Chocolate Milk, Lack of Sleep, and Parenting

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My three sons have always maintained that by the time I had their baby sister, I had no parenting standards left. They love to give as proof the carton of chocolate milk they discovered in the refrigerator, something they insist had never been purchased in their entire collective childhoods. “Look,” they whine, “the kid asks for it, and voila, it’s bought.”

In my defense, I point out three things. First, it was a one-time purchase. Second, it was chocolate milk, not heroin. And third, and probably most important, they’re assuming I had standards when they were living full time in the house. Truth is: I’m a softie when it comes to my offspring. I repeat, who took them to see the World Wrestling Federation? And the answer is: not my husband who is still shell-shocked that I ever agreed to that outing.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about my standards (or lack thereof) as I work my way through this book on baby’s first year. Since this is a mystery blog, I’ve been trying to find a way to tie the subject to a whodunit. Best that I can come up with is the victim is a mother who declares in a park full of other new moms that her baby, at the age of three weeks, is sleeping through the night. I figure there would be plenty of suspects because the last thing you want to hear when you haven’t slept in 4000 hours is some woman, dressed in her skinny jeans, telling you how rested she feels.

I’m working on the sleep chapters and discovered a whole industry devoted to getting your baby to sleep through the night. One expert, Dr. Richard Ferber, has become a verb. Have you Ferberized your baby? Sounds vaguely like pasteurized milk. Anyway the basic concept is that babies need to learn to soothe themselves back to sleep. Parents are instructed to let their infant cry (for longer and longer periods over the course of a week) until he falls back to sleep. By that point, of course, the mother is up all night consumed by guilt, but that’s another story. Dr. Ferber believes that it will be a rough few days, but that most babies learn self-soothing mechanisms and are sleeping like, well, babies within seven days.

At the other extreme is Dr. William Sears. He promotes attachment-style parenting and a family bed. Sears believes that it’s more important that babies get the reassurance and intimacy of parental soothing, than learn independent sleep habits.

Reminds me of the quote from John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester: “Before I got married I had six theories about bringing up children; now I have six children and no theories.”

Most parents, I think, find something in the middle that makes them comfortable. I tend to err on the side of parental soothing. I could no more listen to my child cry for 25 minutes than I could stand hearing my dog whimper that long. On the other hand, I have no interest in routinely sharing my bed with anyone other than my husband. I do acknowledge, however, that by the time I had my second child (those firsborns are just one big learning curve), I no longer jumped at the first squawk, and was more than happy to not-so-gently nudge my husband to attend to the kid.

Bottom line: I accepted sleep deprivation as a parental fact of life, part and parcel of the job. But may I add that while I was crazed from all the nocturnal wakings when my kids were babies, it was nothing compared to the lack of sleep I got when they were teens.

Parenting is amazing, wonderful, fulfilling. It can also be a treacherous field of landmines through which we’re all trying to navigate safely. While we can learn from each other, we also need to learn to trust our instincts about what works best for each of our own families.

And as for that carton of chocolate milk? Here’s a confession. It had nothing to do with a lack of parenting standards. The better question is: who said it was for my daughter?

Evelyn David

Calling the Dead! Calling the Winners!

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The winners of the autographed copies of Marilyn Meredith’s mystery, Calling the Dead, are: Susan Draco and Helen. Both have been contacted off line and should receive their books next week.

Calling the Dead is the sixth in Marilyn’s Deputy Tempe Crabtree series. For the latest novel featuring Tempe, check out Marilyn’s “just released,” Kindred Spirits.

Thanks to all who left comments or sent emails!

The Stiletto Gang

Live a Little

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I’m actually leaving town next week and I couldn’t be more excited. It has been a long time since I actually took a business trip—actually, the reason I left my publishing job all those many years ago was to stop traveling. But be careful what you wish for; it was close to eight years before I got back on a plane and traveled anywhere and I can safely say that I’m ready to get back in the saddle. The kids are bigger, my time is more my own, and I don’t have to worry about expressing milk, making bottles, cooking five dinners in advance of my departure, or anything else regarding kith and kin before I leave. Because you know what? The family they can take care of themselves!

But those vestiges and responsibilities of motherhood don’t go away easily. The reason I’m traveling is to present, as the keynote speaker (very exciting!), to a group of English instructors in Tennessee in a town called Dickson, Tennessee. I’m fortunate to be traveling with a very good friend and former coworker who herself has three children, a dog, and a husband to take care of before she hits the road. She planned our trip and booked us into a Hampton Inn in Dickson, Tennessee, for the two nights that we’ll be away, because that was our ultimate destination, and why not? We’re women; we do the most convenient and least expensive thing when given the choice.I got to thinking. Dickson is probably lovely and probably small, which is fine; I live in lovely and small and am very happy here. But we fly into Nashville, a place I’ve never been. Why not stay by Opryland the first night, treat ourselves to a steak dinner and a couple of martinis, do a little shopping, and then head off to work the next day? I was afraid to broach the subject, because in all honesty, I’m not paying for the trip and didn’t feel like I could make demands. So, I broached lightly. Me: Would you consider meeting me at the airport on Thursday and staying at an Opryland hotel that night?

Her: (without pause) YES! I’M ON IT! WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?!

My friend immediately got on line and found the following hotel for the two of us, conveniently located next to a Nashville shopping mecca: http://www.gaylordhotels.com/gaylord-opryland/index.html. Guess who’s coming back with cowboy boots? And something with denim and rhinestones?

But this whole thing has gotten me thinking: What is it about us women that make us choose the most sensible and tried-and-true path? (Or am I alone here?) Granted, staying in Opryland and going to a honky-tonk (maybe, if we’re not too tired after the steak and martinis) is not wild and crazy, but the thought that it never occurred to either of us right off the bat gives me pause. What has happened to the two of us that we would get into a rental car, drive to our destination, work on our presentations until the late news came on, and then go to bed at a reasonable hour? What happened to living a little?

So, Stiletto Gang readers, especially those of you who have a) been to Nashville, b) live in Nashville, or c) just love the thought of being by Opryland, what do you suggest for two fancy-free middle-aged women without enough denim and rhinestones in their collective wardrobes? What should we do? (After our afternoon nap, that is.) What should we see? And just how ridiculous will cowboy looks on an East-coast mom who walks her West Highland Terrier through the center of her village every day?

Your honest assessments on all accounts, please.

Maggie

Whoops, It’s Tuesday and I’m Late

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Though I try to do my posts ahead of time, I did forget today. Really, I do have a good excuse.

Last Thursday hubby and I left at 3:30 a.m. to fly to Phoenix and from there to St. Louis, MO. We then rented a car and drove to a little town called Taylorville, IL. (2 hour drive.) Thank goodness I brought along our portable Magellan as when we follow maps or something like Mapquest Directions, for some reason hubby tends to do the opposite of what I tell him. When the lady on Magellan warns him that the next turn will be to the right, he does what she says.

Taylorville has two motels, both rather mediocre. However, the one we stayed in was clean. We did have to ask for a hair dryer and more toilet paper and we got both. The bathroom light burned out, but it was fixed immediately.

Though the town is small, the streets are strange, going in all kinds of weird directions and changing names in the middle–so we continued to use the Magellan and still managed to get lost a couple of times.

There were two purposes for our visit. First, I was giving two presentations at the Prose in the Park writers’ conference and second, to sign a publishing contract. The publisher of my Rocky Bluff P.D. series quit the business so I had to find another publisher and fortunately did.

The conference was small, but the attendees attentive and friendly. Another presenter was J.D. Webb who I’d met at Love is Murder in Chicago. He did a great job and it was fun to see him again.

We left Taylorville on Sunday and headed home. Flying today is grueling. Though I’ve done it often enough I know to take off my shoes and jacket, put anything that squeezes and squirts and can’t be over 3 oz. in a quart size zip lock bag which must be tossed into a plastic box to be x-rayed, it’s still a pain. Now the airlines don’t feed you or give you anything to drink unless you pay for it, so we’ve learned to buy what we need after the screening process and take it on the plane.

When we landed in Phoenix we had about 10 minutes to get to our next plane which was in a different concourse and way at the end. Fortunately, one of those electric carts was there and we were offered a ride. Saved the day, otherwise we wouldn’t have made it. From Phoenix to Bakersfield we fly in one of those small commuter planes and we’ve decided we like them best. There’s actually more leg room and the stewardesses or whatever the politically correct name is today are more friendly.

On land, we still had an hour and a half drive ahead of us.

And as usual, we came home to piles of mail that had to be tended to, plus email that I couldn’t take care of via my Blackberry.

Phew! Anyway, that’s my excuse for being late and I’m sticking to it. Next up is a family reunion in Barstow.

Marilyn

In Honor of Kindred Spirits

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I will give away an autographed copy of Calling the Dead, the sixth in the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series to two people who leave a comment on this post or email me privately (mmeredith@ocsnet.net). All names will be put into a hat, or like container, and two drawn out for the books. I will not do the drawing until Wednesday, September 24. Good luck!

Marilyn

Separation Anxiety

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For my day job, I’m working on a new book about baby’s first year. It’s been a long time since I had any infants in the house. Heck, even our dog is middle-aged. Many of the basics of newborn care haven’t changed, but the who, what, when, where, why, and how of baby’s sleeping habits has undergone a dramatic change since my kids were little. I’ll be devoting an entire chapter to what parents need to know about sleep – their own and their child’s.

I’ll also be focusing on separation anxiety, typical behavior in eight month old infants – and also in this mom whose “baby” is currently studying in Scotland. The news reports from the semester abroad student have been terrific. A little homesickness, a touch of shyness, but all in all, she’s having a grand time. Even willing to try vegetarian haggis – so the sense of adventure is strong.

But me? I have been surprised at how much I miss her. I’ve decided – and tell me if this makes sense – that my emotions are exaggerated because she’s in a different time zone. I feel like I’m watching a tape delay of the Beijing Olympics. The game is already over by the time I turn on the TV. I’m rooting for a winner when if I only go on the Internet, I can find the scores and know what happened. I’m not in “real time” with my kid.

On the other hand, my husband says I’m talking to her more now that she’s overseas, than when she was 120 miles away. Part of it (okay all of it) is my personal craziness, but Skype has dramatically changed my over-anxious life. If you’re not familiar with this free software, and have family and friends who live at a distance, you need to check this out. With Skype you can talk, and if you have a camera/microphone attached to your computer, you can actually see the person on the other end — all without charge! On the first day in Scotland, by moving the camera on her laptop computer around the room, I could actually see where my daughter is living. When we talk, she can show me what she is wearing to the “freshers” dance. Of course, I could also see the circles under her eyes from lots of late-night events.

Letting go – whether your children are four, fourteen, or forty – is never easy. But thanks to a daughter who is patient with her over-anxious mother and with the help of cell phones, e-mail, and Skype, I can watch as she takes wing and soars.

Only 95 more days to go (before she’s home!).

Evelyn David

Excerpt from Kindred Spirits and Contest

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This is the first chapter from Kindred Spirits:

Chapter One


Before Deputy Tempe Crabtree could see evidence of the forest fire, she could smell it.

Smoke was heavy in the air and got thicker as she drove up the highway into the mountains. Monday was one of her days off, but when something happened in her jurisdiction she was often the first responder. Her instructions from the sheriff’s sub-station in Dennison were to make sure everyone who lived in the path of the fire started in the higher elevations of Bear Creek canyon had obeyed evacuation orders.

As resident deputy of the large but sparsely populated area around the mountain community of Bear Creek, Tempe’s job usually consisted of making traffic stops, arresting drunk drivers, solving problems among neighbors, and looking for lost children or cattle. Along with the highway patrol, Tempe was the law in the community located in the southern Sierra where the foothills turned into mountains.

The last estimate Tempe had heard about the fast moving fire in rugged country was that it covered more than 1100 acres. She was stopped at the staging area by a highway patrolman she knew by sight though couldn’t remember his name.

Though his uniform still had sharp creases, large circles of dampness crept from his underarms. Opaque sunglasses covered his eyes. He put both hands on the open window of her Blazer as he bent down to speak to her. “Where’re you headed, Deputy?”

“My orders are to check out some of the houses in the path of the fire. Make sure everyone’s out.”

“Be careful you don’t put yourself in danger. It’s one fast-moving fire. It’s in a rough area where they haven’t been able to get in any personnel yet. They’re doing lots of water drops. All the roads are closed from here on up.”

“Thanks for the warning. I know some of the folks who might not have received the word yet.”

Tempe drove by the private airstrip that had been taken over as the fire command post. Men and equipment, fire engines, water tenders and bulldozers were being dispatched from there as well as truckloads of hand crews.

Leaving her window down, Tempe drove around the traffic cones that temporarily blocked access to the road. She planned to stop at the Donaldsons’, but they were loading horses into a trailer, obviously on their way out.

The higher she drove on the winding road, the darker the sky, the thicker the smoke, the harder it was to breathe. Ashes showered on her white Blazer. She passed fire trucks and men heading upward to fight the fire. In her heart she was thankful her son, Blair, was already back on the coast for his last year in college or he’d be on the fire lines. Fighting fire had been his first love since the age of sixteen when he began hanging around Bear Creek’s fire station.

Tempe stopped at several homes hidden down winding trails or perched on hilltops, surrounded by pine and cedar trees and underbrush. Most homes were deserted with signs of hurried evacuation.

Loaded pick-up trucks drove down the hill, some pulling horse or cattle trailers, not getting out any too soon from the looks of the black sky and the large amount of falling ash.

She had one more place she wanted to check. A beautiful home and separate studio built of sugar pine stood atop a knoll surrounded by Chaparral and a thick pine forest. Tempe had been there once on a domestic abuse call. The owner, a well-known artist, Vanessa Ainsworth, now lived alone since her boy-friend had been served with a restraining order. If Vanessa wasn’t gone already, Tempe hoped to help her collect her animals and paintings and carry some of them out for her. When Tempe made the last turn before Vanessa’s she was halted by a horrifying sight.

***

Contest Rules:

I will give away an autographed copy of Calling the Dead, the sixth in the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series to two people who leave a comment on this post or email me privately (mmeredith@ocsnet.net). All names will be put into a hat, or like container, and two drawn out for the books. I will not do the drawing until Wednesday, September 24. Good luck!

Marilyn


Jane and Hercule Sittin’ in a Tree…

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I’ve got a question – and apparently Agatha Christie has the answer.

My question is who owns the characters I love? The author who created them or the audience that sustains them?

According to a story in Monday’s edition of the New York Times, Mathew Prichard, Dame Agatha’s grandson, recently discovered 27 audiotapes, recorded by the legendary author as she prepared material for her autobiography (published in 1977). In it she responds to the repeated requests she had received about her characters: “People never stop writing to me nowadays to suggest that Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot should meet. But why should they meet? I’m sure they would not like meeting at all. I shall not let them meet unless I feel a really sudden and unexpected urge to do so.”

First, I agree with Dame Agatha. The concept of Jane Marple and Hercule Poirot working on a case together is, as undoubtedly my grandmother would have answered, just plain meshuganah (Yiddish for crazy).

But for those familiar with the fanfiction world, crossovers are a well-respected staple. In that genre, Miss Jane Marple might not just collaborate on a baffling whodunnit with the Belgian detective, but could be having his baby as well.

I know, I know – blasphemy. Mea culpa.

But in some ways, it’s a chicken and egg question. Dame Agatha – and Evelyn David, for that matter – is perfectly within her rights to decide what happens to her characters, including ***spoiler alert*** killing off Hercule Poirot when she saw fit. But like Arthur Conan Doyle, it is folly to ignore your readers when they are clamoring for a different outcome. Doyle took the “great hiatus,” as his fans referred to the period after he published The Adventure of the Final Problem, where Sherlock Holmes disappeared over the Falls and was presumed dead. The detective’s wondrous resurrection eight years later was motivated by many reasons, not the least of which was…$$$$

The collective Evelyn David has created backstories for all the main characters. These histories help us determine the motivations for Mac, Rachel, even Whiskey (it was hard being the runt of the litter…). So while you can do whatever you want with your characters – should you? Do you, the author, know them better than your readers?

The answer is: probably, sometimes, or it depends. Dame Agatha was undoubtedly correct that Jane and Hercule were destined never to be together. But like our real-life children, sometimes we need a fresh perspective. Our readers offer that. It may not change my decision on how a character will develop or change, but it will make me at least think through why I’m doing what I’m doing – and that’s never a bad thing.

Do you have a favorite character — in books, television, or movies — that you think was derailed by its creator?

Evelyn David

Good, Clean Fun

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I’ve given a lot of thought to the term “wardrobe malfunction,” being as I have had a few of my own over the years. Nothing approaching “nipple-gate” of that long-ago Super Bowl with Janet Jackson, but definitely your garden-variety toilet paper on the shoe problem, skirt tucked into underwear issue, blouse gaping open to display my amble bosom to everyone on the Communion line at Holy Name of Mary church, including our lovely pastor.

I was watching the Super Bowl when Justin Timberlake “accidentally” pulled at the front of Janet Jackson’s leather bustier only to expose a middle-aged breast and its accompanying parts. She didn’t look very shocked and neither did he, raising the question of whether or not this event had been planned. Frankly, our family didn’t even realize what had happened until the next day because that’s what happens when four people are fighting for a shot at the guacamole, stooping so low as to push the six-year-old out of the way because he weighs the least.

There was a great hew and cry after “nipple-gate.” But the NFL persists in having over-the-top, pyrotechnic extravaganzas whereby Tom Petty, Prince, the Stones, or some other over-the-hill, yet still somewhat relevant band performs for the massive crowds at whatever mega-stadium the teams are playing in that year. I honestly believe that most of the people in the stands are out in the hallways, waiting on line to go to the bathroom (particularly, the women), buying hot dogs, or milling about. Only the suckers who couldn’t afford the $5000.00 Super Bowl package who are stuck at home eating cold pizza and drinking warm beer are subjected to these musical spectacles.

I have a plan, though. It will be entertaining, keep people in the stands, and have relevance, particularly for some parents who have spent thousands on private music lessons. I have tried, without success, to figure out a way to communicate this plan to Roger Goodell, the general manager of the NFL, so I’m hoping he’s a faithful Stiletto Gang reader and will take this suggestion under advisement: the half-time show should consist of marching bands. Hear me out: I think that the Super Bowl halftime show should be dedicated to the best of the college marching bands in the country. Having gone to a college with no marching band, I have always felt left out, maybe because I play a mean glockenspiel and had nowhere to ply my trade. I’m a huge fan of the USC Trojans, and a host of other marching bands. I have watched the movie “Drumline” more times than I can count. It’s good, clean, wholesome fun. And it would spotlight some of the most talented kids in this country. What could be better?

The Northern half of Evelyn David and I discussed this over lunch the other day: what is it about the NFL that makes it cleave to this idea of presenting “cool” bands to the general viewing population on one Sunday a year? We decided that it was purely demographical: apparently, their thinking is that people (read: men) in the 25-49 year old demographic watch the Super Bowl. And what they want to see (besides naked women) are bands of waning popularity who either resemble their parents or them themselves. But how about appealing to a broader demographic? How about lighting the fuel of the marching band fire in some kid who’s in the 7-17 year old demographic? Because if my experience is any indication, just seeing a marching band perform in all of their synchronistic glory will definitely stoke the inner percussionist fire of more than one kid out there.

But, Evelyn and I decided, it all comes down to money. So, if you put up the band whose previously cool song now is the centerpiece of a 4×4 commercial, Joe America out there will feel that he is seeing exactly what he wants to see and getting exactly what he wants to get from his Super Bowl. Or, he doesn’t think that at all, and just resumes cutting the six-foot hero while the show is in session. The rest of us, apparently, can just stick it. Good, clean fun has gone by the wayside and the almighty dollar wins yet again.

Maggie Barbieri

Report on My Book Launch and One More Mistake

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I’m back from Crescent City and the most successful book launch I’ve ever had, this was for Kindred Spirits, the latest in my Deputy Tempe Crabtree series.

Before the event, Junie Mattice, the Tolowa woman who inspired the story and two characters, stopped by to see me at the home where I was staying. We had a great reunion and I gave her a copy of the book, explaining about the mistake of the wrong name on the dedication. She laughed and thought it was funny because she’d given me that name. She took the book and went right home and read it.

We had two luncheons, one right after the other 11:30 and 1:30 at a historic B and B, the Ana Wulf House. Those who came paid $25 and received a copy of the book.

Junie was right there with me to autograph books. She told me she loved it, but she also found another mistake. That one I’m not telling anyone about and will wait and see how many will let me know. It’s another error with a name.

After the luncheon, the first setting, I spoke about the book and how I met Junie and what she’d told me about her people. Then Junie talked about being Tolowa and some of the history and near genocide of her people. One of her daughters came too and was extremely thrilled for her mom.

The second setting we did much of the same but one of Junie’s aunts and two sisters came. One of the sisters was a Tolowa storyteller and she honored us with two stories.

Both settings were full–and I was paid for the books and extra to help with the gas.

On Thursday evening Junie and I did a free repeat performance (if you can call it that) at the Crescent City Library to another full house. Sold more books and Junie sold some of her excellent art work. I also donated a complete set of my Deputy Tempe Crabtree mysteries to the library and was so glad I did because they have no budget for book.

It was a great week even if it did take us two days to get there and two days to get home.

Next up, I’m the keynote speaker for the Prose in the Park Writers’ Conference in Taylorville IL. (Flying to that one.)

Marilyn