I write novels, eat dark chocolate, raise three children, love my husband, scrub toilets, ignore the laundry, and love a good story, but hardly ever in that order.
Thanks so much to all the participants in the STRETCH MARKS FINDERS KEEPERS PROJECT! All those playing along received a signed copy of the book to keep and then were asked to pass along a few more to people and places where my prospective readers might be found.
I loved hearing where you went, how you made the Mafioso drop-offs, seeing your photos of your favorites. Folks left copies of STRETCH MARKS hither and yon, including: * At a Disney on Ice performance, perched on a hand dryer in the ladies' room * Behind a copy of Father of the Bride at a video store * Strapped in a car seat in the baby section at Target * In a lactation room (lactation room!) at the University of Iowa * In pediatrician and OB offices all over the universe * With various and sundry moms who needed a break and may or may not have looked like it * Even with the members of the band Mercy Me! (Thanks, Stacia S.!)
...So many fun and inspired sightings. The winners of the photo contest, though, are those that follow. Linda H. schlepped copies of STRETCH MARKS on the way to visit her new grandbaby in Australia. She found two moms in Sydney and gave them the book.
See the Sydney Opera House in the background?
That baby is barely out of the hospital! Why is that mom looking so pretty and fresh? Where's the flab on those thighs and upper arms? Why is she smiling? Don't babies down under pass through the birth canal?
My other favorites came from Kate B., who not only made a creative gift out of the book and left it by the fireplace at a coffee shop, she also added her comments.
Linda and Kate will receive chocolate, a small token of literary love, and lunch to their favorite spot on me. Congrats, girls!
Thanks again to all! I so appreciate your time and willingness to have a fun adventure in the name of a good story.
Snow days around here. I'm talking about 16 inches, folks, which will put chilly, frostbitten hair on any chest, even those of us used to long winters. Marc has been a bit over-zealous with ye olde snowblower, though I've come to appreciate the fumes he now wears as a sort of rugged new scent. Perhaps he should market it, name it something like "Rustic" or "Exhaust" or "Stink, Stank, Stunk."
Thea's reaction to all the white stuff, unceremoniously dropped over every surface, is to point outside and say, "Uh-oh," over and over. It's cute and also, by the third day, depressing. I love the white, I love the sparkles, I love the long, indigo shadows lying languid on the snow. But do you know how long it takes snow this deep to melt? MONTHS. Maybe years, I don't know.
They look a bit severe, don't they? It's too cold to go play in the snow (high of 11 today), so we just put on our terrorist masks and PRETEND we're playing in snow. It's super fun.
In the meantime, I have more leisure moments to grovel to all of you Finders Keepers people. Remember my cool photo contest for the Grand Prize-O-Rama? Well, I kept getting these messages that folks had tried sending photos but were getting rebuffed by a wimpy quota. Today, in my leisure moments, I talked with my web folks to set up a different system. In the process, I hate to say all the photos you sent WERE DELETED. Gone. Into the hither-and-yon of the Internet that no one, not even Al Gore, can explain.
I FEEL HORRIBLE. AND I PRAY YOU DIDN'T DELETE YOUR PHOTOS. If you're still interested in entering, would you mind sending them again? I'm SO SORRY and EMBARRASSED and feeling like that teacher we all had who would point the remote toward the TV and mutter over the white noise about not being able to work the darn thing and what ever happened to slide shows?
Can we just take a moment to discuss the phenomenon called Skinny Jeans? WHAT IS GOING ON IN AMERICA? I know, I know, I need to hippify myself. It’s true. After the better part of the last decade devoted to getting pregnant, growing to astonishing sizes, having babies, remaining at astonishing sizes, and then gradually going back down in weight but in such an odd, lumpy way, my wardrobe suffered. My younger, very stylish sister came over recently and tried, at first diplomatically, to weed through what had become the Closet of Doom. She’d say things like, “Do you actually wear this?” and “Why is this in your closet when it first appeared during the Clinton administration?” By the end of her intervention, she’d say things like, “No. Non. Nyet. How will you best understand this? And did you get that in the juniors department?”
“Maybe,” I’d say and then toss it in the donate-to-real-life-juniors pile.
But the thing is, she was absolutely right. I needed help. Times have changed, people! My worn and loved St. Olaf sweatshirt, for example, does not flatter a chest that has nursed three babies and now points downward when it points at all. Clog-like shoes were great for teaching Spanish to high schoolers around the time of Y2K, but it was time for them to visit the great clog depository in the sky. And now that I’m 34, it’s time to delve into the wild and unforgiving world of accessorizing. It sends chills. Really.
My sister did a great job. This is, in fact, her job. She helps the fashion-challenged and rights all our wrongs with a sweet smile and a willingness to work with any budget. I obeyed her with complete trust, nodding with uncharacteristic older sister submission, until she said with caution, “I think you should consider skinny jeans.”
I would have kicked her out of my house, but she’s related to me and the holidays loomed. Instead, I said simply, “Absolutely not and you should get off crack.”
This conversation went nowhere until I had a pile of jeans in a fitting room. I was nervous, friends. Visions of disaster scurried through my head, worrisome images like this:
And this:
I believe the “V” on the pocket stands for VERY, VERY HORRIBLY WRONG. And is she wearing tap shoes? As some sort of distraction technique?
But I soldiered on in that fitting room because when you have a hip sister who has never led you astray, you give her the benefit of the doubt. And reader, I bought a pair. OK, all right, they’re kind of almost-skinny jeans. Skinny jeans for the nervous. They do NOT hug my ankles and even flare just a bit. But, incredibly, I like them! I wear them! And even Marc thinks they’re sassy and cute. This from the man whose last words to me before leaving on my shopping trip were, “Just don’t buy those disgusting skinny jeans.” Of course, we’ve all seen what HE’S been wearing, so….
So I succumbed, but only in an age- and body-appropriate manner. Watch out, fashion world. I’m taking you by storm! Sounds like a lot of walking….Wish I still had my clogs.
Finders Keepers folks: Don’t forget to send in your photo of your favorite drop-off! E-mail your favorite to kimberly@kimberlystuart.com. The deadline is Tuesday, December 1, to enter to win the Grand Prize-O-Rama. Good luck and many thanks!
Remember when I fretted about a career-endangering move. I'm not pregnant, as some suggested. Instead, we made this for you. We'll see about the whole end-of-career idea. At least I'll go down swinging and laughing maniacally.
First, I owe Marc any proceeds of any book I ever write. It takes a lot of man to wear a nylon print jacket all for his bride.
Secondly, we wanted my dear readers to get a glimpse of the real Stuart home. The laundry shot is UNEDITED, UNSCRIPTED, UNBELIEVABLY UNDOCTORED. I know you know. As for the general premise of Marc's difficult life, ahem, we'll just leave that for interpretation.
So here's a little love from K.I.M., featuring the grand master, Marcy Marc. Original music by Bradford Johnson, stunning cinematography by Genious Productions. Special appearances by four dead presidents and three very-much-alive young children.
Are you in a sugar coma yet? My children are currently rappelling from ceiling to floor in the living room, only taking breaks to disco or do the Marcarena. I called my mom to ask about the combined six pounds of candy they harvested but she’d only giggle and say, “Haven’t you figured out that I’d throw half of it away while you were sleeping?” I’d feel violated but that idea is GENIUS.
Here are a few images from our week:
1. Our church hosts an enormous pumpkin party, complete with inflatables, costumes, games, a chemistry show, hay rack rides, bonfire---you get the drift. I volunteered one night. Guess where they put me?
That’s right. Security. I’m pretty sure it was because I’m super menacing and bouncer-ish. I was so primed and ready to bust people! You! Scooby Doo! Put down that extra Butterfinger! Stop right there, Hannah Montana in the bad wig! Shoes off in the inflatables! And listen, kid with fake blood and pretend appendages! Our flier specifically asked for NON-SCARY costumes. You get yourself home and change into Thomas the Train! Hup to!
The head of security, Dale, supported me in these efforts. Of course, he was wearing a turkey hat, so it was tough to respect those in authority over me.
End game: I didn’t get to bust ONE, SINGLE person. Everyone was so stinking nice and well-behaved. Maybe next year they’ll let me wear a headset, which is the clearest sign of power and a shoe-in for bust opportunities.
2. Happy end to scary eyeball incident: Mitch got glasses.
I defy you to find a cuter four-year-old human.
3. We tricked and treated. Our costumes:
The masked man (sans glasses) was Spidey/Mitch, who threw up a web sling to anyone in range. Thea, the bunny in the middle, seemed to be less enthusiastic about Halloween than her siblings. Also, her mother shoved her 14-month-old body into a 9-12-month costume. Third child. Ana’s current role models are high schoolers and Asians. All high schoolers are beautiful and all Asians are beautiful. If you are an Asian AND a high schooler, you should run for president. So Ana’s costume is officially called “Kimono Princess.” Unofficially, we call her Norwegian-Dutch But Aspiring Asian.
4. And what holiday would be complete without an appearance by Chuckles?
I also captured on video when Marc attempted to chase Chuck away with a broom. Marc came at the vermin only to be charged and eluded. Chuckles ran RIGHT TOWARDS HIM, around his legs and under the deck. “He’s a fullback!” Marc exclaimed, breathless. “It’s as if he trained for this, like a fire drill! He knew just what to do if approached by a man with a broom!” Unbelievable. I think he’s hibernating (Chuck, not Marc). My children are starting to think it’s normal to share one’s personal space with rodents.
Hope your own weekend was lovely. Here’s to “lost” candy that somehow finds its way to “Mom’s mouth.” I won’t tell if you don’t.
UPCOMING FUN THING: Have you heard of the group Mercy Me? They're coming to Des Moines November 7 and will have a meet-and-greet at Connxions Bookstore in Urbandale. I'll be there too, only I'm not famous. Stop by, but don't dawdle. The band's only there for 107 minutes, starting at noon.
FINDERS KEEPERS UPDATE: The boxes are shipped! The books looked great. Thanks to all the folks who are helping we out with this adventure. DON'T FORGET to send me your photo of Most Inspired Drop-Off and I'll enter you to win the Grand Prize-O-Rama of goodies and lunch on me. E-mail me at kimberly@kimberlystuart.com before December 1,2009, to be entered.
Today is my birthday. I’m 34, which means I’m too old to get carded (and to be out late enough for that to apply, by the way) but too young to really be taken seriously when I talk about joint pain. In celebration of this day, which is also United Nations Day, for those of you in touch with Butros Butros Ghali, here are some tidbits I’ve learned after 34 years of hard living:
1. One should always wear a belt when doing yard work. It’s just the polite thing to do.
2. When in doubt, make a list, particularly for husbands and male children. Case in point: One morning this week, we were neck-deep in the before-school-hysterics phase. Do you know this phase? The one where everyone is running around in their p.j.s and not eating their breakfasts and then spill orange juice on the floor and, inexplicably, into their hair? We were in the hair part and I was trying to remember what Jesus would do. Cue screaming, this time Mitchell and coming from the living room. When I walked in, he was standing, holding his head with one hand and a very, lethally sharp pencil in the other.
Me: Mitch, did you hit your head?
Mitchell:
Me: Honey, I can't understand you. What happened?
Mitchell:
Me (sounding way more like mean old Herod than shepherdly Jesus): MITCH! USE ENGLISH WORDS RIGHT NOW!
Mitchell:
(Translation: Mom, please help me! I know it's hard to believe, but I just stuck this pencil into my eye! No kidding!)
So we went to the eye people who are super nice and cornea-saving. But MAN, is it creepy to hear a man wearing what looks like spelunking equipment on his head say, "Yep, that's the tip of a pencil in there. But I think it's surface enough we won't have to DIG IT OUT." Then, with one look at the horror on my face, he added, "We have to do that sometimes."
When prompted, Mitchell explained why he had been pointing a sharp pencil at his eyeball, especially when we’ve covered the whole “Don’t-run-with-sharp-objects” discussion. “Mom,” he answered patiently, “I wasn’t running. I was jumping.”
So Number Two: When in doubt, make a comprehensive list, forgetting nothing, including “jumping.”
3. The swine flu isn’t really that bad. Also, I’m not supposed to call it “swine flu” because I live in Iowa and we’re very sensitive about pork.
4. Job was right.
The Lord gives….In mid-September, my dear friends Amy and Greg held their baby girl for the first time. Baby Kate was particularly celebrated. She is their third child but in between the last two, Amy lost three babies halfway through her pregnancies. THREE. But God was faithful to answer so many prayers and soon I’ll be able to kiss those chubby cheeks so long awaited.
…and the Lord takes away. This week, two sets of parents we know and love lost their children to untimely deaths. One child still in the womb, the other 29 years out, both beloved and gone in the wrong order of things. Marc and I ache for these friends, knowing well how it feels to collapse at the gates of heaven asking why, exactly, we were made to mourn, why our arms were empty, why God moves in mysterious, sometimes indiscernible ways.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. At the risk of sounding trite, I know that I know that God’s name is to be blessed. And today I bless it. Thanks, God, for a great ride. You are good, even in, especially in times when we cling to You, beat Your chest with our fists, and crumple in a heap on Your lap. Thanks for creating me, protecting me, and pursuing me with Your love. Here’s to many more lessons along the way.
You people are amazing! I have a flooded inbox with a hearty army of volunteers for the Finders Keepers Project. All spots are filled! If you are perishing in your inmost being that you didn't e-mail in time, feel free to write me (kimberly@kimberlystuart.com) and we'll start a sub list. A sub list! I can't believe it! I feel like Sally Fields!
Or at least you like free books and I can take that. I could take it better if I had a jiggly perm like Sally's, but I'm still pretty strong.
I'll start sending out e-mails to those of you who volunteered this weekend and we'll get this party started.
Holy cats! Thank you, thank you, thank you for your overwhelming and speedy support.
