In Honor of Thanksgiving...

I am so thankful for my beautiful family, especially my daughter.

I am also deeply aware of how blessed I am that I have the ability to express myself in writing, and even more humbling... I am thankful for those of you who enjoy reading my thoughts...

So in honor of Thanksgiving (and the fact that I am now 100 PAGES IN!!! Woohoo!!) to my latest project, a collection of non-fiction...

I give you a crazy but true story of everyday life that celebrates the one, the only, Kaliah Rose McFadden:

The “Budding” Artist

            Considering how much crazy runs in our family tree, I count myself extremely blessed when I ponder how intelligent, compassionate, kind, and well-behaved our daughter has turned out to be thus far.  As a teacher, it is especially important to me that she treat her teacher and classmates with respect.  Rarely has she let me down in this aspect.  The one time she got herself in a somewhat serious bind occurred in the first grade.

            We were driving home from martial arts practice.  Each day after school, my daughter rides the bus to the martial arts studio, where she receives babysitting services and a tae kwon do lesson, two for the price of one.  So I hadn’t yet had a chance to ask her about her day when I picked her up from the studio.  She had barely shut her door and I had just climbed into the driver’s seat when she announced, “Mom, I have something to tell you.”

            “Okay,” I replied, backing the car up.

            “I don’t want to tell you,” she continued, seriously and honestly.

            I closed my eyes briefly before shifting gears and pulling out of the parking lot.  This had already been a long day (as most of my days dealing with seventh graders were).  I remember thinking, what now?, as I caught a glimpse of my daughter’s worried face in the rearview mirror.

            “Kaliah,” I said slowly.  “Whatever it is, I will still love you.  But you are going to be in much less trouble if you tell me the truth about it now than if I hear about it from someone else later.”

            “Well,” she began reluctantly, “I drew a drawing at school.  Because Kevin asked me to.”

            “Okay…”
            “It was an unappropriated drawing.”

            “Inappropriate how?” I demanded, feeling my blood pressure begin to rise, trying to keep my voice at an acceptable decibel.

            Silence answered me from the back seat.  I met my daughter’s eyes in the rearview.  They were shining with tears.

            “What did you draw, Kaliah?” I asked her, fighting to stay calm.

            “Well… Kevin asked me to draw a naked lady. So I did.”  She then burst into uncontrollable sobs.  “I feel so ashamed!” She wailed.

            For a moment, I nearly laughed.  My seven year old had drawn a naked woman, and now was beside herself, crying and apologizing.

            I grimaced to hide my smile.  “Kaliah,” I said sternly.  “You know better than that.”

            “Are they going to expel me?” she moaned.

            Again, I furrowed my brow to suppress a giggle.  “No, I don’t think so.  What else happened?”

            “I got into trouble with Mrs. Williams.  I didn’t mean to!  I’m sorry,” Kaliah melted into tears again, pressing her face into her hands.

            “We’ll talk about it when we get home.  It will be okay.  Thank you for telling me,” I practiced my best maternal discipline voice—firm but not heartless. 

            Upon arriving at home, as I fished my child’s folder from her book bag, removed her homework packet and placed Kaliah at the kitchen table with it, I rummaged through the take-home side of the folder, finding at once a handwritten note from Mrs. Williams.  I removed it from the folder, leaning over the counter to read the story according to Kaliah’s teacher.

            Dear Ms. Meister,

Today during reading time, Kaliah drew the following picture in her journal.  When I asked her about it, she claimed that a classmate asked her to draw it.  When I questioned her classmate, he denied asking her to draw this.  Kaliah approached my desk a bit later and claimed that actually, a family member had told her to draw it.  I sent a copy to Ms. Fox and explained to Kaliah that these kinds of pictures are inappropriate for school.

Thank you,

Mrs. Williams

            I could feel the blood rushing to my temples as I lifted the note to discover the drawing folded neatly underneath it:  Undeniably my daughter’s artwork:  The face, smile, and hair were mirror images of other artistic efforts she brought home.  The neck, the shoulders, and then, the reason she was in trouble:

            Two large round circles (each about twice as large as the drawing’s head).  Each circle had a carefully defined smaller, shaded circle within it.

            Boobs.

            The drawing continued to the end of the page with two long lines underneath the breasts to indicate the body, a dot in the middle of the parallel lines for a belly button, and then, thankfully, the end of the page.

            I spun around to stare at my daughter incredulously.  “You told Mrs. Williams a family member told you to draw this??” I waved the drawing in the air.

            Kaliah’s big brown eyes gazed up at me, swimming in tears.  “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

            “Which family member?” I demanded, barely recognizing my shrill, squeaky voice.

            “Um… I just told her a family member,” Kaliah said quietly.

            “Why?” I demanded, panic gripping me.  Oh, my God, Mrs. Williams was going to think we were all perverts!  A family full of them!

            “Well, Kevin lied and said that he didn’t tell me to draw anything.  Even though he did.  And I didn’t want Mrs. Williams to think that I came up with drawing the lady on my own,” Kaliah was crying again, refusing to look me in the eye.

            “So you let her think that people at home told you to draw this?  Kaliah Rose!”

            “I’m sorry, Mom!” Kaliah was dissolving into full break-down mode again.  “I didn’t want to get in trouble!”

            “Well, it’s a bit late for that!  Who’s Ms. Fox?”

            “The assistant principal.  Are they going to expel me?  I don’t want to be expelled.  I like school,” she was sobbing inconsolably again.

            I stared at my daughter, a mixture of emotions ebbing away at me.  I was humiliated that Mrs. Williams might be viewing our family as group of perverts or nudist enthusiasts.  I was proud of Kaliah for confessing her wrongdoings, and a little amazed at the degree of regret and shame she was displaying.  I was angry at this other kid, Kevin, who clearly had more experience with getting into trouble and lying his way out of it than my daughter.  Of course I believed that she had been told to draw the nude—every single day, when she finished her work early, she drew, probably to date, thousands of people, most of them girls.  Not a one amongst the thousands had ever been naked before.   Also, she hadn’t drawn it in some obscure place, knowing what she was doing was wrong.  She’d put it directly in the journal that Mrs. Williams was sure to look at. 

            At a loss for what to do, I called her father, relating the tale to him while Kaliah was taking her bath.

            “I think I did that, when I was her age,” he said vaguely.

            “Drew a naked woman?” I asked dryly.

            “Yeah… it might have been in kindergarten.”

            I hung up the phone.

            That evening, I wrote a long apology letter to Mrs. Williams, explaining that Kaliah and I had spoken about the situation, Kaliah was deeply sorry for her actions, and now she knew that drawing anything like that was completely unacceptable.  (Of course, I also mentioned that no family member had suggested that Kaliah draw a topless woman, and that we had also discussed how lying to make a situation better will inevitably make it worse.  I managed to jot down my belief that she had drawn her picture at the other child’s suggestion, but concluded that nevertheless, my daughter should know better than to listen to every idea her classmates have).

            To my daughter’s relief, no further disciplinary actions were taken.  She was not expelled, as she dreaded she would be.  The rest of her first grade year passed by uneventfully.

            Recalling the incident to a bartender at the restaurant I work at part-time, my free-spirited friend shrugged.  “It’s art!  How dare they limit her right to express herself!  Can’t anybody enjoy the form of the human body anymooooore?” he demanded, winking as he shook his dred locks from side to side.

            All’s well that ends well, I reasoned.  Taking some comfort in the fact that she had been so hard on herself, I hoped that in the future she would think before she… well, drew.

            And to this date, she has yet to be reprimanded for any additional nude drawings, nor feared expulsion for any other offense.  She may be taking less artistic risks… but in my opinion, it’s a fair trade.  After all, one year is down, and only eleven more remain.  Then, Kaliah Rose, you can draw all the naked women you want.

            Just don’t tell anybody I told you to do it.

26.2 Miles Worth of Thankful

As many of you know, I ran my first full marathon last month.

What you may or may not know, is, that I have absolutely no desire to ever do one of those again.  Ever.

There are some people who are just born for these types of races.  They thrive on them.  One crazy guy I talked to had run TWO full marathons the week before, and the one I participated in was his THIRD in a single week!  Another lady was supposedly jumping in her car just after crossing the finish line in order to drive to Tennessee to run another marathon the very next day!

I think it goes without saying that I am not one of those people.

I've been running competitively (I use the term competitively pretty loosely here) since 2010.  Not once in my training for this marathon did I ever come close to experiencing the kind of pain I felt out on the road during the actual race.  Not once during any of my shorter races (races that include 10ks, 10 milers, and a half-marathon) did I ever go through any kind of physical hardship even remotely close to what I felt around mile 22 of that full marathon.  You moms out there will understand how excruciating it was if you believe me when I tell you that it's similar to labor pains, just how much your body begins to hate you and beg you to stop.  With a marathon, though, the reward at the end is not a beautiful baby to take home.

It's just, hallelujah, that's FINALLY over.  Now somebody carry me away from the finish line.

I'm not exaggerating, even though I know I have a tendency to do just that in pursuit of a better story.  I promise that it hurt every bit as much as I'm claiming it did.

BUT, if you asked me to run that same race again tomorrow, I would.

Sure, there's a sense of accomplishment involved.  Not many people can say that they've run a full marathon.

But the real reason I'd lace up my sneakers and do it all over (and you know this is a real reason, because I haven't run so much as a mile, nor even desired to do so since the day of that race almost a month ago) is for the people who benefited from that marathon.

I had picked the Dover Delaware Monster Mash Marathon and Half-Marathon for a few reasons.  One, it was local.  I didn't want to travel.  Two, it was (supposedly) a flat course.  I don't do hills, being a Delawarean.  (I need a word with the race director regarding the "flatness" of the course.  Jogging UP the bypass entrance on mile 25.8, does not, to me, qualify as zero elevation!).  Three, I saw that it benefited The Wounded Warrior Project.

My dad was a marine, and my Poppop also served.  My mom's brother gave his life for his country back in Vietnam, so I never got to meet my only uncle on my mother's side of the family.  There are patriotic ties in my family, obviously, but for much of my life, I'd never thought too much about my uncle's sacrifice.

But then, for a college project, my Mommom sent me the letters he'd written to her from Vietnam. 

He was 19 when he was killed overseas.  I remember sitting in my bedroom, crying over the words he had penned, hopeful words written to a mother and father and sister who he planned to see again.  At 19, he was fighting for his life on a daily basis, voluntarily, as he had signed up to go and fight for our country, our freedoms.

He never got to come home.

Here I was, thirty years later, already older than he had been when he'd given his life for me and the freedoms I enjoyed, things he would never get to do--At 21, I was pursuing a college education.  Having my first legal drink in a bar.  Treasuring moments in a relationship that would lead me to the joy of motherhood.  My uncle would never take any classes for the thrill of learning, never have a drink bought for him in a bar as a thank you for his service to our country.  He would never marry his teenage sweetheart, never get to become a dad.

Countless other veterans come home to vastly different lives than the ones they left behind.  Wounded overseas, they face radical adjustments as they return to civilian life.  Physically or emotionally scarred, they DO get to come home.  The problem is, they come back changed.  They can't unsee what they've seen.  They can't undo what they've done.  Many have suffered devastating, life-changing injuries.  Not many can slide effortlessly back into the lives they left before they promised to give their life, if it came down to it, for the person fighting next to them.

When I turned 31 and signed up for the full marathon, I was checking an item off my personal bucket list.  But it became so much more than that.  What started as doing something for me turned into something so much bigger when I decided to try to fundraise.  I figured it couldn't possibly hurt anything to try, so even though I hate asking people for money and I've never been good at selling anything, I started updating my Facebook status with information about my training, the race, and the Wounded Warrior Project, which exists to help wounded veterans transition back into civilian life.  I set a $500 fundraising goal, figuring that the $1,000 default goal seemed a little high for someone who had never fundraised before.

I was blown away by the number of people who wanted to help.  Co-workers and former co-workers.  Childhood friends and Facebook acquaintances I hadn't spoken with in years.  My church family.  My biological family.  A former student.  Fellow runners.  Current close friends.  Neighbors.  Family members of my friends.  My pastor.  It was incredible who was willing to come together to support this worthy cause.

To date, and on the day of my big race, we raised $720 to hand to The Wounded Warrior Project.  That's 144% of my original goal.  It continues to amaze me, as a person of faith, how much God is willing to bless a dream beyond what we believe is possible.  I know that some people who complete marathons are non-believers.  But what I don't know is how on earth they are able to get through all those miles on their own.  For me, it was a total God thing.  (Side note--any Christian who feels your prayer life isn't going anywhere... train for a marathon.  Listen to only Christian music, or run without your headphones.  I guarantee you you'll start talking to God somewhere along the way!)  I only made it through those last few miles through the strength of Jesus Christ.  He gave me the courage and ability to continue when every muscle in my body was screaming at me to stop.  I finished--barely--in 4 hours, 40 minutes, 44.6 seconds-- 96th out of 151 overall, and 9th out of 17 in my age group.  To be in the middle of my age group was truly an accomplishment, for this to have been my first (and probably only) full marathon.  I know now the reality of Philippians 4:13-- "I can do ALL things through Him who strengthens me," and I am so, so thankful for the prayers, thoughts, encouraging words and messages, and of course, donations of all my supporters, whose selfless giving and confidence in me inspired me to keep moving one foot in front of the other.

At the end of that race, I could see my little girl dancing around at the finish line, waving this bright orange neon sign that my students and co-workers had made for me.  When my eyes fell on it, adrenaline took over.  I was coming home.  Unexplainably, my legs were rejuvenated and I SPRINTED to that finish line, even though for miles before it, I was barely jogging.  It was over.  I was coming back to my man and my baby.

What I did is nothing compared to what they've done.  But the end of that race gave me a glimpse of what it might feel like to finally see your family again after a huge trial, something that feels bigger than you.  If you haven't joined me in helping the Wounded Warrior Project ensure that military homecomings are joyful, it isn't too late.  After all they've done for us, when these brave men and women come home, let's join together to show them they've not been forgotten.  There is still one week left to fundraise.  My race is already over, but for so many veterans, the hard work continues, even after they've come home.  In honor of Veterans Day, if you haven't given yet, would you please consider doing so?

Click here to donate to help change the life of someone who was willing to give it all up, so that you and I could have the freedom to live, give, and maybe even run a marathon.  Donations as small as five dollars are accepted and appreciated.

Thank you to all of you who have already given.  Words cannot adequately demonstrate how much your support has meant to me.  Just know that I am humbled and thankful for your giving hearts, and truly believe The Wounded Warrior Project is doing amazing things in the lives of so many who deserve it so much, in part because of your giving.

40th Rejection Party!

Yep... yesterday marked the 40th rejection of my latest completed manuscript (my second novel for which I've ventured down the frustrating, tedious, sometimes heartbreaking journey of querying literary agents).  I know of published authors who've been rejected more often, though, so I'll just continue the writing, praying, hoping, and persevering.  In fact, let's celebrate!  Every rejection I get is one step closer to finding the agent who IS right for my writing.  Take a glance from the sneak peek below... would YOU buy this book?

Tabitha

            “Extra-large coffee.  Black,” I instructed the tattooed barista, sliding a five across the glossy black counter.  Jada, a fixture at Crazy 8’s, nodded and turned away, swiftly grabbing an extra-large cup and filling it with steaming, rich dark coffee.  That was one of the reasons Mel and I liked Crazy 8’s—there weren’t any fru-fru sizes like grande, petite, double grande.  Small, medium, and large coffees.  Extra large if you were in dire need of a caffeine fix.

            “Thanks, Jada,” I said as she passed me my cup and punched the register’s keyboard.  “Hey, have you seen Melody?”

            Jada raised her eyebrows as she counted out my change.  “Melody?  Your blonde-haired friend?  Always in here with you or those two goofy guys?”  I nodded, a desperate twinge of hope rising in my throat.

            “No.  No haven’t seen her,” she held out a couple ones and some coins, her perpetually cranky dark gaze seeming to soften a little.  “Everything okay?”

            I slowly extended my hand for her to deposit the change.  “No.  No, she… she disappeared during the hurricane last night.”

            “No way.”

            I nodded, wishing I was joking.  “She called me a bunch of times at like, three in the morning.  I didn’t answer, and when I tried to call her back today, I couldn’t get a hold of her.  When I drove out to her place, her boyfriend said they’d gotten in an argument last night, and when he and Mel’s brother woke up, they couldn’t find her.  We spent the whole day searching the beach,” I gingerly readjusted my slipping bra strap, sliding it firmly under my tank top and off of my sunburned shoulder.

            “You think she wandered off to the beach?  In the middle of a hurricane?”

            “Well… yeah, we thought she might have.  It… it doesn’t make any sense.  Nothing does.  They said when they got up this morning, her keys were in the car and the car door was wide open,” I took a swallow of my coffee, feeling the burn of the hot liquid spreading down my throat, wishing its warmth could quell my fears. 

            “No shit,” Jada muttered, ducking under the counter and walking out into the lounge area.  “Stay there, drink your coffee.  I’ve got to get started closing, though.  It’s after midnight.”

            “It’s after midnight?  It… it’s Friday?” I asked stupidly.

            Jada nodded, flipping the open sign to closed, sympathetic eyes on mine as she strode back across her shop to start cleaning up.

            I stood helplessly.  “I—I can’t believe we didn’t find her.”

            “You searched the beach all day?”

            “Yeah… I rolled up to Mel’s at about one.  Matt and Mikey and I walked for miles, looked all over the beach until about six o’clock,” I took another sip of the bitter coffee, shuddered a little.   I was too sunburned to be drinking anything hot; a chill ran through my body in spite of the heat radiating from my goose-pimpled flesh. 

            “Actually,” I corrected myself.  “Mikey and I, her brother, we stayed out till about six.  Her boyfriend Matt was out looking even longer.”

            “You say she didn’t have her car?” Jada asked, pausing over the giant metal container of decaf coffee she was dumping into the sink.

            “No.”

            “So you think the beach was the only place she could’ve gone?”

            “Well, that’s what we thought earlier.  I mean, it was a hurricane.  She couldn’t have walked very far.  Assuming she went missing during the storm.  We don’t really know.  I mean, she could’ve taken off this morning, but that doesn’t seem likely, because why would she leave the car door open in broad daylight?  But… we really don’t know if she disappeared during the storm or in the morning.  There’s no way of knowing; we all overslept.”

            Jada was nodding thoughtfully, pouring another cup of coffee.  “On the house,” she said, sliding it across the counter.  Seems like you’re gonna need it, and I was just gonna dump it out, anyway.”

            I nodded a wordless thank you, gulped down the last of my original cup.  “It doesn’t make sense though,” I added, shaking my head.  “I left Matt and Mikey to go check some of the spots she might have been in town… but she couldn’t have gotten that far without a car, even if she did leave in the morning after the storm.”

            “She could’ve taken a cab,” Jada offered.

            I frowned.  “We found her purse.  Debit card still in it.  And her waiter book from the night before… still had her cash tips in it.  I mean, I guess she could’ve taken some of the money from the book, but why would you run away and not take all your cash?  And leave your debit card?”

            Jada turned from me, rag in hand, wiping down her cappuccino machine.

            I stood stupidly, gazing at her back.  The more I said out loud, the more I realized how bad it was.  I thought back to earlier in the day (yesterday, I reminded myself, it’s Friday already).  The look of numbed panic, terrified resignation on her brother’s face.

            “Come on, Mikey,” I rasped, wishing for the millionth time I had a bottle of water.  “It’s been hours.  Like, five hours.  Let’s head back.  Maybe she’s come back to your place.”

            Mikey shook his head, squinting out at the water glinting under the setting sun.  “She’s not come back.”

            “You don’t know that.”

            “I do know that.  She… she hasn’t come back, because… well, she just hasn’t.  Something is wrong.”

            “What were they fighting about?” I asked him.

            “I don’t… I don’t know.  She had to pee.  And didn’t want to go outside in the storm.  We were teasing her about it, and she blew up at Matt.  Started screaming at him.  We’d been drinking; he wasn’t in the mood to hear it.  They were yelling back and forth at each other.  It was like, less than a minute, tops.  She jumped up and ran out of the room, and he followed her.” Mikey paused, ran his hands through his hair, over his face.  “He did follow her,” he muttered.

            “Then what?”

            He glared at me.  “You already know.  Matt says he watched her go into their room and shut the door.  He came back in my room, and we kept drinking.  When we woke up this morning… well, you already know.”

            He looked away, eyes drawn back to the quiet crashing of the Atlantic.

            “She could be anywhere,” he muttered.

            “Well—not anywhere,” I began slowly.  “She didn’t take her car.  She had to have been walking.  She could’ve only gone so far.  Unless,” I paused, tugged on his tee-shirt sleeve.  “Unless she disappeared this morning… not during last night’s storm, but this morning.  Maybe she took her purse?  Has anyone looked for her purse yet?”

            Mikey shook his head, a guarded hope coming back into his eyes. 

            “Come on.  Let’s go home and look.  Her car’s here, but we don’t know about her phone.  Maybe her purse is gone too.  Maybe she did take off for a couple of days.”

            With renewed energy, Mikey picked up his pace, nodding as he strode quickly ahead of me.  “You’re right,” he began, casting a quick glance back to me.  “You could be right.” 

            I nodded encouragingly, already realizing how unlikely my new theory was.  If she’d left in the daytime, having to pass her car to go out front to catch a cab, would she have really left the door wide open? 

            “…it is Tabitha, right?” Jada’s voice drew me back into the present.

            I forced a fleeting smile.  “I’m sorry.  I was just—”

            “It’s cool.  I just, you know, I’m all settled here.  Gotta lock up for the night,” she shimmied out from underneath her counter, purse and keys in hand.  “Ready?”

            I stared at Jada’s purse.  It was black, like Melody’s.

            “Her purse is right here, damn it!  Her purse is right here!”  Devastation written across Mikey’s crumpled face as he yanked it off the desk in Melody and Matt’s room.  “Fuck!”

            “Tabitha?”

            “I’m sorry,” I began weakly.  “I just—”

            “And look!” Next to where her purse had been sitting, before he’d snatched it up and released it, before it fell with a solid thunk onto the dingy carpet, there was her black waiter book, the little leather folder, still wrapped clumsily in her stained grey apron from a night of waiting tables the evening before.  I watched, helpless, as he reached for it, jerked it open. “Look!” he’d screamed needlessly, senselessly, pulling the fistful of money out of the side, scattering it wildly into the freezing air (why hadn’t anyone turned the air conditioner off?)  Twenties and fifties and fives and ones swirled through the air, fluttering softly to the floor.  “She left her goddamn money!  Tabitha, she didn’t run away!  She left her damn tips.  She’s gone!  She’s just gone!”