Thanks For The Memories

Once upon a time I opened a book and read the words Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much and fell in love.

Maybe not with the opening line, and certainly not with those wretched Dursleys, but it was still the moment that marked one of my great book romances. I, like so many, many other readers, fell head over heels, why-can't-this-be-real, I-want-a-wand, where-is-my-acceptance-letter-to-Hogwarts in love with the world that J.K. Rowling created on her pages.

It's a world that's far too big to be contained between those book covers – and as the curtain opens on the last of the movies, I find myself (like so many other Potterphiles) reminiscing about what the books have meant to me.

* After years of bedtime stories and me passing books down to him, these were the first books my baby brother shared up with me. He passed away five years ago and a few of my copies are even more beloved because they were his first.

* These were the first books I shared with St. Matt – truthfully, I demanded he read the first one. He required no coercion for the rest of the series. They were also the first books that I made him take away and hide after Just one more chapter, A few more pages, and I'm going to set a timer and I'll stop reading when it goes off all failed to get me out of the book and onto my homework.

* When the first movie came out during my sophomore year in college I sweet-talked the local grocery store into giving us their Harry Potter / Coke display. The thing was amazing: the windows in Hogwarts lit up, Hedwig's wings flapped. It was also massive – at least five feet tall and four feet across. Despite living in a shoebox of a dorm room, I kept it all year.

* The photo above is from the party I had before the first movie – I forced a group of friends -- half who hadn't read the book-- to play Harry Potter Clue and trivia. I awarded prizes. We had cake -- which was supposed to have a Hogwarts decal, but ended up reading "Happy Birthday, Harry Potter" instead. It was still delicious.

 

* Senior year in college St. Matt, my best friend, and I absconded to London for a long weekend around Halloween. St.Matt was thrilled by the James Bond display at Harrods. J-bean loved the theater. The highlight of the trip for me was standing in Leicester Square in the freezing cold for hours watching the actors arrive for the world premiere of Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets.

* On one of the boys' first nights home, as we rocked and read them picture books, St. Matt looked over Baby B's head and asked, "So, how much older do they have to be before we can read then Harry Potter?"

I'm already ticklish with anticipation of exploring these stories all over again – getting to see them as new through their eyes.

What are some of YOUR Harry Potter memories?

Someone Please Hide My Ove-Glove

 I must not make muffins. I must not make muffins. NO MUFFINS, TIFFANY.

I'm meeting my stroller posse in about an hour for our 8:30 stroll, and I really, really, really want to mix up a batch of muffins. Maybe chocolate chip. Or apple cinnamon. Or, I know, blueberry using berries from the bushes in our backyard. They'd be delicious.

But I won't.

*sigh*

Hi, my name is Tiffany, and I'm a stress-baker. * Give me some anxiety and I will feed you food made from sugar, love and angst. But mostly sugar.

In the past month, while waiting to announce, waiting on CP notes on my WIP, and now waiting on my edit letter I have made: 3 coffee cakes, 1 peanut butter pie, 1 angel food cake, 2 batches of cinnamon buns, and 2 types of cookies. ** Then I force fed everyone around me.***

Thank goodness for baby food. Steaming, pureeing, and packing up pint-sized portions of fruits and veggies is almost as good as mixing up a batch of snickerdoodles.  I spend so much time cutting and peeling and planning baby meals that I should probably add it as a hobby on Facebook. And, I'm not going to lie, I get an absurd amount of satisfaction out of opening up my fridge and freezer and admiring all the neat rows of colorful glass containers. If the zombie apocalypse happens tomorrow, the boys will still have an ample supply of organic peaches, carrots, zucchini, acorn squash, sweet potato, avocado, pears, apples, banana, spinach, beans and peas.****

Mmmmm, stress tastes like spinach. It's delicious!

Which will come in handy when I begin revisions and naptime becomes Sacred Writing Time instead of What Shall We Cook Today? Time.

Until then I will (try to) resist the urge to make play with sugar and butter. I will hang up my apron, stopper my vanilla and have St. Matt hide my cookie sheets.

NO MUFFINS, TIFFANY.

What do YOU do when you're waiting? No, seriously, leave me a comment and tell you what you do – I could use some alternatives since we've run out of freezer space for baby food.

*St. Matt suggests I amend this to impatient-baker, but I say NO. Impatient-baker doesn't roll off the tongue nearly so well. Some people were just not designed to wait. If God decided to include a half-dose of patience when he created me, who am I to question that?

**And for some unknown reason, my baby weight hasn't just melted right off

***I haven't heard any complaints.

**** Please note that in my version of the apocalypse, we still have electricity. Also note that I am not asking for the apocalypse, I'd prefer that waits until AFTER I get to see SEND ME A SIGN in bookstores.

I'd Like To Thank The Academy...

When I can't sleep at night, or when I'm waiting in line at the grocery store, or on hold with the cell phone company I mentally compose acknowledgement pages. I assume that actors write practice Oscar speeches in much the same way.

It occurred to me the other night – while pacing our bedroom at 1 AM with a teething and not sleeping Baby A – that soon I'll get to write an acknowledgements page for real. And the thought might have made me emit a wee-squee and squeeze him a bit too tight, thus waking him all-the-way up and adding another twenty minutes to my rocking him to sleep.

Of course I spent the time mentally drafting thank yous.

You'll have to wait until next fall (and buy the book) to read my for real acknowledgements with the scores of people who helped me get this far. (I love you all!) BUT – my gratitude-meter from the past seven days is currently tipped to overflowing – I need to acknowledge some of my lovelies or I'll implode from appreciation.

Thank you to:

* Everyone who offered support and congratulations – I did a little dance each time my phone buzzed with a tweet or email or phone call or Facebook post. If I could send you each a cookie and a hug, I would.

* St. Matt!

* Tiffany Emerick – librarian extraordinaire – who had my book on GoodReads within minutes of hearing the news. Thank you for accompanying me to a zillion book events over the past few years and telling me after each one That's going to be you some day.

* Scott Tracey & Courtney Summers – for being my sanity throughout this crazy process and reading countless drafts of my synopsis and bio.

* Emily Hainsworth – For… everything: wearing your lucky shamrock pj's, dog grooming whilst listening to me chatterbox, and the daily refrains of I can't wait until you're an Apocalypsie too.

* And to the Apocalypsies for being so welcoming.

* Team Sparkle for always filling my inbox full of ~*~'s and !!!'s

* Always, always to Joe Monti – the maker of dreams-come-true. Thank you for not putting me in time out for asking Can I announce yet? twelve million and two times.

* … finally, to the Schmidtlets for being ever-ready to participate in celebration dance parties, and for taking an hour-long nap so I had time to write this.

It's a WONDERFUL Thing

When I was a wee imp my father used to tuck in bed at night and sing me to sleep with:

"The wonderful thing about tiggers is tiggers are wonderful things! Their tops are made out of rubber. Their bottoms are made out of springs! They're bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy
Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun! But the most wonderful thing about tiggers is I'm the only one"

This bedtime routine often ended with us getting scolded – his choice of lullaby more likely to result in me jumping on the covers than dozing beneath them.

Lately this song has been looping through my head. I swirl and twirl and bounce the Schmidtlets around the house and improvise my own lyrics:

"The wonderful thing about book deals, is book deals are wonderful things…"

We bounce and trounce and flounce and giggle, this modified song amping up to its conclusion:

"And the most wonderful thing about book deals is your momma just got one."

I'm thrilled to announce that Agent Awesome, Joe Monti, has sold my debut novel, a contemporary YA to Emily Easton at Walker Children's for publication in Fall 2012.

When everything's going your way, you have everything to lose.  Or do you?  SEND ME A SIGN is a tragicomedy about Mia Moore, a superstitious 17 year old, who had crafted the perfect senior year – only to watch it collapse around her. This debut will take you on a Magic Eight Ball journey where the outlook appears to be not so good. Does it have a Happily Ever After? I better not tell you now…

I'm so excited to begin working with Emily and to share my book with YOU!

Have I mentioned we're bouncey, bouncey, bouncing?

A Good Life

Yesterday the boys woke up at 4:45. They were fussy all morning, feeding off my own nervous energy.

We were visiting the elementary school where I've taught for the past seven years. My first visit since I left in October to go on bed rest. My first visit with the twins. 

My first visit since resigning last month.

There were many things whirling in my mind: fears of germs, nap schedules, diaper changes, did I remember binks-Winston-Churchill-teething rings-diapers?

But my mind was most focused on how would I feel returning. Would I sit in the parking lot daunted by the eight months that have passed since I crossed that threshold? Would I feel left out, overwhelmed by all the experiences, jokes, and events I've missed while holed up with the twins? Would I remember my students' names? Would I regret my decision? Would it feel like good-bye?

When I actually pulled in the parking lot I didn't pause to feel anything. There was a stroller to unload, two sleepy babies to settle.

And it was school. My school. It was a parking lot I've crossed a thousand times, a front office I automatically pause to chat in.

School was school. It felt like I'd never left, like I could step through the door of room 202, pick up the pen on the SmartBoard and resume teaching where I left off.

Except my students are a whole lot bigger than they were eight months ago.

I loved my job. LOVED it. Adored my colleagues and felt privileged to work with the students. It challenged, inspired, energized and fulfilled me.

I will miss it.

BUT.

This morning the boys slept in, we played, cuddled and lazed around and then went to a playdate with the Schmidtlets still in their pajamas. I drove there grinning and so grateful – I love this life. Today and tomorrow and next week-month-year is a combination snow day and summer vacation.

I am so lucky. So blessed. And so thrilled to be able to stay home and saturate myself in baby love and memory-making and writing.

Asher is giggling in the baby sling while I type this. Brad is napping with Churchill and smiling in his sleep – revealing a spot of spinach I missed when wiping his face after lunch.

When he wakes up we've got a baby dance party scheduled.

I can't think of a better song than this one --

It took me 6 months to realize this?

Writing with infant twins is hard. In other shocking news: water is wet, books contain words, new mothers lack sleep.

Maybe it's that sleep deprivation that kept me from realizing this fact until now. After all, I've had the Schmidtlets for six months.

Everything has changed in that last six months – I can spend hours watching little fingers grasp little noses as they try and get their thumbs in their mouths. Or in each other's mouth. My world fits in the palms of those little hands and I'm wrapped around each of their little fingers. Often literally – they're both very good at clutching my fingers, shirt, and hair.

It's not solely an issue of detangling myself from their grasps, and it's not just a where's the 25^th hour in my day? issue either. It's an escapist one. It's a first draft dilemma.

The revision part of my brain isn't broken. I worked on revisions while I was still in the hospital. But that book is in Agent Extraordinaire's hands.

And I'm faced with blank screens and ideas that need to be translated from thought bubbles to words on a page – and this is where the hard begins.

Drafting for me was always full immersion. I'd interrupt myself while having a conversation to say "what about…" or "what if…" and then scramble for my keyboard. I'd have 4K Saturdays while St. Matt watched or played tennis. I'd stumble into bed just hours before my alarm because I was being carried along by an avalanche of words. I'd watch my word and page counts rise with delicious pleasure. The real world seemed almost secondary or less tangible than the one in my head – as if it were the layer under which I super-imposed my story.

Well, baby spit up is tangible. And wet and smelly. Baby cries and giggles aren't to be ignored. And while I'd like to put on my WIP playlist after the Schmidtlets are asleep, it clashes with the ceaseless repetition of the classical playlist on their sound machine. Or the tinkling of their mobile. I can't tune those out, can't shut the baby monitor off – and can't close out this world to escape into one of my own creation.

So I've had to work around this, find ways to invite the babies into the world of my head, and find ways to incorporate that world into my reality.

Baby A's definition of bliss is snuggling in my lap, so I've spent hours reading and singing pieces and scenes to him. I just try not to take it personally if he falls asleep. *makes note: scene needs more tension *

Baby B is a mover. He inherited his fidgetpants from me – so I settle both boys in their stroller and we head out on the walking paths. They watch trees and hunker down for naps and I brainstorm, scratching hasty fragments in the notepad I keep in the stroller for this purpose.

And the simultaneous nap? It's as elusive as a unicorn and just as magical, but when it occurs, I take advantage. I may not be able to fully immerse myself in the world in my head – but with a reality this adorable, I'm not sure I want to.

Speaking of simul-naps. There's one occurring right now –-  time to go unleash some words.

Maybe I Should do the Laundry...

Meet Churchill.

The frog, not the baby - that's Brad.

 Here's his brother, Winston.

Hippo = Winston, Baby= Asher

The pictures above represent approximately 0.5% of my photo collection of Schmidtlets with Winston and Churchill. The babies are Very Attached To Them.

Naptime isn't naptime without Churchill tucked under the chin. And tummy time doesn't work well unless Winston is within reach.

W & C are exposed to much loving and drooling, so last night unbeknownst to me, St.Matt decided to throw them in with the baby laundry.

This morning I went on the Great Churchill Hunt – called St.Matt – and eventually located both of them In The Dryer.

Winston is fine.

Churchill is crispy.

He must've gotten stuck to the vent, because he is definitely dryer-fried.

I took this pretty calmly – much calmer than overdue-for-his-nap Brad. I figured I could order a replacement and have it in a few days. Naptime until then might be a little rough, but it was a short term problem.

I even thought I'd be SMART and order a Back-up Winston and Back-up Churchill.

BUT.

Churchill has been discontinued.

I can order as many Winstons as I want.

BUT.

Churchill – crunchy, need-a-replacement Churchill – is discontinued.

And I can't even find another one on Ebay.  I thought you could find ANYTHING on Ebay.

A much-chagrined St.Matt called Pottery Barn Kids customer service.  I bet he was calm and steady. The e-mail I sent them included lots of !!!!'s and HELP! and the line: Please save my naptime.

BUT.

Even as I have this Mommy Crisis, I also have perspective.

It's a toy. He's 4 months old. This is more upsetting for ME than it is for HIM.

I know this moment is heightened by having sent my finished manuscript to Agent Extrordinaire, Joe Monti, this morning. Because everything seems more panicked after pressing *send*.

I know that even if Crispy-Churchill can't be salvaged. Even if Pottery Barn Kids can't hunt down a leftover Green Frog Thumbie, and even if one never appears on Ebay, Brad will be fine and I haven't failed as a mother.

Even if it feels like it every time his lip quivers.

 You'll let me know if you come across a Churchill, right?

***UPDATE*** We have a Replacement Churchill being shipped from Ohio and a Backup Replacement Churchill coming from Florida. Thank you so much, Awesome Pottery Barn Customer Service! *exhales*

Almost equally exciting - my cousin-in-law told me about the wash-in-a-pillowcase secret (thanks, Melissa!) now St.Matt can continue laundry-duties without fear!

Something to Celebrate

I discovered recently that not everyone dyes their milk pink for Valentine's Day, or green for St. Patrick's Day. This baffles me. Excluding those with dye allergies, why wouldn't you?

 

I'm a big fan of celebrations. For big things, I know how to make a BIG fuss… but I like to make a BIG fuss for little things too.

Each year in my classroom I read the kiddos Byrd Baylor's I'm in Charge of Celebrations because I love the narrator's mentality of searching out the extraordinary in the ordinary and finding a way to honor it. 

With writing I honor the start of each new project by buying a set of my favorite pens - Staedtler Triplus Fineliners. And don't forget about Revision Skittles -- they're a tiny celebration for every page completed.

Babies are made for celebrating. Everything they do is miraculous; they are snuggle-sized bundles of magic and love. And each day they grow, learn and change. If I don't stop and celebrate their discoveries as they happen, it will be too late.

So St. Matt expects the phone calls at work:

Today Asher cooed at the ceiling fan.

Brad just rolled over onto his side – twice!

Oh my head, Brad's learned how to smile, and he hasn't stopped doing it all day.

Did you get the pictures?

When I sing Twinkle Twinkle to Asher and twinkle my hands, he twinkles back.

Guess what?! I was burping Brad, and every time I patted his back, his wee little hand patted mine.

We celebrate the ounces they gain and the clothing they outgrow. St. Matt celebrates when they sleep through the night… I mostly want to wake them up and cuddle.

And today we celebrate something momentous – they are 100 days old.

I know that celebrating a baby's 100^th day is a Korean and Chinese tradition, but I'm borrowing it. These past 100 days have been filled with more love and happiness than I have any right to deserve, but they've also been tinged with some terrifying moments too.

The twins were two months early. They were little. They both had trouble breathing. And maintaining steady heart rates. They spent their first month in the NICU. They're both still on apnea monitors that go off with heart-shattering regularity and send St. Matt and I flying across the room to check for color changes and chest movement.

That first month left some physical scars on them and emotional ones on me.

It's not possible to gaze through the Plexiglas of an isolette at the mess of gauze, tubes, wires, sensors and bandages covering your newborn and walk away whole.
 

 After just looking at those pictures and writing those words I had to wake little Brad up, snuggle him close, and reassure myself that he's nearly tripled in size and is thriving.

So today, we will celebrate. 100 days. They may be little, but it's no small accomplishment.

And tomorrow?

We'll celebrate then, too.

Have you heard?

I love fairy tales, believe dreams come true, and the sign above my writing desk reads And they lived happily ever after.

Last night I watched Enchanted… again. Today I get to see a fairy tale unfold in the life of one of my very most favorite people.

It started Once Upon A Time, back on November 16^th, 2010.

The same day my dreams were coming true and I was becoming a momma for the first and second time, my crit partner and one of my best friends was offered representation by her dream agent.

Have you heard what resulted from the twins' Auntie Em, aka Emily Hainsworth, signing with Mary Kole?

If not, I suggest you check out what Publishers' Weekly has to say. (4th story down)

I could not be more thrilled! Through to You is one of the most unique and haunting stories I've read –- it wouldn't be fair if you were deprived of the opportunity to say the same.

And, if you'll permit me to stretch this theme just a tad further, this isn't Emily's happily ever after.

This is just the start of her adventure, her Once Upon A Time.

I can't wait to see the rest of her journey.

TWO-Minute Update

I'm living my life in twos right now.

• Two bassinets perched at the end of my bed.
• Two binks to locate when they drop from two little mouths.
• Two bottoms to diaper and two million loads of laundry to keep them covered.
• Two distinctly different cries that correspond to two very different personalities.
• Two downy heads to kiss and two sets of ears to fill with whispers of your mommy loves you so very much. 

Two little Schmidtlets who are two months old!*

Baby A & Baby B – aka Acorn & Bean Sprout – aka Asher & Brad, arrived on November 16^th.

Since then they've been busy making St.Matt and me the two happiest people in the world.

*which means this post is two months overdue, but in my defense, they were two months early in arriving.

The Nursery that IS

Back before there were Schmidtlets, we used to refer to their room as the NTB: Nursery To Be. It was my favorite writing room -- how can you beat whiteboard walls?

But they're not my whiteboards anymore -- and I've spent the past few weeks fussing over every other detail of the NTI. You'd be surprised that it's possible to spend 12 hours researching knobs, but when you're Bed RestLess, why not?

So, mayhaps finishing the twins room became a minor obsession. Thank God for the internet, which made assembling the room a snap… well, a snap for ME.

St. Matt and my in-laws had to do all of the hard labor I lay on the daybed and supervised – while my bed rest bodyguard went into stealth mode and scrutinized every move I made.

Without further ado, I present the Schmidtlets' room!

But just because the room is ready, doesn't mean the twins are.  Stay put, Schmidtlets!

Sticker Charts and Schmidtlets

I've always been a rules girl. Sticker charts were made for people like me. If I set the table I got a sticker. If I made my bed I got a sticker. If I went a whole day without a time out in the Naughty Chair, that was worth at least three stickers. 

I'm not going to say I never tried to manipulate this system (comforter pulled up over a tangle of sheets never works, does it?) but this method of rule à reward had always worked well for me.

Um, it still works well: Revise one page, get one Revision Skittle…

Which is why bed rest baffles me.

I've followed the rules. I spend all of my time confined between the headboard and footboard of my sleigh bed or down on the couch in a flurry of pillows. Bathroom visits are a field trip – but only require a couple dozen steps. Food is the same: St. Matt emptied and carried our wine fridge up to the bedroom and stocks it daily with a large enough food and liquid selections for a woman who's carrying at least quintuplets.

All that's required of me is that I stay put – and the payoff is healthy babies who also stay put.

Which is why bed rest baffles me.

I've done my part…

… the Schmidtlets don't seem to want to do theirs.

I may gripe a bit and I may complain of BedRestlessness, but, in truth, my role is easy.  I've got an engrossing WIP to play with, shelves of books we've stockpiled (I read seven last week alone), TV's with DVR, friends a few keystrokes or phone digits away, and a saintly, saintly, truly saintly husband who has gone out of his way to envision things I might want, before I've even dreamed them up.

What's not easy:  knowing I've followed the directions with NASA precision, and the results aren't in my control.

We've started steroid shots to advance the Schmidtlets' lung development. We've started packing our hospital bag. We've started prioritizing the to-do list for the what-if?

Preparation is great, of course, but it doesn't change anything. It doesn't grant me a second more of pregnancy if the twins decide that NOW is when they want to arrive.

But they haven't picked Now, or Now, or even Now and every second they continue to grow is a blessing.

So, stay put little ones. The world is waiting to love and cherish you, but it will still be waiting in a few weeks. And your momma will put extra stickers on your sticker charts if you make it a month or more. Stay.

Do not pass Go. Report directly to BED

 My last day of school was Friday. I've spent the past seven weeks very conflicted about today – the battle of exhaustion versus my desire to teach. I wasn't surprised to discover that I woke up this morning feeling a little lost soul-ish.

I spent the morning as a flitterbug --  popping from one task to the next without accomplishing much of anything. Any progress I might have made was hindered by Biscotti. She's been a wee bit overprotective as of late; she will not let the Twin Belly out of her sight. Today she added a new trick:  doing her dangdest to herd me back to bed.

I should've listened.

This afternoon we had our first NONstress test. They hooked up monitors to capture the babies' heartbeats and a third monitor to my uterus.  In typical Bean Sprout fashion, he showed off for the doctors by doing all sorts of barrel rolls and squirm-worm maneuvers. And in typical Twin Belly fashion, my uterus reacted to his movements by having what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions.

They weren't. Apparently they're the real deal.  And regular.

The doctor took one look at my printout and announced: Bed Rest.

St. Matt and I exchanged a look that said everything: But wait! We're not ready yet. It's my first day off work. You said I'd have some time to run errands and take it easy. I was going to make cookies tonight. We were going to walk the dogs. I have plans tomorrow. We have plans this weekend. We're NOT Ready.

Out loud we said, "Okay, what do we need to know?" because none of that matters. And we'll do just about anything to make sure these two little boys stay put and stay safe for as many weeks as possible.

So now I sit. And wait. Thursday AM's our next NST and I'm hoping for better results.

In the meantime, Biscotti, bodyguard puggle extraordinaire, is thrilled that I'm taking her advice and lying down. If a puggle could gloat, that's what she'd be doing, from her supervisory post at the foot of my bed.

A Practice Separation

Today my class was supposed to be going on a field trip that includes a nature hike and sploshing around in a river, picking up slippery rocks and looking for macroinvertibrates. I wish there was an emoticon that truly captures the look my doctor gave me when I asked him about it. Part: Are-you-serious? Part: Don't-even-dream-of-it. Part: Do-I-have-to-chain-you-to-a-couch-and-feed-you-a-diet-of-Common-Sense-&-Caution.

Outcome: I won't be going; apparently nature trails and river explorations are not acceptable activities for people who can no longer see their feet. So I took the day off… and woke up to it bucketing out and the trip being postponed.

I am not handling this well. My parent chaperones received four different e-mails with instructions for today (& then cancelling today) – and this was only partially due to baby brain causing the omission of important details like WHEN they should show up at school. I also called the substitute at home twice to give her directions and left her two sets of plans: one for the trip and one for in case the trip was cancelled. My cell number is circled in red in case she runs into any questions. Not that she'll need it, the kiddos in my class this year are the definition of angelic.

And here I sit, at home, fighting the urge to pick up the phone and call in to my classroom to make sure there are no last minute questions. Did I mention that the school day only started 15 minutes ago?

If I need to, (once I finish typing this) I will sit on my hands. Hide my phone. Go outside and pace the backyard --- *looks out window*. Maybe not that last one. And, er, maybe I shouldn't hide my phone. With baby brain it's likely I'll never find it again.

I will not, however, call, e-mail, or go visit the school to check on the kiddos. Will. Not.

Can you sense that I'm having some separation anxiety? There are two weeks until I have to walk out of my classroom door and teach myself not to look back. After October 15^th, they are not MY class anymore.

Once the Schmidtlets arrive, I know I'll be far too enamored with my bundles of baby to miss them. But it's the interim weeks, the couch rest leading into bed rest weeks, that keep me up at night.

I'm not a sitter. I'm not a TV watcher. I'm not a do-for-me-what-I-can-do-for-myself girl. And more than all that, I'm not good at good-byes or letting go. Each year I cry at elementary school graduation as my kiddos prepare to leave for the summer and middle school.  This year I'll be the one leaving, and I need to learn to be okay with that.

So today is practice. And just in case I've forgotten the reason for all this sitting, I've scheduled an ultrasound for this afternoon. One look at those squirmy Schmidtlets on the screen and I'm sure I'll find all the strength I need to park my Twin Belly on the couch. It'll be a great reminder to stop looking backwards and to look forward to a time when those babies are out of the Twin Belly and in my arms.

St. Mohawk

So, I have haircut issues. I have other issues, too, but today's post is about my haircuts.

I don't like them. I mean, I like them fine when I'm the one getting my haircut.  Other people? Sure, cut it off, perm it up, straighten, highlight, dye it stripey, shave in swoops.

I guess I should clarify, I have St. Matt Haircut Issues.

This is not a new thing. It harkens back to the first summer we were dating, when he'd gotten a haircut before coming to visit me in MA. Only, he didn't warn me first.

I should clarify some more. St. Matt only really has three hairstyles:

1. Short on the sides, a little longer on top. Generic boy. 
2. The I'm-too-lazy-to-get-a-haircut stage that drives him crazy, but I openly encourage because it leads to Option 3: 
3. Curls! Which drive him more crazy, but which I love, Love, LOVE.

Okay, back to summer 2000.

So, this boy shows up on my parents' doorstep and wants to hug and kiss me. Granted I'm loopy on pain meds because I just had ankle surgery, but I nearly fall off my crutches trying to back away from him. *Stranger Danger!* Where was my curly-headed boyfriend? Who was this guy with ears?

This is where the haircut issues originated.  They haven't abated. Since then we've come up with a coping method: I require multiple reminders of any forthcoming haircuts; I'm also allowed a moment to *absorb* my husband's new appearance before he approaches.

And he doesn't take it personally when my reaction is always, "I'm not quite sure I like it."

Friday was haircut day. I walked in the house and he did the required *freeze in place* so I could examine and adjust.

And since he knows my haircut history and has only ever had the three hairstyles, he took it in stride when I said, "I don't know, you look different."

"I'm still me." This was offered with a Saintly grin and arms extended for a hug.

"No, something's different. It's not right." I continued to circle him.

Saintly sigh. "You always say that. Wait until tomorrow when I shower and style it. It's fine."

I gave him a wary nod of agreement and tried my best not to study him all night.

Saturday morning things did not look "fine." They were still different.

"What did you tell the barber?"

St. Matt frowned at the mirror; even he could see something wasn't quite right. "I said, The usual. Short on the sides, longer on top."

It is short on the sides and longer on top. That much I have to agree with. But, the sides are shorter than usual short. The top is longer than usual long. And the sides climb higher on his head than normal. They climb SO high that they're invading the top's territory.

This is when we realized the truth about his haircut: it's an Accidental Mohawk.

 

Since reaching this epiphany, I haven't even attempted to hide my glee.

First, the sight of a mohawked St. Matt is enough to reduce me to instant gigglefits.

Second, I know someone who'll be reluctant to head back to the barber anytime soon.

Say hello to a curl-headed winter!

An Infestation of Adorable

Casa Schmidt is being invaded! Thankfully it's the cutest infestation that's ever occurred. Baby things are slowly taking over: there's a pack 'n play box under the piano; a boppy blocking the bookshelf; two highchairs and two car seats stacked in our family room. And the NTB – forget it, I won't open the door for fear of tripping over the baskets of blankets, clothing and toys waiting to be organized.

Sometimes they arrive at a trickle: a box waiting on the porch when I get home from a puggle walk or a gift bag from a friend when we meet for lunch. Other times it's a deluge, like this weekend when I went to MA for my first shower. A car packed to the brim with boxes and bags and a long drive home full of "Bruschi, that rattle is NOT for you. Leave it!"

As the piles of baby stuff and my twin belly grow, the growth takes on new meaning: this is real. Soon the Schmidtlets will be sitting in those seats, wearing those clothes.

It occurs to me, this whole process of being spoiled rotten/stuff accumulation is a lot like planning a new book and getting to know the characters and the world.

Sometimes facts come slowly – they pop up by surprise – but instead of a FedEx man at the door, it's a moment of Wow, my heroine's hair is curly or my hero used to be studly jock, but he's not anymore. I add these to my character profiles where facts accumulate in piles, while I try to figure out if they're significant – and, yes, curly hair IS important in my WIP – or even if they're true.

Knowledge also comes in a flash flood; I'll wake up with a scene fully formed in my mind, or come back from a swim with a major plot point resolved.

In both instances, I'm forever changing my mind. Bumpo seat? Baby pod? Neither? I read reviews, ask advice from mothers and add and remove these items from my registry. With writing, there's the same vacillation. The include and delete. Rewrites. The long e-mails to CP's and bracketed comments of [cut this? Or amp up? Ahhh! Decide later!]

But neither process is overnight – and they aren't to be rushed. I want those Schmidtlets to stay just where they are for a few months yet. They're not ready and I'm not ready for them either. (Um, cribs… we need to get those).

My WIP's not ready either. We're still getting to know each other. The better I understand my characters, the more realistic they'll be on paper. Real people are many-faceted, and the most realistic and resonant characters I've read have been equally complicated.

Getting to know them isn't logical, sequential or predictable either. Just like with the baby presents, I can make a list of the things I need, or in writing's case, need to know (appearance, history, motivations, desires), but it's often the unexpected facts and gifts that are the most meaningful.

So my world is being invaded with swaddling blankets and itsy-bitsy onesies. With personality quirks and characters' favorite expressions. My house is full and my mind is busy. I'm making sure my laptop isn't buried beneath bassinets or baby slings and trying not to confuse plot post-its with thank you notes.

I know life's about to get crazier, but when I look around at the Infestation of Adorable or stop and reflect upon my WIP, all I can do is smile and whisper a thank you that I'm blessed with such rewarding chaos.

Reflections from Camp Barry - Cabin A102

I'm home from Camp Barry and slowly emerging from post-travel hibernation. I miss the buffets full of chocolate bread. I miss the pools. I miss the heat lamps in my hotel room bathroom.

But mostly, I miss the people.

And not just because roommate extraordinaire, Jenn Reese, saved me from taking Will-Ferrell-in-ELF type showers by figuring out how to activate the upper showerhead. Or because Liz Braswell told me the greatest fact about pregnancy, which will carry me through these next five months. Or because Charles Vess *doodles* so beautifully that I was too busy watching him to ever demonstrate my own mad skill with daisies and interlinking hearts. Or because I feel so much more capable of handling the Schmidtlets after spending hours discussing them twins with Pat Smith and Beth Fleischer. **

These were all wonderful moments. But they were just part of the BIGGER wonderfulness that is Camp Barry.

So, no, it wasn't the buffet.

It was the buffet full of chocolate bread and meals where we lingered like college freshmen, too busy talking and sharing ideas to realize how much we were stuffing in our faces.

And it wasn't the pools.

It was the late night pool sessions where I laughed hard enough to worry that this might be the night I didn't make it to the bathroom in time. (Seriously, Club Med, bathrooms close to the pools is not a new idea).

Okay, I'm not going to lie, the heat lamps in the bathroom were pretty sweet. Especially when it's 1:30 AM and you're shivering in a cold wet bathing suit because you forgot to turn down the A/C.

But the thing that made Camp Barry magical was the people. The intense conversations and debates, the jokes, the stories, the sharing. Being surrounded by such a creative, sincere, and inspirational group of individuals for four days was an experience that cannot be replicated.

At least, not until next year.

** I could go on and mention a special memory with each of my fellow campers, but my mom taught me it's mean to brag about The Awesome Quotient of your friends... even when they're Really Freakin' Awesome.

This IS A Post About Italy

I leave for the airport in 9 hours for the Goldblatt Agency retreat. I still haven’t packed – this surprises no one – and I still haven’t blogged about the Italian adventures that took place between my last two airport experiences.

Some of you have been demanding photographic evidence of the trip – and pictures of the Twin Belly. I can satisfy both requests simultaneously – and quickly – and then go pack!

Sorrento – and a Twin Belly! That’s because after 48 hours after WE got to Sorrento, our luggage finally caught up with us. I’ve never been so happy to change clothing.

Capri – The island is gorgeous. And hilly. LOOK how hilly. I was a brave little trouper and made it DOWN the hills, but we need a taxi to cart the Twin Belly back up.

Naples – There are castles in Naples. CASTLES.

Castles make me curtsey.
And, no worries, St. Matt came, too!

Packing. Now. Really.

This is NOT a Post About Italy

So, I tell you we're having some babies, I accept all of your congratulations, and then I disappear again. Bad Tiffany!

I was actually unplugged and off-grid for a ten days, enjoying a "babymoon" in Italy with St. Matt. And believe it or not, I didn't go through Petunia-withdrawal or whine about missing my laptop – not even once. *pats self on the back*

And while there are plenty of Italia stories to tell – look! I even included a teaser picture – today all I can think about is names.

Baby names.

When I'm writing a story I go crazy picking the perfect names for my characters – they have to match temperament, appearance, background, etc. But luckily, I know the character before I know the name and if I need to change it halfway through the book, that's what the "Find and Replace" command is for.

Not so much for the Schmidtlets in my belly.

And right off the bat, there was going to be none of this "Baby A" and "Baby B" business that the doctors insist on using. We weren't even in our car, and I certainly hadn't recovered from the news it was twins, when I was already paling and saying: "Now we need twice as many names."

But, seeing as we had a good four months before we'd find out gender, interim names were a must. St. Matt suggested Alpha and Beta…

What can I say? He's an engineer.

I countered with Alcott and Bronte and was resoundingly shot down. Why? Because, as St. Matt so wisely realized, "You're going to get attached and want to actually name them that."

He was right. Later that night I woke him up: "Alcott's kinda cute, isn't it? For a girl? We could call her Ally for short."

So you can see why NON-NAME interim names became essential.

After a week of what-about-this? and what-about-that? We settled on two: Acorn, and Bean Sprout. (See how they're still A and B words… St. Matt is SUCH an engineer).

But now there comes a bigger problem. REAL names…

I have post-its of possibilities everywhere. I've just about worn out Baby Name Voyager. In Italy – look, another teaser picture – I stopped St. Matt at every playbill and construction sign so I could read the names of contractors and actors.

He's learning not to get too attached to any name, because as soon as we find something we both agree on, I change my mind.

I'm learning not to wake him up in the middle of the night when I come up with potentials – because the interrupted-REM answer is always, "No."

The fact that we've got roughly five more months to find the perfect combinations of first and middle names has not prevented me from lying awake and whispering ideas at the ceiling. Or turning to the bookshelf beside my bed and scanning for ideas.

… you know, now that I think about it, Bronte's kinda cute, too.

An Explanation and An Announcement

It's been a heckofa long time since I blogged. Normally I don't make excuses for blog lapses; you just can assume I've been: A) busy B) lazy C) uninspired or D) held hostage by a band of wild sixth graders who insist I grade their personal narratives thisveryminute.

This time my blog-absence was absurdly long. But I have a good reason.
TWO very good reasons:

Baby A
&
Baby B

St. Matt and I are expecting our first children -- twins -- early next winter.

Go ahead and jump up and down in glee for me -- the doctor says *I'm* to refrain from impish dancing. Do you know how hard it is to refrain from impish dancing and other hijinks when you're this elated? WICKED HARD!

And while the Schmidtlets (lettes?) will be the very best things to happen to us, they are also terrible nausea-monsters. I've spent most of the past 3 months in varying shades of green.

Luckily green is my second-favorite color.

Even more lucky is the fact that The Queasy is finally, finally starting to pass.

Until it's completely gone, however, I'll keep rocking my sea-sickness bracelets and wearing a pea-soup completion with a smile. They're the latest trends, you know.