Day #25 — Who Would Like to Go First

Prompt: Who Would Like to Go First

Tapping the edge of the yardstick on the floor between her splayed feet, Mrs. Cumberman looked around the room, slowly sliding her eyes up one row of desks and down the next. Tricia could feel the beady black eyes scorch the part in her hair as Mrs. Cumberman passed by her downturned head.

"Who would like to go first?" the teacher asked, taking a deep breath and holding it while she waited for a volunteer to come forward. "No one? David Anderson? How about you?"

"No, ma'am," David said.

"No, ma'am what?" Mrs. Cumberman tapped hard on the last word.

"No, ma'am, I would not like to go first. I had the flu till yesterday and just go the assignment from my brother last night, so my project is not ready."

"I see. How many days did you miss?"

"Six school days."

"Then you have until Monday to complete your project. You will go first on Monday. Patricia Bailey. I have just volunteered you to go first, since the rest of the class seems to have suddenly contracted stage fright and Mr. Anderson is just back from sick leave."

Tricia stared at her desk. Every hair on her arms was standing on end, like the time when she rubbed it against her birthday balloon. Her feet were itchy inside her shoes and socks, and she couldn't bring herself to look up as she grabbed her poster board and headed to the front of the room.

"Class, Miss Bailey will be your teacher for the next five minutes. What topic will you be enlightening us about today, Miss Bailey?"

"The bmermer," Tricia mumbled.

"Speak up, Miss Bailey. The students in the back of your classroom cannot hear you. In fact, the students in the front rows cannot even hear you. Ricky Balsam, can you hear Miss Bailey?"

Ricky cupped his hand behind his ear. "Eh? Did you say something, teach?" he said, and the class giggled. Tricia glared at him from under her lowered eyelids.

"The BEAVER," she shouted so loudly that the sound ricocheted off the back wall and bounced back so loudly into her own ears that she had to cover them with her hands.

Time: 10 minutes

They say that public speaking ranks in the top three things that people fear the most. I think most people remember feeling terrified at the idea of making a fool of themselves in front of classmates, especially if they had a teacher who they perceived as mean. If I were to spend time rewriting this scene, I would concentrate on how Tricia was feeling.

Day #23.5 — It finally happened

So if you've been paying attention — and not many people have — I broke my streak. After 22 straight days of SFDs, I missed yesterday. But, to quote my son, it's not my fault. Really. I spent the entire day at the hospital figuring things out for my mother in law who was having some issues after surgery. Now, don't you feel bad that you thought less of me? I woulda if I coulda. Really.

So, here's what I've decided. I'm granting myself a Mulligan, a do-over. I'm turning a blind eye and extended my "day" from yesterday to include this 10-minute free-write and I'm going to date it as if I had written it yesterday on 1/29 (aren't the publishing options offered by blogger great?). Then, I will do another 10 minute free write based on a different prompt and date it today, 1/30. Brilliant, right? I'll be all caught up and only you will be the wiser. If only all my problems were this easy to solve. So, here we go with one of the final prompts from Lisa Romeo.

Prompt: Report Card

My mom is going to kill me. She is flat out going to kill me. I'm doomed. A C- in math. Math. I've never gotten less than an A on anything, and now a C- in math. How is it going to look when the son of a professor of Applied Mathematics at MIT is practically failing math. She is going to kill me.

The thing is, I hate math. I always have. Ever since I got that plastic placemat with the times tables on it and my mom started quizzing me at breakfast every morning, I have hated math. I like words. I like books. I like to read, but I really, really hate math.

I guess I could be good at it if I tried. I mean, if genetics plays a part in the equation, then a math professor and an economist should have produced a son who could do math if he tries, right? But what if I can't do it? What if I tried everything, and did all the homework, and studied before the tests and quizzes and then I still flunked. Then my parents wouldn't just kill me. They'd hate me.

Maybe my mom will forget that it's report card day. Maybe I can say I forgot it, or lost it. Maybe I can say that they are mailing report cards home now and that it got lost in the mail. That sounds perfectly reasonable, since half of my bar mitzvah invitations never made it the the right mailboxes. I think I'll go with that one. At least it will buy me some times. If I could put my mom off track for four more days, then it's fall break, so that gives me another week, but then it's parent-teacher conferences that Wednesday. Hmm, four days, plus seven days, plus three more days — that gives me a full two weeks before I really have to worry.

Time:  11 minutes

I wonder why I always find it so much easier to write from the point of view of a boy than a girl when I write for children. That's so curious to me. Perhaps it's because I have three sons and only one daughter, or maybe because I'm so different from my daughter. Still, you would think I would be tapping into my own sensory memories from childhood.

Day #17 — Day After Day

I have not been feeling at all well today, but I don't want to break my string of consecutive free writing days. Funny how it was easier to give up my Friday walking date than it is to give up my date with this online journal. Clearly, I've managed to make writing more of a habit than exercise. Big surprise.

I've been watching the telethon for Haiti and my initial reaction to this prompt from Lisa Romeo was to talk about the relentlessness of the current tragedy, but I changed my mind. We'll see where it goes from here.

Prompt: Day After Day 

Day after day, the sun refuses to shine. Like me, it seems barely able to haul its ass out of bed to get done the work that is absolutely necessary before its 12-hour shift is over and it can go back to sleep. 

Laundry — done. Well, done enough. There are clean socks and underwear. I even put Peter's in his drawer so he won't bitch about having to pull them out of the laundry basket when he gets dressed for work tomorrow. Why does underwear need to be folded? Who invented dressers, anyway? What difference does it make as long as they're clean? What does he want from me.

The baby clothes are clean, too, at least most of them, although not put away. I just couldn't do it. Rachel came by for about an hour to stay with the babies so I could get to the grocery store. We had nothing. Now we have next to nothing, but enough to get us through the weekend — as long as Peter doesn't mind spaghetti for dinner again.

Jesus, why am I so tired? I wanted these babies for so long. I would have done anything to get them. I did do everything to get them — injections and hormones and harvesting and invitro and surgeries. God, it was so important to me. Now I look at them and think "Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" They can't possibly be my babies. They don't even look like me. They don't even look like people — just, I don't know, wrinkly red worms or something. 

I'm so pissed at my mom. All those years she bugged me and bugged me about things she didn't understand — what I should wear (like she knew what teenagers were wearing), where I should go to school (she never even went to college), who I should marry (like my dad was such a prize). Now, when I really need her, when she could actually help me because she knew how to take care of babies, where is she? Dead. 

Good and dead and I'm all alone with these people who want stuff from me all day long. They want my boobs, they want formula (because my two boobs aren't good enough for their two hungry mouths, even though I'm now a D-cup). They want to be changed and have their butts wiped and snot cleaned when the cry and it bubbles out of their nostrils. It's not anything like I imagined it would be. They aren't sweet and good smelling and happy to see me when I walk in the room. And every time I fall asleep (which could be any minute), one of them wails. They don't cry little baby cries — they wail loud sirens of misery and discontent. Day after day. Night after night. 

I read all the books. I know "this too shall pass". But when? Will I make it? Will I ever feel like a mother, like I would do anything for them? Where did that feeling go? I can tell you this; I think I would do anything for them if I could just get one night's sleep. Just one.


Time: 13 minutes

This was an odd thing to write because I never felt this way about my babies. I know many women who did, but babyhood never got to me like this. I have felt it since then, many times, but I don't think it's as overwhelming when they are not completely helpless. My mother didn't die, although she almost did on my wedding day and I remember being absolutely furious with her at the idea that she wouldn't be around right when I needed her again.

Today, with this weird virus and the relentlessness of winter and the tragic news on TV, I felt like all I wanted to do was sleep and shut out the world. And I did. I could, because most of my children were at school and the one who was home did not need constant care and attention, and he was not in danger being awake while I was asleep. I did drag myself out of bed this morning and again this afternoon to get the necessities done. That and no more. Tomorrow, the girl needs to be at school at 5:30 a.m., so I will go to sleep again now, and start over again in the morning. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Day #16 — Pie

Today's writing prompt — well, really yesterday's prompt, if you've been following — is pie. Pie! Thanks to Lisa Romeo for her daily prompts.

Prompt: Pie

Birthdays = cake and ice cream. Right? It's tradition. It's the candles and the song and the fanfare and making wishes and blowing hard, with the lights dimmed and everyone clapping. But I don't like cake — or at least I don't like most cake. A good carrot cake with homemade cream cheese icing (or is it frosting) may be an exception. This was our wedding cake, though, so it doesn't have any birthday connotations for me.

I like ice cream just fine. In fact, I like ice cream just a little too much, if you know what I mean. But the sweet I really crave for my annual celebration is a birthday pie. Peach pie, to be specific. This tends to be a little problematic, since my birthday is in late September, several weeks past the end of peach season. So to produce a really good peach pie for my birthday, I need to plan ahead and freeze some of those juicy fruits when they are at their peak.

I don't know when I developed such a taste for pie. I don't remember loving it as a kid and I hate when the crust is overcooked. I do remember baking pies with my grandmother. She wasn't really a very good cook, coming from the school of thought that you started cooking Thanksgiving dinner at 5:30 in the morning and cooked everything all day long until one dish was virtually unrecognizable from the next and, often, barely recognizable as food.

But the woman made a mean pie crust (and great pierogi, but that's another story). I remember watching her put the crust together by hand, cutting the cold butter into the flour and working without a recipe. Pie crust is touchy. Even though there are only a few ingredients (mostly butter and flour, and maybe a little ice water or cold milk and some salt), a good crust is very dependent on ambient conditions, such as temperature and humidity — and good pie crust bakers put their dough together according to feel.

My grandma would line her pie tins, and then cut off the excess crust and give it to my cousin and me to make little tarts. First we would eat half of it, and then would knead and roll it practically to death, so that by the time we got it into the tart pans it was as tough as leather. Still, it was much more fun than Play Dough, because we were really cooking.

I don't remember eating very many of my grandmother's pies. Maybe we only baked together a few times, but those experiences provided powerful memories.

The best pie I ever made was a pear pie with cranberries. It was just beautiful. It took me a long time to get the crust thing down. Finally, I learned to follow the multi-step directions in the Joy of Cooking. If you follow their recipe exactly, your pie will be perfect every time.

Personally, I prefer a good fruit pie. Lemon meringue may look beautiful, but it just isn't as good to eat. Key lime pie is great, but the graham cracker crust puts it into a different category all together. Some like custard pies, like French Silk or banana cream. Fair enough, but give me a peach pie or a sour cherry pie (yum!) or blueberry (third choice), apple or even raspberry pie any day over those cream pies, thank you very much.

Time: 11 minutes

This piece could definitely be worked into a Two Kinds of People post. I'll have to keep it in mind. It might also be part of a memoir-type of essay. I see quite a few possibilities here. The writing seems particularly disjointed to me. Perhaps because there are so many possibilities, I had trouble picking a path and sticking to it. No worries, though. That's what SFDs are for.

Day #12 — Better Late Than Never

It's 12:20 a.m. here, but it's still 1/17/10 somewhere, so this last-minute post counts toward my resolution. Hah, I just read Lisa Romeo's prompt for the day. As my son would say, "ironic isn't it".

Prompt: What Took You So Long

There you are. Geez, you have no idea how long I've been waiting for you. You're nothing like I imagined (but in a good way). How could you be? You're you, and I couldn't have possibly imagined anyone or anything as perfect, as unique and as wonderful as you. And to think we've only just met. Imagine how I'll feel once I've gotten to know you.

Now, about your name. I've been poring over baby name books since even before I knew you were coming and, after much rumination, I came up with a short list. But guess what? Your name isn't on it. I took one look at you and I knew right away that you couldn't possibly be a Lucas or a Shepard or a Seneca. Sorry about the Seneca thing, and Shepard was your dad's idea. I never would have let him do that to you, but I had to humor him and put it on the list. He thought Shep sounded cool, but I think it's a dog's name. Maybe we'll get you a dog and name it Shep.

So, what to name you? I just don't know. I mean, you're much handsomer than I imagined, and far more stoic (you've hardly cried at all in the whole two hours since you were born). I think you need an important name, something classic but not boring, you know? 

How about Theodore. It's full of import, and yet you could still be a kid with it because the nicknames aren't terrible: Ted, Teddy, Ed, Eddie, Theo. Do any of those strike your fancy?

I wish I knew you better, buddy. It would help if you could talk, or maybe at least nod your approval when I hit the right name. Plus, if you have any ideas about how to make your name sound like it was your dad's idea, that would be a huge help. Otherwise, we're going to have to call you Shep.

Time: 11 minutes

Shep? Where did that come from? I've had several conversations with writers over the last few weeks about how one of the best parts about writing fiction is you get to name your characters without having to birth them, pay for their braces or send them to college. But Shep? Sheesh.

Substitutions Permitted — Day 3

Today's prompt from Lisa Romeo  is "Substitutions Permitted". I've been working hard on a new Website today (so exciting!), and almost let the day slip by without my 10 minutes of free writing. Even I can keep up a new practice for more than two days, however, so I'm taking a break from designing my site and setting the timer now for 10 minutes.

Prompt: Substitutions Permitted

We made the sub cry today in math. It was awesome. And not awesome. But mostly awesome. It was the end of the day. We have math for two periods every day now. OMG, so boring. I guess a bunch of kids did really bad on the standardized tests last year, and now I'm stuck in math for 90 consecutive minutes. Shoot me now.

So, anyway, Jack was being his usual Jack self, hopping out of his seat every 35 seconds, interrupting every time the sub tried to say anything and generally just being Jack. I tried to ignore him — we all try to ignore him — but he's so tall now (the biggest kid in eighth grade), that it's totally impossible to ignore him. The sub kept telling him to sit down.

So, Jack sat down. But, 35 seconds later and he was up again. And, of course, we all laughed. The sub, Mr. Gorquey (GORKY!!!!), started to get really pissed off. "Sit down right now, young man. What is your name?"

"Jack," said Jack. 

"Well, Jack, sit down and stay sat."

"Yes, sir," said Jack, giving Mr. Gorky a little salute and we all laughed again.

"What's so funny," yelled Gorky — and that's when it happened. Just when he said "so funny", this thing kind of fell out of his mouth. It was so gross! It had three teeth attached to it and he kind of spit it out, I guess by accident, when he was yelling at us. It clunked on his desk and Sophie yelled "Oh, sick," and AJ, quick as anything, reached out and grabbed the dentures or whatever they were right before Gorky could pick it up.

Then, AJ starts jumping from desk to desk and chair to chair, waving the teethy thing in the air while Gorky chases him around. And that's when the really bad thing happened. I'm sure it was an accident and all, just like he said, but Jack kind of was stretching those super long legs of his and Gorky wasn't looking or anything and he tripped over Jack's size 13 feet and … Splat! He fell right on his face.

Time: 11 minutes

My son told me that his math teacher is taking a "little break" because the eighth graders made him cry. My reaction as a mom was utter horror, but it also took me right back to middle school — that barely human time where school is really more like a holding tank for hormones than an institution of learning. That's where the prompt led me.

Cramping Up on Cramped

Day 2. Today's prompt from Lisa Romeo is "Cramped." Maybe I was just up too late writing last night, but nothing immediately comes to mind, so I'll try a little free association. Setting the 10-minute timer now. Go.

Prompt: Cramped

Cramped, cramping, cramps. Menstrual.
Cramped, tight, claustrophobic.
Cramped, clamped, champed, camped.
Cramped, crimped, crumpled.

I hate sitting in the middle. Pauly always gets the window seat behind mom. Danny always get the window seat on the other side. And I'm always smushed in the middle. No fair. 

"I did not elbow him in the ribs. His ribs hit me in the elbow."
"I am not on his side. I'm in the middle. I want a side."
"I call the window on the way home."
"What if I have to throw up. I can't even reach the window. Don't blame me if I puke in Pauly's lap."
"Mom, Danny's making gagging noises trying to get me to puke in Pauly's lap."

When I grow up, I'm getting a car with no middle seats. And I'm only having two boys. And everybody will get a window.

When I grow up, I won't let my bigger kids push the littlest one around and always take the best stuff and the best spot.

When I grow up, I will never, ever blame the kid in the middle just because he has no room and everybody is always blaming him for stuff he didn't do.

I wonder what it's like to be the oldest. I bet it's great. Pauly thinks it's great. "Little baby Andy-pants, doesn't sing and doesn't dance." I hate older brothers.

And middle brothers. They're just as bad. Pauly bugs Danny, so Danny bugs me. Maybe Mom will have another baby so I have somebody to bug. Maybe I should ask for a little brother for my birthday. Maybe then we could get a bigger car and I wouldn't have to sit in the middle. Stuck. Smushed. Cramped in the middle. I bet Batman never had to sit in the middle. I bet Batman doesn't have any big brothers, either.

Stop. 10 minutes.

Hmm. Kid dialogue seems to come easy, but cramped isn't a kid word. It is a kid feeling, though. Kids feel everything so intensely — every slight, every pain and itch and loose tooth. I have to remember that when I revise my Ian manuscript.