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Last week I called myself for being a Big Fat Liar Pants, whining that I can’t seem to finish anything longer than a blog post. I talked about my various writing projects, the majority of which seem to reside only in my head. Of the big ones, there are a few books – two fiction, but different genres and one nonfiction – whose ideas have lived for varying numbers of years. Of the smaller variety, I regularly come up with ideas for shorter stories, sometimes one-shots or flash fictions, some the longer of the shorter variety. I counted among my writing projects a fanfiction story that’s been in various stages on paper for two years.

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about the vampire playthings in my head: the apparent sun-fearing conspirators who wake at night (when I should be sleeping) and prance around in my mind, sucking away any chance at sleep by preventing my mind from shutting off at a decent hour. It then occurred to me (only after this had been going on for years; sheesh, I’m slow) that, perhaps, I should work them to my advantage. Thus, the novel idea of a writer writing in the middle of the night was born.

In the wee hours of the morning, I tweeted and facebooked (that one doesn’t really work as a verb, oh well) the following:

That’s right. I finished something. Something longer than a blog post. In your face last-week-self!

The two-year-old, multi-chapter fanfiction story is complete and out there for the world (of fanfiction readers, that is) to read. Granted, I never share my pseudonym, so no one knows it’s me; but that’s not the point.

No, it’s not a major writing project. No, it’s not a novel. But it’s something that’s been occupying my brain and it’s not complete. It’s a little more of that 95% that never makes it to paper actually on paper. I’m counting that as a win.

In our house, when someone says something that’s clearly not true, we call them a “big fat liar pants.” Now, this is not to make light of telling lies; lying (and omitting the truth) receives harsh punishment, just ask the Girl, who’s currently grounded from all electronics. But, sometimes, there are things said even though there’s no possible way it could be the truth, and the speaker doesn’t even expect the listener to believe him or her. For example, “I don’t know why you tripped over my shoes since I put them in my closet where they belong,” said the big fat liar pants.

Last weekend, we watched two movies, one of which has really stuck with me this week. I don’t want to talk about We Need to Talk About Kevin. I try not to think too much about that one. The one that I can’t seem to stop thinking about is The Words. Bryan said his mom watched it and “knew I’d like it.” I did like it. But it made me teary. When Bryan asked why, I couldn’t put it into words. Because I’m a big fat liar pants.

The Words (2012) movie poster from IMDB.com

The Words is about a writer who, in the midst of the tidal wave of rejection from potential publishers of his first novel, finds an old manuscript in an attaché his wife purchased for him at an antique store. When he reads this manuscript (these words of another), he’s overcome with emotion … the story so genuine, the descriptions so detailed, the feelings so raw … he’s moved, he’s awed … and he’s jealous. He has no idea who wrote these words or how they ended up hidden away from the world; all he knows is that he wishes he’d written them.

At this point in the movie, the writer tells his wife, “I’m not who I thought I was, okay? I’m not. And I’m terrified that I never will be.” (The Words, 2012). I get this. His wife gets upset, taking his comments to mean he’s not happy with her. Of course, he loves her, but, just as we learn about that manuscript’s original writer, he “loved the words more than the woman [he] was writing them for.” (The Words, 2012).

Now the blurb for the movie will tell you what happens next: the writer passes the words off as his own, receiving both critical and commercial success. And then he meets the original writer, the old man. The old man tells him where the words came from and all he wants in return is for the writer to bear the pain that bore the words. The old man is tired, he has nothing left, he just wants the pain to go away.

I do love words, but I don’t love them more than my family. And there’ve been many times when I’ve read things I wished I’d written. Typically, I consider that a sign that I like something. But I’d never try to pass anything off as my own though. I may be a big fat liar pants but I’m not dishonest. I’m a big fat liar pants because I’m not who I thought I was. Writers put words on paper; they share things with the world (however big or small that world may be to them). If I had to put a number on it, I’d say about 95% of my “writing” occurs in my head. Only about 5% of my words make it to paper. I spend too much time in my own head (but, hey, I know everyone there and it’s cozy). I’ve got at least three “writing” projects in the works; the majority of which are in my head. How can I call myself a writer if I never finish anything longer than a blog post (and this one’s been in my head for four days now!)?

I’m not a writer. I’m a thinker. Nothing more than a daydreamer.  Don’t get me wrong, daydreaming is fun, but I’m not who I thought I was. “At some point, you have to choose between life and fiction. The two are very close, but they never actually touch.” (The Words, 2012). I’m a big fat liar pants.

While I was out gallivanting on my Harry Potter London experience (speaking of awesome, more on that later), Bryan took the kids on a day trip to Petit Jean State Park. It’s one of the natural beauties of the Natural State.

Of their trip, he shared a “quotable moment” from Boy Genius (BG). They’d been hiking all day and even trekked down a “treacherous” trail to stand behind the waterfall that everyone else was pointing at. (At this point in the retelling, Bryan pauses to interject: “I’m sure they were all commenting on what a bad parent I am, because no one else was back there.”) Afterwards, the Girl said “That was so cool. I couldn’t think about my past or my future, just about what was happening right then.” And BG replied, with a big smile, “You know what that’s called? A moment of awesomeness. I have them all the time.”

Quotable indeed, and true to form. I, of course, shared this with my fellow London gallivanters, as I so often do with BG stories.  At dinner out with the family a few days later, I was sharing how my friends always get a kick out of those stories. This was when Wonder Boy [WB] spoke up: “I know you wish I wasn’t your son.” Stunned silence all around. Finally finding my voice, I said, “[WB ], what do you mean?! Of course I want you for my son.” When he didn’t reply, BG interjected, “Well, cause you’re always offering to give him away.” Looking from BG to WB, I saw the latter nod his downturned head.

And it’s true, I often reply to “he’s so cute!” comments with “you want him?” or the like. Trying to be funny, all in good humor, of course. But it’s not funny if no one’s laughing. Looking at his sad face thinking I don’t want him just broke my heart. You know what that’s called? A moment of epic failure. And unfortunately, I have them all the time.

So I vowed to him then and there that I’d never say it again, and spent the rest of the night trying to convince him how much I love him and kicking myself for being a moron. Little eyes and ears see and hear everything, and their owners may not think about what happened before or what is to come, just how they feel in the moment. Though words can’t break bones, they can hurt deeply; and we all must watch our words to make our moments awesome.

“This is Your Brain” Anti-Drug Ad from 1980s (Partnership for a Drug Free America)

Well, only legal ones, I swear.

I’ve been joking a lot lately that I’ve developed ADD, that I can’t seem to focus on any one thing. I’ve even taken to counting backwards from 100 at night to force my brain to shut down. I usually make it to about 85 before my mind starts wandering off.

I can remember a time when I was uber-productive; marking things off of a to-do list was my specialty. And now I’m sitting here while Michael Jackson sings in my head over a scene of folks dressed Egyptian-style walking through a regal setting. And now, the Bangles. Sheesh.

What was I saying? Ah, yes, focus.

Part of my problem, at the moment at least, is my upcoming trip to London. It’s hard to focus on anything for very long knowing I’m days away from a trip that’s been planned for 6 months and talked about for twice as long.

But traveling raises issues – kids, animals, students, nerves. The kids and the animals are being left in the very capable hands of daddy, with the help of mema. And my students (all online courses this semester) have been forewarned of my upcoming incommunicado status. But still, I’m a worrier by nature. I worked with this girl once who regularly reminded me that worrying is a sin. So sometimes I worry about being a worrier. It’s a vicious cycle.

Then there’s the stuff that doesn’t have anything to do with the trip but regularly takes up space in my brain. Like one book I’ve been “writing” for several years now. I use quotes around writing because most of it occurs in my head when I’m trying to go to sleep. I told Bryan recently that it’s as if I have all these players in my head who hide in the dark recesses of my mind during the day, but as soon as I’m lying in the dark, they all jump out from their corners and crevices to party. Great, I’ve got vampire playthings in my head. He just looked at me like I was crazy (and perhaps with a little pity). Really, it shouldn’t be news.

Notes that were taped to the wall when I began the BIG Project in June 2012

But even the vampire playthings can’t get me past this one bump that makes the whole story fall apart – a certain character’s motivation that just doesn’t jive yet. Sometimes I feel like the answer is so close … like the playthings really are just playing with me … conniving little suckers (no pun intended).

Or the other book, the Big Project I wrote about before, that hasn’t been in process as long as the first one but felt more promising from the start. That is, until we took all the notes down from the wall. Because apparently I need constant visual reminders to motivate me to write, and/or stay on task, and/or remember what I was doing in the first place. Or maybe I’m just lazy.

Ad for Pool Pocket Billards (Ezjoy)

At night, when I could be writing, putting those playthings to good use, I lay in bed playing mindless games on my table: like bubble shoot or jewel star. Just when I think I’m done with one, I find another (or in the case of bubble shoot, start all over again). There’s one I’m playing now that always has these ads for another game that I think “Gosh, could their ads be more sexist?!” Of course, if it were three smokin’ hot guys, that’d be different. So I’m the one who’s sexist. Hmph, who knew? I really need to stop wasting my life.

And my mom has cancer. I don’t know how bad. I was told they’re going to do a scan, then likely surgery, then make a decision about chemotherapy thereafter. I haven’t even really told anyone about this. The few people I’ve talked to – my cousin, Bryan – ask if I’m ok. Well, yeah, of course.  I mean, I feel bad for her and I want her to be okay but … Many people, maybe even most, if they found out their moms had cancer, they’d be devastated. I know a lot of people who are close to their mothers, talk to them every day, about everything. I hope I maintain that kind of relationship with my kids as they grow older, but that’s not what I have with my mom. I tried to for a long time, but she’s never tried. It’s easier to talk to a stranger than it is to her. So, in many ways, I lost her a long time ago. Who knows, maybe that’s why I’m a little crazy.

New Coke (Time.com)

I mean, isn’t that what we do now, blame our failings on our parents? Or maybe I just don’t sleep well because of all the caffeine I drink. Lord knows it’s A.LOT. I’ve even wondered if I’ll have good Coca-cola in London. Seriously, in 1996, I would have bet money that the New Coke that had failed in the U.S. had all been shipped overseas; I didn’t have a good soda for a whole week that time.

Yeah, because this is what I need to be worried about right now: soda. Not my mom. Or my kids. Or traveling. Or writing. Or just what we’re eating for dinner. Ooh, that reminds me, I think I was boiling water … oops.

Despite being someone who was known for enjoying a nice verbal fight in my younger days, I’ve always tried to shy away from conversations about politics and religion. And the reason for my avoidance is the same in both occasions: people are mean. The two topics tend to be so divisive that before you know it, people are screaming and calling each other names. When pundits on TV do that, I cringe and turn it off. Real life conversations are harder to turn off, so I just try to avoid getting in them at all. Some people might say I’m scared and/or can’t defend my beliefs (we’ve been talking about apologetics at church this month, so making a defense is heavy on my mind right now). But, honestly, I know what I believe, both religiously and politically, and feel I could defend those beliefs should the need arise. However, in my humble opinion, it seems that often those who get so caught up in these “debates” aren’t interested in listening to the other side’s defense or arguments, but are more interested in belittling, demeaning, bullying the other into silence. Bullying has no place in an authentic debate; though I may be in the minority on that belief, I still stand by it.

So now I’m going to break my own rule and stick my nose into a conversation that deals with both of my forbidden topics. Arkansas Senator Jason Rapert recently introduced a bill dubbed The Heartbeat Bill. In a nutshell, the bill proposes to require a fetal heartbeat check before any requested abortion. If a heartbeat is detected, the abortion would not be allowed to proceed. Rapert stated that the bill maintained all the same previous exceptions to abortion bans (i.e., allowing abortions in the case of rape, incest, etc.). As you may imagine, this sparked a lot of discourse amongst the pro-life and pro-choice crowds.

Some of the discussions I’ve seen appear to be genuinely aimed at striking a balance between the two.

Others simply disgust me.

Case in point: last night on Twitter, Sen. Rapert found himself in the middle of a heated conversation with primarily one local Arkansas tweep (though a couple others joined in here and there). I spent much of the morning (more time than I should have probably) pulling that conversation together to include here. The snapshots are rather large, because the conversations went on for awhile (but I believe you can click through a couple of times to get it large enough to read).

It kept going …

What bothers me the most about this exchange is the number of times the constituent resorts to name calling and insults: e.g., “contentious, disrespectful jerk”; “juvenile, disrespectful, unresponsive”; “douchebag”; “obtuse”; “cruel and silly”; “clueless and inept”; “again with the stupid questions.” Some statements are even a little threatening: “my mission to prove you wrong”; “they’ll tell you not to mess with me.”

On the flipside, the only statement I see from Sen. Rapert that is potentially offensive is his initial response that another tweep’s “social media tantrums are tiring.” The remainder of his involvement in the conversation appears civil to me. At least, I don’t think he’s insulting anyone.

Now, I’m sure that anyone reading this will presume I’m a supporter of Rapert. I’ll tell you honestly that I didn’t even really know who he was until last night. I’ll also honestly tell you a few other things that may or may not matter to you:

I’m conservative. I respect the Constitution and believe in small government and individual rights. I think if I share what I work for with others less fortunate, it should be because it’s the right thing to do, not because somebody makes me. I believe in the right to protect myself and my family against those that would do harm. In short, I don’t like the government telling me what I can and cannot do. But I also believe that when there’s a baby inside me, it’s no longer just about me. If we value life, then we value all life, even when it’s still developing.

I also believe in free speech. So I believe that people have a right to disagree and to voice their competing opinions. But I don’t believe that gives anyone the right, carte blanche, to be mean or disrespectful to others.

This is the point when I’m tempted to spout “why can’t we all just get along” and break into the “Friends” theme song.

But in all seriousness, why does believing that a baby has a right to live make someone “clueless” or “hateful” or a “douchebag”? Why do those types of comments have any place in a conversation as important as this one?

They don’t have a place in these important conversations. And people who resort to name-calling and other insulting tactics to “make their points” are simply bullying others who do not agree with them. That, to me, is full of hate.

I don’t believe any of the people involved in the conversation above read this blog. But, in case they do, I’ll close with one final statement to them and anyone moved to comment: we need to talk … without being so mean to each other.

Okay, “need” might be a strong word. And I’m sure if I tweeted about this, someone would surely throw up the “firstworldproblems” hashtag. But in the grand scheme of what makes me smile, I need Superman to be a super man.

Words cannot express (which pains me to even say) how excited I am for the Man of Steel movie. And for the one or two of you who’ve been paying attention to this blog, you know that it was a long, whiny road for me to get to the point of being excited rather than nervous. I mean, it’s Superman. It *has* to be good. He’s been out of the sun too long, and those of us who adore the character know that’s not a good thing.

So as the June release date approaches at a snail’s pace, Empire Magazine recently released its Man of Steel collector’s cover:

Empire 2013

When I first saw the cover online, I was still well within my “oh my gosh, it’s gonna be good” stage (and may have panted a little too). Then, I texted MorganMorganMorgan … and it all went to shit.

Okay, let me explain. Once Cavill was cast for the role, I regularly scavenged the internet for photos of him in the suit. One such photo …

trendrabbit.com

… prompted Bryan to joke about his stubby arms. He said they looked too short for his body. And he went on and on about how Zod would have to be standing pretty darn close to Supes for Supes to stand a chance. I pouted. I whined. I glared. He eventually shut up (well, sort of) and I moved on. I became a die-hard Cavill fan (okay, that’s too strong, I mean, I’d still rather see Tom Welling in the role but that ship has sailed) and got all giddy about the movie.

So, I see the Empire cover and I text MorganMorganMorgan. Because, also in the grand scheme of things that make me smile, I need her to appreciate how super Superman is.

Again with the stubby arms! My brain can’t handle it! Clearly I’m impressionable and/or a female version of Shallow Hal and can’t see past negative mental images. (The Jasper reference in the text convo above, for the non-Twilight fans: MorganMorganMorgan once told me she read somewhere about how dude who played Jasper always looked constipated in the movie. I can’t not see it now.)

So a couple of nights ago, I watched The Cold Light of Day, hoping to see Cavill really knock my socks off in an action role. It didn’t happen. All that did happen was that I kept seeing his stubby arms from every angle. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough …

film-intel.com

… I can now add seeing him relegated to the chick position on the back of someone’s scooter. Oy vey.

Now, I know I shouldn’t hold this against him. It’s a different movie. And, yes, it’s just a movie. But Superman deserves a super movie. Can this stubby-armed Man of Steel be my super man?

Of all the traits we pass on to our children, some may make us cringe in shame while others make us cry out with joy. This week I had what you might call a “proud mama” moment; well, only if you’re from the South, I suppose. Fair warning: I’m about to brag on my kid.

The Girl’s sixth grade class recently studied the Dust Bowl, i.e., the period of time in the mid-1930s when severe dust storms plagued middle America. Brought on by drought and poor agricultural practices, these dust storms were so detrimental that acres on acres of farmland was decimated and families were forced to leave their homes. A simple Google search of “Dust Bowl” provides a wide array of articles, links to a recent PBS special and stirring photographs of homes being overtaken or families struggling against a current of dusty wind.

Here’s where I pause to give credit where it’s due, to the Girl’s teacher, who, rather than simply lecturing the students on the Dust Bowl, or having them do a reading assignment, she went a step further. She encouraged her students to try to imagine what it was like to live during the Dust Bowl, and to write it out.

So the Girl, who’s developing a love of the written word all her own, imagined herself to be a child living in that time in a family struggling against the plaguing storms but refusing to leave home. Here’s what she wrote:

Sometimes Dad just sits out there

waiting for it

When it comes, we are sad

Sometimes, when it comes,

when it destroys my home,

my life,

my dreams

Sometimes, Mom cries

It pains her to see Dad like that

saddened

I can feel the stuff under my feet

gritty, dirty, cold

I bite my lip when I hear the birds

trying to fly over it

silly creatures

I taste the blood in my mouth

then it’s gone

I dread seeing it again tomorrow

the Dirt

 

Close your eyes, can you see it? Yeah, that’s my Girl.

Yes, hate is a strong word. And, no, I don’t really mean it. It’s sort of like when you’re young and you have your first crush, and you think this must be love. Then the guy turns out to be a big jerk so you decide to hate him even though you love him, and the line gets really blurry. What? You never felt that way? Yeah, me either.

Hubs liked Taylor Swift from her very first song. And, no, that’s not why I hate her. I did tease him though, saying he only liked her because she was a cute girl. He’d always deny it, saying, “No! Her songs are cute.” I’m pretty sure a man’s not supposed to admit that.

Then the Girl started listening to her music, and I bought a CD for her. I even offered to let her leave it in my van so she could listen to and from school. You know, ‘cause I’m a good mom.  Sometimes I’d just let it keep playing even after the Girl got out. And sometimes I’d even sing along. I don’t know, perhaps a “woman of my age” isn’t supposed to admit that.

Then, I found out that she writes her own music, and I started listening more carefully to the words.

If you’ve ever read any writing advice, then you’ve likely seen or heard the “write what you know” mantra. This is not to say that you shouldn’t branch out, research and really delve into a subject matter. It’s just saying that there’s something about being able to put into words exactly what you feel in a given situation, because odds are you’re not the only one who’s felt that way.  Often, the most moving words are the ones that just flow from you. The ones that seem to ebb out like breath.

Fair warning: this is about to get really wordy and mushy and girly …

I remember vividly sitting in the parking lot of Dixie Café, where MorganMorganMorgan and I were meeting for one of our marathon lunches, and making her climb in the passenger seat to listen to a few tracks on Speak Now before we ate. Somehow, I knew I could count on her to share my appreciation. And now every time I hear “Long Live”, I remember the tears in my eyes as I drove away from her house the day she told me she was moving out of state:

Swift definitely has a knack for writing what she knows. That’s why she appeals to her fans: she writes what she has felt, and all those tween and teenage girls who scream at her concerts and want to meet her and be her can relate. So what’s my excuse? I don’t know, maybe I’m emotionally stunted.

No, it’s not that I relate to her music; although, I’ll admit that I’m not too old to remember what some of the “sad beautiful tragic” was all about. No, I appreciate her talent for words. And it’s because of that talent that I hate her so much.

I recently bought her latest CD, Red … for the Girl, of course. After listening to the whole thing one day, I came home inspired and impressed, and depressed and envious. “I love her and hate her at the same time,” I said to hubs. I’m pretty sure he’d decided then and there (a bit belatedly some might say) that I’d completely lost it.

Her latest creations, in my opinion, show a level of introspection and understanding not all that common in young adults today. Yes, many in their teens and early 20s are self-absorbed, thinking the world revolves around them. That’s a phase of growing up. But self-absorption and introspection are two different things. She may very well be self-absorbed but her songs, while about her experiences, don’t seem to just be saying, “Let me tell you about me.” Rather, she’s asking, “Haven’t you felt this way too?”

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Even “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” (about which someone posted on FB that they hoped it was never ever getting back together with her ears) makes me shout and dance in my seat while driving down the road.

And that red love.

She weaves figurative language into conversational, catchy lyrics in a way that makes me wish I’d written them. And that makes me feel giddy and young, and ridiculous and depraved all at the same time. She’s so young and look what she’s done! I’m not talking about the celebrity and the mega-millions; I’m talking about the words she’s shared with all the world for all time! I’m nearly twice her age and what have I done?! I know the words are in me like breath I’ve been holding my whole life and God knows I just want to exhale.

Why can’t I?

Why don’t I?

As my numbered days on this earth count down to zero, what am I waiting for?

What am I scared of?

Oh … yeah.

I guess she really is Fearless. And that’s the real reason I hate her.

“Girls are mean.” That’s what I told the Girl when she called me at 1 a.m. from the New Year’s Eve sleepover she was having “so much fun” at. She said she didn’t want to come home, but she wasn’t feeling very comfortable with the “drama” that some of the other girls were creating. Now she’s been spending the night with family and friends since she was little and has never been one of those kids who likes the idea of staying away from home until it’s time to go to sleep. I’d be more likely to come home to my own bed in the middle of the night than her.

But, at 12, she and her friends – and the interactions at sleepovers – are changing. No longer are they playing princess dress-up, barbies or baby dolls. No longer are they simply excited to giggle in the dark when their parents finally say it’s time for lights out. Now, they’re tweens – almost teens – teen girls.

Sometimes, usually when talking about an office, people (both men and women) will say that when you get a group of women together, you’re just asking for trouble. Invariably, they say, emotions will run high and drama will ensue. And teenagers (both boys and girls) can be the kings and queens of drama sometimes. So it follows then, that a group of teenage girls are going to be volatile. It’s no secret; I mean, there have been movies devoted wholly to this.

This particular NYE party was a sleepover for girls, but there were a few boys allowed until 1 a.m. to help ring in the new year. So the Girl called me shortly after the boys left because a couple of the other girls started arguing about one of the boys. Pretty soon, the group was divided and the Girl felt torn.

Now I certainly don’t mean to imply that my daughter is an angel or that’s she’s never caused or encouraged drama. But I do know that she doesn’t like to take sides between friends. In fact, the parents who hosted this party have called her the “peacemaker” in the past, because she always seems to get their twin girls to get along better. So I understood when she said she was feeling very uncomfortable while trying to remain neutral.

But she didn’t want to come home. And dad and I thought it was good for her to try to work it out. I told her that if she needed me to, I’d come get her anytime, but that if she wanted to stick it out, then fine. Then she said, “I love you, mommy.” Mommy. I should have known then she wouldn’t last.

I’d stayed up late watching a movie and really felt as though I’d just dozed off when the phone rang again about 4 a.m. She was complaining of a headache, saying that things had only gotten worse. All the girls were still awake and some were demanding that she and a few other neutrals pick a side. She sounded terribly uncomfortable and sad. So I did what any mommy would do: I went and got her.

On the way home in the cold and dark, she told the whole, typical story: girls were arguing over boys, making fun of each other, and dividing the haves from the have-nots. From what she said, there was a lot of intentional scaring, tripping or pantsing; a good bit of boosting oneself up by stepping on the feelings of others; and lots of friend-one-minute-enemy-the-next moments. Honestly, I think she had a headache because she was afraid to go to sleep there. This is why I don’t have many friends.

Now some may say that this is just part of growing up; that kids will be kids; that this is just a phase they’re going through. Well, I really hope not my kids. I hope she never gets comfortable with this sort of thing. I hope she remembers that uncomfortable feeling and never makes someone else feel it. And, especially as we embark on her teenage years, I hope she remembers that mommy is never more than a phone call away.

Well, the world did not end on December 21, 2012, as some believed the Mayans had predicted it would. But a few days later, it sort of felt like it did.

Arkansans were all a buzz on Twitter and Facebook about the possibility of a white Christmas; and, rightfully so, since local news outlets were reporting it’d been something like 80 years since the last one. And the child-like excitement seemed to outweigh the parts of our minds that know better what winter weather can do.

In our neck of the woods, Christmas Day brought freezing rain and a lot of forced plan changes. Pepa, who has spent every Christmas day with us since the Girl was born (no matter where we have lived), was visiting from Alabama and had planned on making the 6-hour return trip the following day. With promises of continued precipitation and freezing temperatures, he decided it best to head home after Christmas lunch. Those same weather promises summoned Bryan to work for a sleepover: the best way a hospital can ensure it’s properly staffed in the event of hazardous road conditions.

Throughout the day (Tuesday), as ice and snow piled on power lines, people were losing power all across the state and I knew it was only a matter of time for us. Trying to prepare for the worst, and being unable to get the gas logs going, I retrieved the space heater from the barn and told the kids to charge every electronic they had. About 11:30 Christmas night, after only a flicker here or there throughout the day, we finally lost power. So, the kids and I piled in my room with the space heater and fully-charged toys.

Across the state, more than 200,000 people were without power from the blizzard that began Christmas Day.

We made it through the night warm enough, though I kept worrying that a small propane-powered space heater really wasn’t meant for its current enclosed-space use. The next morning the kids wanted to play in the snow, even though I told them it’d be hard to warm up when they were done. Nevertheless, they braved the snow, for maybe 15 minutes.

So, we settled for a puzzle at the kitchen table.

By the evening (Wednesday), all electronics (and mommy) were powerless and the kids were at each others’ throats … in hindsight, all the hot air yelling might have been good for us. Bryan braved the roads home from the hospital to work on the fireplace with no luck and we spent another night piled in my room with the space heater and a gazillion candles. At one point, the smoke alarm started beeping and, it being the only electronic sound we’d heard in hours, we let it beep for a few seconds longer before shutting it off. What can I say, we’re junkies.

The next morning, Bryan finally got the fireplace going, made the kids hot chocolate on a camp stove, and had them all playing a board game together. I swear sometimes he’s magic.

Later that afternoon (Thursday), just as we were resolving ourselves to a hotel for hot showers if the power didn’t revive by the weekend, lights began to flicker on and off.  As the hum of electricity filled the air, we all congregated for a round of “the happy dance,” which pretty much just consisted of laughing and shaking our booties, led by Wonder Boy. He’s got the bootie shakin’ down, y’all.

Of course, after that, there was a lot of TV watching and Xbox playing and hot-shower-taking. And thanking God (and the First Electric folks) for power restored.

According to news reports, there’s still tens of thousands of people without power today (Saturday). I’ve seen a few posts on Facebook and Twitter (and even had a few non-Arkansans say directly to me) that we should be thankful for having an excuse to slow down, that we’ll look back on these days and the memories we made with fondness. To that/them, I say codswallup. We don’t need to freeze our tails off or develop b.o. to make memories. And I nap every chance I get, so I know how to slow down. If you need a blizzard to appreciate what you have, that’s fine, just keep it to yourself next time. For me and mine, we’re looking forward to the sun.