They say that if you’re going to have a successful blog—one that has a devoted following—you need to post at least twice a week, and every day is better.
But I’d like to know who has time to read that much blogging? Let’s take a poll. Raise your hand if you delete every single forward you find in your inbox. Be honest now. And I’m sure you all check out every single link you get, too. And all the related links.
What I’d really like to know is how do you get people to read your blog faithfully in the first place?
If I blogged twice a week (much less every day), I’d never get any other writing done.
But then again, if that’s the case, what the heck am I doing writing a blog entry today?
It’s time to get to work, Kate!
Friday, January 18, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
Random musings
You wouldn't know I have "so much to say" based on the frequency of my blog posts, would you?
The trouble with a blog is that many of the things on my mind I can't talk about in public. Or, at least, it would be a bad idea to talk about in public. People I'd like to rake over the coals for things they've done...the details of other people's private lives, which I have no business spreading...you know, things like that.
That's the kind of stuff on my mind lately. But since I'm bored at the moment, why not wander a bit?
My weight is up. I had returned to my prepregnancy weight on the 20th of December, when we had Shakespeare's pizza with friends from Ohio, and after that night I've never recovered.
I say that because I'm hungry right now, at 3:30 p.m.
I've been having intermittent trouble sleeping again lately. I finally decided that there is no shame in taking something to help you sleep, as long as you don't get dependent on it. So I'll allow myself a sleep aid a maximum of every other day.
That's on my mind because we rearranged our bedroom last night and I had trouble sleeping, facing a different direction. Oddly enough I don't feel too tired today, though.
We spent the entire month of December painting our living room red. Then we ran out of money, and we still don't have curtains.
I say that because from my chair at the computer, I'm staring at a very bare window. I hate Venetian blinds. Who the heck came up with those things, anyway? They're cheap, they break, they're impossible to clean, they don't block the light... I just don't get it. Christian said to me once, "Well, I grew up with wood blinds. How do you feel about wood?"
"You still have to clean them!" I told him.
I tried cleaning them a while back. I got all ambitious. It lasted through two windows. (Our house has 9.)
Then there's writing stuff on my mind. My flute collection is already available at www.giamusic.com, and they told me it's going to be featured (I think that's what they said, anyway) in the catalog which should be arriving very soon. "Go In Peace," which is a song for congregation and contemporary ensemble, is at the printer's. WLP will be sending that out in some mailing soon, too. And also with WLP I'm in the editing process with my second song, "I Rejoice."
All three of these, by the way, were accepted for publication before Alex was six months old. Now he's nearly three, and I have another child, almost a year old. It boggled my mind to think the publishing process was so long--but now I know what to expect!
I think I'm headed for music writing for a while. It goes in spurts. I do prose for a while, then I get excited about music for a while, sometimes I juggle both...but I don't have that much time. And as much as I want to be writing, it has to take third place in my priorities--#s 1 and 2 are permanently occupied by husband and kids. (Well, for the next 20 years, anyway. After that writing may move up a notch.)
I'm going through this discontent with my new novel, which seems suddenly unimportant and boring to me. I had a great idea for a new novel, which occupied all my spare waking thought and then some for about a week. But once I got it hashed out on computer file, and I discovered what researching I have to do to figure out the gaps...well, let's just say that hours of research are hard to come by. I can write in 1-hour pockets. Research is more a whole day at the library, which I don't have anymore. So until the docket clears a little bit--till I get a few other projects out of the way--I think it's going to have to sit and simmer. The novel is still quite undeveloped, anyway. I think it could benefit from several months' stewing.
And oh yes, there's the Cardinal coming to celebrate school Mass with us at Columbia Catholic. I've done Masses with the Bishop before, but a Cardinal...well, that's a new one. I won't pretend that I'm not a little uncomfortable. You can imagine the kind of chaos we're undergoing at work, trying to have ourselves ready for that. :)
And it wouldn't be right not to mention Christian's Uncle Bob, who passed away last night. Uncle Bob went by "Rock." Take a moment and construct an image of a man who geos by "Rock." Now, throw your assumptions out the window. His demeanor was as opposite that as it could be. Well, almost as opposite. He was a little man, really, thin and quiet and gentle, very emotional, at least, that was my limited experience of him. He sent turkey joints to the Basi family every Christmas. Turkey Joints are a staple of Christmas tradition in my husband's family--so much so that they forget how weird it is to say, "Here, have a turkey joint!" Then people recoil and say, "WHAT????"
I do it now, too, despite having had the normal "What the...." reaction my first time. It took me 2 or 3 years to try one, but now I enjoy them. To those who don't know turkey joints, just Google it.
Uncle Bob, Christian's godfather, sent wonderfully sentimental cards in which he underlined every single word, and the important ones two or three times. What a good guy. He will be missed.
The trouble with a blog is that many of the things on my mind I can't talk about in public. Or, at least, it would be a bad idea to talk about in public. People I'd like to rake over the coals for things they've done...the details of other people's private lives, which I have no business spreading...you know, things like that.
That's the kind of stuff on my mind lately. But since I'm bored at the moment, why not wander a bit?
My weight is up. I had returned to my prepregnancy weight on the 20th of December, when we had Shakespeare's pizza with friends from Ohio, and after that night I've never recovered.
I say that because I'm hungry right now, at 3:30 p.m.
I've been having intermittent trouble sleeping again lately. I finally decided that there is no shame in taking something to help you sleep, as long as you don't get dependent on it. So I'll allow myself a sleep aid a maximum of every other day.
That's on my mind because we rearranged our bedroom last night and I had trouble sleeping, facing a different direction. Oddly enough I don't feel too tired today, though.
We spent the entire month of December painting our living room red. Then we ran out of money, and we still don't have curtains.
I say that because from my chair at the computer, I'm staring at a very bare window. I hate Venetian blinds. Who the heck came up with those things, anyway? They're cheap, they break, they're impossible to clean, they don't block the light... I just don't get it. Christian said to me once, "Well, I grew up with wood blinds. How do you feel about wood?"
"You still have to clean them!" I told him.
I tried cleaning them a while back. I got all ambitious. It lasted through two windows. (Our house has 9.)
Then there's writing stuff on my mind. My flute collection is already available at www.giamusic.com, and they told me it's going to be featured (I think that's what they said, anyway) in the catalog which should be arriving very soon. "Go In Peace," which is a song for congregation and contemporary ensemble, is at the printer's. WLP will be sending that out in some mailing soon, too. And also with WLP I'm in the editing process with my second song, "I Rejoice."
All three of these, by the way, were accepted for publication before Alex was six months old. Now he's nearly three, and I have another child, almost a year old. It boggled my mind to think the publishing process was so long--but now I know what to expect!
I think I'm headed for music writing for a while. It goes in spurts. I do prose for a while, then I get excited about music for a while, sometimes I juggle both...but I don't have that much time. And as much as I want to be writing, it has to take third place in my priorities--#s 1 and 2 are permanently occupied by husband and kids. (Well, for the next 20 years, anyway. After that writing may move up a notch.)
I'm going through this discontent with my new novel, which seems suddenly unimportant and boring to me. I had a great idea for a new novel, which occupied all my spare waking thought and then some for about a week. But once I got it hashed out on computer file, and I discovered what researching I have to do to figure out the gaps...well, let's just say that hours of research are hard to come by. I can write in 1-hour pockets. Research is more a whole day at the library, which I don't have anymore. So until the docket clears a little bit--till I get a few other projects out of the way--I think it's going to have to sit and simmer. The novel is still quite undeveloped, anyway. I think it could benefit from several months' stewing.
And oh yes, there's the Cardinal coming to celebrate school Mass with us at Columbia Catholic. I've done Masses with the Bishop before, but a Cardinal...well, that's a new one. I won't pretend that I'm not a little uncomfortable. You can imagine the kind of chaos we're undergoing at work, trying to have ourselves ready for that. :)
And it wouldn't be right not to mention Christian's Uncle Bob, who passed away last night. Uncle Bob went by "Rock." Take a moment and construct an image of a man who geos by "Rock." Now, throw your assumptions out the window. His demeanor was as opposite that as it could be. Well, almost as opposite. He was a little man, really, thin and quiet and gentle, very emotional, at least, that was my limited experience of him. He sent turkey joints to the Basi family every Christmas. Turkey Joints are a staple of Christmas tradition in my husband's family--so much so that they forget how weird it is to say, "Here, have a turkey joint!" Then people recoil and say, "WHAT????"
I do it now, too, despite having had the normal "What the...." reaction my first time. It took me 2 or 3 years to try one, but now I enjoy them. To those who don't know turkey joints, just Google it.
Uncle Bob, Christian's godfather, sent wonderfully sentimental cards in which he underlined every single word, and the important ones two or three times. What a good guy. He will be missed.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
The end and the beginning
In the last month, I have had to come to terms with the reality of Julianna’s Down Syndrome.
There is an initial grieving when you learn that your child has a disability. For some people it goes on forever. We were blessed—it was over in a few days. Then for a while, life goes on as normally as it can. A baby, after all, is a baby, and a child with DS, aside from heart conditions and so forth, isn’t different from any other baby.
But eventually the delays begin to show. For a while, you don’t notice, because your baby is your baby. Then you notice, but you think, ah, it’s only a little. Then come the niggling thoughts at inconvenient moments, like the middle of the night, or while you’re making dinner: Wasn’t Alex (fill in the blank) by (fill in the blank)? Well, you think, she is going to be delayed, after all, and holy cow, look at the way she works the room! Look at her sitting up!
Until, sometime around ten months, you think, she’s not putting anything in her mouth. I mean, nothing. You say, wait a minute, she’s getting close to a year and she’s not self-feeding. We’re still nursing five times a day because she can’t eat finger food. So you ask the occupational therapist, and the OT says, hmmmmmm….well, you know, I’m kind of stumped. I think you’re just going to have to wait till she’s ready.
You begin the process of switching OTs, because waiting just isn’t an option. She’s doing too well in other areas.
But even so, she’s eleven months old tomorrow, and she’s sitting up, but not transitioning in and out of sitting; she has to be helped into all-fours; she’s not pulling up and she only stands with a great deal of support on her butt.
So now the secondary grieving begins. This grief is not so all-consuming, so stormy, as the initial spat. This one goes much deeper. It lasts for months, accompanied by uncertainty and worry and fear. This grief is the grief of having to take an ugly, objective word like “retarded” and use it when describing your child. I still can’t do it. I have to say she’s “delayed.” My entire being cringes when I even think the other.
This was 2007.
Julianna is joy, and I rise up in blazing, righteous fury when I hear of people who choose to “terminate” their babies’ lives because of DS. (“Terminate,” as if ending a child’s life is no more consequential than firing a person.) And yet I also have to be honest and say that I have never in my life been so glad to see a calendar year pass into history.
For 2008, I’ll be satisfied if we can just stay out of the hospital.
There is an initial grieving when you learn that your child has a disability. For some people it goes on forever. We were blessed—it was over in a few days. Then for a while, life goes on as normally as it can. A baby, after all, is a baby, and a child with DS, aside from heart conditions and so forth, isn’t different from any other baby.
But eventually the delays begin to show. For a while, you don’t notice, because your baby is your baby. Then you notice, but you think, ah, it’s only a little. Then come the niggling thoughts at inconvenient moments, like the middle of the night, or while you’re making dinner: Wasn’t Alex (fill in the blank) by (fill in the blank)? Well, you think, she is going to be delayed, after all, and holy cow, look at the way she works the room! Look at her sitting up!
Until, sometime around ten months, you think, she’s not putting anything in her mouth. I mean, nothing. You say, wait a minute, she’s getting close to a year and she’s not self-feeding. We’re still nursing five times a day because she can’t eat finger food. So you ask the occupational therapist, and the OT says, hmmmmmm….well, you know, I’m kind of stumped. I think you’re just going to have to wait till she’s ready.
You begin the process of switching OTs, because waiting just isn’t an option. She’s doing too well in other areas.
But even so, she’s eleven months old tomorrow, and she’s sitting up, but not transitioning in and out of sitting; she has to be helped into all-fours; she’s not pulling up and she only stands with a great deal of support on her butt.
So now the secondary grieving begins. This grief is not so all-consuming, so stormy, as the initial spat. This one goes much deeper. It lasts for months, accompanied by uncertainty and worry and fear. This grief is the grief of having to take an ugly, objective word like “retarded” and use it when describing your child. I still can’t do it. I have to say she’s “delayed.” My entire being cringes when I even think the other.
This was 2007.
Julianna is joy, and I rise up in blazing, righteous fury when I hear of people who choose to “terminate” their babies’ lives because of DS. (“Terminate,” as if ending a child’s life is no more consequential than firing a person.) And yet I also have to be honest and say that I have never in my life been so glad to see a calendar year pass into history.
For 2008, I’ll be satisfied if we can just stay out of the hospital.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Pictures!
Aha! I did it! I've been trying to figure out how to put pictures on this blog without them distorting ever since I started the blog. This is certainly not perfect, but it is a good start.
I think I'll quit while I'm ahead, tonight. :)
I think I'll quit while I'm ahead, tonight. :)
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Christmas and the mess we live in
There’s this really annoying pharmacy ad that plays at this time of year that starts, “It’s that special holiday feeling that happens every year.” Every time I hear it, I want to throttle whoever wrote it. Why do we set up these expectations? Why should we expect Christmas to be so much better than any other time of year? Life is a mess, for everyone, at almost all times, and when we set up these ridiculous standards for the Christmas season, it just makes us dissatisfied, like we’ve somehow been gypped of something we have a right to expect.
The mess is all around me these days. In my life, and in the lives of those close to me. Illnesses, hospital stays, death and loss—in some cases, the complete upheaval, the overthrow of all carefully-laid (and very reasonable, I might add) plans.
It’s the first time in quite a while that I’ve questioned God as to why. For those going through these frustrating, difficult and downright terrifying times, it helps not at all to hear platitudes like “God has his reasons.” Yet platitudes are all we have to offer. I want so desperately to be of use to those I love, and I keep butting my head against the brick wall of my own ineptitude and helplessness.
This morning, the priest talked about the contrast between the expectations we have for the season and the images presented to us in the readings for the 2nd Sunday of Advent, year A. You know the expectations: peace on earth, silent night, the angelic little baby (blond, of course) lying in a manger. And then there was today’s Gospel: “Repent, you @$!& brood of vipers!”
His take on the matter was that we often think we can’t be witnesses to the Kingdom, to love, to goodness, to the Gospel, unless our lives are in order, and we have things under control. Otherwise, who would ever listen to us? And yet, God often uses the messiest, most chaotic times in our lives to teach us and everyone else what He has in mind.
I suppose it’s just more platitudes, but it really struck a chord with me today.
The mess is all around me these days. In my life, and in the lives of those close to me. Illnesses, hospital stays, death and loss—in some cases, the complete upheaval, the overthrow of all carefully-laid (and very reasonable, I might add) plans.
It’s the first time in quite a while that I’ve questioned God as to why. For those going through these frustrating, difficult and downright terrifying times, it helps not at all to hear platitudes like “God has his reasons.” Yet platitudes are all we have to offer. I want so desperately to be of use to those I love, and I keep butting my head against the brick wall of my own ineptitude and helplessness.
This morning, the priest talked about the contrast between the expectations we have for the season and the images presented to us in the readings for the 2nd Sunday of Advent, year A. You know the expectations: peace on earth, silent night, the angelic little baby (blond, of course) lying in a manger. And then there was today’s Gospel: “Repent, you @$!& brood of vipers!”
His take on the matter was that we often think we can’t be witnesses to the Kingdom, to love, to goodness, to the Gospel, unless our lives are in order, and we have things under control. Otherwise, who would ever listen to us? And yet, God often uses the messiest, most chaotic times in our lives to teach us and everyone else what He has in mind.
I suppose it’s just more platitudes, but it really struck a chord with me today.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Right Brain, Scatter Brain
"Cleaning and scrubbing can wait for tomorrow,
For babies grow up, I've learned, to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby, and babies don't keep."
(Ruth Hulburt Hamilton)
When she’s at home, my mother-in-law is a consummate housekeepr. Her trash cans are emptied daily (at least), her dishes are washed, dried and put away after each meal, and each night she straightens whatever mess her kids, grandkids, husband and in-laws have left.
My cousin Becky managed to design and build a house and parent two elementary age boys while living in a two-car garage for a year. She’s organized, calm, and her boys are well-behaved, all-around good kids.
My friend Tricia designs a summer-long program of chores, activities and recreation, down to daily menus for a balanced diet.
And then there’s me.
My laundry grinds to a halt mid-cycle and lays in piles of madness that grow every time I throw a dirty bib up the stairs.
I stick up my nose every Thursday, thinking, Aw man, it’s been a week already since I cleaned the house?
The dishes get washed at least every third day. But not necessarily put away.
And last week I took the kids up to the farm for a daylong outing, and I left the diaper bag at home.
My friend Jim chuckled when I related that. Then he quickly curbed it. “Well,” he said graciously, “you’re one of those creative right-brained people.”
Scatterbrained is more like it. And the more I think about it, the more I think he’s right—only there’s more to it than that. I’m scatterbrained because my attention is split in too many directions. School liturgies. Weekend liturgies. Music projects for publishers. New music projects. Novels. Short stories. Articles. Reading about writing. Reading in general. The kids. NFP recertification.
Oh yeah, don’t forget the housework.
Last weekend the readings at church said, “From those given much, much will be expected.” I guess that’s me. I just wish part of the bequest had been a brain capable of keeping it all straight.
For babies grow up, I've learned, to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby, and babies don't keep."
(Ruth Hulburt Hamilton)
When she’s at home, my mother-in-law is a consummate housekeepr. Her trash cans are emptied daily (at least), her dishes are washed, dried and put away after each meal, and each night she straightens whatever mess her kids, grandkids, husband and in-laws have left.
My cousin Becky managed to design and build a house and parent two elementary age boys while living in a two-car garage for a year. She’s organized, calm, and her boys are well-behaved, all-around good kids.
My friend Tricia designs a summer-long program of chores, activities and recreation, down to daily menus for a balanced diet.
And then there’s me.
My laundry grinds to a halt mid-cycle and lays in piles of madness that grow every time I throw a dirty bib up the stairs.
I stick up my nose every Thursday, thinking, Aw man, it’s been a week already since I cleaned the house?
The dishes get washed at least every third day. But not necessarily put away.
And last week I took the kids up to the farm for a daylong outing, and I left the diaper bag at home.
My friend Jim chuckled when I related that. Then he quickly curbed it. “Well,” he said graciously, “you’re one of those creative right-brained people.”
Scatterbrained is more like it. And the more I think about it, the more I think he’s right—only there’s more to it than that. I’m scatterbrained because my attention is split in too many directions. School liturgies. Weekend liturgies. Music projects for publishers. New music projects. Novels. Short stories. Articles. Reading about writing. Reading in general. The kids. NFP recertification.
Oh yeah, don’t forget the housework.
Last weekend the readings at church said, “From those given much, much will be expected.” I guess that’s me. I just wish part of the bequest had been a brain capable of keeping it all straight.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Alex's First Halloween
Nov. 1, 2007
All Saints Day
Last night, Christian and I took Alex trick-or-treating for the first time. He was Bob the Builder, outfitted in blue plaid and too-big jeans that fell down around his tool belt, exposing gray big boy briefs. He wore his yellow construction hat perched at a rakish angle on his head and completed the outfit with light-up Star Wars tennis shoes (garage sale special, 50 cents).
I enjoyed Halloween in a whole new ways last night. We stood back and let him go to the doors and ring them, and every time we had to tell him to say thank you. After 45 minutes of “Ooooh, how cute!” from every woman who answered the door (yes, OK, he’s adorable, I admit it) he was ready to stop “getting more candy” and to go eat some. We went home and turned on our own lights.
Christian served the first several trick-or-treaters, and then I took over till time to put Julianna to bed. Then…“Wanna give candy to the kids!” Alex said in his slow, deliberate way. Christian let him do it up till 8:00, which is bedtime, and then began a 45-minute pitched battle between the parents and the overexcited 2-year-old.
When at last he was ready for bed, the late rush—all the big kids—started. So we let him come downstairs. By this time we just wanted to get rid of as much candy as possible, so we let him take whole handfuls and put them in kids’ bags & buckets. He was in Heaven. But the part that made me really proud was that he was taking all the pieces of candy that he thought were the best ones and giving those out. He wouldn’t let me give out the cheapie eyeballs that I bought because they were cheap. He thought they were gross, and he wasn’t going to let me give them out. No, he was going to give away all the Kit Kat, Mounds, and Milky Way.
Christian tells me I shouldn’t read into that, but it seems to me that selfishness is so innate that even a 2-year-old ought to be well-versed in it. I’m so proud of him for giving the best to others.
All Saints Day
Last night, Christian and I took Alex trick-or-treating for the first time. He was Bob the Builder, outfitted in blue plaid and too-big jeans that fell down around his tool belt, exposing gray big boy briefs. He wore his yellow construction hat perched at a rakish angle on his head and completed the outfit with light-up Star Wars tennis shoes (garage sale special, 50 cents).
I enjoyed Halloween in a whole new ways last night. We stood back and let him go to the doors and ring them, and every time we had to tell him to say thank you. After 45 minutes of “Ooooh, how cute!” from every woman who answered the door (yes, OK, he’s adorable, I admit it) he was ready to stop “getting more candy” and to go eat some. We went home and turned on our own lights.
Christian served the first several trick-or-treaters, and then I took over till time to put Julianna to bed. Then…“Wanna give candy to the kids!” Alex said in his slow, deliberate way. Christian let him do it up till 8:00, which is bedtime, and then began a 45-minute pitched battle between the parents and the overexcited 2-year-old.
When at last he was ready for bed, the late rush—all the big kids—started. So we let him come downstairs. By this time we just wanted to get rid of as much candy as possible, so we let him take whole handfuls and put them in kids’ bags & buckets. He was in Heaven. But the part that made me really proud was that he was taking all the pieces of candy that he thought were the best ones and giving those out. He wouldn’t let me give out the cheapie eyeballs that I bought because they were cheap. He thought they were gross, and he wasn’t going to let me give them out. No, he was going to give away all the Kit Kat, Mounds, and Milky Way.
Christian tells me I shouldn’t read into that, but it seems to me that selfishness is so innate that even a 2-year-old ought to be well-versed in it. I’m so proud of him for giving the best to others.
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