Rerun: My Butt Hurts When I Write

Last Thursday, I wrote a post about truths. One of them was that humor is a salve. So it seemed appropriate to rerun the following post (I'm on vacation out of the country).

Enjoy!

 Daughter #3 finally has me to herself for a fifteen minute car ride. 

"Mom," she says with a nice long pause for effect, "my butt hurts when I write."

My favorite DD#3 pic

My kids often come to me for writing-related questions. Me or I is a favorite topic of conversation as is any verb paired with have. But, this one had me for a second.

I start with a simple question. "Did it happen today?"

"Yes. At school."

It was starting to come together. We had been really working on her writing all year. I even started a second grade writing club that met at my house every Tuesday after school. My baby was finally loving writing so much that she actually was sitting still too long enjoying it. 

"I'm so sorry your butt hurts when you write, honey. You should take a break every now and again and move around and then go back to writing." Such a proud Mama moment.

Until...

"Mom!" You can imagine it, right? A long and drawn-out Mom--a one syllable word made into three or four. "I said, "My butt hurts when I wipe!"

The Jack & Jill of Juxtaposition = J: Blogging from A to Z

And then there were 16. 

Welcome to Day J of the Blogging from A to Z Challenge.

Continuing with my theme of literary devices, today we are talking about juxtaposition. 

Source

Juxtaposition

(source)

Juxtaposition refers to the use of dissimilar terms, concepts, or images in order to contrast their varying (or opposite) attributes. This may be used for ironic effect, to create surprise or humor, or to stimulate the imagination.

Juxtaposition is often used for comparison and contrast, rhetorical effect, suspense, and character development. For characters, it's often the yen and yang of personalities.

For example:

Consider The Prince and the Pauper. The author took two young men from very different worlds, who happened to look just alike, and had them change positions--a prince to a pauper and vice versa. By placing each of them in the other's life, the author was able to compare and contrast how they saw the world. Through this literary device, the reader was privy to a deeper understanding of both characters.

For moms of girls, a newer example would be Barbie's The Princess and the Pauper. *winks*

Another example is the picture featured above. The advertisement for God right along an ad to "Stop Sleeping Around." In Kentucky, where I went to college, you could often find billboard ads for strip clubs near ads for a church or Right to Life billboard. Even though I've seen such a scenario many times, it always gives me pause.

By placing two seemingly different items together, it not only points out their differences but strengthens what each stands for--good or bad.

What's your favorite example of juxtaposition?

As a mom, I see my daughters as a day-to-day example of juxtaposition. They are each a combination of the same two parents' DNA, and they are being brought up with similar values and financial security, yet they are all so different. Their personalities glow, mainly as compared to each other.

And, as the title of this post implies, the nursery rhyme Jack & Jill shows how each handles going down the hill.

Jack and Jill went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water.

Jack fell down and broke his crown,

And Jill came tumbling after.

Red Heart Shop: Guest Post by my mom, Angela Silverthorne

In the spirit of the holidays, we thought our readers would enjoy this fun, humorous tale. We hope everyone is enjoying the season and the rest of 2011.

*****

Red Heart Shop

I grew up in a shop, a beauty shop, that is. My grandmother who was born in 1918 decided to go back to school at 47. At the time, my mother was attending school at Georgia State, so I never considered it unusual to have strong, industrious, hardworking women around me. They never whined; they just did.

Consequently, calling my grandmother’s place of business a shop was apropos. In my mind, her shop could be likened to any workshop where men gathered to get their cars checked out and pick up on the latest news traveling down the info pipe. Grandmother’s shop steamed around the latest fandangle and the juiciest gossip. She used appliances, concocted hair remedies to grease and lubricate, and tackled complex problems on design and repair. She opened up at 7AM, often working 7 days a week.  She got called at the last minute, dealt with customer complaints, went to bed bone tired, and spent many hours at the funeral home making someone’s Mama look just like she did in life. And only Ms. Ann could do that.

I always sat quiet, observing, listening.  But my main intent was the conversation. I didn’t want to miss one luscious word, one dripping nuance or misnomer.

One day, Mabel (May – elongate and stretch the long a – Bell) came into the shop. She worked at the local mill, spool faced with cluster eyebrows. But this woman had a presence. When she entered the room, heads turned. On one particular day, I was kneeling, holding the dustpan as grandmother swept up mounds of multi-colored hair, laying curls atop resistant white, driving smelly perm solution airborne, when Mabel blew in, slamming the door with a staggering force.

“Ann,” she said loudly, “The usual.”

Grandmother pushed the last mound toward me, motioning me to dispose of it. “I’ll have you outta here in no time flat,” she stated, grabbing a cape and flinging it around Mabel’s neck. “What’s new?”

Two magic words, “what’s new,” began a runoff of names, misdemeanors, and indiscretions, most of which I didn’t understand. I did, however, understand the dicey rhythm of word delivery and reception. At one point, grandmother motioned for me to hand her a comb out of the sanitizer. I quickly maneuvered, delivering it directly into her outstretched hand.

In one instantaneous flash Mabel had me by the arm, pulling me close. “Have you been eating dog food?” she asked, her other hand running through my hair.

“Mabel!” grandmother shouted, “What’s into you?”

“Look at this hair, Ann,” she said, pointing. “It’s like a dog’s!”

Grandmother looked puzzled. When I winced, Mabel released my arm and exclaimed, “Dog food, dammit. She’s been eating dog food. I’ve been coming here for years, asking for this kind of hair, and you knew the secret all along, didn’t you?”

We stared. The woman must be mad.

“Ann, my hair is fried. The last time I walked out of here, I saw her with this.” Mabel pulled out a tin can of Red Heart. “See . . . right here on the front . . . that’s her hair, sure enough. Don’t deny it!”

I watched grandmother intently. She took the can out of Mabel’s hand, slipped up her eye glasses, paused and then exclaimed, “Mabel, you found me out. But I could lose my license over this.”

“Oh, honey, I’ll never tell.” She smiled broadly and winked.

When Mabel left, grandmother turned to me, “Explain.”

Feeling I was in horrid trouble, I began, “Well, I give Shots food out of my hand. When I’m done, I’m all greasy, so I do this . . .” Clasping my hands together, I rubbed them vigorously, stretched my fingers wide and ran them through my hair. “It musta worked. You haven’t said my hair looked like a scarecrow in two weeks.”

Grandmother reached down and kissed my forehead. She didn’t say a word. But I did notice a lot more Red Heart in the cupboard and a faint smell of it in the plastic bottle she kept by the wash basin. Funny how an odor can sit around on everything and no one will say a word.

Wipeout: The Gift of Togetherness

Laughing and being together. It's what the holidays are all about. Last night, my middle daughter and I walked in around 8pm, finally done with swim practice and a week's worth of commitments. Then what to my wondering eyes should appear, but my other two daughters and husband watching Wipeout episodes and laughing hysterically.

Luckily for us, it was a marathon. We sat for two episodes and laughed and enjoyed each other. The Christmas tree was shining in the corner. It seemed silly to be bonding over people falling down and smashing into things. But it was bonding nonetheless.

In July, I posted about laughter being the best medicine. I'm re-running it today in the spirit of Christmas and bonding.

*****

Laughter is often the best medicine, and it fills my tub. In our "The Balancing Act" interview, host Danielle Knox asked why we incorporated so much humor in our book. If you haven't seen our interview yet, you can follow the link on the left side of our blog.

My answer:
Humor is a gift. My dad gave us many things growing up, but I always say one of his greatest blessings was humor. It's medicinal. Too often we focus on what burdens us, what makes us tired and frustrated, instead of embracing the joy of life. My favorite memories as a kid are laughing ... and that's true now with my husband and three daughters ... sometimes laughter's just the best medicine.

Humor is also a shield and a saving grace. Why do you think parents tickle kids when they are sad? Why are comedians often from tragic upbringings? When one of my kids comes home sad or hurt, one of the first things we will do is put on music and dance. Maybe we would all benefit from a good dance class, because we usually end up laughing. A plate of warm chocolate chips cookies goes a long way, too.

I rarely tell a poignant story without throwing in some humor (often sarcasm and wit are my tools). Sadness without laughter is empty and painful. We all have sad moments in our lives, but dwelling on the pain will bring nothing. The ability to laugh at yourself and with others is a treasure. If a writer can make me laugh for one page, I can better endure and appreciate one hundred pages of sadness and misfortune.

This quote says it well:

"A sense of humor... is needed armor. Joy in one's heart and some laughter on one's lips is a sign that the person down deep has a pretty good grasp of life." Hugh Sidey

Check out our humor by visiting these past posts:

* What Not to Do During a Television Interview

* Friday Feature: About Menopots

For fun, here's a video of my youngest, Maddie (now 6), and her first taste of baby food. This always makes me laugh:

The Land of Lost Toys

Today's NaBloPoMo prompt: What gift do you regret breaking?

Growing up surrounded by moving boxes, our toys were constantly breaking through no fault of our own. I remember lots of tears as I unwrapped treasures from boxes. When all the paper came out, broken pieces rattled at the bottom of the box often caught in the flaps of taped box ends.

I collected unicorns when I was younger. I had everything from a unicorn lamp to delicate glass blown figurines. The only item from my collection I still own... a unicorn stuffed animal. It's perched on my daughter's bed, happy to have made it through countless moves while all her friends met untimely ends.

One of my daughters precious unicorns

A more recent tragedy of the dreaded moving boxes... my husband's telescope. He wanted one for a long time, and it sat proudly in his office. Did he gaze at the stars nightly? No, but he was excited to show the girls when they got old enough. Unfortunately it was broken during a move. Worse than that, we didn't realize it for awhile, so it was too late to claim it and replace it. We still haven't. It's on a long list titled, "One of These Days."

Moving created the land of the lost toys for me as a kid, and now for my family. But we try to love the heck out of things when we have them. Now that my daughter has started her own unicorn collection, I have hot glue ready to make sure it stays around for years of memories.

Do you remember a favorite lost toy?

*****

For the moms out there, I have to share this story because I know you'll appreciate it. As soon as I wrote the piece above about my one surviving unicorn, I went upstairs to take a picture of it for the blog. One hour later I had a laundry basket full of dirty clothes, leftover cups, a Target bag filled with trash, and three broken toys. But no unicorn picture.

I swear I just saw the thing sitting on my daughter's bed. Either I haven't cleaned her room in way too long (sadly, this could be the case), or she's rearranged and Lord only knows where it is.

Still, this is why I don't get done as much as I would like on any given day. Distractions!

Out of the Mouths of Babes

And so it begins... BlogHer's December Blog Posting Month (still NaBloPoMo). The theme is gifts, or, more specifically, from the website: "But we're not just talking getting presents: we're looking at how we treat ourselves, what are our talents, and what do we like to give others. What is the best gift you ever got? The best gift you ever gave? How do you like to open gifts? Are you a peeker? And what about all of those non-tangible gifts that we can bestow on one another throughout the day?"

It's a lovely topic for the month of December, leading into the holidays and remembering a year almost over. I hope you'll enjoy our month of gifts.

Today's prompt: What was the first tangible gift you remember receiving?

Some of my earliest memories involve sitting around the Christmas tree: shaking boxes, counting presents, Dad reading the Christmas story from the Bible, racing cars around the tree, waking up in the wee hours of the morning to see the loot, falling asleep at noon exhausted and surrounded by gifts. The list goes on and on. But these are intangibles, the true beauty of Christmas.

By revealing my first tangible gift I'll be revealing the rotten part of me. Please excuse my children's influence over my choice of words, but sometimes kids are just plain rotten. My mother always says kids let down their guard around their mom because they know she loves them unconditionally. I'd like to think the good children of the world are insecure while my stinkers sweet angels are confident, strong young women who know the depths of their mother's love.

Back to my story... my father rarely bought Christmas gifts. He worked long hours providing for his family, and thus for our Christmas, but the burden of shopping, wrapping, choosing fell to my mother. Occasionally, and the reasons were always murky, Dad decided to go shopping. I'll never forget his foray into Barbies.

My dad was the youngest of six kids, from very humble beginnings. Although he wanted the best for us, I think it was always hard for him not to see us as, well, ingrates. We had more than he could ever have imagined as a child.

One year, I must have been eight or so, Dad bought me a Barbie set. In his mind it must have been a deal. The 12" doll came with at least twenty outfits and loads of accessories. On Christmas Eve, after coming home from church, we were allowed to open one present each. We could choose anything we wanted. As kids do, we'd find the biggest box we could. I was intrigued by the size of the box and the unusual "from Dad" sticker.

I unwrapped it slowly, savoring my moment in the spotlight. I sat for a moment looking at the bounty.

Dad: "So what do you think?"
(note: Why do parents do this? Isn't it the equivalent of, "Do I look fat in this dress?")

Me: "She'll make a great maid."

In my defense, the off-brand barbie doll did come with a broom, apron, and other accessories leading me to this conclusion. Dad left the room, mumbling ingrate under his breath. I played and played with that doll, loved her even, but she was always the maid in our Barbie house.

Such a special memory for me is now a great story my dad loves to tell my kids when I accuse them of being rotten. I guess the apples didn't fall far from the tree.

What was the first tangible gift you remember receiving?

Not The Newlywed Game: Friday Feature

On Fridays I like to feature the best thing I've read the past week. Some weeks it's a no-brainer, other times I struggle to find something. Or, more importantly, something entertaining!

This week my favorite thing is a little something Mom wrote and sent my way. Enjoy!

*****

It Ain't The Newlywed Game

We’ve been married 41 years. 41 years. Do you think we would know more about each other than the couples on The Newlywed Game? Well, check out this scenario.

My husband and I recently attended a church marriage seminar for seniors to strengthen our communication skills. Lovely idea! And so needed. He declares I mumble. I vow he can’t even hear himself. He says I never told him. I steam he doesn’t listen. The seminar was a great idea until... the moderator began asking questions.

It was all fun and games listening to other couples answer their questions with ease and comfort. We all laughed, ribbing our church friends that they must have rehearsed their answers. None of the questions were hard. None of them were intimate or personal. Most were common, everyday questions everyone knew how to answer. You know the break the ice kind of questions.

We were in the middle of a hardy, raucous time with our friends when the instructor threw a question our way.  “Sir, can you name your wife’s favorite flower?”

You should have seen my husband. Proud plastered itself all over his face. A smile spread from ear to ear. I must have smirked, feeling girlish, knowing he had the right answer.

He touched my hand. Tears welled. With firm conviction, he loudly declared, “It’s Pillsbury!”

The room grew quiet. The speaker looked puzzled. Everyone turned our way.

After what seemed an eternity, I gasped, shoved his hand away, and said without one stitch of hesitation, “Fool! I use King Arthur!”

Laughter erupted. Our faces grew brilliant red. My friend sitting next to me cupped her hands around her mouth, leaned in toward me and yelled, “He said flower!”

My husband and I looked at one another and shrugged our shoulders.

She yelled louder, “He said flower!”

By now, we were getting riled up. How dare she contradict what we’d answered? Was something wrong with the woman’s hearing?

When she screamed it out for the third time, we both stood up in unison, and walked out the door, huffed up and angry. Once we’d cleared the church doors, my husband flailed his arms, angry as a bantam rooster. “Well, you can tell who needed that seminar. And it sure to hell wasn’t us!”

Trekking behind him, I agreed, wholeheartedly, “Bunch of damn fools! You can tell they can’t hear a blessed thing! Did you see how she acted?”

My beloved whirled on me, shouting, “Acted? I lovingly gave the correct answer. Are you trying to start a battle with me?”

Clearly we needed to head back into that seminar, but by the time I recovered from his attack, he was halfway down the block, struggling to open someone else’s car door. Guess it’s not the right time to remind him we drove to church with the lady who insulted us. Rather than tackle the problem further, I headed home, so befuddled I wasn’t certain if I should turn on 2^nd Street or 3^rd.

****

I not only enjoyed the humor of the piece, but also the illustration of how easily misunderstandings happen. It's like the telephone game we all played as kids. One kid would say something as simple as, "The cat is up the tree" and inevitably, by the last child, it would become, "I really have to pee."

It's a nice reminder to be clear and concise, whether in a conversation or the written word.

When was the last time a misunderstanding led to humor for you?

Tub-Full Tuesdays: Letting Go

We love Tub-full Tuesdays. Today, Mom stops by to share a story about what fills her tub. Enjoy!

*****

Tia and I often talk about the beauty and medicinal effects of laughter. Even in stressful, tension filled situations, sometimes laughter is what breaks the threads, allowing them to come unraveled so we can see the injustice and nonsense of the ordeal.

When my girls were teens, we had what I called standoffs. Does anyone know what I’m talking about? Well, here’s one scenario:

Mother to daughter, “I found your report card in the wash.”

Daughter to mother, “So?”

Mother to daughter, “Don’t give me that attitude, young lady!”

No response.

Mother to daughter, “Are you listening to me?”

No response.

Mother to daughter, “You have five seconds to explain yourself. The timer starts now!”

No response. Eyes lock. The stand-off begins.

Am I the only one this has happened to? Well, it happened to me too many times, but on one occasion a huge lesson was learned–one I’ll never forget and hope my daughter hasn’t either. It’s the beauty of laughter at its height.

Same scenario…

No response. Eyes lock. The standoff begins.

Tension shifts to body parts, eyes shift right and left, arms held at waist level soften downward, and the tapping foot slows to a halt.

Uncomfortableness shifts in . . .

Then you get an itch in your nose, you refuse to obey it, knowing if you do you’ll lose the lockdown . . .

At the same time, you notice the twitch in your daughter’s eye. You hope it’s something behind her contact and you hope the pain is unbearable, at least for the moment. You sigh in triumph, thinking fate is on your side.

Within seconds, it’s all you can do not to twitch . . . you suck in air and hold it, hoping it will abate the instinct.

You concentrate, studying the lone tear bubbling at the corner of her eye and watch in glee as she finally squints to release it. Yes, you’re winning. She doesn’t have what it takes!

More tears follow, but it’s getting harder for you to concentrate on them. The twitch is gaining control. You are turning blue, your mouth pinches so tight it draws down to your chin. You can no longer contain it . . .

With tears streaming and one eye batting furiously,

Toes digging deeper into the carpet, snorts resounding more intently,

Both, simultaneously reach, eyes still intent, toward a swelling eye and an extended nostril.

Then it happens, the laughter erupting in a concert of heaves and ho’s. One swiping tears, the other vigorously scratching her nose as they tumble to the floor, laughing more.

Later, after the evening meal, the daughter stops by her mother’s bedroom, leans against the doorframe and announces, “Guess I was wrong about the report card.” She shifts her weight and begins again, “My grades weren’t what I expected. I was disappointed. It wasn’t about deceiving you or Daddy. It was about me being mad at me.”

“Thank you for sharing with me,” the mother adds, proud of the young woman standing in front of her.

She turned to leave and halted, facing her mom once more. “That was the best ever!”

“What?”

“You and me, laughing.”

Today when I look at her, I remember, and for a moment my nose twitches, not from anger but wanting to laugh all over again!

*****

Please share a time when sadness or anger turned to humor, and how it's good for the soul.

Tub-Full Tuesdays: Laughter is the Best Medicine

Laughter is often the best medicine, and it fills my tub. In our "The Balancing Act" interview, host Danielle Knox asked why we incorporated so much humor in our book. If you haven't seen our interview yet, you can follow the link on the lefthand side of our blog.

My answer:

Humor is a gift. My dad gave us many things growing up, but I always say one of his greatest blessings was humor. It's medicinal. Too often we focus on what burdens us, what makes us tired and frustrated, instead of embracing the joy of life. My favorite memories as a kid are laughing ... and that's true now with my husband and three daughters ... sometime's laughter's just the best medicine.

Humor is also a shield and a saving grace. Why do you think parents tickle kids when they are sad? Why are comedians often from tragic upbringings? When one of my kids comes home sad or hurt, one of the first things we will do is put on music and dance. Maybe we would all benefit from a good dance class, because we usually end up laughing. A plate of warm chocolate chips cookies goes a long way, too.

I rarely tell a poignant story without throwing in some humor (often sarcasm and wit are my tools). Sadness without laughter is empty and painful. We all have sad moments in our lives, but dwelling on the pain will bring nothing. The ability to laugh at yourself and with others is a treasure. If a writer can make me laugh for one page, I can better endure and appreciate one hundred pages of sadness and misfortune.

This quote says it well:

"A sense of humor... is needed armor. Joy in one's heart and some laughter on one's lips is a sign that the person down deep has a pretty good grasp of life."    Hugh Sidey

Check out our humor by visiting these past posts:

* What Not to Do During a Television Interview

* Friday Feature: About Menopots

And check back tomorrow for our first Whimsical Wednesday: Not by the Hair of my Chinny, Chin, Chin. One Wednesday a month, or more often if so inspired, we will feature a whimsical post.

For fun, here's a video of my youngest, Maddie (now 6), and her first taste of baby food. This always makes me laugh:

What always makes you laugh?