susan hayward photography

Recipe: Crêpes

My friend Corrine is a fantastic cook. That's why when she said she would teach a class on crêpes, I signed right up. I've always thought these anorexic pancakes would be too difficult to make, preferring instead to buy them from cute little roadside kiosks in Europe and hippie hang-outs in San Francisco. But let's be honest. How often do I make it to those places when the crêpe mood strikes? Once every five or ten years--if I'm lucky. So you can see why it was necessary to channel my inner French woman and learn how to make these things in my own kitchen. (Admittedly, my inner French woman mostly wants to lounge around eating bon bons by the sea, looking très chic in a billowy sundress,a big floppy hat, and huge Audrey Hepburn sunglasses. And her name is Monique. Or Chloe. Or Brigitte.) 

Corinne gave us recipes for a number of different crêpes, but I prefer Rich Dessert Crepe Batter, because I love desserts, and if they're described as "rich" and not "low fat," which is never as good, it's all the better. Despite the name indicating that these should be eaten at the end of the meal, in our house they ARE the meal.

4 eggs

¼ tsp salt

2 cups flour

2-3 Tablespoons sugar

2 cups milk

½ cup melted butter

1 ½ tsp vanilla

In a medium mixing bowl, combine eggs and salt. Gradually add flour alternately with milk, beating with mixer or whisk until smooth. Beat in melted butter. 

OR, you could take the easier route (my prefferred method) and throw it all in the blender for one minute. Scrape down the sides with a rubber spatula and blend for another 15 seconds or till smooth.

To cook, use a ⅓ cup measuring cup for a large 9-inch crêpe pan and ¼ cup measuring cup for a small 8.5-inch pan.

Cook on medium heat for about 1 minute until the batter no longer looks shiny and turn and cook for 20 seconds on the other side. The crêpes should be golden brown. As my children say, they will look and smell 'licious.

 

Topping Ideas

Corrine says that you can fill dessert crêpes with any fruit or pudding, custard or whipped cream or crème fraîche. They're also yummy with apricot or raspberry jam, folded and topped with powdered sugar. As an even more special treat, she recommends fresh peaches in season, topped with crème fraîche.  We like our crêpes smothered in hazlenut spread with sliced bananas, whipped cream and strawberries. If you really want to get a few more cavities, you can top the whole thing with a drizzle of chocolate sauce, preferably the real stuff, but in a pinch, the Hershey's variety will suffice. However, Brigitte would not approve. She would purse her lipsticked lips and tell me that nothing but Valrhona would do. But Brigitte lives in Paris, with only a yappy little dog to take care of. I, on the other hand, live with a bunch of boys in Suburbia, land of high-fructose corn syrup and those mysterious "natural flavorings" listed on the back of plastic bottles made in China. So anything goes.  

  

  

Parenting with Purpose

Me and my boys in Northern California 

When I was a young photography student, I dreamed of traveling the world, snapping photographs along the way, and writing articles for the New York Times. I envisioned myself living in a loft in London, reading good literature, and having tea with Princess Diana every Thursday.  And thus I would become Someone Important.

Then I got married and had kids. And suddenly, everything I had dreamed of becoming seemed impossible. I don't work for a fashion magazine, and I don't travel the world. I've become a stay-at-home mom who drives a mini-van, wears t-shirts and overalls, and who considers Super Wal-Mart a vacation destination.

  Not exactly what I imagined.

  Up until recently, I've been depressed about all of this, disappointed in myself for succumbing to Suburbia. Through the years, my mother often tried to cheer me up by telling me that "Motherhood is the most important job you'll ever have." But I didn't believe her. People don't get famous--or rich-- by nursing babies and changing diapers. So I began to hoard my energy and attention as if I could save happiness in a bank account marked: My Glorious Future Without Small Children When My Life Will Really Mean Something.

  Sensing my dissatisfaction, my kids asked, “Why are you always so grumpy and mean?" Because I'm wasting away in this house when I could be doing so much more, I wanted to answer. The more I thought about it, the angrier I felt. When will it be my turn? I constantly asked. And the answer was always, Not now.

There were times when I tried to find fulfillment. I went to church. I read self-help books. I read feel-good-about-being-a-mother books. I prayed. I watched Oprah. I meditated. Yet, I still feared losing myself in the anonymity of raising children.

  Then I read Deepak Chopra's Seven Spiritual Laws for Parents. I corralled the kids and tried to interest them in a ritual of gratitude, as per Chopra's instructions. "What are you thankful for today?" I asked my oldest, secretly hoping he'd say something like ''I'm thankful that you sacrificed your life for us, Mommy."

  But, no. He glowered at me and muttered, "Can I just go play Nintendo?" Seems my bad mood had rubbed off on my children with permanent ink. Not only did I not want to spend my life on them, they didn't want to waste time on me either. At that moment, I realized that if I were to save what was left of our relationship, I'd have to do something quick. It was time to go to inside, to the source of the problem, which I had to admit was me.

  As luck (or God?) would have it, I came upon an article about social action written by Kimberley Rome. Rome defined social action as "Bring[ing] our spiritual practice into mindful action." I asked myself what my spiritual beliefs were. I believe in a Heavenly Father. I believe in compassion, authenticity, and joy. And I believe our spirits are the manifestation of these qualities, if only we will permit them to guide our actions. So how does this apply to parenting? As a mother, I'm creating the next generation. If I want to contribute to the community, I can teach my children to be responsible spiritual beings led by spiritual truths. Thus,-parenting can be a socially responsible action. For the first time in years, I felt important: I'm not "just a mother!" I wanted to shout at all of those who have sneered and called me a breeder. I'm a social activist.

  Florence Wiedemann once said that "The most important gift you can give to the world is to produce quality humans who are richly endowed with feelings and ideas and compassion." When I had planned on living the so-called good life, there wasn't room for anyone else but me, and the idea that I could or should give back to the world was never part of my thought process. As a mother, I thought my job was to cook, clean, and chauffeur. But Kimberly Rome reminded me that my purpose is "not only [to transcend the world, but to come back and transform it." Have I transcended the world? Not exactly. But in defining my role as a parent from the perspective of social activism, I see the potential for "creating roots of social development and change." In other words, if I teach my children tolerance and love, they will teach it to their children, who will teach it to their children, and so on. "If a critical mass of our children are raised to practice spiritual laws," Chopra says, "our whole civilization will be transformed." It's an ideal worth contemplating and then doing something about.

Different people had told me how to "be" a parent. But no one had connected being with doing like Rome did. She writes that "It is by changing ourselves that the world is changed." Hopefully, I am a different mother now, one who acts with a sense of purpose and gratitude for the role I have chosen to play--and for whom I have chosen to play it. This perspective has, as Rome promised, given my life meaning. True, I am not rich or famous. However, I have the opportunity to influence how the next generation turns out in the most intimate way possible. I am Someone Important. I am a parent.

 

Missionary Man

It's always a pleasure to shoot pictures of missionaries. There's just something about a person who's willing to spend the next two years in service and study. Good luck Bridger! Or should I say Elder Battaglia?

Home, Sick II

Before my husband Rick left for work, I bought Sprite and saltines for the days ahead. The night had been busy with Jake throwing up, most of which my husband took care of. As for the day, that was my territory. So I set aside my own plans to blog and photograph and decided to nurse my child back to health.

Jake spent most of the morning wrapped in his Sponge Bob blanket, laying on the couch and telling me stories. He told me how the night before he had spent hours on the bathroom floor, his body folded in an attitude of prayer. “I kept on thinking that if I had one wish,” he said, “it wouldn’t be for a million dollars or anything.” Jake pulled his blanket up to his chin as he talked, then cocked his head to one side. “I’d ask, ‘Make this end.’” He sat up straight, karate chopping his right hand against his left to emphasize his words. “Make this end,” he repeated, then lay back down. If I were a genie, I would have gladly made it stop for him. As it were, I could only sit by his side and watch him talk, his face pale like moonlight, his voice small. I pulled up a chair and read him a story about a mouse named Lily and her purple plastic purse that played music when she opened it. When we finished that, we read about a rather bad weekend with Wendell, a mischievous mouse that created havoc in the life of his timid classmate until she finally turned the tables on him. Jake and I noshed on some saltines, which always seem to taste good at first, then disintegrate into tasteless crunchy things that you can’t stop eating for some reason, even though it feels like your insides are turning into school paste, the ingredients of which are surprisingly similar to saltines. Finally, when we had filled ourselves on crackers, we fell asleep.

Two days later, while drinking a mixture of freshly squeezed orange juice and Perrier, which should have been a refreshing snack, a tsunami of nausea hit. I poured most of my drink down the sink, muttered something like, “Oh, dang, now I’ve got it too,” and headed to bed.

From my room I could hear the steady beat of someone dribbling a basketball, the occasional thwack as it hit the garage door. From a neighbor’s back yard a dog barked its high, panicked inquiry of “Who’s there?”, a familiar soundtrack to our days and nights. From the front room someone typed messages on an old Royal typewriter with firm clackity clacks. The chimes on the deck sang a delicate tuneless song and birds twittered nervously from the tree outside my window. These sounds would have been comforting, had it not been for the open rebellion taking place in my gut. I could feel the two sides lining up for battle. In one corner the Let-It-Hurl team eyed the opposition, the Keep-It-Down-At-All-Costs wimps who cowered on the sidelines. I wondered who would win.

I wanted to read, but unfortunately most of my reading material involves food. I checked out Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, the cover of which nauseated me to even look at, although I considered skipping the Eat part and heading straight for the Pray. But I was not in the mood for philosophy. As for my magazine supply, Gourmet and Martha Stewart, both feature way too much food for the flu afflicted. The very article titles made my stomach swirl and grind.

Thankfully, my husband took the kids out for dinner so I didn’t have to smell his cooking. Perhaps he learned his lesson from my first pregnancy. I was in the first trimester and discovering that morning sickness referred not to a specific time of day for feeling nauseous, but a perpetual physical state. My husband craved meat, so he cooked up some ground beef, which he burned. The stench permeated our tiny apartment and reduced me to a lumpy heap on the bed, too weak to call out, “Could you crack a window?” It’s just as well that he didn’t know I was in the bedroom dying. Giant mutant spiders lived outside those windows, and had he opened one, surely they would have moved in without ever asking, bitten me on the toe, and caused some horrible defect in our unborn son. But then again, these could have been the worries of a hysterical pregnant woman.

But now I was in a different house when the flu hit, definitely not pregnant, but just as sick. I rolled over, trying to figure out which side felt less like a turbulent oceanic voyage on a very small boat. Paul peeked in the room and told me they were going to pick up some food at one of my favorite burger joints. I briefly considered asking them to order me a cheeseburger and fries. At that moment my stomach gurgled loudly in protest. That’s when Paul beat a hasty retreat and I started Lamaze breathing, which wasn’t very handy during delivery but has proved quite useful for nausea. I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through the mouth ten times. Then I waited for my body to settle down. There was a day a couple years before when I breathed like this for hours to avoid throwing up. I never did barf. But, near the end of my malaise, it occurred to me that there was something in my stomach that had desperately wanted out, and I wouldn’t let it. Where did it go? I wondered. Did my body just take it back in, or was it still sloshing around somewhere inside of me? This thought made me run for the bathroom where I crumpled before the toilet. Pressing my head to the cool linoleum I remembered what my son told me two days before. “Make it stop,” I said over and over, calling on the genie to rescue me. My stomach writhed as I lay prostrate before the porcelain goddess. But soon it became apparent that there was no genie granting wishes that day. And as for the porcelain goddess, she is a false god, angry and unforgiving.

Hours later, the storm subsided. Or at least my storm. That night, two more kids succumbed, and then finally my husband got it, too.

It wasn’t all bad, though. It got me out of making dinner for nearly a week. When everyone finally stopped throwing up and could stand the thought of more exotic fare than saltines and soda, we voted on what to eat. “Cereal sounds good,” Rick said.  So we dined on Frosted Flakes and Raisin Bran. And to our bruised and tired bellies, it was better than a gourmet meal.  

Home, Sick

You may have been wondering where I've been. Or maybe not. At any rate, I have some good excuses. My sister came for a visit and I got to spend the weekend with her and my other sister. We had a slumber party, taking the name of the event literally. Instead of painting our nails and watching chick flicks all night long we all zonked out around ten. That was followed by a good couple of days spent lunching together, eating pastries at Gourmandise in downtown Salt Lake, and a long, contemplative visit to an art exhibit (which means we left the kids at home). 

When my sister flew back home I thought I'd have some time to write and maybe take a few pictures. But my kids went on spring break and my husband took some time off, too. Any thoughts of solitary creativity were tossed in favor of a game of frisbee golf in the park and a movie at the dollar theatre, followed by dinner out and an easter egg hunt at Grandma and Grandpa's. 

Tuesday came and I went to bed early, planning on a full schedule of creativity the following day. At two am I heard some talking in the bathroom and went to investigate. I found my youngest throwing up in the toilet, my husband stroking his back. This is a good thing about my husband. He is not one to direct the kids to my side of the bed when they tip toe to our room and stand beside us, staring until we wake up, or until they puke on the floor. He is a compassionate nurse, always patient and understanding even in the wee hours of the morning. I, on the other hand, get nauseous myself when in the presence of a puker, and am highly unreliable when it comes to nursing the sick. Many times I've told a sick child, "I'll be right back," as they clutch the sides of the toilet, groaning in misery. I leave the room, open a window,and take a few big gulps of fresh air while I try to convince myself that I don't mind the smell of sickness. This can take considerably longer than a few minutes. 

In my defense, my husband has had more experience throwing up than I have. Due to a kidney malfunction, he threw up what seemed like every day when he was a kid. He knows all the little nuances and various techniques of regurgitation, some of which he has tried to teach me, but which I ignore. I am so opposed to vomiting that I will lay motionless for hours, my body curled in the shape of a question mark, my breathing deep and deliberate. Frequently, I will plead with God to make the sickness pass, with the caveat that it not pass through me or out of me, just by me.

Yet while my husband took care of our son while he was in the act of vomiting, there was the barf laundry to consider. And that, my friends, is where I catch most illnesses floating around in the Haywardsphere. I could sit next to a sneazing, buggary kid all day long and come away unscathed. But the minute I do his laundry, I'm doomed. 

So it was no surprise when my stomach lurched the day after I washed our first patient's linens. That's when I retreated to bed and commenced to suffering. For awhile I managed to write a few pages in my notebook, but soon, the nausea took over completely. It's my own fault, though. One day I actually thought it might be nice to be sick so I could take a couple days off from the routine, maybe laze around in bed and read a few books. But I had a little stuffy nose or even light cramps in mind, not the stomach flu. Definitely not the stomach flu. But the thought escaped my mind and I got just what I asked for--two days of bed rest and quiet. And misery. I survived, but just.     

And that is why things have been quiet around this blog.  

PS

That scary picture of me was taken the morning after the first night of the flu. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "I look awful. I should really document this." So I did, though I don't know why exactly. The photo has not been retouched at all. Though maybe it should be! 

Recipe: Universal Muffins

This recipe comes from Amy Dacyzyn's Tightwad Gazette, with a few tips from The Best of Betterbaking.com and my own variations

I love to make muffins for breakfast (and snacks), but I don't always have the ingredients to follow a particular recipe. Then I came upon this idea for using what you have on hand to concoct some seriously yummy muffins. I had some blueberries in the fridge the day of this shoot, so that's what I used. But I've also made apple, peach, banana, pumpkin, cranberry, and even pear muffins using the same basic recipe. 

Here you go:

• 2 to 2 1/2 cups grain (as in flour-whatever kind you have on hand. You can use half whole wheat if you want, or grind some oats in the blender to make some oat flour)

• 1 cup milk, or buttermilk, or milk that has been soured with vinegar (1tsp vinegar to 1 cup milk)

• Up to 1/4 cup fat. (I use 1/2 cup vegetable oil, but you could use melted butter too.)

• 1 egg (you can replace the egg using 1 full tablespoon of soy flour and 1 tablespoon water)

• Up to 1/2 cup sweetener (My family likes them sweeter, so I use 1 cup white sugar or 1 cup brown sugar.)

• 2 teaspoons baking powder 

• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

• 1 to 2 teaspoons vanilla (optional)

• 1 tablespoon grated citrus zest (optional)

• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon (optional, but really tasty with the fruit additions)

• 1 1/2 to 1 3/4 additions. This could be chopped fruit, fresh or frozen berries, shredded zucchini, or carrot, pumpkin purée, applesauce, mashed banana, cranberries, etc. 

Topping

Sprinkle brown or white sugar on top. 

Or, make some streusel topping:

1 tablespoon butter

1/3 cup firmly packed brown sugar

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 cup walnuts (optional)

Mix all the ingredients together with a fork or your fingers in a small bowl. Set aside for later.

Mix dry ingredients together with a whisk. Mix wet ingredients together (sometimes I just throw the wet ingredients in the blender to mix). Then mix the wet with the dry ingredients and fold in the additions. Spray or grease your muffin tins and fill until two thirds full. Sprinkle on topping and pop in the oven. Bake in a preheated oven at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. 

Snow White

I admit it. If I were a Disney character, I'd be Eeyore. I like to putter, complain, and generally wallow in self pity. But my sister Julie is another story. Though we grew up with the same mother in the same house, somewhere along the way Julie found her inner princess. (Photograph by Gary Barnes.)

Earlier this year, Julie sent me this picture of her all decked out like Snow White for her pre-school's carnival. Yep, you heard right. My sister is a talented preschool teacher with a genuine love for every child in her classes. And, while I too did some time working in a preschool as a classroom aide, I never got to the point of actually enjoying it. In fact, by the end of the year I had gone completely bonkers. But Julie has been teaching little kids for years, loving every minute of it. All right, maybe she doesn't love every minute, but every time I talk to her about a bad day, she always says, "Tomorrow will be better." And she means it. And inevitably, tomorrow is better for her, mostly because she believes that it will be so. 

Oh sure, I know what you're thinking about this princess costume thing. Or, at least I know what I was thinking. I need to get me one of those dresses so everyone will treat me like royalty, I said to myself. Because I'm a princess. I'd also like some dwarves to run this household so I can get some more reading done.

But when I talked to Julie about it on the phone, royal subjects and housekeeping dwarves never even entered the conversation. "I love making everybody happy," she said. I was speechless. Inside I was thinking, "Are you for real?" At that moment, it seemed quite likely that I was really adopted, just as I had always suspected. Could it be possible that she enjoys being a princess so that she can make other girls feel like princesses? Julie went on. "Seeing everyone smiling was the most fun, I think." At this point I was groaning inside. There's one thing I know about me and my sister, and it's this: the only way I'm getting into heaven is if Julie (or any of my other sisters for that matter) smuggles me in via her suitcase. Otherwise, seeing as how Hades might be my eternal vacation spot, I better get used to my least favorite things: extremely hot weather,flip-flops (eternal blisters between my toes), wearing a bathing suit, and mustard (second pregnancy nausea trigger). 

Julie's voice roused me from my visions of the afterlife. "My coworkers told me, 'Your face must be tired after three hours of smiling,'" Julie said, and giggled. I could picture her at the carnival, smiling in a genuine way to everyone who passed by. I could see her leaning down to talk to the children,hugging them, looking at them like they were the most amazing person she had ever met with the most fascinating things to say. I can picture these things because that's they way she talks to everybody, dressed as a princess or not. "My face did hurt," Julie admitted. "And my feet, too. But I like to make kids happy." 

This was too much. Suddenly, thoughts of lounging on the couch reading novels while my dwarves scurried about taking care of things seemed downright selfish. And lazy. So I determined right then and there to be more like my sister. I decided to think of others before myself. I decided to sing and laugh more. And I decided that even if I never become a real princess I can still treat everyone else like royalty. Just like my sister, Snow White. 

Recipe: Peanut Butter and Carrot Sandwich

Ok, I know this sounds…unique. But it is actually really good! And good for you, too. (As long as you don't go too hogwalla on the peanut butter.)

This recipe was inspired by Marilyn Diamond's The American Vegetarian Cookbook from the Fit For Life Kitchen, a cookbook gifted to me by my cousin on my wedding day. Unfortunately, this cookbook is out of print, so if you want to buy a copy you will have to search for it used. Even if you aren't vegetarian, there are a lot of good, wholesome, tasty recipes in Diamond's book.

Here we go:

2 slices whole-wheat or other whole-grain bread. You can toast it if you want to. I never do.

Peanut butter, the natural kind or whatever you have on hand

1 carrot shredded (make sure it is sweet. A bitter carrot will ruin your sandwich.)

Lettuce, spinach, or alfalfa sprouts (I don't care for sprouts so much, so I use lots of lettuce or spinach)

1. Spread bread with peanut butter

2. Add carrots, then lettuce or sprouts

3. Eat

The idea is that the vegetables will help you digest this meal easily. If you add meat, you'll overtax your system (not that you'd want to add meat with peanut butter). If this sounds like food combining, you're right. It is. I was a food combining fanatic for a number of years. And while I don't practice it with the same ferocity (or even at all most of the time), I must admit that I feel really good when I don't mix meats with starches for every meal. So try this sandwich out. You might just find that you like this version of food combining.  

 Bon Appétit!

Letter to God: Hope Chest

Dear God,

Just a friendly note to you about a little--and I mean that literally--problem I have. I can't help but think that when you were giving out breasts you gave me the leftovers from scraps on the design room floor. I am writing to you today with the hope that you will grant me just a few more cups. I would be happy with even a smidge more than what I have. I mean, I don't need melons. But it's distressing to have only Nestle Kisses.   

Of course, things haven't always been bad. There were those three babies you gave me, with breasts to go with them. That was very nice of you. You could say I had headlights that blinked "I am a woman, yessirree." I wore snug sweaters and t-shirts, and nodded at myself in the mirror with approval. My husband liked them too. But you see, full of milk as they were, those breasts had a tendency to leak, which kind of ruined the affect. And as soon as the babies moved on to solids and formula, the breasts you loaned me disappeared. I would have been OK with this, but they seemed to have taken what little I had before the babies with them. Instead of headlights, I was left with pin lights.

Perhaps you were in a hurry when you made me. It could be that you ran out of material after you made Dolly Parton. (To be honest, I think she probably would have gone a little smaller had it been up to her.) I hope you noticed when I was in sixth grade and wore my first training bra to school. That was not a good experience, and I can't help holding you responsible for it. Had I been given a little bit more chest, things would have gone much better. My teacher asked a simple question, and my hand shot up to be the first to answer. That's when my bra scooted past my chest. I withdrew my extended hand and slammed my arm down to catch the escaping bra. The bra ended up nestled in my armpits, where it stayed for the rest of the day. Luckily I had a cardigan on over my shirt, which I hastily wrapped around me and secured with a belt. You may ask why I didn't just fix it in the girls' bathroom. That has occurred to me as well. I think I was too embarrassed. Plus, I wasn't so sure it wouldn't just happen again. I bring this up because as far as I can tell, had I saved that training bra, I could still wear it comfortably today. And, sadly, would still be in danger of bra scootage. This strikes me as not only pathetic, but terribly unfair.  

It has occurred to me that you wanted to save time, so instead of making me breasts in the Heavenly Factory, you decided to make a person who would invent plastic surgery so I could buy some breasts later on. But you know how thrifty I am. Every time I think of draining our savings account to purchase new body parts, I also think of how much I love traveling, and the travel always wins out. Besides, I've been told that there's a good chance that ten years down the road any breasts I buy now will inevitably bow down to the laws of gravity and end up like deflated and sad little balloons. I don't know if this is true, but somehow I don't think my kids would understand when I told them, "I'm sorry, you'll just have to skip college so I can buy me some more breasts." 

So I'm appealing to you. I have heard that you can move mountains. It seems to me that mine is a rather small request in comparison. Let me know what your answer is as soon as possible. After thirty some-odd years of being flat chested, I'm getting rather desperate. (I've actually considered buying a cream that is supposed to tell my hormones to pony up and enlarge my breasts by at least one cup size. However, this seems too good to be true. Also, I don't want to make a mess of my hormones. They are already a little unruly at times.) I can be reached any time of the day or night. And anywhere. Or you could surprise me with a new chest one morning. That would be nice too. 

Sincerely,

Susan

  

Mother in the Hood: Working with Interruptions

This is the article Writer's Digest published that I mentioned in Friday's post. In addition to writing, the techniques described in this piece apply to other situations. If you like to scrapbook, read, sew, or enjoy time to yourself, these tips will probably work for you. They worked for me, even though I chickened out on writing and stopped for a few years. But I regret doing so. Please don't give up on your creativity--it will give you energy to be a better caretaker. So buy yourself a timer and get yourself a hobby. You and your family will be glad you did!

I’m in my office writing when my kids start chasing each other through the house.  Within minutes, the game turns into karate kicks and slugging, with the two-year-old yelling “Cut it out” from the sidelines.  I know what comes next.  Someone will start crying and come running to me, a tattle tumbling from his lips.  

I have two choices: I could stop writing until the kids grow up, or I could deal with their interruptions right now so I can get back to work.  As I’ve never been one to wait, I’ve chosen the second option.  Here’s how you can, too.  

 Tell them “Writing is my job, and I go to work like anyone else.”  This advice comes from author Ann Rule, who managed to support her family by writing from home.  Follow her example and tell your family that writing generates income just like your spouse’s job does.  “My kids know that they have two working parents,” freelancer Carla Charter adds.  “They try not to interrupt because they know that my job allows me to be there when they need me.”

 Divide your labors.  Children’s author Rick Walton divides his writing tasks into those he can do with kids running wild and those he can’t.  For the latter, Walton schedules time to write, hangs a “Dad at Work” sign, and locks the door.   He also sets aside time specifically for “dealing with the kids and their issues, demands, and needs.”     

Set a goal.  When family attempts to derail your train of thought, having a figurative writing destination—be it a time limit, word count, or page quota—can help them to understand that eventually you will stop working.  “I can’t stop until I’ve written five pages” is more concrete than “Leave me alone.  I’ve got work to do!”. 

 If you have preschoolers, use a timer.  Set the timer for no more than thirty minutes, put it where they can watch the minutes tick by, and let them know that when the bell rings, you’ll be available.  Then follow through.  “I sometimes have to stop and play a game with my son,” says novelist Rachel Nunes.  “But then he’ll let me go back to work.” 

 Ask, Is this an emergency?  “Sometimes kids just want a little commiseration,” Nunes points out.  “I listen for a minute, then tell them I’ll help when I’m finished.” 

“But it’s an emergency!” your kids might answer.  Fire, choking, vomit—these are real emergencies.  Needing a ride to the mall is not.  Establish what you consider a valid interruption and don’t get up for anything less. 

 Threaten.  If all else fails, follow Nunes’ example and tell the perpetrators they’ll owe you a chore if they don’t leave you alone.  Then watch them run.

 Whatever you do, don’t give up.  But do get going, even if you know you’ll be interrupted.  As business writer Kevin Nunley says, it’s always easier to come back to something you’ve already started.   And that includes your career as a writer.  

 

 

I Spy Photograph

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Jinxed Blogger

Here’s the thing: every subject I write about becomes my next life challenge. It’s kind of like a psychology student thinking he has every disorder he studies. When once he thought he was normal, after studying for a mid-term he knows for sure that he’s showing all the symptoms of bipolar disorder: namely chronic bouts of depression followed by euphoria, extreme irritability, and the inability to use or understand language. This phenomenon is completely real and quite common (not to mention it sounds like my experience of what motherhood can sometimes do to an otherwise sane woman). I know because I saw it on an episode of Frasier. Only I don’t think I manifest the symptoms of every problem I write about. I know I do. I also know that by proclaiming I’ve found the answer to said problems, I’ve doomed myself to repeat them.

I first noticed this when I wrote an essay published in Runner’s World about why I like to run. By the time I got the call from the editor, I was pregnant with our third child and hadn’t gone running for months, having surrendered to the laws of gravity. I carried my babies so low, my belly always rested on my thighs even when standing. This made it painful to walk, let alone sprint through suburbia. However, I didn’t mention this to the editor. After the article and the baby came out, it took a long time to find my inner runner again. She was hibernating—after all, neither one of was getting much sleep. And there were strong indications that her hormones were out of whack.

But that wasn’t the only time I jinxed myself. When my youngest was four, Writer’s Digest published an article I wrote about writing amid distractions, namely children. Within a month of publication, I stopped writing altogether, realizing that I turned rather wenchy when faced with deadlines and a real paycheck. It seemed easier to silence my mind rather than yell at my family. 

But I forgot about these things when I started blogging. I sat in my little purple office, answering the door when the muse knocked, walked into the house, and began to chatter. I clattered away on my keyboard, inviting everyone to sample a few morsels of my personal life, in particular things that worked to solve my many hang-ups. Only, instead of keeping my solutions strong and effective, writing about them broke their spell.

I wrote about following the French way of eating small portions, using good manners and all that. The day after posting I said to myself, “What was I thinking?” and grabbed a bag of chips, which I devoured standing at the kitchen counter. “After all, I’m not French—I’m American.” I then proceeded to gobble everything in sight, including cheap chocolate that tasted suspiciously like soft sweet cardboard.  

Then I did a piece on green smoothies. Shortly after, I had no desire to drink them any more, even though they make me feel great and clear up my complexion (which at this point looks like a topographic map. The Pyrenees traverse my chin and Mt. Saint Helens looks like she might erupt from the west border of my lips.).

Following this, a friend gave me a terrific recipe for chocolate chip cookies. Even though for years I’ve micro-managed my dessert intake like Cinderella’s evil stepmother, after photographing the cookies and posting the recipe, I decide to eat “just one.” Famous last words. Let’s just say that “just one” turned into about a dozen times saying “just one more.” I could forgive myself for this slip-up if it only happened once in a while. But the following day it happened again. And when the cookies ran out, there were brownies to replace them.

Next I wrote about body image, using a re-touched photograph to show how tainted and manipulated our perception of the perfect body has become. That’s when I noticed how heavy my body feels, how much my gut has expanded from all the treats, how tight my jeans are around the waist. I considered joining a health club. Then I remembered how much I dislike people watching me exercise. Plus, I don’t want to have to buy cute outfits or worry about body odor, or someone asking me “Are you OK?” when I breathe laboriously and appear to be drowning in great reservoirs of flop sweat. At the very least, I tell myself, I will run one hour each day to erase the many mistakes, like body repentance. But the next morning when my alarm went off, I rolled over, cradled my belly in my hands and rationalized that my body is like my home, which looks awkward and lonely when it’s perfectly clean. When we have people over, I want to say, “This is what our house would look like if we didn’t live here.” I fell back to sleep, savoring the idea that my enlarged belly looks cozy and lived-in, like a big overstuffed couch. If my stomach somehow miraculously flattened, I would have to say, “This is what my body would look like if it weren’t actually attached to me.” Even though this image lulled me to sleep, when I finally woke up for real, I leaped past the mirror on my way to the shower just so I didn’t have to see my naked, lumpy body. So much for a healthy self-image. 

And as for the infamous post about cleaning the toilet with a spirit of service rather than resentment, let’s just say that for the last two weeks I haven’t thought of Comet as anything more than a gaseous extraterrestrial body that streaks through the night sky. I do still love my husband, though. Only now I express my affection by baking him cookies.  

So what’s a blogger to do? How do I rid myself of this jinx? How do I stitch up everything these posts have undone? First off, I don’t think I’ll write about things I thought I had solved. Because really, I don’t have a clue. I’ve only managed to keep my little tricks a secret from myself. It’s just like when I used to walk into my kids’ rooms as they stirred from a nap and had to tell myself, “Don’t make eye contact” because the moment I did, they popped up, hair smashed against their heads and eyes wild like a cat ready to play. Likewise, the moment I wrote about my routines and philosophies of self-management, my Self woke up. “You’re not the boss of me!” my Self said, sticking her tongue out.  And I’m not. I’m just the girl who won’t make eye contact with herself or this thin eggshell of an ego will fall apart. So stay tuned. The doctor is no longer in the house. But the patient is.   

PS

Check back tomorrow at 4 pm for a fun I Spy picture. Gather the kids around to see if you can find all of the objects!

Recipe: NY Times No-Knead Bread

Voila! Your friends and family will think you slaved over this bread. Shh! Don't tell them that it only required stirring skills and a great amount of patience. Just eat it and smile!

 All photographs copyrighted by me, Susan Hayward.