Frienemies

The other day, Mia called me from the bathroom. “Mom. Mom. Mom.” “Sorry,” I told when I finally arrived. For no reason at all, she got this funny look on her face, like she was trying to figure something out, something sly. “You’re name is . . . Nikki,” she accused as I sat on the edge of the bathtub so I could wipe her bum. We then had the following conversation while she sat on the toilet:
Me: Yes, my name is Nikki but you call me Mom. Someone will call you mom, someday.
Mia: (shocked) What?
Me: Do you know who? Your kids. When you have babies.
Mia: I’m going to grow up and be a mom and dad?
Me: You’ll be a mom.
Mia: (pausing to think) Who will be the dad?
Me: You’ll have to find a dad.
Mia: (another pause) Like a prince?
Me: Yeah, like a prince. That’s the dad.
Mia: (shocked) Dad is a prince?
Me: He’s my prince. You’ll have to find your own.
Mia: (very alarmed, sending a searching glance around the bathroom.) Where?
Most of my funny stories are about Mia. Mia has a sassy black-girl move she uses when she’s fake-angry. The side-to-side head-shake. Is there a name for this that only people much cooler than me know? Anyway, she slides her head from one side to the other on every syllable of a sentence like, “I’m not even going to take a nap,” while keeping her eyebrows raised and crowding my personal space. The real anger comes afterward, when I tell her, “You have ten seconds to get a book or you’re going to bed without reading anything.”
Meanwhile, Carter loves to guess the answer to yes-or-no questions. Like, he’s so excited. When you start to ask him a question, he shifts in place from side to side, fists and un-fists his hands—arms out like wings—eyebrows up, mouth in an “oh.” He’s sooooo excited. “Carter, do you want to eat chocolate?” Lots of times, he doesn’t know the “right” answer, so he pauses, sooooo excited, darting glances at the other kids for clues. “No!” he decides to shout. He’s so proud when we all laugh. Everyone in the family asks him questions, one at a time. Hands down, the best question belongs to Mia. Fake-anger, head-shake and all, she leaned into him to say, “Carter, do you want me to kill your face in?” “Yes!” he answered with glee.
Mia has so many poo stories. One day, in the bathroom she said, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5 poo’s.” I tried to wipe her and she stopped me. “No, I want to do another one.” Slight pause, some grunting effort. “Six!” Another day, she was brushing my hair. “Your hair is brown,” she said. “That’s like poo. I’m going to color it pink.” Then she “painted” my hair with “finger polish,” which was really a crayon.
Meanwhile, Cora and Lina are just getting bigger and smarter and more embroiled in girl-drama. Lina brings home stories of girls who won’t talk to her at school, and Cora manages to cycle through her “frienemies” daily. When it’s just our family at dinner, each of them are either so happy with their loud interactions that Mike and I can’t handle listening to them, or bickering so much that Mike and I can’t handle listening to them. Dinner. My nemesis. I’m not going to talk about dinner anymore this blog. Both girls have been pretty good about chores lately and we all love the beautiful weather. We’ve gone on bike rides, jumped on the trampoline together, and planted a garden (Mike’s doing, of course), all while keeping a strict watch on Carter near roads. He loves a good chase, which is the problem.
Oh, how I’m going to miss all my little ones when they grow up.
On a final note, I went to the LDStorymakers writing conference last weekend and had a blast as usual. I’d entered Shatter into their writing contest and found out I took fourth. I was disappointed that I didn’t place higher until I saw that out of 40 points, I had received a 40, a 39, a 38, and a 22, each from four separate judges. That was pretty exciting. What garners more publicity than inspiring both love and hate? I’m totally serious, for anyone wondering. The funny part was how parallel the comments were. The judge who didn’t like my chapter complained about the first line, the voice, the main character. And the judges who loved it? They loved the first line, the voice, the main character.
Also about writing: I met my goal to have a rough draft of Shatter finished by the end of April. Yay! Except I cheated. Darn. I skipped an action scene. I hate action scenes. Why am I writing a mystery suspense, again? Other than the fact that I can’t plot out murders in real life?
Now I just need to write fifteen or so pages, maybe watch a few action thrillers for inspiration, and punish myself with a ton of editing. Oh, and give birth to a new baby. But after all that, I should be posting news for you on how national agents react to the story. Three out of four in the New York arena and I’ll buy ice cream for the kids. Like fancy, Dijon ice cream. (Long live Bare Naked Ladies quotes.)