playing peek-a-boo with her and yelled “BOO!” kind of loudly. She was a 3-month-old baby. She didn’t find it funny at all. Since that time, she can’t stand the guy. So to keep her happy, Scott can not have any direct eye contact with her, and to this point, it’s working. No tears. Another glitch in the “Keeping the baby overnight scenario” is that this baby likes to sleep in bed with her mom and dad. She has also spent the night with her grandma and grandpa and guess where she sleeps . . . yep, in their bed. So, guess where this baby is going to be sleeping . . . next to her sworn enemy—Scott. Though, I am going to make every effort to have her to sleep in a bed on the floor. We shall see how that goes. (I will let you know in the morning how my night was). Oh, I just heard my daughter tell her brother: “We can’t have a baby because of YOU!” (It’s probably true too. He is definately a good reason for not bringing infants into our home on a permanent basis). I love babies. I do. I’m happy to get my baby fix. But to do this 24hrs a day, for like what two-three years (until it's grown some what), I don’t think so. I’ve done my time. Plus, I’m old and I like to sleep. If I don’t get my full 12 hours, I’m a bear to live with. Ask anyone. But for my sister and her husband, I will give up this one night for them and wish them a quick and speedy recovery. |
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