Was January ever a month to look forward to?
Christmas is over.
The New Years hangover has run it's course. (From lack of sleep of course)
The evil mailman delivers the credit card hammer.
Reckoning day.
Every magazine in Wal-mart mocks your soggy middle.
But don't worry, dieting books leach the shelves.  Parasites that are soon betrayed by their hosts come mid-February.
The love of fudge turns into loathing as you pull your newly tight pants on.
Treadmill sales rake in the black.
Fists of cash are thrown down on the gym membership roulette table.  Odds of getting your moneys worth?
Gray.
Cold.  Bitter cold.
I'm going to do better.
I'm going to be better.
Lose weight.
Eat right.
Lose weight.
Bets are placed on the horse named Resolution.
31 days.

There's always Martin Luther King Day, the island of winter sanity.

Why is it the very month of hopes and dreams, a mark of succes, of making it through another year, is the least loved?  Maybe we should ban mirrors for January.  The ones that tell us there are consequences for holiday glutony.  consequences for making it another year.  The lessons learned clearly lined on our faces.  

Is it January's fault?  Maybe all the other months got to choose their places and January was the last one drawn out of the hat.  And everyone said, hey, it's not so bad, you're the new year, you're the flag bearer.  But he knew, if it wasn't so bad, someone like march would've taken it.

Poor January keeps getting told he's too fat and he's nothing like festive December.  He tries to be hopeful, but the sun doesn't cooperate, and the irs doesn't either.  They keep sending out statements and balances with letter and number combinations.  Reminding everyone the piper gots to get paid. 

January does have a few redemptive qualities.  Hot chocolate.  Books and blankets.  Snuggly, fuzzy socks.  Early dinners.  Soups and homemade breads.  Snowmen and sledding.  Routine.  Board games and family time.  Making bubble blankets over the heater vent.  Movies and snuggling. 

But for me, the best part of January was the birth of my son Nathan.  We both fought, we both lived.  The nurses couldn't wedge his fat body from my arms.  I remember laughing when they told me I couldn't lift anything over 8 pounds.  Nathan weighed 9 pounds 7 ounces at birth. 

He was my last miracle baby.  Healthy, strong, and so warm against my chest.  5 years ago I hated December.  Every day was a thousand.  But January, oh how I loved January.  Finally, finally, my gorgeous perfect little boy was in my arms.  And today, we made cupcakes, and played with monster trucks.  He sat on my lap and wrapped his arms around my neck.  We had a kissing war.  And I watched him blow out 5 candles. 

So January, there are a lot of things about your time slot that could bring you down.  But no other month can claim that they gave me Nathan.

Happy Birthday son.

I have to admit I've never read your books.  Not because I thought they were evil, just, well, I'll have my therapist send over a copy of session #487 and then you'll understand why.

It's been a long time since I've seen my son choose to spend his before school time reading.  He thinks it's work, even though he's one of those genius kids who scored higher on reading tests than high school kids, in 2nd grade. 

Occasionaly he'd force himself through The Box Car Children.  He did read C.S. Lewis's Chronicles series.  But anyway, what I'm saying is, he's a capable kid who drives me crazy with his reading attitude.

That is, until I introduced him to your books.  He loves them.  He voluntarily reads them.  (Could you write a book about brushing teeth?)

Obviously, you have a huge following.  And even though I'm not going to dress up as Dumbledorf and sit outside the theater for two days before the debut of your next movie, because of my son, I'm a fan.

And p.s. Don't let yourself get down about being adverb happy.  What we forget sometimes is, a great story, and a great voice are all that's needed.  Plus, you can laugh at the critics all the way to the bank.  I don't see any bobble-heads of writing critiques anywhere.

Thanks,

A mom.

To be a writer, you must write, but you must also read.  Which, because of the latter, puts me way behind the curve. 
I think with pregnancies, babies, toddlers, diapers, and being a wife and a mom in general, I've felt it very selfish to read - for pleasure. (I know that wasn't right, but it's what it was.) 
And I think when I was younger, the choose your own adventure books, ruined me.  No patience.  I cheated on them.  And yes, I peeked at my Christmas presents.  But Brendan stopped that bad present peeking habit of mine.  I am completely cured.  Except I'm still impatient with books.
So, I've never been a member of a book club.  I've never paid attention to people's recommendations.  Not even Oprahs. (I don't watch her show.)
Yes, I'm a complete book snob.  I've spent more time the past few years reading repair manuals.  Wait, I do frequently visit the likes of Louisa May Alcott, and C.S. Lewis.  And also Barbara Park.  Cuz that Junie B. is hilarious.  We would be friends I think.
Only in the last 6 months have I really picked up reading.  Ones I couldn't put down were written by Ann Cannon, Carol Lynch Williams, and Ann Dee Ellis.  There are others I liked very much, but these, I feasted on.
Lately, I've been on a little bit of a dry spell with books.  None that have held me.
UNTIL........................ dah dah dah DAH!

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. 
Are you kidding me?  This is an excellent book.  I didn't put it down.  Ask my forlorned husband, he will confirm this.
It was a literary feast.  The characters were excellent.  I could picture every part of the book.  The protagonist was brilliant.  The subject matter was strangely believable. 
Some of it I have to say was predictable.  And some difficult decisions were evaded, I thought. 
But not so offensive to cause me to put it down.  And I would have no reservations recommending this book to teenagers.  Which is a stark contrast to one I picked up from the library that burned my eyes with language and sexual content.  It might've made Eminem blush.

So this is what I had to say.  I read the hunger games in a matter of hours, and I would do it again.  So if you're looking for book endorsements from picky snobby readers, look no further.

Can't wait to read the next one. 

Have you seen Pocahontas? 
The end.
Have you seen Fern Gully?
The end.

This is how clueless I am.  I had no idea that an Avatar really exists.  That people who live in the virtual reality world decide they would be a better creator than the one we have and make themselves 6 foot 7 with outrageous muscles.
I don't do Zooville, or Yoville, or Farmville, or Simville, or Liveadoublelifeville.
So already, you can see that when the protagonist in the movie says things like, "Everything blurs together and I don't know which world is a dream and which is real." I gag and roll my eyes.  Did we not see the Matrix?  Did Keanu die for nothing?

Yes, the colors of the wind were amazing, and the imagination as well.  But seriously, was one of the producers named Al Gore?  This was the Copenhagen Convention on crack.

Once again,
man = ruthless militant killers who will destroy anything to make a buck
or man = vigilante who must turn on his own kind because the other kind is always forest friendly and loving, and innocent, and oh my goodness we should all have their babies, wonderful.

The entertainment value would have increased if the movie wasn't saturated with Al Gore's cheap cologne.  Can you tell he's not on my BFF list?  

I will give it one thumb up.  The imagination itself was worth it.  Just ignore the people at the exit who want you to sign a petition for Al Gore to go back in time and demand another recount in Florida. 

I discovered that as much as my arms yearn for another baby, life is brilliant when everyone can use the bathroom themselves. (Mostly)

The key to a happy marriage is to marry Brendan J. Felix.  Holding hands, dancing in the kitchen, and kissing until your 12 year old daughter runs in grossed out horror helps too.  It's also beneficial to have him love me so much he'll make his very own, Team Lucinda t-shirt.  He's my best friend, and biggest supporter.

Having a daughter old enough to swap clothes with is funner than I thought it would be.  We'll see what happens when I start running around in pink polyester jogging suits.  With embroidered flowers of course.  And maybe even a kitty.

Talking about writing with friends isn't the most loserest thing on the planet.  I know it sounds like geek squad, but seriously, writers are slightly messed up and hilarious.  I found my home.

I think the term BFF rightly belongs to more than one person.  I've had some forever, I've had some I just met, and others that have been found again.  I'm constantly and pleasantly surprised at how the heart can love so many so completely.

I never knew why people wasted so much money on anti-wrinkle products.  Hello people, there's no stopping it.  That is, until I started noticing how many I have.  Ugh.  Really?  Do I have to have them?  People are going to stop saying I look way too young to have four kids.  Oh, and, Andrea who sat next to me on the flight to Washington, thanks for telling me I didn't look any older than 23.  (The lights were dim, but I'll take it.)

You can still learn after the college years.  I'd have to say that's probably one of my most favorite things about being a stay at home mom.  I have the freedom to focus on what I want.  And also get lots of hugs and kisses from my Nathan.  Playing with legos is also cool.

I like my thirties.  It's funny how your view of "old" changes as you age.  I've learned a few things.  I don't worry about a lot of things I used to.  I don't ever want to be famous.  I don't need 15 minutes of glory.  I just want to talk about books with my daughter, go on dates with my husband, watch my kids play sports and do well in school, and do my best to be faithful to my beliefs, my family, and my friends. 

So I guess I have to tell myself the wrinkles are okay.  I don't need people to tell me they think I'm 23, because I wouldn't really want to go back there anyway.  Even though I did have two cute and fat babies then.

I'm just saying, looking at all that has happened, I'm happy.

Green trees, green moss, green grass, and wet, wet, wet.  My home.Or what used to be.

I scraped the nail off of my big toe on my right foot, turning the soft pink flesh into hamburger.  I learned the hard way, not to ride a ten-speed with flip-flops on.  The street was so long, so steep.  The speed of the wind in my face filled my mouth and whipped my unruly long hair.  Until I ran into a bush, scraping my hands and knees, or flew over the handle bars when I lost control of the front wheel.  But I kept getting back on.

A Merry-go-round of bicycles, big-wheels, and tri-cycles filled the cul-de-sacs summer days and warm nights.  Our house was big with an unfinished basement, which meant one thing, roller-skating.  The yard was a jungle of hedges, evergreens, and trees that frequently tossed us from their limbs.  The forest behind us, ever a wonderland.

Four days ago, I went back.  I drove up the short, sloping street.  Stopped in front of a little house, with a small yard.  Most of the trees had been taken down, the hedges ripped out.  No sign of our huge garden.  The forest of imagination and dreams was no longer, having been replaced by pedicured lawns, vinyl siding and asphalt roofs. 

The street was run down, the homes in disrepair.  Betty's house, which filled the street with floral scents and spring colors now coward behind molding trailors, broken cars, and overgrown weeds. 

Part of me was sad.  Sad that the little street once filled with bicycle parades and potential emergency room visits looked now like a forgotten cemetery.

The other part of me felt that was the way it should be.  I wanted it to crumble, to fall into the earth, to be swallowed.  I don't want to think about 177th place.  I went to say goodbye.  To stand on it's doorsteps as a woman, as a wife, as a mother, and tell it to let go of me. 

I don't know what lies ahead, but I know what creeps in the shadows behind me is crumbling.

I'm grateful for growing up, for getting bigger while the things behind me shrink. 

Dear 177th place,
I'm not a child anymore.

You have a job to do.  Read through this inventory.  You may ask yourself which side of the brain you use the most.  You may finally understand why you're a nut job.  Or why you're Martha Stewart. (Except for the jail part.)  For your personal entertainment I will relate my right brain domination.

Right Brain Inventory	Left Brain Inventory
• Visual, focusing on images, patterns	• Verbal, focusing on words, symbols, numbers
• Intuitive, led by feelings	• Analytical, led by logic
• Process ideas simultaneously	• Process ideas sequentially, step by step
• 'Mind photos' used to remember things, writing things down or illustrating them helps you remember	• Words used to remember things, remember names rather than faces
• Make lateral connections from information	• Make logical deductions from information
• See the whole first, then the details	• Work up to the whole step by step, focusing on details, information organized
• Organization ends to be lacking	• Highly organized
• Free association	• Like making lists and planning
• Like to know why you're doing something or why rules exist (reasons)	• Likely to follow rules without questioning them
• No sense of time	• Good at keeping track of time
• May have trouble with spelling and finding words to express yourself	• Spelling and mathematical formula easily memorized
• Enjoy touching and feeling actual objects (sensory input)	• Enjoy observing
• Trouble prioritizing, so often late, impulsive	• Plan ahead
• Unlikely to read instruction manual before trying	• Likely read an instruction manual before trying
• Listen to how something is being said	• Listen to what is being said
• Talk with your hands	• Rarely use gestures when talking
• Likely to think you're naturally creative, but need to apply yourself to develop your potential	• Likely to believe you're not creative, need to be willing to try and take risks to develop your potential

I'm pretty good with spelling and math.  I was in the spelling bee in 2nd grade.  I think that makes me a child prodigy. That description is the only one that deviates from how dominant my right brain is.  Maybe also the touchy feely one, I love to observe just as much.
 My list loving, prioritizing husband has rubbed off on me a little, so I'm not blatantly a fly by the seat of my pants nut job. 


Alright, I know I teased with the confession part, so here it goes.

Husband: Did you remember to call in your prescription refills?
Me: Not so much.  Maybe I won't need insulin anymore.  Maybe I'm cured and that thought is easier to accept than the one that says I have to make an actual phone call.

Husband: Great, you started a new project.  Did you get to the whites today like I asked?  Did you remember that you have children and they like dinner?  Did you remember that there are dishes sitting on the counter?
*okay, he really doesn't ask me these questions cuz he's nice, but I ask them to myself when I realize what time it is.

Instructions?  I don't think so.  I'm smarter than them, or maybe too impatient.  Either way they are a bother until I realize what took me 4 hours could've taken me 15 minutes.  But what fun is that?

"The man" is always trying to put me down.  Conspiracy theories are real.  When I see someone driving a Ford truck in a movie I think, stupid commercial.

"Mom did you hear me?"  Oh yes, I heard every word, but the "I'm in another world look" is still there because I'm wondering, if I thought hard enough could I actually fly?  And when the heck did the dinosaurs live?  Before Adam and Eve? No, because there was no death until that yummy fruit was eaten.  Did they die in the flood?  But what about swimming dinosaurs?  And did God tell Noah not let those guys hitch a ride?  And, I think you lied to me about brushing your teeth cuz there is an awful lot of plaque on those guys, and now it's 4:30 so crock-pot food is out of the question, so what will I make for dinner?

As you can see, I'm pretty familiar with the right side of my brain.  And yes, I left many confessions out because I'm thinking since I put that big thing in the middle to read, and plus all that I've written so far, even I'm getting bored of myself.

What side are you on?

A family of five girls. And I was smack dab in the middle. I was surrounded on every side by girliness. Blond nylon hair, disproportionate long legs to the extreme, and designer outfits littered the bedrooms and hallways. Occasionally a half-naked Barbie was found in the kitchen's junk drawer. It was a Tim Burton Mattell nightmare.

Someone had to break free from the perfectly painted blue-eyed madness. That's when I discovered Transformers and G.I. Joe's. I was already familiar with mud, snakes, frogs, and trees. But now I had comrades.

No Barbie was safe. I knew where they hid them, and knowing is half the battle. G.I. Joe and Cobra had many wars. There were mass casualties, including decapitated and butched Barbies. Some came back with limbs having been blown off. War is hell, Barbie.

Yes, there were tears, and much tattling, but humans really have no control over Deceptacons. They're Rogue. They could hit you anywhere, anytime. Even when you're skinny dipping in a swimming pool also referred to as, mom's salad bowl.

Life was hard for Barbie and all of her clones. And now she's laying pantless in my backyard, in the snow. Chunks of ice sticking to her hair, she stares into the sky, "help me, help me."

Not my daughters Barbie, no, it's the dogs. Who knew Barbie's hair was so yummy and chewable?

Do I open the back door, walk three steps and save her?

It could be traced back to the $3 week.  Newly married, he's getting his degree, working, and giving service for our faith.  I want to say I was sick as a dog, but I'm looking at my dog and thinking... no way does he know what it's like to vomit on the kitchen floor as you're running to the bathroom - then slip on the vomit (I know, yum), and then careen like an Olympic bob-sledder into a door.  He just doesn't look like he's feeling it.  He looks... clueless.  Cute, but clueless.

Um yes, I ... << MORE >>

This years Christmas Tree will go down in family infamy.  The tree that had it's fake life flash before it's eyes.  (..................................) That's life when you're fake.  But it must've been scary fake.  (,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,)  You can clearly see the difference.

Nathan kicked over a hot light, and poof, a section of my carpet looks like the bottom of my oven.  I know it could've been worse.  So I can't complain.  Instead, I did what any woman would do.  Cover it with a rug.  That's what they're made for, right? 

But all of this commotion got me thinking about our Christmas Tree.  We don't always use the fake one.  I'm sorry, should I call it faux?  Do you think the tree cares?  Does it take away from Christmas, calling it's greatest symbol fake?  Too bad.  It's fake. Fake. Fake. Fake.  You're nothing tree, you're not even there. You. Are. Fake. 

Can you tell I prefer a freshly murdered tree? 

Okay, so I'm watching my children put the ornaments on, wherever they want to.  Instead of a tree freckled with ornaments, it looks like it has splotchy hives.  I didn't know you could fit 6 ornaments on one branch.  Genius children. 

And I'm wondering... should I have a separate tree?  One for me, and one for the kids?  One that looks like the kind you see in a Christmas Tree Parade?  Although, come on people, if the trees aren't throwing candy, how can you really call it a parade?  Seriously.

My mom did it, my mother in law has done it.(The two tree thing.)  I could just tell the children we need to have symmetry, and have the tree presentable for people who will be dropping by Christmas Treats. (Hi people who bring us treats. I'm an Almond Rocha fan.  Just so you know.)  But here's the thing.  I probably shouldn't worry about the presentation of a tree until my children stop going to school looking like they're homeless and motherless. 

I like to let them choose.  Sometimes their outfits are so egregious that there must be parental interference before their teacher calls CPS.  I kind of feel that way about the tree.  It's theirs.  I'm old now.  Christmas isn't for me anymore.  (Stupid growing up.)
And if a splotchy hive tree makes them happy, so be it. 

Plus.  If I had two trees, I'm sure the kids would think they needed twice the presents. 

So. One for you and one for the kids?  Or just for you?  Or just for the kids?