The Chain of Distraction

I’m working on a presentation I’ll be giving in a few weeks, and I open my journal in Word to search for something funny Clay said that I wanted to include. I see a reference to a blog post I’d written a few months ago and it reminds me to check my blog. I see my latest post about the new book I recently finished reading, and I remember I need to update my Good Reads account. I have a new friend invite so I accept, and then check out what she’s reading. I notice a book called The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind, a true story about a boy from Africa. I think how cool it is that the first African-American president has been elected, and it reminds me that I need to get a status on the health care reform bill. I check CNN for updates on the story and notice a headline about the new Google Wave and the buzz surrounding this "real time" communication tool and talks about how it will revolutionize email. I debate whether or not I will ever use it, since those in your "wave" can actually see you type your message. What if I type something not very nice on the fly as my friends watch me delete letter by letter. Not for me.

Then the article mentions a discussion about Google Wave on Twitter, which reminds me I haven't tweeted in over three hours. I go to my twitter account and see an interesting link one of my peeps posted to an article in the New Yorker. Five minutes into the article, I hear a ding and see that I’ve received a new email. It’s from A2Zshoes, the website that I inadvertently purchased a pair of fake Nike running shoes (no I had no idea they were fake until I watched a YouTube video that points out the slight differences. Do not buy shoes from this website). Unfortunately, despite what their website says, they don’t allow returns. So I check Ebay to see if I can sell them as "fakes" when I see that same pair of Nike running shoes going for half the retail price. Are they real? I'm not sure; probably not at that price. By this time my computer is really chugging, not smoking yet, but the multiple programs and windows simultaneously open are causing parts, I don't even know the name of, to overwork. Soon it becomes frozen and I have to restart.

Now I can’t remember what I was doing, so I check my FB account and notice that one of my friend’s is having a good day according to her status. So I click the “I like" that. I look at the clock and realize it’s time to pick up Judd from school.

In this day where distraction is imminent, I’m more and more convinced that some of the best tools one can develop are time management and focus.

Now back to work...

What makes us happy?

The results of a recent study showed that since 1972 women’s happiness levels have dropped. This may seem puzzling and even ironic since there are so many more opportunities for women now than there were 37 years ago, and since other studies have shown that men are taking a greater role in child rearing and housework.

The study showed that women are happier early on in their lives, but become sadder as they grow older. What factors are involved in this sudden drop in contentment? Is it the pressures on women to look young, sexy, and attractive all while juggling a career and child rearing - to be everything to everybody?

I just finished reading HALF THE SKY, an incredible, eye-opening book in which I'll blog about soon. The last chapter examines what influences our long-term happiness, and that social psychologists have found through multiple studies that our happiness isn't dependent on what good or bad things happen to us, like one would think. For example, if we happened to win the lottery we might feel a blip of happiness, but it would taper off. If we got hit by a car and became paraplegic, we'd find a drop in happiness, but then our happiness would resume to the levels in which they were before the accident. Most importantly, they point out that our happiness levels are directly tied to a "connection of something larger - a greater cause or humanitarian purpose."

I believe there are many reasons why women aren’t happy. There are too many distractions, pressures to perform as mothers and in careers, lack of appreciation for doing what really matters, and less quality time with those we love. But the biggest factor, I believe, is that we become so leashed to our daily activities that we forget that life is really bigger than us. It wasn’t until I became involved in a much bigger cause than just me, that I truly became the happiest person I’ve ever been. I still could give more, and when I have a noticeable drop in happiness, it's usually directly related to how long it has been since I've spent time giving to the cause.

In an age where we're bombarded with information and messages regarding what we think will make us happy, we often lose sight of who we really are and who we want to become. It is proven that an altruistic attitude is the best way to create a meaningful life full of lasting happiness.

Howling at the Moon

Lately, as I’m going about my business in my own home, I might round a corner to be met by a loud “boo” followed by a giggle in response to my yelp and bugged out eyeballs. I’ve often wondered what kind of an emotional toll this might be taking on my fragile, adrenal fatigued, 32 year-old for-one-more-week body.

The small one talks often about what he wants to be for Halloween. Monday - Vampire. Wednesday - Wait, Airplane. Saturday - No, Darth Vader. Yesterday - Incredible Hulk. “For really, Mom!” He says, after I threatened to dress him up as the pinkest princess in all the land.

Knowing from painful experience that if you wait until the week before Halloween hoping a three or four-year old is done changing his mind, you’ll find that only size 10-12 Grim Reaper (with blood dripping down the face) and adult size Big Bird costumes remain on the racks. So we settled on Hulk last week, and I've only had to threaten Tinker Bell once so far.

As I contemplated how much longer my heart muscles and nerve endings would endure shouts of “boo” at the least expected moment, I decided we had better feed this creative Halloween monster we named, Judd. (the Stud, he corrects in my head as I write this)

We went down in the basement and dug out the spookiest shoebox we could find. We gathered together the 10 candy corns we hadn’t eaten yet from earlier that day, printed some freaky pictures from the internet, and started mixing our ghoulish creative juices until they started to bubble over.

This is what we came up with. And it worked. For a few days.

Now he wants to know what we’re making tomorrow.

Broken

Our family has finally reached a travel milestone that most parents won’t forget.

No more changing diapers in the back of the car. No more having to Ziploc soiled wipes and diapers until the next gas stop. No more pulling over to the side of the road to feed the baby. No more screaming non-stop because you’ve missed two naps.

Instead we create lasting memories that don’t involve the smells of sour milk, sewage, and recurring images of zombie parents. Now the boys are old enough to either pee in an empty bottle (a luxury we women will almost always envy), pee in the weeds off the side of the road, or if mom has to go we’ll hit the nicest gas station we can find. (she’ll push out thoughts of deadly bacteria yet-to-be-discovered collecting on the soles of her shoes)

Memories of the Denver Zoo and the highlight and topic of discussion for the last four days has revolved around when the Zebra rolled around on the ground causing a mad dust storm; then he unexpectedly passed gas with his legs straight up in the air. Thank you, Striped One. You made our entire trip. The boys have already forgotten the Denver Broncos game, the trip to the Lego outlet, and Elitch Gardens (Six Flags). But the memory you created, Striped One, will be passed down from one generation to the next as a favorite tale releasing countless endorphins, which could quite possibly cure any undiagnosed disease lingering in our future posterity.

The one family travel event that hasn’t changed – broken priceless objects. We manage to fatally damage at least one irreplaceable object or family heirloom every time we travel. Once WE* broke a lamp at my parents house, the shade AND the base. Over Thanksgiving one year, WE broke a large vase that was given to my brother and his wife as a wedding gift. Last summer, an errant football flew through the air breaking a chandelier. On our last day of our vacation in Colorado, just when we thought we were changing our fate, I came downstairs to see my sister-in-law sweeping up glass in the kitchen. Yes, WE did. WE broke a snow globe that was purchased in Germany and given to the youngest daughter. Exhaling, “ahh, sad.”

Oh, the anticipation of our next trip. Let’s just hope the Striped One is there to make it all better.


*I use “WE” as not to cause unnecessary therapy in any one child’s adult life.

In Celebration of Writer Appreciation Week

A special thanks to agent Nathan Bransford for creating Writer Appreciation Week.

It soon becomes apparent to an author that if you’re writing to be published, you can’t just be an artist, a creator, a master of your craft. You have to have stealth-like moves, brain power in the gigahertz range, and the ability to thwart all impending doom. When you get knocked around, you have to pretend it doesn’t hurt, get back up in stoic form, and like Bruce Willis’ character on Die Hard, make extraordinary feats look easy.

So when determining which part of the publishing process is most difficult, you’d have to take into account the following:*

a) craft the story...one to two years, if you’re snappy
b) revise the story until you’ve rewritten and subsequently memorized all 330 pages
c) obtain an agent...most agents reject 99% of submissions. Now remember, you were once the fastest swimming sperm out of millions…
d) sell it to a publisher
e) build a platform...oops, you were supposed to have done that two years before you started writing your book
f) exploit yourself online
g) create a brilliant viral marketing scheme including book trailer so funny or dramatic it rivals an MGM creation
h) ensure your book gets into bookstores...gotta get a blurb by a NYT bestselling author. Dig deep with those connections
i) sell enough copies so you can keep writing...remember those Bookscan numbers? They can bite your rear in half. One chomp.
j) blog three times per week, keep your tribe happy on FB & Twitter while keeping up with book #2
k) obtain a coveted national TV spot or a rave review in a major newspaper
l) a dose of luck that would be akin to winning the $1 million PowerBall always helps
m) stand outside Rockefeller Plaza at 4 a.m. to secure a prime spot with your book poster. Then when Al Roker does the weather, pump it up and down above his head.
n) If you’re lucky enough to get a fantastic agent, editor, and publishing team like I did, the C-N will be delightful. Kinda like eating a fluffy piece of chocolate cake with hot fudge in the middle...with a side of vanilla bean ice cream.

Would I do it again? Abso-friggin-lutely. It’s an obsession love like none other. Your spouse may hate you, your mother may block your calls, any word related to the publishing industry may become banned in your own home and even your neighborhood, but the love of the craft is more potent, more pining and unrelenting, and more dangerous than Shakespearean prose.

So to those writers ready to shred the manuscript and become an organic farmer, I beg you to reconsider and instead ride on this for awhile. Kathryn Stockett who wrote my favorite book to date, THE HELP, was rejected 45 times. Well actually, she said she didn’t really know exactly how many times she was rejected because the fact of the matter was, she stopped counting at 45. Now she's #4 on the New York Times bestsellers list.

As one New York editor put it, “People think publishing is a business, but it’s a casino.”

I do like the bright, flashing neon signs.




* This is to be squeezed in somewhere between your full-time job and raising your children

Seduction on Aisle Five

The other day during breakfast, Sean casually suggested we create a separate budget item called, “Target book budget.” I looked at him like he had just poured orange juice over his cold cereal. I refused to believe I had ever actually purchased books at my Oasis, the Omnipotent One where the price is always right. After all, I really try to support our local indie bookseller in SLC, The King’s English (see below for proof).

I have never set out to buy a book at Target, ever. It’s just that on my tri-weekly trip, I inevitably pass the aisle of beguiling literature where all the covers are face out. As I pass the said aisle, I see a delicious cover with three cute birds dotting the center. “Quick, cover the eyes,” I remind myself. Then I swear I hear one say, “Hey baby, come look over here.” Then I think I hear, “Hot stuff, you look good in those jeans (the same jeans I thought made my rear double in size when I put them on that morning), but you’ll look even better if you read this. You know you want to.” Before I realize what is happening, I’m stuck with my nose buried deep into some book called, The Girls From Ames, which by the way, was telling me it had some Lindt excellence white coconut chocolate hidden somewhere between the covers.

How does one resist?

One doesn’t. I grab it from the shelf and flip right to the acknowledgments page (weird ritual), then the author bio, and finally I partake of the first square of white chocolate – Chapter One – and it reels me in like a rainbow trout stupidly chomping down on the fluorescent pink power bait (even though it knew better).

Bobby Banjo can sense my book point-of-no-return like a bird dog sniffing out the course. And he intends to exploit me at this vulnerable time in my life. “Mommy, I’ll be right over here…”

“Yeah, okay Judd. Whatever, just…”

“Mom!” he says. “It’s not Judd. It's Judd the Stud.” I look at him over my book. “Okay, whatever, Judd. Uh, Judd the Stud. Just stay close,” I say, as the bubble above my heads shows my hands rubbing together in the glee of 10 minutes of solitary book reading. When I realize I’m finished with the first chapter and he hasn’t tried to interrupt me at least five times, I throw the book in my cart.

Whoops? Did I just do that?

I head around the corner. Not there. I cruise down a few more aisles until I finally find him here. "What? Why here, Judd?” I ask. “Judd the STUD, Mom.” He says poking his head out.


I still have no idea what he was doing. But it reminded me that I needed something on that aisle anyway. And, that I had forgotten to check out that book called Sarah’s Key…

I need your help!

There are few aspects of parenthood that are as visceral as the need to protect our children. So it’s no surprise that when there’s a scraped knee, bully, or fire-breathing dragon threatening our children, we are on the front lines with artillery ready to comfort, then fire.

What IS a surprise is that insurance companies all across the country continue to discriminate against individuals with autism by denying medically necessary, evidence based treatment that is prescribed by a doctor. Now, we as parents are forced to deal with the biggest bully of them all. It’s unfortunate, but true, that this large, powerful industry and lobbying group can withhold something so vital to our children’s health and future. And it’s up to us to change public policy for our country’s children and for future generations.

I'll never forget the wave of sick that swept over me when I realized appropriate life-saving treatment for our son could cost up to $50,000 per year. We risked bankruptcy, became deeply in debt, and suffered immeasurable stress so we could implement treatment prescribed by our son's physician. 72 children are diagnosed with autism each day. Families are placed in this agonizing situation, most of whom will never be able to afford a proper diagnosis let alone treatment no matter what they sacrifice. So what results? Divorce. Bankruptcy. Job loss. And a child who never has the opportunity to progress or even recover from autism.

Justice.

Please join me by calling and emailing Speaker Pelosi (202) 225-0100 and Majority Leader Reid (202) 224-3542. All you need to say is this, "Health reform that does not stop autism insurance discrimination is unacceptable." It only takes a couple clicks to make an impact. Take action HERE!

Together, we can save the futures of countless children with autism all across the country.

For those of you who followed me through Clay's Law, this is federal legislation (vs state) that will be much more comprehensive, helping families all across the nation.