An excerpt from my new book Fear of Falling

Fresh off "the worst year of her life," sixteen-year-old Maddie Hickman has sworn off love and her once-beloved self-help books in favor of editing the school paper and "banging out weepy poems." When she receives an anonymous letter from a gay student who's been physically threatened, Maddie is forced to step out of her self-imposed isolation, face her own personal problems, and take a stand. But how far is she willing to go? Will her best friends Peter and Susan stand with her? Can friendship survive past and present personal problems as well as challenging parents and unbending school administrators? And just how far are the three friends willing to go?

From Chapter 5  

Fear of Falling

I turn to Mrs. Leahy. “Mrs. Leahy? Do you have a minute?”

She cocks her head. “Where have you been all week?” I understand what she’s really asking. I tick the answer in my mind: Not hanging around after school, clacking out sad poems. All my editing for the paper was done in between “meetings” at Susan’s house and the three pounds of homework from AP History. Thank God the school paper is published triweekly.

“Sit,” she instructs. “Listen, I think it’s great that you’ve been busy with other things besides school.” She smiles. “So, what’s up?”

I look at the spine of The Great Gatsby on her desk. Then a deep breath. “I’ve decided to write the article about being gay in high school.”

Confusion or maybe anger flashes across her face as she looks away. Then her tiny hands flutter to her desk and she purses her lips. “Well.” Her face flushes while she looks from me to the door and back to me. “Where are you going next period?”

            “I have History.”

            She knows, just like I do, that Mr. Morgan is the kind of teacher that says if you’re taking AP History and are late, you’re obviously the kind of student who has a good reason. She gets up and closes the door so silently that there’s not even a click when it shuts. Like she’s trying to be quiet because a baby’s sleeping or something.

            “Listen, Maddie. That letter you received. We’re dealing with some serious stuff. Very. I don’t want you involved.” She suddenly looks young, like a student almost. Her eyes are wide and slightly watery, just the way most of us look the first few periods of the day. Her hands rest on the desk; she’s holding her left pointer finger with her right hand. “To be quite honest with you, I’m not sure if an article is a good idea.”

            “But why?”

            She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m not sure how much of this I should get into with you…”

            I don’t blink or move.

            Another sigh. “Mr. West thought he might be able to figure out who the student is. And he told me he’d take care of it, that he would keep everything anonymous. He told me not to worry. Of course I did, but … listen, this isn’t your responsibility—”

            “Anonymous wants me to help him.” I’m angry now. I stand.

            “I know, Maddie. But this isn’t your battle to fight.”

            “But he came to me!”

“You aren’t the adult here.”

I step back like she punched me. “What do you mean? God, Mrs. Leahy, you’re the one who tells us to write how we feel and not be afraid to share it with people. That the written word can change people and society. You’re the one who lectures us on bigotry and homophobia. I mean, why shouldn’t I fight this fight?  Why shouldn’t I fight for the freedom, the right to publish this article? Why shouldn’t I fight for Anonymous?”

            “Maddie, this is a public school, and it might not be the place to—”

            “Oh, my God! If this isn’t the place, then—” I throw my hands up. “So what do you want me to do? Forget that this kid called on me, asked me to help him? You always tell us to do the right thing and stand up for people who can’t stand up for themselves. To be a voice and spokesperson. I don’t get why I can’t just—”

            I swear I see tears brimming. “I’m sorry Maddie. I really am. But this … this situation. It’s really out of my hands. And yours.”

She reaches for my arm but I pull away.

“You have to let this go and focus on yourself, Maddie. You have a lot going on as it is, and—”

            “Forget it, Mrs. Leahy. Forget it.” I slam out of the classroom, surprised at my own anger, and that I even let her see it. I pat my pocket; at least I didn’t show her the draft.

Writing Through The Block: Avoidance, Fatigue, Parenting, & Yoga

Below are my random thoughts on this week, a week of sick children and husband, a week of exhaustion, a week of low creativity.

***

Avoidance

I’m avoiding the homework. Not homework for school but for the adult writing class I teach every week at the East Bay Chamber of Commerce in Warren, RI. So, I'm sitting here until something comes up–even if it's garbage or rambling. So bear with me.

OCD

Because I have to keep my blogging commitment and because I am OCD about my writing commitments, I am using this for my blog. This both motivates and blocks me.  Other people will read this, and, therefore, some holding back and censoring will happen.  Not in the first draft, but in the draft you all are reading now.

Tired

I am tired. My oldest daughter was sick all week,  my baby is teething and the suckers won’t pop through.  For four days she has been swollen, unable to suck her pacey or drink her bottle. She clings to me, her sister, her daddy, and her nanny like a baby koala.  Her grip is desperate. She laughs when we distract her, but it’s like she’s trying really hard to keep it together and then by about 3 pm, she can’t.

Peace?

You go to another place when your children are ill. Pleading, desperate, scared, anxious, and then kind of numb, autopilot.  Today, though, Viv (the baby) napped, my husband now has a sinus infection so we put him down for a nap too. My oldest, Chels, is all better, so she and I hung out on the porch and enjoyed the silence, well the no-crying silence.  The wind blew the leaves and also the pages of the magazine we shared.  But it was a moment to let my shoulders down.  It was peaceful.  It gave me a moment to be grateful that although I am tired, although I haven’t had ANY moment alone this week, the kids and hubby are all okay, nothing serious.

Exhaustion and Letting Her Help

But dealing with your children is a kind of exhausting that is indescribable. You become angry, irritable, resentful but then in an instant, you look at their faces, or, in my case, watch your daughters take a bath together (because everything else has failed to soothe the baby). Chels washes her sister, lovingly and gently, crooning, “It’s okay, Vivi, I’ll make it better.”  Then she turns to me and says, "Mama, her skin is so soft.  I never touched her belly like this.  It's so soft!" The baby turns and notices her sister has joined her,  and her beautiful cheeks and lips smile and dimple and then she claps. It's her way of saying, "Yay!  Good idea, big sis!" The bubbles spray, and this makes her giggle harder, and then it makes my oldest giggle, and so they are giggling and spraying bubbles.  I watch how my older daughter steps in at those moments that I really can’t do one more thing.  “Mom, I’ll play with Viv, it’s okay.” And off she will go, holding her baby sister’s hand, into the living room, to stack blocks or read a book together. Chelsea has made getting through these last three days, possible.  As soon as she felt better, she stepped in and said, “Mom, let me help.”  As guilty as I felt for possibly putting this burden on her, I let it happen. 

My Daughter's Gift

Saturday morning because of Viv being so uncomfortable, I couldn’t go to yoga as I usually do.  The Saturday routine is I go to yoga, Mike drops Chels off at her yoga class, and I meet her when I am done and wait in the nearby café and write. I live for this every week. This week I really needed it, but as it happened, I couldn’t get there that morning. So I take  Chels to yoga and fifteen minutes before her class ends, an adult class begins. Having long since missed my own regular class, I desparately wanted to join and jokingly told the teacher that just before she went inside to teach. She said, "Come on in!"  I told her she made my day.  I went in, not really prepared with a towel or my yogi toees or a mat or water, but the spontinity and the love of my teacher inviting me in was healing. It gave to the parts of me that did all the giving this week and the parts that cried out that they needed to be nurtured.

Feel The Guilt But Do It Anyway

Amazingly as the fifteen minutes ended, I turned and saw Chels, who had just finished her class, looking through the window at me, she smiled and waved. I hurriedly got out of my pose and went to her but she said, "Mommy go back,  it’s okay. I’ll be fine” and her teacher chimed in to say she could stay with her while I finished. The class was just an hour total and had another 35 minutes or so left. 

I wish I could say that I went back in and had this blissful experience, but I didn’t I was clogged with guilt and though I was and even confessed to the teacher I felt that, I stayed until almost the very end, and I was really glad I did.

Here's What I Don't Want To Write About

I don’t really want to write about the struggle of motherhood. The guilt of motherhood. The feeling like I’m complaining, bitching, or nagging. I have so much to be grateful for, and when I write about this struggle, it feels wrong. Who am I to complain? Maybe it’s not complaining about the struggle that I want to do. It’s something else. To capture the indescribable.

This week I felt moments of intense emotional pressure and squeezing, and I felt this sharp and clear inability to meet my own expectation of good mothering. I snapped at my older daughter when I shouldn’t have, I begged and cursed at the baby during the 100^th hour of crying. I snapped, bitched, and nagged at my husband when I shouldn’t have. I am infallibly human and unable to be the calm, serene, do-it-all mom I want to be.

And yet...

I resent...myself?  Society?  The media? For my wanting to be this do-it-all serene mother. 

I don’t want to write about that so…

I don’t want to write about this, and, yet, I must blog. I don’t want to write about my writing or work for school this week. I don’t want to write about the stuck feeling I have– not a block, not a huge wall in front of me.  Just kind of inability to move my feet quickly, to push through the fatigue.  Yep. I am tired, and I long to take a break in the routine of writng, working, mothering…I long to go for a long walk with a girlfriend and talk about anything, even about the writing, working, and mothering. But I want to take a break from the treadmill of it.  I’m tired of doing, of not being able to slow down.  Of being sooo in the very moment. Of just trying to survive it all this week.

Ready To Do Homework

So now, having written what I didn't want to, having written about the tough parts of the week, my creative block is moved. Now I'm ready to get to that homework assignment. If you'd like to read what it was, click on the link below. 

http://docs.google.com/View?id=ddwr3rgq_75hfqgkmfz