Today was Anna's first day of preschool.
(I have pictures, but they'll have to wait because our main computer is still waaaay down in Chico, CA being repaired.)
Her teachers asked me if I thought she'd have a hard time starting school. They wanted to know if she would cry, if she would cling, if she would pine.
I said I didn't think so.
What I wasn't prepared for was this:
Miss Anna: Mom, do you have to walk me to the door?
Me: Well, it's your first day. I want to get a picture. I promise, you can walk by yourself tomorrow.
***
Me: (At the door) Bye, Anna! I love you!
Miss Anna: (Without even a glance over her shoulder) See ya, Mom.
The teacher looked at me. I looked at the teacher. She threw up her hands. "All right then!"
I stood outside the door for another moment, for sentimental reasons, and then returned slowly to the car.
Sophie cried all the way home about not being able to go to school with Anna.
"In a few years, honey," I said. "Soon enough...."
And then I spent a blissful, totally quiet afternoon lying in bed, reading my friend's manuscript, writing a query letter for my WiP while Sophie napped.
But the best part of the story is: Anna was ready. And she had a fantastic afternoon in preschool.
"I even wrote hundreds of letters," she told me afterwards. "Because I'm going to learn to write everything."
Monday, 13 September 2010
Sunday, 12 September 2010
A Story A Week: Womble
“Mom, it’s a womble.”
“No, baby, it’s a platypus.” The cart’s wheels squeaked like a hatchling crying as we inched forward in line.
“The tag says womble and it has a nose like a duck.”
“That’s what platypuses have for noses: duck-bills.”
“No!” Krista's voice went up at the end in a whine.
“Yes, I promise.”
“Platypuses have wings. This one doesn’t have wings.”
“Platypuses have wings?”
Confused by an eight-year-old. She’d done it again. I had to get home to Google this creature, figure out what exactly I was talking about, because I honestly didn’t know anymore.
“Well, whatever it is,” I said, “stick it on the conveyor belt. Time to pay.”
Krista laid the womble down gingerly, then snatched it back. “I’ll hold her until it’s really time,” she said. “She’s scared up there.”
I unloaded groceries from the cart: cans of Friskies, tuna, Swiss cheese, two gallons of one-percent milk.
The checker smiled at me while she blipped my groceries over the scanner. Her name tag said Barbara. “How are you today?” She had a gold tooth, right in the front. Made me think of pirates.
“Fine, thanks. You?”
“Off in twenty minutes, thank God.”
I craned my neck to see the clock in the store’s play-land. I was probably pushing the one-hour time limit. The elderly play-land attendant with dyed red hair perched on a stool behind the counter, her hands folded in her lap. I tried to catch a glimpse of Chloe’s toe head through the floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass window.
Krista hugged the stuffed animal to her chest. It was pink with wiry fur sticking out. “Look, Mom, the fur matches the pink stripe in my tights.” She held the womble next to her leg so I could see.
“Spiffy,” I said.
She raised one eyebrow at me. “And that means…?”
Honestly, sometimes this child was eight going on fifteen.
“Spiffy just means … cool.” I reached out and pushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ear. “Happy with your womble?”
She squeezed it tighter. “This is exactly what I wanted.”
“So, does a womble live in the water or on land?”
Krista shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe both?” She looked down at the creature pensively. “Chloe’ll want one.”
“Chloe doesn’t have any birthday money to spend right now.” I set the last can of chicken soup on the conveyor belt. “She’ll get over it.”
I glanced back at the play area again. I could see empty chairs lined up in front of the television set behind the glass door. Finding Nemo blinked on the television screen with the closed captioning underneath.
“Eighty-four seventy-five,” Barbara said. The gold tooth flashed at me.
I swiped my card, typed in my pin, and looked back over my shoulder.
Chloe wasn’t playing with the Little People set either. I could see it all laid out in village-formation behind the window.
“Ma’am,” Barbara said. “You have to press the ‘yes’ button.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
The elderly play land attendant with the red hair hadn’t moved. She smiled at something far away.
I grabbed one of the plastic bags to load in the cart as my receipt printed out.
“Run over there, baby,” I told Krista. “Tell Chloe to get ready to go.”
Krista jogged to the glass door, pressed her face against the glass. I grabbed a few more bags and my receipt at the same time, dropped everything in the cart, forgetting there were eggs in there.
I heard Krista’s voice, muffled by her mouth being so close to the glass. “Chlo-eee. Chlo-eee.”
I was turning, setting my hands on the cart handle when she said, “I don’t see her, Mom. She’s not in there.”
“Of course she is,” I said, compulsively tugging on the paper bracelet around my wrist. Chloe wore a matching one. I’d seen the attendant put it on her; you couldn’t get it off without scissors. I picked up speed, pushing the cart so hard it thumped against the play-land attendant’s counter.
She smiled at me. “Can I help you?”
I held up my arm, the identification band nipping my wrist. “My daughter,” I said, but my eyes were beyond the attendant’s face, scanning the playroom. Empty chairs. Empty playhouse. An empty Little People village. Two glass windows, floor-to-ceiling. A smiling attendant. And no children. No Chloe.
The attendant popped off her stool. I thrust my wrist at her the same time she made a grab for it. “Well, let me see here,” she said, a funny quake in her voice. My pulse pounded in my temples.
“Don’t tell me—”
“Mom, Mom!” Krista tugged insistently on my jeans.
My head jerked to look at her, but her face was a blur. Two Kristas hugging two wombles. “What?”
“You forgot this,” she said, holding up the pink toy. “You forgot to pay for my womble.”
Thank you to Krista V. who provided the inspiring words for this story: spiffy, platypus and reinforce. The stories will be coming fast and furiously over the next few weeks as I catch up after my month novel-writing sabbatical. If you'd like to leave three words of inspiration for a future original story, click here. And just for the record, I did not write this story to terrify my mother-in-law, but I do wonder if I'll be able to leave my kids in the Fred Meyer play land without qualms after this. Have you ever been frightened by a story that came out of your own brain?
“No, baby, it’s a platypus.” The cart’s wheels squeaked like a hatchling crying as we inched forward in line.
“The tag says womble and it has a nose like a duck.”
“That’s what platypuses have for noses: duck-bills.”
“No!” Krista's voice went up at the end in a whine.
“Yes, I promise.”
“Platypuses have wings. This one doesn’t have wings.”
“Platypuses have wings?”
Confused by an eight-year-old. She’d done it again. I had to get home to Google this creature, figure out what exactly I was talking about, because I honestly didn’t know anymore.
“Well, whatever it is,” I said, “stick it on the conveyor belt. Time to pay.”
Krista laid the womble down gingerly, then snatched it back. “I’ll hold her until it’s really time,” she said. “She’s scared up there.”
I unloaded groceries from the cart: cans of Friskies, tuna, Swiss cheese, two gallons of one-percent milk.
The checker smiled at me while she blipped my groceries over the scanner. Her name tag said Barbara. “How are you today?” She had a gold tooth, right in the front. Made me think of pirates.
“Fine, thanks. You?”
“Off in twenty minutes, thank God.”
I craned my neck to see the clock in the store’s play-land. I was probably pushing the one-hour time limit. The elderly play-land attendant with dyed red hair perched on a stool behind the counter, her hands folded in her lap. I tried to catch a glimpse of Chloe’s toe head through the floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass window.
Krista hugged the stuffed animal to her chest. It was pink with wiry fur sticking out. “Look, Mom, the fur matches the pink stripe in my tights.” She held the womble next to her leg so I could see.
“Spiffy,” I said.
She raised one eyebrow at me. “And that means…?”
Honestly, sometimes this child was eight going on fifteen.
“Spiffy just means … cool.” I reached out and pushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ear. “Happy with your womble?”
She squeezed it tighter. “This is exactly what I wanted.”
“So, does a womble live in the water or on land?”
Krista shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe both?” She looked down at the creature pensively. “Chloe’ll want one.”
“Chloe doesn’t have any birthday money to spend right now.” I set the last can of chicken soup on the conveyor belt. “She’ll get over it.”
I glanced back at the play area again. I could see empty chairs lined up in front of the television set behind the glass door. Finding Nemo blinked on the television screen with the closed captioning underneath.
“Eighty-four seventy-five,” Barbara said. The gold tooth flashed at me.
I swiped my card, typed in my pin, and looked back over my shoulder.
Chloe wasn’t playing with the Little People set either. I could see it all laid out in village-formation behind the window.
“Ma’am,” Barbara said. “You have to press the ‘yes’ button.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
The elderly play land attendant with the red hair hadn’t moved. She smiled at something far away.
I grabbed one of the plastic bags to load in the cart as my receipt printed out.
“Run over there, baby,” I told Krista. “Tell Chloe to get ready to go.”
Krista jogged to the glass door, pressed her face against the glass. I grabbed a few more bags and my receipt at the same time, dropped everything in the cart, forgetting there were eggs in there.
I heard Krista’s voice, muffled by her mouth being so close to the glass. “Chlo-eee. Chlo-eee.”
I was turning, setting my hands on the cart handle when she said, “I don’t see her, Mom. She’s not in there.”
“Of course she is,” I said, compulsively tugging on the paper bracelet around my wrist. Chloe wore a matching one. I’d seen the attendant put it on her; you couldn’t get it off without scissors. I picked up speed, pushing the cart so hard it thumped against the play-land attendant’s counter.
She smiled at me. “Can I help you?”
I held up my arm, the identification band nipping my wrist. “My daughter,” I said, but my eyes were beyond the attendant’s face, scanning the playroom. Empty chairs. Empty playhouse. An empty Little People village. Two glass windows, floor-to-ceiling. A smiling attendant. And no children. No Chloe.
The attendant popped off her stool. I thrust my wrist at her the same time she made a grab for it. “Well, let me see here,” she said, a funny quake in her voice. My pulse pounded in my temples.
“Don’t tell me—”
“Mom, Mom!” Krista tugged insistently on my jeans.
My head jerked to look at her, but her face was a blur. Two Kristas hugging two wombles. “What?”
“You forgot this,” she said, holding up the pink toy. “You forgot to pay for my womble.”
Thank you to Krista V. who provided the inspiring words for this story: spiffy, platypus and reinforce. The stories will be coming fast and furiously over the next few weeks as I catch up after my month novel-writing sabbatical. If you'd like to leave three words of inspiration for a future original story, click here. And just for the record, I did not write this story to terrify my mother-in-law, but I do wonder if I'll be able to leave my kids in the Fred Meyer play land without qualms after this. Have you ever been frightened by a story that came out of your own brain?
Saturday, 11 September 2010
Nugget: Secondary Character Dialogue
Here's a little golden nugget of a writing tip for you on this beautiful Saturday. This one is so obvious, when it was pointed out to me, I had a kick-myself-in-the-shin moment. One of those SERIOUSLY?-why-did-someone-just-have-to-tell-me-that moments.
But here it is, for what it's worth:
Read what they say, without the tag.
Is what they're saying interesting?
Can you tell it's them talking, without the tag line? Does it stand out?
This tip came from author Cynthea Liu, who was assigned my manuscript critique at the SCBWI conference in LA this summer. (Amazing critique, by the way. Motivated me to START ALL OVER AGAIN.)
My main character's dialogue stood out on those opening pages she read. But my secondary character (in this case, my MC's mother) was saying things like:
"Heather, I'm sorry, honey. Time to go."
"Get up, Heather."
"Oh, honey."
The critique was (very politely given): BORING, BORING, BORING. Spice it up. Give Mom her own personality and don't forget that dialogue is the perfect way to SHOW personality.
And, very fittingly, you can read this blog post by Cynthea Liu about Making the most out of your Conference Critique. I read through her points and prayed that I wasn't the CRAZY person who motivated her to write it.
Have a wonderful Saturday.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
A Story A Week: Over His Shoulder
Roland made the mistake of looking back.
The hills spread in waves below him, silvery brown as the wind smoothed the grass blades, like someone running a hand over velvet. Beyond that, in the valley, stretched the fields, green rectangles, even and predictable. In between, he could just make out the tops of the trees where he knew his uncle’s house and barns sat.
It was Monday, with the sun hanging a little past midday. He gripped the reigns and nipped the horse in the sides to get him going again. The horse lurched forward. Roland had to dig in with his knees to stay in the saddle.
But his mind kept humming with all the things he was missing, all the things he’d never see again.
On Monday afternoons, Grandma hung the washing on the back line, letting the wind ripple it dry. The boys napped in the barn hay, the kittens curled up at their necks. And Claris, she’d be drying the dishes from lunch, having done all the washing up herself. When she was done, she’d head out back to help Grandma hang the shirts.
There was such a routine, nobody’d notice for awhile that the black horse was gone. Nobody’d expect it to be. The womenfolk and the children would think Roland was out in the field with Uncle Hue, as he usually was. Uncle Hue thought he was in the house taming a burning fever with sleep and a warm blanket. Nobody’d miss him for awhile. Not until the supper bell rang, and by then, Roland planned on being long gone. On the other side of these hills, at least. Maybe as far as Patterson if he was lucky.
But he’d looked back. Now, even though the horse kept moving in the right direction, his mind rocked back to the house with the rhythm of the horse beneath him, where Claris stacked the last dish in the cupboard, where she wrung out the cloth in a pail of water to wipe down the long, wood table. As she leaned over to reach the table center, she glanced up, just like she’d done a hundred times before, and looked Roland in the eye.
It was all imagination, of course, because Roland was sitting astride a horse, riding over the hills, and Claris was in the kitchen, five miles back, but to Roland, those eyes were real. They scourged him, the pale brightness of them harassed him, made him turn in the saddle and pull the reigns up sharp, trying to catch one more glimpse of the tops of those familiar trees.
Love.
But Hue’d been clear. “You’re her cousin, Roland,” he’d said just two nights past, when the two men were finishing up with the horses and Roland had dared to speak. “In these parts folks don’t act like that. You go find another nice girl, somebody who’s not in the family.”
He’d meant it kindly. Smiled, patted Roland’s shoulder, and kept walking, right out of the barn and back to the house. That should’ve told Roland the conversation was over, Hue’s way of saying he’d forget it'd ever happened.
But Roland couldn’t forget.
Hue might as well have plucked his soul right out of his chest and flayed it open with the knife he kept eternally in a leather holder attached to his belt.
Loss.
Roland left money for the horse on top of his pillow. His Pa taught him better than to steal. Even though Hue was a good-hearted man and would’ve given him the horse if he’d asked for it – part of his pay, probably – Roland couldn’t stomach the thought of taking off with anything as valuable as Canyon. He’d left a good price for the horse, a better price than Hue was likely to get at market. And he’d left a note, explaining himself, why he couldn’t stay around anymore. Yes, he’d mentioned Claris by name. His one last act of bravery, he thought, before he hid his face forever.
The only part he’d lied about, besides the fever, was where he was going. Told them he was heading north to Spokane, when really he was heading a different direction, maybe eventually to Walla Walla, or somewhere else. Portland, Oregon had a nice sound to it.
He didn’t want them finding him, dragging him back. His father’d try to tell him he owed his uncle work. All his kin were good talkers. And they kept the family tight, didn’t like anybody wandering off on their own business. They’d use his grandma as bait, or Roland’s own mother with her stiff, knobby fingers that couldn’t sew a lick anymore. They’d tell him he was breaking his family’s heart; he had to stay close, redeem himself.
Claris. Those eyes, the color of a ripe wheat field. He couldn’t watch her walk down the aisle some day with some good-natured farmer. Couldn’t stick around for that. Better to leave now, cut clean.
He reached the top of the ridge, reigned Canyon in, turned his head to see the valley spread out, prettier than any of his grandma’s quilts. The trees around the house were little pillows of green, tucked into a fold of blond hills. Those trees didn’t hold him anymore. Something else called him, something bigger, wider. He slapped Canyon’s neck affectionately, wiped a sleeve across his own brow, and turned away from the valley forever.
Thanks to Roland, who gave me the inspirational words for this week: love, loss and redemption. For those of you new to the blog, I write an original, short story every week as a challenge to myself. I'm hoping to have 52 stories by the end of the year. I'm a little behind after taking a month off to concentrate on a rewrite of my novel, so I'm going to write two stories a week until I'm caught up. Phew! If you'd like to leave some inspirational words for a future story, click here. Thanks again, Roland! Great, and challenging, words.
The hills spread in waves below him, silvery brown as the wind smoothed the grass blades, like someone running a hand over velvet. Beyond that, in the valley, stretched the fields, green rectangles, even and predictable. In between, he could just make out the tops of the trees where he knew his uncle’s house and barns sat.
It was Monday, with the sun hanging a little past midday. He gripped the reigns and nipped the horse in the sides to get him going again. The horse lurched forward. Roland had to dig in with his knees to stay in the saddle.
But his mind kept humming with all the things he was missing, all the things he’d never see again.
On Monday afternoons, Grandma hung the washing on the back line, letting the wind ripple it dry. The boys napped in the barn hay, the kittens curled up at their necks. And Claris, she’d be drying the dishes from lunch, having done all the washing up herself. When she was done, she’d head out back to help Grandma hang the shirts.
There was such a routine, nobody’d notice for awhile that the black horse was gone. Nobody’d expect it to be. The womenfolk and the children would think Roland was out in the field with Uncle Hue, as he usually was. Uncle Hue thought he was in the house taming a burning fever with sleep and a warm blanket. Nobody’d miss him for awhile. Not until the supper bell rang, and by then, Roland planned on being long gone. On the other side of these hills, at least. Maybe as far as Patterson if he was lucky.
But he’d looked back. Now, even though the horse kept moving in the right direction, his mind rocked back to the house with the rhythm of the horse beneath him, where Claris stacked the last dish in the cupboard, where she wrung out the cloth in a pail of water to wipe down the long, wood table. As she leaned over to reach the table center, she glanced up, just like she’d done a hundred times before, and looked Roland in the eye.
It was all imagination, of course, because Roland was sitting astride a horse, riding over the hills, and Claris was in the kitchen, five miles back, but to Roland, those eyes were real. They scourged him, the pale brightness of them harassed him, made him turn in the saddle and pull the reigns up sharp, trying to catch one more glimpse of the tops of those familiar trees.
Love.
But Hue’d been clear. “You’re her cousin, Roland,” he’d said just two nights past, when the two men were finishing up with the horses and Roland had dared to speak. “In these parts folks don’t act like that. You go find another nice girl, somebody who’s not in the family.”
He’d meant it kindly. Smiled, patted Roland’s shoulder, and kept walking, right out of the barn and back to the house. That should’ve told Roland the conversation was over, Hue’s way of saying he’d forget it'd ever happened.
But Roland couldn’t forget.
Hue might as well have plucked his soul right out of his chest and flayed it open with the knife he kept eternally in a leather holder attached to his belt.
Loss.
Roland left money for the horse on top of his pillow. His Pa taught him better than to steal. Even though Hue was a good-hearted man and would’ve given him the horse if he’d asked for it – part of his pay, probably – Roland couldn’t stomach the thought of taking off with anything as valuable as Canyon. He’d left a good price for the horse, a better price than Hue was likely to get at market. And he’d left a note, explaining himself, why he couldn’t stay around anymore. Yes, he’d mentioned Claris by name. His one last act of bravery, he thought, before he hid his face forever.
The only part he’d lied about, besides the fever, was where he was going. Told them he was heading north to Spokane, when really he was heading a different direction, maybe eventually to Walla Walla, or somewhere else. Portland, Oregon had a nice sound to it.
He didn’t want them finding him, dragging him back. His father’d try to tell him he owed his uncle work. All his kin were good talkers. And they kept the family tight, didn’t like anybody wandering off on their own business. They’d use his grandma as bait, or Roland’s own mother with her stiff, knobby fingers that couldn’t sew a lick anymore. They’d tell him he was breaking his family’s heart; he had to stay close, redeem himself.
Claris. Those eyes, the color of a ripe wheat field. He couldn’t watch her walk down the aisle some day with some good-natured farmer. Couldn’t stick around for that. Better to leave now, cut clean.
He reached the top of the ridge, reigned Canyon in, turned his head to see the valley spread out, prettier than any of his grandma’s quilts. The trees around the house were little pillows of green, tucked into a fold of blond hills. Those trees didn’t hold him anymore. Something else called him, something bigger, wider. He slapped Canyon’s neck affectionately, wiped a sleeve across his own brow, and turned away from the valley forever.
Thanks to Roland, who gave me the inspirational words for this week: love, loss and redemption. For those of you new to the blog, I write an original, short story every week as a challenge to myself. I'm hoping to have 52 stories by the end of the year. I'm a little behind after taking a month off to concentrate on a rewrite of my novel, so I'm going to write two stories a week until I'm caught up. Phew! If you'd like to leave some inspirational words for a future story, click here. Thanks again, Roland! Great, and challenging, words.
Monday, 6 September 2010
Winners! (and some extra winners)
It's Labor Day. I'm hangin' out watching the Boise State game against Virginia Tech (GO BRONCOS!), and getting psyched to announce the winners of my BOOK GIVEAWAY.
But first of all, THANK YOU to everyone who has been visiting and following my blog, both newbies and oldbies. KarenG. is hosting a totally awesome BBQ on her blog, and I know a lot of you found my blog through that event. I'm so happy! I promise to stop by all your blogs soon if I haven't already.
Today I was busy walking in our town's State's Day parade and performing in The Valley's Got Talent competition. In other words, I haven't been in front of my computer much. Our little singing group didn't place in the top three (though we did have to make the top ten to perform today), but we had tons of fun. I'm so used to rejection from my experience with the publishing industry that it didn't bother me not to win. I had a personal victory in that I wasn't as nervous as I usually am when I'm up on stage in front of people ... and I actually enjoyed myself, as opposed to feeling frozen with terror.
So, yay! Great day!!
And now for the winners of my BOOK GIVEAWAY:
Congratulations!! Please send me your snail-mailing addresses at a2sonnichsen(at)gmail(dot)com.
But that is not all. Oh no, that is not all.
I also want to give away TWO consolation prizes. I have two bags of Chukar Cherries chocolates that I'm anxious to send to two lucky, consolation-prize winners.
And the winners of the chocolates are:
I hope you ladies like chocolate! Chukar Cherries is native to Prosser, WA (the town where I live). They are yum, yum, yum. So, please send me your snail-mail addresses and I'll get these off to you pronto. Hopefully we'll have some cool weather so that nothing melts in transit. *fingers crossed*
I think that's all from here. Leave a comment and let me know how your Labor Day turned out. Did you do anything fun? Different? Extraordinary? Or was it a normal vacation day? One more bonus-day of summer?
But first of all, THANK YOU to everyone who has been visiting and following my blog, both newbies and oldbies. KarenG. is hosting a totally awesome BBQ on her blog, and I know a lot of you found my blog through that event. I'm so happy! I promise to stop by all your blogs soon if I haven't already.
Today I was busy walking in our town's State's Day parade and performing in The Valley's Got Talent competition. In other words, I haven't been in front of my computer much. Our little singing group didn't place in the top three (though we did have to make the top ten to perform today), but we had tons of fun. I'm so used to rejection from my experience with the publishing industry that it didn't bother me not to win. I had a personal victory in that I wasn't as nervous as I usually am when I'm up on stage in front of people ... and I actually enjoyed myself, as opposed to feeling frozen with terror.
So, yay! Great day!!
And now for the winners of my BOOK GIVEAWAY:
FAIREST
goes to
babalou
and
IMPULSE
goes to
reidright
Congratulations!! Please send me your snail-mailing addresses at a2sonnichsen(at)gmail(dot)com.
But that is not all. Oh no, that is not all.
I also want to give away TWO consolation prizes. I have two bags of Chukar Cherries chocolates that I'm anxious to send to two lucky, consolation-prize winners.
And the winners of the chocolates are:
Krista Lynne Jensen
and
Mimi
I think that's all from here. Leave a comment and let me know how your Labor Day turned out. Did you do anything fun? Different? Extraordinary? Or was it a normal vacation day? One more bonus-day of summer?
Saturday, 4 September 2010
WiP Saturday: Time Out
I know, I know, it's not Wednesday, but I had to share....PHEW!
I'm really, really done with the first draft of the rewrite of my WiP. I corrected all the little nagging problems that stopped me from laying this baby to rest, and wrote a new climax. Now I'm laying my WiP aside for a month, letting myself forget it while I gorge on at least two novels my friends sent me to beta-read.
I reached 65,000 words when my goal was 50,000. I started the rewrite almost exactly one month ago, after attending SCBWI LA. It's been a totally exhausting, totally fun month. Now it's time to kick back, relax, and enjoy some other people's work.
(And, of course, I'm really excited for the month to be over so I can go back and see if my book is actually what I think it is ... maybe good? Maybe? Please, please, please be good.)
On a side note, don't forget to enter my contest! I'm giving away signed copies of FAIREST by Gail Carson Levine and IMPULSE by Ellen Hopkins. Deadline is tomorrow night.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Accomplishments
I did not accomplish anything yesterday except:
And if you haven't already, please enter my contest! It's so easy to enter, you won't be sorry.
- Making our house messier/ watching several small people make our house messier. Did not clean even a single toilet.
- Killing two birds on our big living room windows and stunning two others (they plowed into them after we pulled up our blinds, poor babies).
- Crashing our main computer (we still have our laptop, thank goodness). For the record, WiP is safe.
- Getting children to and from school, lessons, and birthday parties.
And if you haven't already, please enter my contest! It's so easy to enter, you won't be sorry.
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