My thing with Mother's Day

I'm not a fan of Mother's Day. It's no secret, though it may seem like a mystery considering I'm the mother to two amazing kids. I thank God every day for them and that I was given the job of raising them. They're loving, funny, affectionate, smart and I adore them. They remind me almost daily how much they love and appreciate me. I am so blessed to be their mother.

That being said, I don't like today.

It comes down to a few things for me. Obviously, I hate that I don't have my own mom here. I miss her every single day. It makes me think about Mother's Day 1981 when we found my grandmother dead in her home from heart failure. It makes me think about the child I miscarried in 1992. Mother's Day isn't a joyful thing for me. It's like an anniversary of loss. I hate that.

It also bothers me that Mother's Day has morphed into some sort of "Let's Celebrate Women" holiday. Having had a miscarriage, I understand the pain this day can bring to those women who are barren or who have suffered the death of a child. I respect you, your pain and your desires.

What bugs me, however, is all the "Happy Mother's Day to all the fur-baby owners!" and the cousins, and the aunts, and the women who chose NOT to have children and..and..and... c'mon. Are we really going to cheapen and trivialize the pains and joys of motherhood by lumping mothers in with anyone who has ever purchased a bra? or a dog leash? or babysat for a neighbor kid once when they were in 8th grade?

I own pets, too. Love them as much as I love my own children. Grieved their deaths like they were human, but that doesn't make me a mother. It makes me an animal lover. 

Not everyone is a mother and that's fine. Celebrate them the other 364 days of the year. Today? should be sacred. Today is for moms, mother-figures, surrogate moms, mothers-to-be, mothers-who-were, mothers-who-weren't-meant-to-be and moms-who-will-never-be-again. Can we please just have ONE day that's ours?

Such a funny term...

Mental illness.

It's a funny term, that one.

Nobody really likes the phrase. Most people aren't even sure if it's a politically correct term to use. I mean, think about it. What's the first visual that pops into your head when you hear it? A sterile, checker-tiled floor in a room full of people in a sanitarium...one dude is slapping his hand over his face repeatedly...some woman is babbling in tongues to herself...then you've got the guy in the corner playing ping-pong using his slipper. Right? C'mon, be honest. It's what I visualize.

The thing is, mental illness isn't just about people who are clinically insane. It's about people like you. And me. And that person over there. And that chic on TV. And that baseball player with the 105 RBI. And that singer who did the duet with what's-his-name. 

None of us are drooling on ourselves, so let's stop with the uneasiness of the term "mental illness," okay?

I'm sure I can be defined by a half-dozen terms in the DSM-IV, but to sum it up, I have anxiety, depression and borderline agoraphobia. No, I'm not afraid of spiders (okay, well, I am, but more so because they're creepy, not because I'm nuts). It means that I have days when I cry all day. For no reason. Fun, right? And there are days when it feels like my heart is a shorted-out cord zapping me constantly. Equally enjoyable, yes? And the agoraphobia? Remember having that dream where you're being chased but your feet can't move and you're stuck there just waiting for whatever monster your twisted subconscious has created to catch up with you? Yeah, it's like that. Except for me, the monster is the unknown of whatever is outside my door, at the store, in the airport, at a concert, on a ship, at a friend's house. It's a shit-ton of fun, lemme tell you.

But what those things aren't? Is a reason to avoid me. Or avoid talking about what's wrong. I don't expect you to fix it. If I did, I wouldn't be paying my therapist to do it, trust me! But if you care enough about me to ask me how I am, then I expect you to care enough to listen when I say "I'm not doing okay." Don't change the subject. Don't act like you didn't hear me. Don't suddenly disappear from my life until it's "back to normal" (because, let me give you a hint -- it will never be "back to normal"). 

My mental illness is as much a part of me as my great sense of humor, my beautiful eyes or my contagious laugh. Love all of me or don't love any of me. 'cause here's the thing: I already have good friends. Incredible friends. AMAZING friends. Friends who are here for the good, the bad and the ugly. I don't need someone who's only going to be here when the getting's good. If you're in, you're all in. If you're not, then you might as well leave now. I don't need you.

That may sound flippant and even a bit harsh, but the truth of the matter is, if there's anything I've learned in the thirty years I've dealt with this, I don't have the energy for bullshit. Love me or leave me. It's that simple.

Now...has anybody seen my slipper?

Against all odds

I held the stick in my hand and scrutinized it with one eye shut. Was there a second line? Man, I couldn't tell! I opened both eyes and looked again. Still couldn't tell. I looked again with one. Cripes, was I pregnant or not?

I was twenty and not even through my first year of marriage. I wasn't even old enough to drink yet here I was taking a pregnancy test. I was so scared, yet excited, too.

I'd always thought about how I wanted to surprise the father of my children when I told him I was pregnant, but honestly, how could I do that when I couldn't even tell for sure if I was? These tests were so hard to make out in the early weeks.

Reluctantly, I had him look at the stick. He looked at me with a slight smile and nodded his head.

We were going to be parents.

That pregnancy was miserable, for the most part. I was sick from the first month all the way through my fifth. Then, just when my stomach settled down, my heart took over and started kicking my butt. My health deteriorated in the second trimester and by the time I hit the third trimester, I was on bed rest for high blood pressure and then hospitalized for what I finally learned was pre-eclampsia. My blood pressure was high, I was losing protein in my urine, I had retained 45lbs in water weight and my skin was so tight it felt like it could split any minute.

The morning I delivered, my blood pressure was 190/110 and I'd gained three pounds overnight. The doctors had to get this baby out before we both died. I was transported to a neighboring hospital who was better equipped to handle the delivery of a 29-wk old fetus. They couldn't even call it a baby yet.

I remember hearing a nurse in the delivery room say "Bless his heart" and hoping my son was okay. I remember the warmth of his tiny head against my lips before the doctors whisked him off to the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) and then being left alone when my husband followed the baby. The doctors knocked me out at that point and I don't remember anything clearly until the next day. Even those memories are sketchy.

But I remember the fear our son's young life left in our hearts as we wondered if he'd make it through the night. He'd been put on a ventilator and given a very small chance of survival. Then we were told if he did survive, the chances that he wouldn't have permanent, on-going disabilities were almost none. I remember being woken up in the middle of the night two days after he was born to be told his lungs had collapsed, he'd been given a chest tube and put on a high-frequency ventilator. 

I was still bed-ridden with high blood pressure that was supposed to have come down the day I delivered, so I couldn't even see my baby, much less hold him and tell him he'd be okay. It was several days before I was finally able to be wheeled into the nursery to touch him and almost two weeks before I could actually hold him.

I went from being a kid to feeling forty overnight. I learned medical terminology, how the respiratory system worked, what all the monitors were for and what it meant when they beeped. I learned that I could survive on very little sleep if it meant getting to be at the nursery all the time with my son. The nurses took notes every time they did anything to him, any time we visited or called and what the doctor said when he came in. That binder was three inches thick during the ten weeks he was in the NICU. He survived collapsed lungs, respiratory issues and developmental setbacks.

To say this child was a miracle is the biggest understatement ever. He has defied odds, outsmarted science and shown the world he's a force to be reckoned with. Today, that baby turns eighteen.

My baby is now a man and I couldn't be prouder to be his mom. I love you, son.

My heart's in Boston.

I grew up being a fan of Boston sports teams. In my house, you cheered for the Red Sox and the Celtics and that was it. So, long before New Kids on the Block came into my life, I had a connection to Boston.

As a teenager, I always wanted to visit Boston, but never made it there. It wasn't until last year that I set foot on the ground our pilgrims walked almost 400 years prior. But it took me less than a minute to fall in love with the city.

I'd been to New York numerous times and loved the chaos and craziness of big cities, but people warned me that Boston was different. "They don't like outsiders." "They're not friendly." "If you get lost, you're screwed 'cuz they don't give directions." But I didn't believe them. In fact, shortly before my trip to Boston in 2012, I added "Hug a stranger in Boston" to my Bucket List to prove all the naysayers wrong. 

And I did just that. On Commonwealth Avenue, just a few blocks over from Boylston Street, where yesterday's blasts happened, I saw a kind-looking stranger who didn't seem to be in a hurry and I told him what my goal was. Without hesitation, that man hugged me and didn't let go. I don't know his name. Don't know what he does for a living. Couldn't even tell you where he was headed, but for a minute, he took time out of his day and gave some stranger in a Celtics sweatshirt the best hug she'd ever gotten.

I knew then Boston wasn't the unfriendly place my followers had said it was on Twitter.

And, as I hear more stories about yesterday, the more firm I am in my beliefs. Boston isn't a city of thugs, rude people, snobs or selfish citizens. It's a city with heart and it took a piece of mine when I left last year.

My thoughts are with those directly affected by yesterday's attacks and also with those, like myself, who have left a small piece of themselves in that beautiful city.

Pray for Boston.

Coming soon!

My first novel, Distance and Time, is coming your way this summer!

Carlene Cooper was your average teenager. Average, that is, except for her relationship with Josh McCarthy, member of teen mega-group, South Station Boyz. Young love blossomed at a chance meeting when Carly was a senior in high school and Josh was just discovering what stardom really meant. Despite their chemistry, it was no surprise to anyone when their very different lives took very different paths a few months down the road.

Years later, their paths cross again and they must decide if the spark they felt back then is strong enough to rekindle. Josh has built a name for himself in show business, but Carly, too, has planted roots as a journalist in New York City. Will they be able to successfully merge their lives and overcome the obstacles that drove them apart a decade earlier?

Just as she comes to the decision that will change their lives one way or the other, Detective Trey Foster enters her life unexpectedly and Carly is faced with another choice. Will she choose the man she's spent her whole life loving or will she push it aside for a chance at happiness out of the spotlight?

Distance and Time is the first book in the Time After Time series. It will be introduced in e-book format and later be published in paperback. This book is something I've spent years getting juuuuust right before sharing with you all. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Stay tuned for the Publication Day announcement!

Home at last

California was amazing. Ahhhhh. Mazing.

It was typical Cali weather for this time of year (from what we were told): high 60's during the day, low 50's at night. Jacket and sweater weather, but still warm enough to have a few meals outside on the patios almost every restaurant offers out there.

We spent the entire time going at our pace, seeing what we wanted to see. It was wonderful to have a no-pressure vacation. We drove to Malibu one day, spent time in Hollywood another, even made time to see a movie and have drinks with a friend. We fell in love with Burbank and Tujunga. We may or may not be looking into job opportunities. hehe In all seriousness, though, I always thought I would hate L.A. because of how different it is from the East coast and how very much I love my East coast cities, but L.A. surprised us. The weather, the slow pace of it, the beautiful surroundings...everything reeled us in and held us captive.

We look forward to going back again soon. Until then, we'll have our memories.

California, here I come

...right back where I started fr....well, okay, I didn't start from there, but I'm sure gonna enjoy the visit!

It's travel season! Right around this time of year, the bestie and I get restless as the cold air and wanderlust settles into our bones. This is the first year in several that we haven't headed to New York City, but let's face it, it's too damn cold in New York right now. We need sunshine and 70° temps to bring us out of this hibernation.

Iowa's giving us a proper send off, too. We're about an hour away from getting hit with a pretty big snowstorm. I don't care if I have to shovel the runway myself while AM sprays the plane with de-icer, we WILL take off tomorrow afternoon!

We haven't got any set plans yet, which is how we roll. We'll meet up with friends, take in the sights and probably hit the Grove, but with the Oscars going on (a complete coincidence, btw), we'll avoid Hollywood Boulevard, if we can. We're all for coincidental celebrity sightings, but I don't do "tourist" and avoid those who do, so the traps that attract them aren't on our agenda.

This is the first time I've actually felt like going anywhere since my hysterectomy last year. Yes, I cruised in June, but the majority of the trip is a fog. It'll be nice to actually remember this vacation. Don't worry, kids...we'll TwitPic, Telly and document our trip along the way so you won't miss out on the fun. Rumor has it, some friends might join us, too. Been a while since we've seen 'em, so we're looking forward to it. 

Enjoy the snow, Iowa....we out!

This Valentine's Day hype

Valentine's Day seems to be one of those things you either love or hate. Single people see it as a reminder of the fact that they don't have a sweetheart. Couples seem to use it as a reason to spoil their loved ones. Some people see it as a day of conspiracy between card companies, florists and candy makers to commercialize something that should be done on a daily basis. I look at it a little differently.

I've been married for over thirteen years to the love of my life. He's a supportive husband and a loving father. He's always there for us whenever we need him, works hard to provide for us and is my best friend.

And I'm terrible about telling him how grateful I am for him. When he gets home from work, I'm usually busy helping my daughter with school work or trying to get dinner on the table. Dinner leads to dishes, dishes lead to catching up on each other's days (work, bills, kids, etc) and all that leads to bedtime. By the time we lie down at night, we're lucky to mumble an "I love you" and steal a kiss before the lights go out.

After thirteen years, romance is something we have to plan, not something that comes naturally. The honeymoon is over, kids. So when Valentine's Day rolls around, it's the one day each year (aside from our anniversary) when we're reminded to stop and say "I appreciate you" to our partner.

We don't usually buy into the typical Valentine's day commercialism (flowers, cards, candy, etc). In fact, when we got married, I told my husband if he ever spent $50 on roses for Valentine's day, I'd kick his ass. The expense seems absurd. But at one point or another during the day, we stop and take five minutes to send a text or an email. This morning, I left homemade chocolate covered strawberries for my hubby and daughter. It wasn't expensive or commercialized, but it did show them that I was thinking about them and love them.

THAT is what Valentine's Day should be about. Buy flowers, don't buy flowers. Buy cards, don't buy cards. Buy chocolates, don't buy chocolates. It doesn't matter. What does is saying "I love you" to the people you care about.

Oh, how times change!

In September 2011, I wrote a blog about how I had, so far, avoided the growing e-reader trend.

Then, the following January, I borrowed my niece's Kindle on a trip so I could read The Hunger Games trilogy. From that point on, the e-reader drug had me hooked like a junkie. A couple months later, my husband and I bought our own Kindles and the first one was passed onto my daughter. Since then, I've bought, borrowed or downloaded 350+ books.

Guess an old dog can be taught new tricks.

2012 in pictures

My annual look-back on the year. It's kinda cool to see what I've done, where I've been and who I've seen.

A bit of seriousness

When I write my blogs, I try to keep out of controversial topics, politics and religion, but in light of this week's shootings in Newtown, Connecticut, I'm stepping outside my usual realm of topics. I hope you'll humor me.

I'm not here to convince you one way or another to change your mind on gun laws. You're clearly able to make your own decisions on where you stand on those issues and I respect your rights to do so, just as I hope you'll respect mine.

What I do want you to consider, however, is that people don't need guns to commit murder.

Last October, my nephew broke into my sister's home, beat her to death with a shovel and then set her house on fire with her inside. I don't tell you this to draw your pity or sympathy; neither of those things will change the circumstances or bring my sister back. What it should tell you, though, is that a man who was trained on every imaginable weapon our military has in its possession chose one that can be found in every garage in the country. He didn't use his gun. He didn't use a rifle. He didn't use a shot gun. He used a shovel. He decided to commit murder and used the tools he had near him. Most murderers do.

In these last few days, Twitter and Facebook have been inundated with posts on one side or another regarding gun laws. That's not where I believe we should focus our attention. The murderer in Connecticut and my nephew had two things in common: mental illness. It's the only explanation for the horrific acts they committed.

We need to push our congresspeople for better options regarding mental health: more-thorough insurance coverage, a better program to help returning military servicemen and women acclimate into civilian life and laws that will make treating mental health as important as treating physical health. If someone has cancer, they pursue treating it with a vicious intent to cure it. The same should be the case with mental illness, but it's not.

As long as there are stigmas regarding mental health, people will refuse to get the help they need. We need to let them know we support them and will be there for them throughout their treatment. We need to set aside judgment and love unconditionally.

Until that happens, there will be more incidents like Sandy Hook. We have the power to stop these things before they happen, we just have to be diligent in uniting together instead of splitting politically and spending our time blaming this side or that side.

We have to stop dividing ourselves and stand together now. Our children and loved ones are counting on us.

Today's Pep Talk rings SO true!

Every day we get an email in our NaNo Mail box with a pep talk from a successful author. Today's message was from Kate Castillo. I hope she doesn't mind that I'm posting it here.

Dear Writer,
When I was 30 years old, I moved to Minneapolis and got a job in a book warehouse. My official job title was "Picker." This meant that I went around the third floor of the warehouse holding a computerized print order in one hand and pulling books off the shelf with the other hand. I put all the books into a grocery cart and I took the grocery cart and wheeled it into an ancient, crabby freight elevator and went downstairs to deliver the order to the shipping department. Then I took the stairs back up to the third floor and started over again.
It wasn't a challenging job. It didn't pay much. I was on my feet all day long. My back hurt. My hands hurt. But I was happy. I was surrounded by books and by people who loved to read them. Also, for the first time in my life, I was writing.
I got up every morning before work (the alarm was set for 4:30) and wrote two pages before I went into the warehouse. And then, when I arrived at work at 7:00 to punch the time clock, I received my daily so-you-want-to-be-a-writer pep talk from a coworker.
Let's call him Bob. (Even though his real name is Gary).
Bob wanted to be a writer, too. But he wasn't writing. Every morning we had the same exchange.
Bob: "How did the writing go?"
Me: "Fine."
Bob: "How many pages did you write?"
Me: "Two."
Bob: "Do you think Dickens wrote two pages a day?"
Me: "I don't know how many pages Dickens wrote a day."
Bob: "Yeah, well let me tell you something, you're no Dickens. So what's Plan B, babe? What's Plan B for when the writing doesn't work out?"
For this question, I had no answer.
I turned my back on Bob, pulse pounding, fists clenched, and climbed the stairs to the third floor and started picking books.
When the alarm went off at 4:30 the next morning, I thought about Bob and that is part of the reason I got out of bed.
It is a truly excellent to have someone to believe in you and your ability to write.
But I think it is just as helpful to have people who don't believe in you, people who mock you, people who doubt you, people who enrage you. Fortunately, there is never a shortage of this type of person in the world.
So as you enter this month of writing, write for yourself. Write for the story. And write, also, for all of the people who doubt you. Write for all of those people who are not brave enough to try to do this grand and wondrous thing themselves. Let them motivate you.
In other words, do it for Bob!
Your friend in writing,
Kate DiCamillo
Kate DiCamillo is the author of The Tale of Despereaux (Newbery Medal), Because of Winn-Dixie (Newbery Honor), and a The Tiger Rising (National Book Award finalist). 

While I don't know what exactly was said about All This Time, I do know that it drew enough attention to wind up being mentioned on Lipst!ck A11ey (altered on purpose - like I need a search for that to bring up this blog), a gossip site about everything celebrity. The New Kids forum over there is filled with Blockhead bullies who think they're better than everybody else. I have no time for the site or the bitchy people who thrive on being there. That being said, those women did me a HUGE service: they gave my site more traffic than half the other sources did. Their nitpicking and snide remarks sent people to the story wanting to see what the fuss was about. And honey, did they ever see what it was.

So, to the haters, the bullies and the doubters, the joke's on you. Besides, I don't see any of you with fans, so I must be doing something right. Thanks for the kick in the pants and the attention you gave my "shitty little story."

NaNu WhaNow?

This was pretty much verbatim what my hubby said when I told him I was doing NaNoWriMo this year. It's short for National Novel Writing Month.

The concept is simple: write 50,000 words in 30 days. Don't edit. Don't rewrite. Don't waste time reworking the story. Just write. (And, if the posts at nanowrimo.com are to be believed, let everything else in your life fall to the wayside. Ha! I wish.) On average, it means writing 1,700 words a day (or more) over the course of the month. During that time, I'll also do what are referred to as "write-in's" where I meet with other authors in the area and work on my book. It's like a college study group, but without...well, come to think of it, these involve copious amounts of caffeine, too, so never mind. Anyway, during those write-in's, I'll also be setting personal goals (or have them set for me by our group leaders) which all lead to the final goal being met come November 30th.

So, over the course of the next month, I will be breaking into a realm of writing that I've never experienced before. Up til now, the stories I've written have either been fan fiction or have stemmed from fan fiction with rewritten characters and plot lines. This is totally a carpet ride for me, a'la Jasmine & Aladdin style: a whole new world.

Just days ago, I finished my second book, All This Time and, if I do say so myself, it turned out to be a success. The story has over 7,000 views in two months and I am both humbled and astonished at the life my readers breathed into it. It took about two years to write from start to finish, including a six-month sabbatical when writer's block (and faulty personal plumbing) got the best of me. That being said, having finished a book just four days before the biggest writing binge of my life wasn't the brightest idea I've ever had, but I push through like I always do.

Someday is the title of the book I'm working on for NaNo and is from a concept I came up with on a flight back from L.A. last spring. I won't give away the details until everything is completed and ready to go, but for now, trust me when I say I think you're going to like what I've got coming up next.

I will be blogging sporadically to keep myself from becoming totally absorbed in Someday but don't expect anything requiring great thought, because in true Mel-style, it would appear I can't do anything the easy way. At a doctor's appointment yesterday, I discovered that I may be going under the knife again in the next month or two. Long story short, there's lingering pain from my hysterectomy and the doctor can't figure out what's causing it. I'm not looking forward to another surgery, but if it's what's needed so be it. I guess nothing worth doing isn't without a challenge, so I'll just add it to the list of shit I will overcome, right?

I am hoping that you'll all help hold me accountable both in real life and on social networking. If you see that I haven't posted my word count for the day, ask me about it. If I'm procrastinating, then run me off and tell me to get to work. This goal is important to me, not only personally but professionally as well, so I really want to achieve it. With your help, I can.

Now, considering I've had less sleep than I did in college, I am scooting out of here. Good luck to all my other NaNuWhaNow peeps!

Guilty

Sentenced to 160 years

There's nothing left to say.

Understanding the impossible

I received a message tonight that the jury selection began in my nephew's trial.

For those who don't know, my nephew is on trial for the murder of his mother/my sister.

I've blogged before about how different my grief process is for Mary Lee and I'm still, a year later, trying to work my way through the emotions I'm feeling because my relationship with her was so different from the relationships I have with my other sisters. I can't explain it, mostly because I don't even understand it fully myself.

But for as much as I do understand, I know this: I want my nephew to be found innocent. I know how ridiculous that must sound to some of you. You're probably thinking "If somebody murdered my sister, I'd want them to pay for their crime." And until this happened, especially under these circumstances, I'd have been right there with you in that frame of mind.

But this did happen. 

Under these circumstances.

While I didn't have a close relationship with my sister, I know her heart like I know my own and John being imprisoned, or God forbid given a death sentence, is not what she would want for her son, regardless of what he did. She just wanted him to get the help he needs for the PTSD he suffers from. He can't get that if he's found guilty.

I know all the members of my family don't feel the way I do about this and that's okay. I don't expect them to. I can only speak for myself and how this is affecting me. I don't pretend to understand what is happening in my nephew's mind or what he was thinking the night this happened. I don't need to. 

I just need to forgive him for what happened and love him with a mother's heart, even if it is vicariously through my sister.