Three blog postings for the price of one…
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It’s confirmed. My son has turned into a Trekkie.
It was bound to happen. Seeing that the only adult shows we watch anymore are Voyager, Star Trek TNG, and Mythbusters, Daniel has taken a sudden interest in rockets (nothing from the Mythbusters, though I’m pretty sure that when he starts getting a little older, he’ll start testing out myths of his own like is it true that gravity always works if I jump off the stairs? or if I throw a crayon in the dryer, will Mommy get mad?)
I have one thing to say about the toddler mind. It truly is quite the imaginative tool. In my son’s hands, anything long and sticklike instantly becomes a rocket. Pens. Legos. Forks. Spoons (my husband especially gets a kick out of this for some reason. “Yes, Daniel, you’re right. That is Voyager!”). Brushing teeth has suddenly gone from being the bane of evil to a golden opportunity for the Enterprise to explore the rocky plains of DanDanMouth.
I’d never thought I’d be reduced to singing the Star Trek theme song to the beat of brushing my son’s molars, but whatever works, my friends. Whatever works. It’s a step up from singing the brushing song from Teletubbies.
There is one drawback to this. Whenever Seven of Nine shows up, my son drools. I don’t know if this is still a throwback to his babyish ways, or if he’s just mimicking his father…
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So far this week, I’ve been to the hospital twice. Once to get some labwork done to check my cholesterol, once to take a friend in for minor surgery. I’ll probably be going back again soon since another friend will be having a baby soon.
It’s nice to visit a hospital nowadays without a cloud of horrible, horrible anxiety and dread going through you.
Last summer, Daniel got a febrile seizure that landed him in a hospital. We would’ve simply sweated it out if it wasn’t for the fact that he got the seizure not in our hometown, but way in California. The day of my sister-in-law’s wedding. The one I was supposed to be the matron-of-honor.
That day, a hospital became an instrument of torture. Hearing Daniel screaming, “All done! All done!” Watching the nurses mess up getting blood out of him. Having to return the next day and waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting…more blood tests… more screaming…waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting…learning that the blood tests got messed up because the nurses waited too long…
I remember looking out of the window at the parking lot and seeing the California sky darken to dusk and thinking, This is hell. Absolutely hell. Not knowing a thing, hearing my son screaming in pain. This is absolute, absolute. Hell.
Today, I sat in the hospital with a very efficient staff who actually let us know what was happening, step by step. The wait time went by very fast, and they had orderlies who personally brought me a cranberry juice drink and told me to relax, things will go fine. Dang, they even had reclining chairs for us.
It’s been a while since I’ve been at a hospital and thought, Hey. This is nice. Reeeeallly nice.
Figures it would be in Naperville.
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I was telling my dear hubby about some things that’s been happening in Willow. Things I’ve never expected; a simple scene has suddenly taken off in a new direction, landing my characters in extreme danger. I let the scene go on, letting it build and build, and just when things got really hard, suddenly the bad guys came into the mix…
And the chapter ended. Right there on a cliffhanger. I wanted to scream, Augh! What happens next? I wanna know what happens next!
Which is goofy, because I already know what happens next. The scene has already played this new development in my mind over and over, turning a jigsaw puzzle piece this way and that, trying to figure out how fits into the story. But in a strange way, I also know that once I put my fingers to the keyboard and the words start stuttering out, then, basically, anything goes. What I have planned for weeks (sometimes, even months) may not necessarily end up that way.
My hubby shook his head. “The way you’re telling it, it’s like you’re reading the story at the same time that you’re writing it.” And I thought to myself. Yeah. In a sense, I am.
Technically, I’m this book’s first reader. And if I’m at the edge of my seat reading this stuff as it comes out, hopefully someone else will be.
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Final thought. I realize that I’m probably ripping off Sun-Times columnist Richard Roeper in doing my blog this way. But it’s not plagiarism. Really. It’s not. It’s a homage. Yeah, that’s what I’ll call it. Homage.