Tales...

Story of a Book: a Mommy is Pregnant! Q&A

2011-03-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

Photo from a newspaper article about My Mom is Pregnant!, c1990

Why did you write Mommy is Pregnant!?

I’d never been separated from my babies for more than a few hours. How would I explain my upcoming hospital stay and prepare my 1 and 3 year old children for the arrival of the newest member of the family? In 1989 I found only two books on the subject: one included actual photographs of Mommy with her feet in stirrups; the other was a tale about an angry little girl who threw her pregnant mommy into a trash can.

I didn’t want a reproduction primer. And my babies weren’t angry! I didn’t want to give them that idea.

Wait a minute. Is this book (gasp) self published?

Mommy is Pregnant! was originally produced as My Mom is Pregnant! by Thoth Publishing Company in 1990. The company was owned by Peggy S. Hedrick, a lawyer, entrepreneur – and my mother. By the time my new baby was two, My Mom is Pregnant! was used in hospital sibling programs and sold in maternity shops and bookstores throughout Missouri. Life happened and copyright reverted to me. I edited the book for online sale.

What makes Mommy is Pregnant! different from the gazillions of new baby books available today?

It doesn’t tell kids what to think! It offers an outline about what to expect, leaving lots of opportunity for Mommy/Baby Q&A.

Where’d you get the idea about a little boy putting balls under his shirt?

My son liked to play “pregnant” by putting balls under his shirt. He thought he was hilariously funny. So did I.

Where’s Daddy?

The traditional family is changing. Today’s child has two mommies, two daddies, a single mommy or daddy or even Mommy’s boyfriend, brother or uncle. The youngest siblings don’t have the same father, if they have a father at all. Without specific references, the reader can supply her own explanation as to who the father influence is in that child’s life.

I’m a writer. What about that tense change at the end of the book?

My book. My tense change.

Do you have any other books?

My stories and articles have appeared in magazines, newsletters and online. Some of my stories and picture books are “pre-published” (click here if you’re a publisher seeking submissions!). I also own the copyright to Only Soldiers Go to War, illustrated by Charmaine Curtis. It’s a book about peace for young children, written and produced during the Persian Gulf War and also published by Thoth.

What about the Snuggle Factor?

I’m old fashioned. I like books! Holding a glowing, beeping, talking square – or worse, letting your child hold a glowing, beeping, talking square - is not the same thing as snuggling close while Mommy’s voice resonates and baby’s fingers caress actual print. But technology is here. The youngest kids don’t just use computers…they’re teaching parents how to use ipads, ipods, e-readers and more. It’s good – imperative - that kids of all ages become comfortable with technology.

But make sure you snuggle close with a book too! Your voice reading the story. Your fingers turning the page. Your words answering questions. A computer can’t ignite curiosity or instill a love of words. Only you…close, warm and snuggled-in…can do that.

Can I read your book now? How can I get my own copy of Mommy is Pregnant!?

Read a sample on my website. Click the link to download your own copy via Barnes and Noble or Amazon. First edition paper copies of My Mom is Pregnant! are available for purchase through ebay or Amazon.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Daily Manifesto

2010-12-13T04:59:00.000-08:00

Today I am Happy.

Today, I’m too busy being happy to worry about the choices others make that befuddle their lives. I’m too busy being happy to care what Brad and Angelina are doing or wonder about Britney’s or Miley’s latest obsession. I’m not interested in discussing how others love, eat or spend their private time.

Today:

I give a smile unbidden.

I think lovely thoughts.

I speak kind words.

Today, I guard my gray matter from negative influences. I choose my battles carefully. I walk away from gossip and unproductive dissension. Today, I absorb, live, send, share, swim, love, sleep, play and divine – Happy!

Happy is not saccharine. It is not juvenile, simple or witless. Happy is not silly, boring or slow.

Happy is charismatic, charming and smart. Happy is clever. Happy is giving, sharing, kind and peaceful. A spoonful of Happy alters opinions, adjusts attitudes, heals marriages, soothes damaged relationships and transforms meanness.

Happy is a decision to be positive in the face of hardship. It is a determination to find good in difficult situations. It looks for the lesson, searches out the joy, underscores the good.

Happy is a choice.

If today I fly through the Pearly Gates and God peers inside my head, what do I want him to see?

A truck load of newly wrapped, just-right-for-sharing Happy.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

I Am Thankful

2010-11-25T03:42:00.000-08:00

For a fun, funny, love infested family

Three healthy, beauteous children, a daughter in law I adore and two and a half of the most perfect grandbabies ever made

My husband and best friend who takes great care of me

A sister who spends a week in her kitchen preparing dinner for a crowd

Parents willing to travel hours in the cold and wind to be together

Friends who are more like family

Coffee, my keyboard and early morning alone time

Dave Ramsey

Reeses Cups

Stretch pants

Love

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

What America Wants

2010-11-17T05:38:00.000-08:00

On November 3, 2010, Mac Nachlas posted an essay in the Reader’s Respond area of the Baltimore Sun (http://www.baltimoresun.com/news/opinion/readersrespond/bs-ed-voters-letter-20101103,0,4515159.story).

In it, he observed that “After devoting long minutes to careful analysis of Tuesday night's election returns, I now know what Americans want:

We want roads and bridges that are always in good condition but do not require tax money for upkeep.

We want world class schools with teachers who are so dedicated that they will work for minimum wage. (Note: the best one should be in my neighborhood)”

The Sun declined to post my response, which follows:

After devoting 11 months of unemployment from a housing industry career I’ve carefully analyzed November’s election and now know what Americans want:

We want relatable leaders – who’ve held jobs, managed businesses…and know how to balance a checkbook.

We want leadership who understands that necessities like roads and bridges, first class schools with well compensated teachers, clean water and parks come before vacations and designer duds and movie star meet-and-greets.

We want a leader who respects that he works for us, not the other way around.

We want respect for our military.

We want fewer government “services” and more private sector jobs, run by private sector people.

We want leadership who speaks highly of us to the neighbors.

We want our laws enforced.

We want leadership that understands no one is entitled to anything, especially something he hasn’t worked to earn.

We want leadership that understands that the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness is for all legal citizens, not just those that agree with him.

We want to keep more of the money we make so we can buy 60-inch plasma TVs or SUVs or tuck it into savings or whatever the heck else we feel like doing with the income we earn working jobs and building businesses; we DON’T want to fork over our hard earned money to pay for the needs of people who aren’t willing to do what it takes…or cheaters who feel entitled to our way of life when they shouldn’t be here in the first place.

We DON’T want a government fat on our sweat. We DON’T want a back room government passing legislation against our wishes “for our own good.” We DON’T want a government who takes our earnings and tells us what we can do with it.

Personally, I want leaders who tell us frankly the truth; who believe that the democratic republic given to us by our fathers is a strong, viable form of government and that our educational system isn’t the place to teach morality. We all benefit when we all contribute in equal proportion to our earnings. And we all suffer when people play the lottery like it’s a job and raise their children to live on welfare.

I’d love to see the World Series end too, but then I don’t care much about sports. You see, I can have an opinion, choose my vocation, forgo health insurance, work hard and live large -- or work easy and live small. I can raise my children the way I see fit and pretty much spend my life the way I choose, as long as I’m not doing harm to another person or their property. Because I live in the best country in the world.

I’m an American.

http://www.kennaley.com/

Sick of Being Sick

2010-09-21T18:39:00.001-07:00

Sick day. Sludge day. Sore throat, fever, aches and pains day.

You drink the meds – the powder dissolves in hot water and smells lemony. You take root on the couch. Kleenex, check. Water, check. Books, magazines, notepads, check, check, check. Cuddle-me blanky (sniff), the one your daughter made for you that wraps you up all cozy and reminds you that you’re loved, check.

Your head fills with cotton as sand deadweights your body. How many lamps are on that table? Two? Three? You reach through the haze to turn the switch, click. You sink into the cushions. Down, down, down. Your body lands under the sofa. You can’t move. You dream. A coworker and her daughter paddle up the street in a canoe on wheels. A young friend stands over you and sings something from Les Miserables. “How’s your mom?” you try to say, but your tongue is glued to the roof of your mouth.

Your ancient Pekingese pads into the room, her toenails scritch-scritch-scritch against the wood floor. No malaise is deep enough to keep you from carrying her outside before she puddles on the kitchen tile. The sun is shining against a slate blue sky. You’re too swollen, groggy and medicated to appreciate it.

You return your sweaty body to the couch. Dull into a heavy sleep.

Your sore throat is a memory when you awaken. But now something wet cools your nose, drained from your clogged head. Congealed snot clots your hair and sticks to the couch. You scratch your face and bits of dried stuff fly. Your eyes sink into the mass of cheese that was once your brain.

You think the sore throat was better.

Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Jonathan. Thank you, military.

2010-08-30T04:21:00.000-07:00

My nephew, Jonathan Kennaley, graduated from Basic Combat Training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri recently. There were flags and singing and marching and moving in formation. At the prayer, 200 uniformed service people moved in unison – feet out, heads down, arms to the center, hands clasped. Each time a unit leader appeared in the slide show, 200 voices called out as one, “oowhup!” When it was time to sit or stand, 200 men and women rose in a single motion.

Each marched purposefully across the stage to receive awards and congratulations. That boy, just out of high school, that girl who filled French fries orders at Wendy’s six months ago, that college sophomore, that married man with small children.

Kids from all over the country – Vermont, Pennsylvania, Arizona, Missouri. So different and yet they all looked the same - shaved head, set expression, uniform, posture. Each time I looked away – to watch the slideshow, attend to a speech or song or check my camera lens – I’d lose Jonathan in the crowd of same-looking people.

There are no individuals in a foxhole.

We were encouraged to move freely about the auditorium (with a few exceptions). “You paid for it, after all,” said a soldier.

Why, yes. I did. The flags, stage, curtains, microphone, carpet, stadium seating. The trucks and equipment and hospital and shops and schools we passed as we drove through base. The uniforms and laundry bags and shiny insignias. The marching and hiking and survival training. The soldiers.

These men and women in army green are the bars on my windows to the world. They are my home’s security system. They are the voice at the end of my international 911 call and the helicopter patrolling my airspace. They are the buffer between me and the interpol bully and the detective flushing a narcotics ring out of my global neighborhood.

They protect my safety, guard my security, and assure my freedoms:

FREEDOM to be unattractive. I ran 12 miles along Kansas City streets in shorts and a tank top yesterday. Nobody shouted at me to cover up or told me to go home where I belonged.

FREEDOM to homeschool. Bob and I educated our kids at home until high school. And then? We sent them to private Jesuit-style schools.

FREEDOM to speak and write things like this. Or this: “Barak Obama will go down in history as the worst president we’ve ever had.”

FREEDOM to attend the church of my choice. I attend the Catholic Church.

FREEDOM to make mistakes. I was pulled over recently for driving 35 in a 20-mph zone. Oops! The police officer did not handcuff me to the back of his car. I did not “disappear.” (After a review of my otherwise pristine driving record, he didn’t even give me a ticket.)

FREEDOM to have an opinion. I’m a Dave Ramsey fan. I liked Doctor Laura too – until she quit. I’m not a fan of the current administration (see above). And what’s more, I don’t have to defend my opinions to you.

My own father is a U.S. Army Reserve Chaplain (Colonel), retired after 30 years' service. His highest award was the "Legion of Merit." As a young girl I remember hearing him speak on base and visiting the Px -- but this was the first military graduation I’d ever attended.

Some of these soldiers will pay the ultimate price. And what do they get in return? Vocation. Purpose. Direction. College tuition paid.

Is it enough?

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Why You Should Read to Your Child

2010-08-22T15:17:00.001-07:00

10. Kids who are read to become readers themselves

The Snuggle Factor (click)

Increased Brain Matter – kids who are read to do better in school

Family Togetherness – in this fast paced world, it’s a slow down

It’s Cozy – warm tender sweet lovely memories

Better than Television

Unanticipated Question and Answer Time – the things a kid asks when he’s got mom and dad all to himself

Baby’s Big Beautiful Eyes

Baby’s Big Beautiful Smile

And the Number One Reason you should read to your child is (drum roll, please):

1. Kids who are read to…read to your grandbabies

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Why I Run

2010-08-08T18:47:00.001-07:00

It’s Janice Thompson’s fault – but Mom shares the blame.

Long before Nike, Rebok, New Balance, running bras, energy gels and water bottle backpacks: Janice Thompson ran.

Janice was Mom’s friend, fitness guru …and get-up-and-go dealer. Janice was small, slim and beautiful with a brilliant smile and boundless energy. She lived at the end of Butterfield, a half mile long road that coursed the distance between our homes.

Twenty minutes with Janice and Mom panted along the sidewalk in her tennis shoes too. “C’mon, Peggy. You can do it!” Janice sang. She dangled the fitness carrot just outside Mom’s reach. “A little further…”

Once Mom could field the distance from our house to Janice’s, she expanded her repertoire to include sprints up -- and down -- Butterfield. When that wasn’t enough, she jogged around the track at Bonita High School.

Mom was hooked. Like most addicts, she was compelled to snare others into her obsession. “Look at my legs!” she said. Muscles defined her thighs and outlined her calves.

“Running is hard,” I said.

She rotated her arms. “Nothing worthwhile is easy.”

“Running hurts.”

She bounced up and down. Her pony tail bobbed. “It only hurts for a little while.”

“Running makes me tired.”

“Running creates energy,” she insisted. “It clears your skin and makes your hair and fingernails grow.” She smiled. “It even gives you whiter teeth.”

Right, I didn’t believe that either. But I was the kid and she was the mom, so…I ran.

I’m naturally round, and will never be Light-On-My-Feet. I don’t jog. I slog. Carrying my body through a run was like lifting hefty bags of sand…one…sack…with…each…step.

Running was painful. And it was embarrassing too -- nobody ran “for fun” in the 70s!

Yet, in the midst of all that red faced running and complaining, I somehow developed muscles and built strong lungs. My head cleared and my negative energy dissolved. And I got a taste of the runner’s high: that euphoric sense of well-being that engulfs one’s faculties. It’s as though you can do, be, have, accomplish anything. Climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every rainbow…yep, yep, yep.

Doggone, I was hooked too.

I took my running addiction with me to college. I packed it up and moved it from apartment to apartment as a working woman. I brought it along when I got married and used it to shake out my brain cells while raising kids.

Running never made me skinny. But I ran anyway…to create energy, clear my head and banish bad mojo.

Like my mother before me, I was compelled to share my obsession. I led my kids in a jog to the end of NW 83^rd Terrace.

They complained. Until they were hooked too.

Thanks, Mom.

Thanks, Janice.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

In My Small House

2010-05-20T03:30:00.001-07:00

In my small house, elbows bump. The tv and radio are too loud. There is clutter and a line for the bathroom. There is straightening hair in the hallway, a crowd at the mirror and a packed dinner table. There is teasing over passed gas, stinky bathrooms and everyone-sick-at-the-same-time.

Like a small town – there are no secrets in my small house. No sneaking out when you’re grounded or cheating-on-your-diet-no-one-will-know. No hiding Reese’s Cups or saving the last bit of cheesecake for later.

There is noise and chatter and laughter in my small house. There is talking after lights out in shared bedrooms. There is arguing – and there is making up.

The tinkling of piano keys fills every corner of my small house. Flour spills from the kitchen to the living room to the hallway whenever the sweet aroma of just baked chocolate chip cookies tickles my nose.

In the yard behind my small house, my tow-headed 4-year old learns to swing. Her legs catch the wind and she sails into the sky. For two exhilarating hours. Without stopping.

On the street in front of my small house, my competitive 7-year old meets his 6-year old sister’s challenge to ride his bike “no hands!” He does her one better, propping his feet on the handlebars: “No feet too!” He soars over a curb and his collar bone snaps. Three cozy days at home later, he returns to school with half his math book completed.

Early attempts to teach homeschool PE involves running around the white bark tree in the yard of my small house. (Later, we play actual sports.) We watch a mother butterfly lay eggs on a milkweed plant at the kitchen table. We chart the progress of her babies from pupa to wet-winged Monarch.

In the living room of my small house I braid wire into my 10 year old’s long hair for her lead role in the homeschool musical. Her endearing, high cee voice sings light into the shadows.

We “do school” all over my small house until one by one my babies leave for high school, college…and life.

Now, this very minute, wheels rattle across the hardwood floor in my small house. A pony tailed cherub pushes Big Bird into my kitchen office in a little red stroller. Her soft pillow cheeks puff into a smile. “Nonnie!” she sings.

I lift my grandbaby into the air and kiss her little face.

In my small house, love infects, incubates and spreads. I’m joyfully afflicted.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Be Kind to Your Census Taker

2010-05-05T10:59:00.001-07:00

He’s somebody’s husband, father, grandfather, son, brother and friend. She's a student, mother, cousin, aunt. They're "enumerators" -- the team of questioners going door to door collecting information to complete this year's census.

And one of them might just be a 25-year+ building professional doing what it takes while awaiting an upswing in the housing industry.

Be kind to your enumerator and give them the information they need. (It's the law after all.) Then...after you complete your census, go buy a house, add on to your home or hire an architect (I know a good one) to build new. Let’s return those architects, contractors, builders, assessors, estimators, realtors, surveyors, sub-contractors – and more – back to the office!

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

America is Great!

2010-04-26T03:03:00.001-07:00

"…that dream of a land…with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement…each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable…" (Epic of America by James Truslow Adams, 1931, emphasis added.)

I celebrated my 21^st birthday with friends at a restaurant overlooking the Nile River in Cairo, Egypt. “

America

is great!” said the young, male, Egyptian server – I’ll call him Hassan.

Hassan lived in a shack village beside the market, where flies buzzed meat hung outdoors and live chickens squawked. Covered women cooked over open fires while carrying naked babies. Men in flowing gallabeas spent the day smoking potent tobacco and drinking thick tea.

Hassan thought all Americans were rich. Maybe we were, comparatively. But his appreciation for

America

was about more than money. It was about freedom.

Americans dressed as they liked, said what they thought, married for love, worshipped -- or didn’t. Americans openly criticized authority, lived their own lifestyles, worked in the vocation of their choice and paid their own way.

In America, industry flourished under a principle known as “supply and demand.” When a company succeeded, it grew -- and people worked. When people worked, they spent money. When people spent money, business grew! Leadership didn’t cap success with taxes or use words like “mandated” to describe a health care program. Government didn’t institute a monopoly on educational funds or enact a stranglehold on the banking and housing industries.

The economy ran itself. Huh.

In America, if a person wanted something, whether possession, status or the desire to travel to a faraway place -- and was willing to work for it -- he could have it, be it, do it.

We were Baby Americans still trying to figure out what we wanted from life; we didn’t have money. With a few exceptions – those who traveled cheerfully on Daddy’s credit card -- we funded our time abroad with scholarships, grants, loans and by working multiple jobs. One New Hampshire community solicited private donations through bake sales and parades so a promising student could travel to the Middle East.

Still -- we were rich: in freedom. To work. To dream. To achieve. Freedom to succeed – and freedom to fail.

We were rich in the American Dream.

I smiled at Hassan. “Yes,” I agreed. “America is great!”

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Healthy, Wealthy...and Unemployed

2010-04-08T04:27:00.001-07:00

When my husband was laid off, we shrugged our shoulders and went out to dinner. It shouldn’t take more than three weeks to find a new job. Right?

What we learned: increasing government involvement in economic programs meant banks weren’t loaning money, families weren’t moving and businesses weren’t expanding. When churches couldn’t raise funds, hospitals couldn’t sell bonds and people couldn’t borrow money – builders didn’t build and architects didn’t draw.

In fact, 30% of Kansas City’s registered architects were laid off or otherwise unemployed.

We were “lucky;” we had savings to tide us over – for a time. Our family’s health insurance? It was through my low paying, buys-our-groceries-sure-glad-I-had-it job.

Three months of unemployment later, I wonder: does the fact that we have insurance and pay our bills place us among that egocentric, insensitive group our president calls the “healthy and wealthy”? Those selfish Americans who work hard all their lives, delaying gratification to provide a future for their own families? Who bank the money they earn…

…instead of redistributing their “wealth” to the poor?

Or does our unemployment garner us sympathy, even among liberals? Those broad-minded free-thinking members of society who might say, If only our government was MORE INVOLVED in health care, education, commerce and industry everyone would be working! Banks would be lending, realtors would be selling, contractors would be building…and architects would be drawing.

In my 1970s high school we learned that government eeked into its citizens’ lives was called Socialism, ie, the USSR, aka,

Russia

. Under Socialism, government assured each citizen had “fair” – ie, equal – livelihood, healthcare and a place to live. Socialism was government vouchers for food, electricity and clothing. It was government approved jobs, education and housing.

Under Socialism, all that was required to “succeed” was the wherewithal to show up. (And you’d better!)

There was no hope for a better life: dream muscles softened; motivation lungs stiffened; ambition legs dragged.

Those poor Russians.

It’s true that in a “free” society some must work harder than others to achieve the same reward. Yet, history is riddled with stories of successful doctors, scientists, architects and others – former Russians, even! -- who started out with nothing more than a dream, grit and determination.

In a “free” society a person succeeds or fails on his or her own merit. Anyone willing to work might buy that nice house, drive that nice car, take that nice vacation.

No guarantees -- but at least there’s hope.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

The Snuggle Factor

2010-03-22T05:39:00.000-07:00

E-readers. They're portable. Convenient. Just the right size for small hands. No bothersome pages to turn. No loose binding. No rips or tears. No jelly stains or banana smears.

Barnes & Noble's e-reader, Nook

But are e-readers good for kids? What about the snuggle factor?

Two darlings in my lap, one at my shoulder, our bodies touching, warm, cozy…I read with my babies. I held the book in two hands so everyone could see the letters as they heard the story, touched the pages and tasted the words -- the new (or old) book smell tickling the backs of their tongues.

Six busy hands massaged pages, caressed binding. Thirty little finger tips felt their way along the outline of pictures. Someone shifted and the book popped closed. Six hands grasped, each child anxious to be the first to eye familiar letters, words and colors to find our place in the story.

I drove my son the mile to first grade. We huddled between the passenger’s and driver’s seats and toured the Chocolate Factory with Charlie and soared in the Great Glass Elevator.

Cheek to cheek, shoulder to shoulder, my daughter and I devoured Laura’s life in all eight original books of the Little House on the Prairie series. When we toured the Wilder homes in Mansfield, Missouri, it was like visiting family.

In the midst of all that crazy literary snuggling, my dimpled tow-headed baby taught herself to read. Still, we snuggled -- on a corner of a bed, behind the couch, at the kitchen table, in the playroom…feeling the book in our hands, making movies in our heads.

Nonnie reads to Liebe

Reading to a child is a sensory experience, full of sight, sound, taste, touch and smell. It’s chocolate for the brain and a hot toddy for the heart. It’s I love you and You’re more important than Reese’s Cups.

Can an e-reader do all that?

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

It's All About the Dress

2010-03-03T03:03:00.001-08:00

My grandmother stitched my mother's wedding dress out of delicate Belgian lace and white tulle.

Mom's dress was too tiny for me. My wedding dress was custom created out of Mom's lace and yards of white satin.

Two beautiful gowns.

But I'm here to tell you...unless you are the only girl in your family - meaning all of your female relatives, from Iceland to Sydney, including your mother, are dead…do not cut your mother’s wedding dress. Even if you think everyone said, “how wonderful.” Even if you think you cleared it with the Pope. Even if you think you had a dream where God said, “make your dress out of mom’s.” Because as touching and perfect and meaningful and sweet as it may seem at the time…twenty-five years later it will shake down to one thing: you destroyed Mom’s dress.

Especially if you make a pillow out of the remaining lace and present it to Mom for Christmas.

Instead, go to a bridal shop.

As you walk through the doors of a bridal shop, the earth tilts. The air twinkles. You float into the room on a cloud of satin and lace. The walls are lined with mirrors and the ceiling is awash with stars.

Your “bridal consultant” leads you into a mirrored room through a gauntlet of pearls, chiffon, garland and tulle. She zips and pins and buttons. She buckles fairy shoes onto your feet. She laces sparkles into your hair. She guides you to a stage atop another stage surrounded by…more mirrors.

Where you twist and turn and admire each confection as it whispers across your body.

Your female relatives offer suggestions. This one is lovely, but what about the train? It’s heaven incarnate…but don’t you want a bustle? It’s perfect…but what about that neckline? Too much cleavage…not enough cleavage. Too much pouf…not enough pouf. Too much snug…not enough snug.

Until…all sound ceases as you exit the mirrored room, tread the walkway and mount the stage. Your mother wipes her eyes. Your sisters smile. Heaven rains sparkles and the earth stands still.

It’s THE dress. You know it the moment you peek into the mirror. The ruffle, that trail of beads, the crystal and pearls…THE dress whispers magnificence into each line and curve. It even makes your messy bun look good.

Your consultant presents you with a shiny golden bell. You ring it. The room erupts in laughter, tears and applause.

Of course there’s a lot more to planning a wedding than buying – or designing -- a great dress. And there’s much, much more to marriage than having a successful wedding. But a beautiful gown that brings only happiness…now and 25 years later? It’s a good start.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

The Best Thing I Did

2010-02-14T03:07:00.001-08:00

I was a breastfeeding, homeschooling, at-home mom. I read to my babies and taught them to play piano. I created This Is Your Life scrapbooks for each child upon high school graduation.

But the best thing I ever did for my kids happened long before they were born. What’s more, I can’t take credit for it: I married them a great dad.

We met in a bar. When the guy I was with stepped away, the Bad Boy who would be my husband moved in. Would I like to dance? Let’s see…mustache, dimples, cleft chin and wide emerald green eyes under a crop of dark curls. Heck, yeah.

He’d dropped out of college. He lived with his parents. He bobbed his head, winked and chewed his lips suggestively. He owed money, worked for his dad and wore tight jeans.

And he drove a shiny red, super fly, Bad Boy Camaro.

I broke up with him and he came back. We were married and the babies arrived one-two-three.

While I was at home fashioning ever-more-creative meals out of hamburger, hot dogs and macaroni and cheese…he worked. And worked. And worked and worked and worked.

He worked his way through school. He got straight A’s and graduated.

Later, he worked a job, overtime and weekends on-the-side. He schmoozed and networked and “did lunch.”

All to care for his family.

And he drove that Bad Boy Camaro. To classes. To the hospital when his babies were born. To the tiny trailer at school, the little apartment for internship, the rental house after graduation and into the garage of our first home.

There were weeks when he was only home to sleep. But when he was with us? He took over bath time…so I could have a break. The babies piled onto him for story time. He tossed his green-eyed mini-me boy into the air and snuggled on the sofa with his only-God-could-make-something-this-perfect girls. He taught his darlings to fish. He pushed his babies on the swing. He carried them on field trips to the grocery store.

And always, always he took his babies to church.

My Bad Boy was a Hott Family Man.

We joined the suburban minivan crowd and the Camaro moved from the garage to the driveway. Rain, snow, sun and the humid Missouri air faded its shiny exterior from red to throw-that-carrot-away orange. Leather cushions popped. The engine failed. The once beautiful car was propped on blocks.

He placed an ad. The Camaro sold the first day for $600 cash -- to a 20-something Bad Boy wearing tight jeans.

When the notice arrived that he had two weeks to reclaim the abandoned Camaro, which was still licensed in his name, Hott Family Man didn’t hesitate. He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash.

He grabbed a football and his green eyed mini me and headed for the backyard. Later, he’d read the kids a story and barbecue hamburgers and hot dogs.

I whipped up the macaroni and cheese.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

The Best Job Ever!

2010-02-08T15:11:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time, I gave birth to three babies in three years. My mom (who also had three babies in three years) said, “This is the time of your life!”

I loved mothering my babies. But when your oldest is 3 and your youngest is an infant with one more in between...someone is always awake, poopy, drippy or teary. Child rearing is not a job for the faint of heart --especially when you're raising a houseful.

To take a walk, I put Baby Number Two in a backpack, Three in a front pack -- and Baby Number One? If I wasn’t chasing him down the street, I carried him on my hip (alternating hips so my muscles didn’t grow lopsided).

My babies and I created a landfill of diapers. Once, I took a diaper to the garage and released the lid on the Pampers bin to toss the latest poop filled wonder inside. The trash moved. I looked closer. The container rolled with maggots!

Another time I strapped three babies into car seats and drove away -- leaving a cart full of groceries sitting in a store parking lot.

It seemed that someone was always crying…Baby One, Two, Three…or me.

When Two refused to sleep – for two years -- my mom said, “Someday you’ll wish you could relive these days – and nights.”

When One tossed his cookies…from both ends...at the same time…my mom said, “You’ll look back on this and laugh!”

When Three needed stitches, One broke his collar bone and Two smashed her finger, my mom said, “Write it down so you’ll always remember!”

When Two and Three came down with chicken pox one after the other, canceling out a trip to Disneyland, my mom said, “Be sure to expose One!”

When I locked myself in the bathroom and cried, my mom said, “Before you know it, these days will be gone.”

And she was right. My kids grew up at lightening speed. I miss them.

Now I’m a grandma…to two babies born in (way less than) two years.

The grandma thing isn’t like the mom thing. Grandma doesn’t teach discipline or structure the day. Grandma doesn’t worry about whether baby is getting all her vitamins or sleeping enough to grow. Grandma doesn’t fret over instituting routine or living structure-free…breast or bottle feed…bedtime or sleep-when-you’re-tired. Grandma arrives with a bag of books, toys and goodies. She dances, sings, reads and plays. Grandma splashes in the bath and gets water on the floor. Grandma crawls into bed with baby. Grandma blows belly farts on baby’s middle and tickles her toes -- when baby's supposed to be eating dinner.

Grandma is the Candy Man, Good Time Charlie, a Trip to the Zoo and Dance Me a Song all rolled up in one plump-enough-to-cuddle package.

My mom skinny dipped in the Jacuzzi with One for bath time. She sat in a box under a tree and ate ice cream cones with Two and Three. Raising your own kids is a whirlwind time of wonder and joy, she said, but -- “Grandma is the best job ever.”

As usual, she's right.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Self Respect

2010-01-28T13:07:00.001-08:00

Whatever happened to taking pride in a job well done? To finishing what you start? Showing up early and staying late -- and doing the right thing in between? To delayed gratification, the customer is always right, respect for your elders and honor your parents? Where is humility, kindness for its own sake, cover your mouth when you yawn, say please and thank you, hold the door for a lady? Commitment, honor, staying together even when it’s hard? What’s become of accountability, responsibility, virtue, discipline, integrity?

Whatever happened to shame?

It went the way of Me Time. But I Want it. I Should be Happy, Shouldn’t I? It’s not my fault, I’m depressed, I overslept, I don’t feel like it. It’s My Life. I Don’t Have to if I Don’t Want To. It’s Not My Job! Arriving late, leaving early, long breaks, Mom’s boyfriend, Dad’s shack-up, your Baby-Daddy. If it Feels Good, Do it. Charge It, Stick It, Get Over It.

There is no light without dark. No warm without cold. No love without hate.

No pride without shame.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Having a Baby, 2010

2010-01-12T04:56:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time, babies were delivered at home. Mothers suffered through days and days of labor. Midwives rolled cool towels over Mom’s perspiring forehead and applied a poultice to stimulate contractions. Doctors made house calls. Daddies were sent fishing (or wherever). Pain was expected. No one knew whether Baby was a boy or a girl until that part of the anatomy arrived.

Now? Minutes after conception, Mom and Dad are buying paint at Home Depot and calling Baby by name. There is colorized 3-D imagery for Baby – while still in utero! All her little wrinkles, her little pug nose and, yep, THAT part of the anatomy in a clean, clear photograph suitable for framing.

As soon as Mom is admitted to the hospital, monitors and catheters and lines and IVs and extension cords and plugs and DVD players and ipods and blackberrys are attached to her – and to baby too. Dad? Forget the fishing trip. He’s expected to be at Mom’s side for the full 5 or 10 or 36 hours…co-delivering.

Examination, triage, labor and delivery all happen in the same cozy, color coordinated room. Drugs expedite labor while easing and even eliminating pain. Mom comfortably checks her email and posts to facebook while labor happens on a machine that tracks baby’s heart rate on one line and mom’s contractions on another. Family members stand around the machine and call out status reports to Mom. “You’re having another one! It’s a doozy!”

At time of delivery, doctors and nurses gather at Baby’s point of entry – which, to my knowledge, has not changed. Lights are lowered from the ceiling. Lights are wheeled in from the hallway. The bathroom lights are on and pointed in this direction. Spot, strobe and flash lights draw attention this way. Doc has one hand on Mom’s belly and one hand…well, you know.

But no one is looking at Mom. Everyone’s looking at the monitor. “Here comes a contraction,” says a nurse.

Dad wakes Mom up. “Honey, it’s time to push.”

At that moment, the door opens. A bus has let out in the hallway. Residents, nurses, EMTs, security from the bank down the street, taxi drivers, children on a hospital field trip and a grandmother looking for the cafeteria all gather around Mom’s bed.

Mom pushes…and pushes and pushes and pushes and pushes…and pushes…and okay, pushes a lot and this part is still hard. But then…Baby is here!

Huzzah! Hurrah! Tears and laughter and great joy.

Doc lifts an armful of something tiny, pink and shiny wet. Her arms and legs shake in what appears to be terrific, heartfelt, whats-the-matter-with-you-people anger. Taut fingers open and close. Eyes squeeze shut. Mouth opens and…“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” she says. The room erupts in applause.

“Would Dad like to cut the cord?”

He would. It happens too fast for a photo.

Baby is whisked to a warming station where she is poked, prodded, pinched and pulled.

“She’s got blonde hair,” a nurse whispers to Mom. “She’s got ten little fingers and ten little toes,” says another. “She’s tiny and pink and perfect,” says a third.

“Can I see?” says Mom.

A snug little bundle is carried across the room and laid in Mom’s arms. “Hello sweetheart,” says Mom. Baby’s eyes open. Baby sighs. The sound is soft like a cloud with a dove’s warbling coo rising at the end. Nursing happens.

Baby blinks. Her eyes roll in an attempt to focus on the face hovering inches away. Ahhhh, yes, she seems to say. You smell right. You sound right. You look right. You feel right. You taste right. You’re my warm snuzzle. You’re the beating of my heart and the center of my world. I know you.

Perhaps the process hasn’t changed that much after all.

Welcome Krischen Ana Kennaley

7lbs. 8oz., 19 3/4 in.

January 5, 2010

4:07pm

(Disclaimer: parts of this essay may have been exaggerated -- not the part about posting to facebook, though! Having a baby is hard work with or without drugs. And if you're considering such a venture...don't forget that childbirth leads to childrearing: the toughest job of all!)

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

The Wind Howled...

2009-12-25T04:58:00.000-08:00

…spit, cried, wailed…roared. The house shook, windows rattled and freezing air shuttled across my living room. And through it all snow drained from the sky. It blew and blew and blew until it was stacked on top of parked cars, piled in drifts along the side of the road and coated the back deck -- a roadblock to Ruthie’s backyard potty.

Sure glad I’m not a dog on days like this. It’s bad enough being a people…putting boots on over my slippers, a coat and gloves over my robe to step into the three foot tall mound in ten frigid degrees to clear a path for the eight-pound, ten-inch tall, fourteen-year-old animal pacing at the door.

Who would still need to be carried down the steps. And placed in a low pile of cold stuff so she could drop the only unhairy part of herself into the white way-below-freezing cottony clean snow…to make ice.

A memorable Christmas. Because of the snow. But for other reasons too.

Each Christmas Eve we drive 45 miles to gather with hubby’s family. Hubby was bound and determined we’d go this year too – since we’re gas guzzling Americans who drive a Durango, we can drive through anything. Then Grams called, spoke to her son -- the eldest of her eight babies -- and said, “please stay home!”

Bob complied. But only because his mom said.

The power moms wield.

We collected our three babies plus beautiful, perfect daughter-in-law and charming, darling grandbaby and went out to dinner. Shops and eating establishments closed right and left as nettles of snow spewed a horizontal curtain, but Outback Steakhouse said, “Come on Down!” We had the run of the place, so we danced in the aisles with squeezeable grandbaby. And made merry in spite of missing the annual family festivities.

braving the elements to eat out on Christmas Eve

Katie and Kimber at the restaurant since they were obscured in the pic above

But there’s more.

This year, we are four for Christmas morning. Son and eldest child is at his own home with his own family, making his own Christmas memories. We four will open presents, then wait at the door with arms wide…for son to bring his family home for our traditional eggs, bacon, orange juice and sweet roll Christmas morning breakfast.

After -- they’ll head into the drifting white to call on other family.

We’ll spend the day lolling about, eating too much, watching movies, playing with our new toys and games, doing puzzles and sleeping.

And watching the snow fall. Now…silently, quietly, peacefully, memorably. A white Christmas.

Visit me online at: http://www.kennaley.com/

Liebe and Nonnie Set Up the Tree

2009-12-18T02:17:00.001-08:00

They were all too busy to set up the tree.

Working. School. Finals. Working. Sleeping. Working. Having a Baby. Working.

Then the home improvements began. The Tile Guy meant our kitchen was out of commission for two weeks. The Wood Guy uprooted our entire house putting footer in, turning and installing doors. Next comes the Carpet Guy who will install, well…carpet. The house isn’t coming together as fast as Christmas is approaching…and still NO TREE.

Then Liebe came over. She said, “Why, Nonnie, where is your tree? Let’s us put it up together, shall we?”

Or she would have if she wasn't just 15 months old.

So, while Kimberly was still here (getting ready for WORK, how annoying), I dragged the big holiday box upstairs. Liebe and I waved goodbye to my Not-a-Baby-Anymore and then…

...Liebe and Nonnie set up the tree!

Liebe wore the antlers for a while. Until she figured out a way to get both sets on my head.

Are we cute or what?

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Thirty-six Tropical degrees

2009-12-17T03:35:00.001-08:00

When did nearly freezing temperatures become warm? Well, not warm, exactly. Just not…cold.

The outside air registered a chilly 36 degrees. Snow seeped into puddles. It looked like it had rained while I was sleeping. But only in spots. In other places snow was still piled in frozen white heaps.

I rechecked the temperature. So warm! I didn’t need to warm up the car. What a treat! Did I even need to wear a coat?

When I moved to Missouri from sunny southern California, I didn’t own a coat, hat, gloves…or a single pair of closed toed shoes. When I showed up for work in sandals and shirt sleeves, my coworkers took up a collection.

Not that I was an actual surfer chick. I know the difference. My cousins were real live, honest-to-goodness surfer dudes and dudettes. Bruce rose in the morning, donned a wet suit and walked to the beach. He straddled his board with bare feet hanging in the frigid ocean and greeted the sun as it rose over bobbing blue swells. (“Yo, sun.”) Danny played Frisbee football in the warm sand. Ann surfed with such fervor that a surfboard once knocked out her two front teeth. (Got ‘em fixed; she’s still beach-blonde-beautiful.)

Me? I lived inland, closer to Disneyland than Huntington Beach. I climbed trees and jogged on the sidewalk. I wore leg warmers with shorts.

But, hey! It was still California. Sixty degrees was sweater weather. Fifty degrees and I’d skip school due to cold. One year when I was in third grade, a snowy mist dusted the playground and school was cancelled for the day.

So, when – and how -- did I become immune to what is, without argument, COLD?

I figure…you spend a week or two or 25 years of winters shivering at 15 or 20 degrees in below zero wind chills -- and 40 degrees seems like a veritable heat wave. A 60 degree Southern California Christmas is but a distant memory to my frosted epidermals.

Or maybe…it’s the layers of turtlenecks, sweaters, socks, mittens, muffs and blankets that fuel my tolerance to the cold.

One or the other…or both?

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Writer Reminder

2009-12-05T11:55:00.001-08:00

Note to self: if you ever sell a book or two or three or more and get a children’s author book signing/reading gig at Barnes and Noble and invite another writer friend to attend and sit together for a break in the employee breakroom (or anywhere else): DO NOT GOSSIP – or allow your writer friend to gossip – about…well, ANYthing, but ESPECIALLY not about in-fighting in the local writers’ group.

(Breathe...)

Because it’s just possible that a bookseller might also be a writer member of said group and, tottering beside you ignored as you snibble and quip, decide not to introduce herself after all. And while the writer/bookseller may not be of a mind to start a fire under the nastiness or hinder your sales…always remember and never forget: booksellers sell books. Sometimes sales are enhanced when a seller raves about how energetic, enthusiastic and outgoing an author is. Sales might be hurt were the truth known that you are negative, petty and prone to gossiping as though nobody were listening.

Yes, self, if you were so fortunate as to snap up a reading/signing gig…remember to SMILE and greet even the lowliest seeming person with enthusiasm and interest. Because you never know. That bookseller may *just* be another writer in disguise. Or an editor or agent working one Saturday a week for the discounts. Or a moonlighting teacher looking for a book just like yours to gift every student in her sixteen school district. Or even the person who decides if you ever get a gig like that again.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Thanksgiving 2009

2009-11-27T04:18:00.000-08:00

cozy place

smiling face

man in an apron

get out of my kitchen

cousins at a table

waiting...

for the blessing

family...we are thankful

Things I Hate...Stuff I Love: One

2009-11-13T18:33:00.001-08:00

Things I Hate…

People who yawn without covering their mouth: Unnnnnnnnghhhhhh, really. I do not need to see the inside of your toes. And everything in between.

People who over-perfume: Help! Air! Someone open a window and turn on the hose.

People who talk to me while also chatting on a cell phone. Sincerely rude. Truly.

Stuff I Love…

When my kids are home, lounging in front of the tv surrounded by water bottles and bags of chips. A happy mess.

Receiving a handwritten thank you note. It’s thoughtful. It’s nice. It’s a dying art.

Sleepytime: a soft bed, lots of blankets, pillows and a snoozy, snoring, warm husband. Contentment.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

The Submission Monster

2009-10-31T06:36:00.001-07:00

Think the hardest part of writing is coming up with ideas? Formatting? Plotting? Voice, POV, Tense, Hook, Word Count, Timing, Rhythm, Grammar, Vocabulary, Echo, Characterization, Setting, Back Story, Omitting-Phrases-You-Love, Butt-in-Chair?

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The hardest part of writing is SUBMITTING.

I read not too long ago that one way to tame the submission beast is to feed him one writing period a week. Where a writer’s only task is to match manuscripts with publishers, editors and agents. Great idea! Write all week and save up the hard part for Saturday morning. Can do.

Butt in Chair. Manuscripts ready. Begin matching.

Only…this publisher no longer accepts children’s books. That house now wants only middle grade fiction, while I’m marketing a non fiction picture book. The agent who expressed interest at the last conference has disappeared: blog gone, website is history. The editor I’ve been courting is now a women's clothing buyer for TJ Maxx. Oh goody, here’s a contest: $15 to enter; winner announced in 10 years. Publisher looks good, says he wants what I’ve got – but don’t send an SASE, they don’t reply. (“If you don’t hear from us in six months, we decided five minutes after reading your professionally formatted submission that we weren’t interested and you may now psychically determine that we don’t want your story and begin the process all over again.”)

One way to avoid maul-ification by the submission monster is to network. Join critique groups. Attend conferences and workshops. Read newsletters. Go out for coffee. Schmooze. Networking broadens the matching game by increasing the stack of potential submit-tos. But even then, the process is an ever changing exercise in frustration. Magazines close. Agents leave. Children’s publishers transform into centers that distribute books on health and nutrition along with tomes on history of the Middle East. Sometimes within moments of receiving that carefully constructed missive.

Still. A writer who doesn’t submit is sort of like a runner who doesn’t compete or a cook who never entertains. There is satisfaction gained in the writing, running and cooking – but no byline. No clips. No remuneration. It boils down to…what does the writer, runner or cook want? A hobby or a career…? If hobby is the goal, cage the demon and have fun. If you want a career…BIC, get out the whip, collar the beast -- and begin matching!

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

The Art of a Kiss

2009-10-26T02:24:00.001-07:00

Dennis reached over his teenage daughter, lifted his wife, Paula’s, hand…and kissed it. Paula beamed.

I thought, “what an artful way to express affection.” (But it sounded more like “awwwwww!”)

Art and craft. They go together like ham and eggs. Most people toil for years to develop skill into art. Which just means…there is no art without craft.

If a kiss on the hand is the art…what’s the craft?

Craft is skill, knowledge and expertise. Art is the individual manner in which craft is expressed. It is the words we use -- or omit. It is the tone in which we speak – or don’t. Art is style. It is flair. It is voice. Art channels the self.

Even Picasso studied technique, methods, principles and strategy. He learned how the juxtaposition of shape creates form. He observed how color produces balance and mood. He practiced his craft – and developed a distinctive style…his voice…in the process.

In writing, craft is format, spelling, punctuation and grammar. It’s the utilization of tag lines. It’s show don’t tell, paragraphs and line breaks and word count. Art? To a writer, art is Voice: like salsa on a taco, yellow in fireworks, full moon on a campout and cheese on…well, everything; that delectable something that keeps an audience reading.

If marriage is a skill (and it is), craft is affection, appreciation, patience and acceptance. And, yes, craft is love. Art is a tender kiss on the cheek, a pot of coffee when you know he’ll be working late, laughter, silliness and humor. Where listening is craft; art is in the hearing. Where patience is craft; art is in the waiting. Where acceptance is craft; art is in how differences are shared. If love is craft; art is hearing, waiting, sharing and…a kiss on the hand.

Awwwwwwwww!

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Walk-a-Marathon

2009-10-18T05:01:00.001-07:00

So happy to see our girlies Katie and Kimberly spectating

It was Cold. There was Rain. We were Wet. But standing at the center of a crowd of literally thousands of chattering, hopping, happy people was invigorating, motivating, encouraging. And warm -- even in a 40 degree drizzle. Energy swirled through the mass like an adrenaline cloud. It wrapped us in electric gauze. It tickled our skin and pulled at our hair, urging us on…you can do it, yes you can! Come play with me: run!!

Medical issues and personal stressors kept me from training properly for the Kansas City Marathon this year – my longest training run was only 8 miles. And Bob didn’t actually train at all. Still…we are not a couple to sleep in. So, fully intending to walk the entire Kansas City Half Marathon – together, in our matching marathon shirts aren’t-we-just-too-cute headgear…Bob and I “jalked” (jog/walk: credit to Bernie Fitzpatrick) most of the run’s 13.1 miles.

Until that last hill around mile ten when Bob said, “go!” stretched his legs into the decline – intent on catching the 3:00 pace setter group a mere sprint away – and YAMMO. His calf tightened into a hardball and…the running was over.

For a little while anyway.

Mister Competitive hobbled until he could walk. He gulped Gatorade and swallowed banana bits at the aid stations. He walked until he could stride until he could wog until he could jog until he could run. And in the end…we ran, finishing the half marathon just 13 minutes off his goal time.

As for me…I was disappointed not to run competitively. I finished at 2:01 last year and really, really wanted to beat 2:00 this year. My melancholy was tempered by the fun of spending 3 hours wandering early morning Kansas City with my guy. Yes. It was. FUN.

Next year? I intend to run. (Once he can walk) Bob intends to…train…and says he’ll add a speedier leg movement to his routine. Watch out, Kansas City: we’ll be back. Adding our energy to the people potpourri. Feeding the adrenaline cloud. Joining the play. To RUN!

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

What's Cool about Facebook...

2009-10-07T16:00:00.001-07:00

…is being friends with Bruce Coville and reading comments about him having Tamora Pierce over for lunch or traveling to a Bangladeshi tailor shop, where…"the well-dressed but barefooted clerks hop upon the counter to pull out bolts of fabric, and the custom made shirts cost $15 each..."

Star struck.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

On Looking Young

2009-10-06T03:27:00.001-07:00

Because I have a round, baby fat face and am short, people have persistently mistaken me for being younger than I am. While I never really minded -- there were always boys around who seemed to think I was attractive, and "cute" got me out of speeding tickets! -- there are two memorable exceptions:

My parents had taken me to dinner at Griswold's family restaurant in Claremont, California, following my high school graduation. I was 18 (and a half) and feeling mature and important in my billowy, peasant style dress. The server, speaking in a vaguely high pitched, aren't-you-sweet voice, asked if I'd like a kid's menu. (She wasn't sure whether I was 12 or 13.)

And: when I was roasted in newspaper reviews for my performance in a play at the American University in Cairo, Egypt, where I spent a college year abroad.

I wasn't a thespian. My brother had been heavily involved in AUC's theater department a couple of years earlier. Charles's good friend, Mahmoud El Lozy, had a major part in the play…so I was in.

In one scene, I played a servant, fanning an actor with a wide Egyptian fern. In another, I was a member of the crowd. Then, someone had a brainstorm and added a grandma to the play. The part fell to me. I would speak about 4 lines.

Most AUC students spoke 4 languages: Arabic, English, French and one more, usually German. We represented a hodge-podge of accents! It was decided that the play would be performed in English using a British accent.

To make a 20 year old look 80, a normal person would manipulate wrinkles into his or her face and draw in the lines. Although I screwed my mug into a thousand contortions, I could not make wrinkles. So, I drew lines where I imagined the folds might be if I'd had any.

Heavily attended, the play was a local success. Mahmoud and George Zarubin, a Georgetown student also on a year abroad, received rave reviews in Arabic and English language newspapers. I also received mention: "Grandma needs to return to her home country immediately! She doesn't look old, and speaks in some strange sort of American southern accent." (Review paraphrased as I was too publicly mortified to keep a copy.)

Today, 30 years later, I can make wrinkles. I'm still short, my face is still round and I have yet to find my first gray hair. Occasionally I'm still mistaken for being younger than I am. But it never bothers me anymore!

Visit me online at: http://www.kennaley.com/

When Writing and Parenting Collide

2009-09-30T05:46:00.001-07:00

Me and my babies: I love being a mom

Tears streamed down my face as I placed my palm on the airplane's cool interior window. Outside, beyond 60 feet of muggy Missouri airspace and a bank of airport terminal windows stood Bob with the three best people ever: 6 year old Christopher, 4 year old Katie and 3 year old Kimberly.

"Just go," Bob had said. Kimberly wailed, Katie sniffed and usually sanguine Christopher cried. How could I leave for seven whole days to promote my book? Pudding kisses, wake up hugs and dimpled smiles would all be gifts to my babysitter. Uh, three babysitters.

I was author, promoter, speaker and marketing director for my family produced book. So I could coordinate illustrations, organize school visits and write a slide show presentation, three college students provided tag team childcare. As I worked in my bedroom, my babies played on the other side of a closed door.

Many women write, promote, market, speak and schmooze just fine while the kids are small. Arnold Schwarzenegger once said that his wife, journalist Maria Shriver, worked at her keyboard as babies tusseled at her feet. She once famously dropped a daughter off for her first day of preschool, flew to Cuba, interviewed Fidel Castro -- and was home in time for dinner.

Right -- the home for dinner part is not true.

When I was pregnant with my third child, I propped my swollen legs on the kitchen table and wrote into the wee hours. Fueled by the need to prepare Christopher and Katie for Kimberly’s arrival, I created a labor of love called My Mom is Pregnant.

With three kids in tow, I delivered boxes of books to local hospitals for use in sibling programs. I wrote newspaper articles and designed ads when my kids were sleeping. It was busy. It was ego-lifting. It was fun.

And then I wrote a second book.

Suddenly, instead of writing in the snatches of time when I wasn't mommy-ing…I squeezed my kids into the ever shrinking spaces that remained when I wasn't writing.

"Would you like a tissue?" the stewardess asked. Shrouded in tears my cherished trio got smaller and smaller as the plane backed away from the terminal. My heart ached.

Maybe you’re more like me than Maria. Maybe you don’t have a limo driver or help in the kitchen and nursery. Maybe you need to know that it's okay to write when you can, what you can, as you can when your babies are small. Someday…your darlings, just like mine, will go away to college or move across town or (horrors!) transplant to a faraway country. Someday…you'll have the rest of your life to write. Really!

As for me, I cancelled the sitters and returned my writing to the kitchen. When it didn't disrupt my kids' lives, I wrote. I sold articles about homeschooling (yes, I did that too), told stories in schools and read great books with my kids.

And as the kids grew…I spent more time at my keyboard. I attended seminars, workshops, critique groups and conventions. I worked as a copywriter. I sold a few stories. I got a job – in a bookstore.

Because when writing and parenting collide…parenting should win. Time with your kids is short. Believe it or not, you have a lifetime of opportunity to find success as a writer. You’ve only got one shot at being a parent.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Facebook Fever

2009-09-26T05:31:00.001-07:00

Remove your hand from your keyboard if you’re addicted to facebook. How about a finger? Just one? You can do it.

When I first registered for facebook, members were all high school and college aged kids. You had to have a school email address to get in. I still had underaged kids and my objective was to “chaperone” – not get hooked on the thing. My college aged daughter’s friends thought it was hilarious that someone as old as me (50) was interested in social networking and a lot of them “friended” me. This was great fun – at first.

I saw adorable pictures highlighting my kids’ activities. I read uplifting essays written by others about my wonderful progeny. But I also learned stuff I’da been better off not knowing. Like who was…um, you know…and who wasn’t. Breaking the rules stuff. Stuff about other parents. Getting away with things type of stuff.

Once, one of my daughter’s friends climbed into my daughter’s facebook and posted a made-up story about said daughter doing something naughty. I raised a stink, and ended up with poo all over my face. Since it was a “joke” and all.

How embarrassing.

So, I made rules. No commenting. No uploading. No talking about anything I saw, read or learned, no matter how inciting the incident. My daughter added a few rules of her own. NEVER WRITE ON ANYONE’S WALL. Apparently, that would be embarrassing to the point of debilitation. If she’s removed a “tag,” DON’T RE-TAG. And NO HACKING!

Yep, in the early days I was a real live geek. I wrote websites, created graphics and taught myself html, java and cgi way before it was cool. Then someone made a program that did everything I knew which meant everyone in the whole world could now do what I did. Now I was just one of those moms stalking their kids on facebook.

Then something strange and wonderful happened. MY friends began appearing in facebook’s roll-call. There was Bernie and Kay and Micci and whoa, all the people I work with (who don’t really count since they’re all under 25). When my mom and dad “friended” me I knew we’d entered a whole new era for this whacky online forum.

Now, I have my own facebook friends. Some are relatives I haven’t seen since I was a child. Email? Message me on facebook. Pictures? Post ‘em on facebook. Party announcement? Create an event on facebook.

I don’t look at my kids’ pages so much anymore. You see, I’m much too busy with my own friends.

But I’m not addicted. Not me. Watch me lift a finger off the keyboard to prove it. Um, tomorrow. Updating status, chatting with a friend, uploading pictures…I’m much too busy right now…

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Cookie Cookie Cookie - um, Carrot - That's for Me!

2009-09-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

Did you hear about Cookie Monster? Sesame Street’s Big Blue Sugar Addict is turning to healthier pursuits. Instead of singing “C is for Cookie, that’s Good Enough for Me,” he warbles “A Cookie is a Sometimes Food” and chows down on blueberries, bananas, grapes and apples.

Hoots the Owl sings "A Cookie is a Sometimes Food" to Cookie Monster.

Horrors! What’s to become of this great land of ours? Next thing you know, they’ll be taking soft drink machines out of the schools!

I’m not opposed to the new, improved, healthier Sesame Street – an effort to “battle America’s Childhood Obesity epidemic.” It’s a great idea to reinforce good habits whenever possible, and I’m glad the media is making an effort.

When my kids were small, Reese’s Cups were “grown up food.” Snack time followed nap and was an apple and peanut butter or crackers and cheese. The kids did not drink pop. There was no snacking between meals. If anyone refused dinner there was no sympathy snack when hunger scratched at the refuser’s belly. In our house, a cookie wasn’t just a sometimes food – it was a Special Day Indulgence, like Thanksgiving and Christmas and When-You-Go-To-Grandma’s-House.

We weren’t perfect. The kids knew I hid my stash of Reece’s Cups in the cabinet over the sink (but woe unto him - or her - who dipped into the supply). We ate greasy popcorn and sticky granola bars. We used the electronic babysitter (tv). We drove when we coulda walked. We left dirty dishes in the sink overnight. We picked our noses and didn’t flush.

And we watched Sesame Street. We laughed at Cookie Monster’s sugar induced craziness. It never occurred to us that we might be reinforcing bad attitudes in our kids. We just thought…well, that it was funny.

And doggone if our kids didn’t grow into healthy, robust, fitness-conscious young adults. Two out of three truly prefer fruits and veggies to sweets. The third loves all-things-candy, but makes a conscious effort to limit confectionary consumption.

Still! I liked Cookie Monster in his original form: like a 6 year old alone at a table full of chocolate chip cookies and only 2 minutes left to recess. It was real. It was true. It was funny.

A big blue monster whacked out over a plate of apples is neither funny nor realistic. Kids like funny! There’s a place for funny in childhood. Especially for those kids, like mine, who think Santa Claus runs the world’s Cookie Kitchen.

Maybe Cookie Monster still prefers cookies; he’s simply trying to overcome this psychological imperfection by limiting his goody intake.

Next up: Cookie Monster Enters Rehab.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

What Not to Wear: Islamic Version

2009-09-20T04:34:00.001-07:00

How out of style is a person who is eclipsed in fashion by a group of women wearing robes and head scarves?

Like Hilary and Barack, I participated in an iftar Friday evening 9/18/2009 – the one meal Muslims eat each day after fasting from sun-up to sun-down during the holy month of Ramadan. Unlike Hilary and Barack, I wore hijab.

Hijab is a type of scarf some Muslim women wear over their head, neck and shoulders to show devotion to the tenets of Islam. The iftar was held in the masjid (mosque). All women, Muslim and non-Muslim wear hijab while in the masjid.

This was not a borrowed scarf, but one of three gen-yoo-wine, authentic hijabs I purchased while living and traveling in Egypt in 1979. I wouldn’t wear an abaya because – well, I didn’t own one. I’d been to the masjid once before, after making contact with a young teacher in the school. My interest was in learning more about why Muslim women, especially the youngest girls, wear hijab. Do their husbands and fathers make them do it? Isn’t it hot? And how can I capitalize upon what I’ve learned to add interest to the short stories I write for kids?

I’d attended a graduation ceremony at the Islamic school and interviewed a couple of young girls. One of my new friends invited me to iftar to “see what it’s like.”

In addition to wearing hijab, I “covered” as much as possible: loose black jeans and a (long sleeved, high neck) green blouse. Because my hijab was black, green and gold. Oh, wasn’t I so color coordinated, sophisticated and fashion-wise.

Before wrapping the scarf, I donned a wide, cotton headband to hold the hijab in place. Then I wrapped, rewrapped and wrapped again the way my new Muslim friends had shown me. It’s not as easy as you’d think to drape 7 foot long swatch of fabric around your head without leaving bumps or bubbles. It took nearly 30 minutes, two hat pins and one safety pin.

I felt big. Clunky. Hot. Overdressed. Plus, I couldn’t hear. The world filtered through the cotton like water in a cloggy sieve. The scarf gave me jowls. And my happy, character-filled laugh lines looked like wrinkles. When they so weren’t. Wrinkles, that is.

I was self conscious and heavy under all those clothes. But I didn’t feel unfashionable. After all, I MATCHED. I was color coordinated. A bit of gold thread wound through the black and green in the scarf. It was pretty. Right?

Then I arrived at the masjid and discovered – I was out of fashion. In many different languages, actually.

Like anything else clothes-like, style of hijabs and abayas spring in and out of vogue. And 1979 was a long time ago.

My (very, very old) hijab was thick, black cotton. The gold threads were loose in places. The tassel was frayed. My jeans were heavy black fabric and my shirt boxy.

The covered ladies of the masjid, however, wore long, silky abayas that hugged their shoulders and swam to the floor like waves crashing against the beach. Cool and coordinated summer dresses over long sleeves with breezy, wide legged pants. Shift-like robes open at the sides or zipped up the front, down the back or buttoned at the side. V-neck, high neck, straight and A-line. Opaque and sheer, one-, two-, three- and four-piece in purple, pink, blue, black, red, and all possible patterns. One young woman wore a long, gauzy dress over stylishly cut jeans.

How many ways can a person drape a scarf over their head, you ask? Let me tell you. There were one-piece, hood-like hijabs. Scarves wrapped close to the face or poured loosely over the head. Cap-like hijabs with silky tails that flowed gently down the back. Gauze and silk and cotton held in place with glittery doo-dads, flat face tabs, diamond pins and clips. Patterned, plain, matching and contrasting, tied over the head or behind the neck, wrapped around shoulders, looped, draped, bundled or shrouded. One scarf hung fashionably off a shoulder while another waterfalled down the back. Double headbands for contrasting color. Hijabs drawn tight, revealing a coquette-ish knot blanketed at the back of the head (where her hair was bundled) -- or loosely flowing to shield the forbidden clump.

And there was color! Purples, reds, blues, greens, glitter, sparkle, shine.

These women did not look heavy. They did not look hot. And they did not have jowls or wrinkles either. They were beauty, fashion and class personified.

I felt a little like Cinderella watching the step-sisters dress for the ball. Except that everyone was really, really nice.

Later a kind woman gave me a tip: there’s a store that sells hijabs and abayas at James A. Reed and Bannister. I may just check it out. For next time.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Honey Do...Do...Do...Do...Do...Do...

2009-09-16T14:04:00.001-07:00

If I had six husbands, my house would be painted.

It’s a disturbing thought. After all, who wants six husbands? All those lost socks. Drawers open. Toilet seats up. Grass and mud stained footprints trudged through the house. Cars in the driveway and braked on the lawn. A sea of team flags waving from the front porch.

In the mountains of Tibet it’s common for one woman to marry an entire family of brothers. The oldest brother chooses and marries the woman to be shared; once he’s old enough – usually mid teens -- each additional brother joins the family.

The reason for this fraternal polyandry (Big Word Alert!) has to do with the harsh environment in which the Tibetans live – high altitude and snow and lots of it, so there’s a shortage of arable land. Families do better when they share crops, space and dividends. One woman can produce only so many babies, so the communal lifestyle naturally controls population. But more importantly, families live this way to avoid inheritance problems. If, at the end of one’s life the fruits of one’s labors are divided among one’s sons, as it is in the Tibetan society…after a while there isn’t much land and rugs and gold and…stuff…for one to pass along. As it is now, each family owns just one acre of land.

So what does she do all day, this woman with 4, 5, 6 or more husbands? Oh, sure, her dance card is full (wink, wink). But what about her work day hours? As Husband Number One toils in the field. Husband Number Two herds the yaks. Husband Number Three manages the cooking and cleaning. Husband Numbers Four and Five care for the babies (Tibetan Quality Child Care). And Husband Number Six paints the house.

I imagine she tinkers on the computer, paints her nails, eat chips and cheese and creates Honey Do Lists.

This would sound great if it weren’t for the snow, the harsh precipitous house high on the side of a cold, desolate mountain, no nearby Walmart (where does she get her Reese’s Cups?), cold, snow, high altitude, did I mention COLD? Oh – and the part about having six husbands.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Writer's Conference Weekend

2009-09-12T05:51:00.000-07:00

I’m attending my first regional writer’s conference this weekend. Bruce Coville. Jennifer Brown. Dian Curtis Regan. Cheryl Harness. Editors from major publishing companies. It’s all so exciting and surreal. Who are these people who pop out book after book after book, like soap bubbles? Who are the editors that choose, polish and print said missives? Does the room shine with ethereal light when they walk into a room? Are they larger than life and cuter than puppies?

Um, actually, no. They’re just like you and me. Only…richer. And prettier.

Just kidding. I don’t know if they’re richer than you.

In truth, there is something different about “them,” these Royalty of Children’s Literature. An informal survey (ie, paying attention at conferences, reading a lot and listening in on other people’s conversations) reveals that regularly published children’s writers are professional. They write every day. They network, join critique groups and attend conferences. Just like you and me, right? Only…and (here’s the kicker):

They didn’t quit.

Ahhhhhh, so that’s the secret.

They’ve mastered one or two other things too. Like keeping “butt in chair” (as Jane Yolen once said). Writing with Voice. Organization. Structure. Characterization. Plot. Molding raw ideas into something interesting to read. And oh-so-much-more.

These SCBWI sessions are titled things like, “Yippy-Ki-A” (Voice with Bruce Coville), Forming a Posse (critique groups), Panning for Gold Nuggets (humor), and Where the Wild West Things Are (picture books with Dian Curtis Regan). I get to be a room monitor for Jennifer Brown’s session on humor. So lucky.

There’s so much to learn…can’t wait to get started!

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Bible Belt Cinderella

2009-09-10T15:05:00.001-07:00

My mom, dad and sister are in Greece swimming naked in clear Mediterranean water. My brother is in China conducting important research for a book. I am at home with my sister’s two cats, mother’s breed unknown dog, my deaf, blind and incontinent Pekingese -- and three (including mine) meandering, overflowing, flowering, growing, spreading, thirsty gardens. Scooping cat poop, weeding, dusting, tending, fluffing, cleaning and buffing.

I feel a little like Cinderella at the ash-bin. Stoking the fire so sister dearest can roast her weenie evenly as Mama hollers, “Don’t get soot on the carpet!”

It’s not like I haven’t done my share of traveling. I lived in Egypt in both high school and college. I traveled throughout Europe alone when I was 20. I grew up in California (I should get extra points for that) and shopped New York. I’ve driven across the United States, including a one day expedition into Tijuana. I was among the first group of travelers to walk the No-Man's-Land between Egypt and Israel after the 1979 treaty, an exhilarating, frightening, amazing experience. At different times in my life I’ve spoken proficient German and Arabic (and English, duh). I have a college degree. I’m published.

I’m not exactly a landlocked hausfrau, even if I am a married, conservative church-going, home-loving, homeschooling, soccer mom whose very reason for being centers around her not-babies-anymore-had-three-in-three-years-they-owe-me children, hubby, house and home.

And anyway, I was invited. To Greece. If I could come up with the money. Which I could have. If I really wanted to go. Which I didn’t. C’mon. Twenty-two hours on a (series) of planes and boats to arrive at a tiny island where all the buildings are perched (precariously, I imagine) on the side of a mountain, then have to climb hill and dale to get to my room which sits on a cliff far away from the beach? Nothing to do but sit at a tiny table overlooking the blue Mediterranean drinking WINE at all hours of the day and night? Get to the beach wearing my expensive, new bikini only to discover that swimsuits are optional?

Okay, yeah, sounds pretty good.

Huh. Looks pretty good too. (Picture stolen from sister's facebook page. Note houses perched precariously on hilltops.)

Maybe next year. If the cats and dogs and gardens can spare me.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

I had a baby...

2009-09-07T19:42:00.000-07:00

…20 years ago today. This beautiful creature was my third baby in three years: a three year old, one year old and a newborn. How did I do it, you ask? One day at a time.

Some days, it was one moment at a time.

When Kimberly was born, her face was so round and padded that only the tip of her little nose stuck out of the mass. Her eyes were doughy crescents and her mouth a rosy red bud.

She was a gentle baby who only cried to sleep. She wasn’t much heavier than a moonbeam, but cuddled like a sumo wrestler, warm and full bodied. She loved her sister and brother and Mommy and Daddy sooooooooooo much. Lucky, lucky us.

Now? She’s gentle and sweet and kind and, while her face is no longer padded, she still has a bitty knob of a nose. She’s in college 4 hours away and I miss her smile…and a lot of other things about her. Like the peace she brings to a space. Her smile and good humor. The way a room lights up when she walks in. And her hugs. She gives great hugs.

Where did the time go? The childrearing days are lost in a sea of worry. Will she never sleep? Is he eating enough? Why is she crying? Why isn’t she crying? Is she eating the right things? Ready for school? Happy? Warm? Cold? Rested? Safe? Secure? Should she be allowed to see that movie? Attend that dance? Hang out at the mall? Is she working enough? Working too much? Will she-he-they NEVER SLEEP???

And how will she get by without me? How will I get by without her?

Amazingly, she does and I do too. And blink…my babies are young adults in college and one even married with babies of his own.

And the cycle begins again.

But, once upon three times…I had babies…

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

Rain, Rain, Go Away

2009-09-05T03:44:00.000-07:00

No one will be painting my house today. Why should today be any different?

It rained again last night. The air is clean and Halloween crisp. Bouganvilla and marigolds are standing at attention, grass is lush green and birds and crickets fill this early morning with song. All of God’s great creation is joyful. Thankful for life giving rain. Earth replenishing water. Root restoring liquid. Everyone is happy, that is, except me.

Did you know that not only shouldn’t you paint a house in the rain –you ought not paint for a day (or so) after. If you want the paint to stick that is.

Which is why my house is not painted nearly TWO YEARS after the first window was scraped.

My husband is a busy guy. In his field, one must toil when the work is good. And for the last two years, the work has been good when the sun stood round in the sky…and on the days set aside to paint? The days he planned to leave his office and pick up a brush, roller, scraper?

Rain.

And not just a sprinkle, either: a deluge. We’re talking Rain Forest sheets streaming from the sky. Amazon sized drops where the trees bend sideways and the dog refuses to go outside to do her business.

Okay, not really -- but we have had a lot of rain in the last two years. And wet stuff always seems to roll down my windowpane on the days hard working hubby has set aside to paint. Often enough that my house sits half painted after TWO YEARS.

Until the house is painted, my Honey Do Man can’t – won’t -- begin on the many projects inside the house. Why, you ask? Because when he’s not painting, he’s working. Making the money to buy the dishwasher and microwave that toil uninstalled in my garage. Purchase carpet for Grandbaby’s Play Space. Buy Wii for the basement family area (hardcore motivation for Nonnie’s children to bring Nonnie’s grandbabies by).

With the writing streaming wet down my garage door, we hired a related-to-us handyman to help complete our many projects. Unfortunately, the handyman has another job, a family and just went back to school. He’s been here twice, for a total of about 6 hours, in three weeks. He is apparently not as motivated to work-for-green as we are to pay him to work.

It’s looking like God doesn’t want my house painted. And if I can’t get my house painted, will I ever get Grandbabies’ Play Space done? The carpet removed from our family sitting area? Holes in the basement ceiling (leaky ice maker) filled, broken pipe (forgot to remove a hose during the winter) sautered, dishwasher and microwave installed? Sure, eventually. Maybe for Grandbabies’ high school graduation.

If it stops raining long enough, that is.

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

I'm a grandma!

2009-08-29T06:32:00.001-07:00

Six months ago, Bob and I had three kids in college. Before you groan, “ohhhhhhhhhhh, that’s so hard!” realize, we had three babies in three years. We homeschooled our darlings through 8th grade. We sent all three to expensive private high schools. Two wore braces. Two required glasses and then contacts. All three were in car accidents; two more than twice! We paid for tutors, prom dresses, a tux, dragged the kids out of bed for church, insisted on family dinner hour, cleaned the bathroom and searched under beds for towels. Because…no matter how often we replenished the supply -- there were never any towels on the bathroom rack.

And we did laundry. Ceaselessly. Need I say more?

In college our kids bear the bulk of the financial obligation – work, grants and loans, with a little help from Mom and Dad. College is CHEAPER than high school, easier than grade school, and we get a clean, quiet house too! Not such a bad deal.

When the last child headed off to those hallowed halls of learning -- I moved my son’s bed (he’d taken everything else) into the daughters’ room, put shelves up for my books, trailed phone and cable wires through the ceiling and – turned his Boy Space into Mom’s Writing Nook.

The bathrooms were clean. The house was calm. The phone was still. The tv channeled NCIS into our home morning, noon and night. Bob and I ate dinner in front of the tv (when we weren’t eating out). Because We’re Grown Ups, and Because We Can. Lights out was 10pm and occasionally we went to bed at the same time. Wow. Freedom!

We joked that with one child north of us, one east and another south, all we needed was a fourth to head west and we’d have a diamond, with us at the center.

But wait. Add a fourth? Nyaaaaaaaaaaah. Three kids were good. And three kids in college was GREAT.

Then our son, Chris, announced his intention to leave the small town where he’d been in school for four years and attend school in a bigger community: Kansas City. Wait. That’s where WE live. Would he be moving home? I eyed my office space.

“Nope,” he said. (Okay, what he really said was, “NO WAY.”)

And that was a-ok.

Then Chris announced that he had a girlfriend. Whom he’d known for four years. And, by the way, she had a baby.

We worried, but in the end that was a-ok too.

Then our son announced that he and his girl – a big eyed beauty named Kayla -- were married. And by the way, “our baby is due in February or March.” But don’t worry, Mom and Dad. There will still be a Big Catholic Wedding. May 2010.

We were disappointed to miss out on the joy of their courthouse union, but – now – that’s also…a-ok.

Our (step) grandbaby’s name is Liebe; German for “love.” She has downy blonde hair, big blue sparklers and chubby little cheeks that fill out like pillows when she smiles. She loves loves loves music and her mama. I hope one day she’ll love me too.

Right away I evacuated the space we still call “Chris’s Room.” I removed three lower shelves from my wall of books and put in crates for toys. My digital piano took lease of a corner, and I’m having a 30 inch mirror framed for the opposing wall. So Liebe can watch herself dance.

I’m thinking my grandma name will be “Nonnie.” What do you think? If I can get Bob to agree, Liebe will call him “Pop.”

And we’ll be (can you see this coming?): “Nonnie Pop, Nonnie Pop, oh-Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie…Nonnie Pop! Ba-dum-bum-bum…”

(To the tune of “Lollipop” by the Chordettes):

Nonnie Pop Nonnie Pop Oh Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie Pop Nonnie Pop...

Call my grandies Nonnie Pop Tell you why Their kisses’ sweeter than an apple pie When Nonnie plays piano I wanna dance I haven't got a chance

I call them Nonnie Pop Nonnie Pop Oh Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie Pop Nonnie Pop...

Sweeter than candy on a stick Huckleberry, chimry or lime If you had a choice They'd be your pick But my Nonnie Pop are mine

I call them Nonnie Pop Nonnie Pop Oh Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie Pop Nonnie Pop...

Crazy way they thrill me Tell you why Just like a lightning from the sky They love to kiss me till I can't see straight GEE, MY NONNIE POP ARE GREAT

I call them Nonnie Pop Nonnie Pop Oh Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie Nonnie Pop Nonnie Pop.....(repeat)

Visit me online at: http://www.Kennaley.com

I Quit...

2009-08-26T19:07:00.001-07:00

…playing piano a few years ago. I had an, ahem, temper tantrum…of sorts. I’d just completed three years as accompanist and music director for a large Vacation Bible School program (for which I wrote much of the music), yet the liturgist at our church wouldn’t allow me to play for church services. I was homeschooling, working and taking care of a house, husband, kids and a dog. I didn’t have time to practice properly. I was constantly interrupted.

So I quit.

That’ll show me, huh?

Recently I was invited into the life of a beautiful, perfect, angelic one year old baby. My son’s step daughter. This pink cheeked wonder of God’s creation loves music, loves to dance, loves to sit on my lap and giggle at the sound that her fingers make as we travel the keyboard together. In her honor, I sat at the piano today. I’d purchased a simple arrangement for The Chicken Dance – which I thought my blonde, dimpled wiggler might like.

At first, I stumbled over the notes. I penciled in fingering and tinkered like a beginner. I watched my fingers and groaned. The Chicken Dance was a dirge.

I persisted, and it wasn’t long before instinct took over. My hands remembered! Chords, flourishes, glissando!, trills, rhythm. I lost track of time. Did I make dinner? I couldn’t remember. When did it get dark outside?

Gonna hafta start playing piano again.