Asher’s life has recently changed in several big ways. 

After sharing my chicken story, I got this email reply from my mommy friend Susannah, with whom I had visited in the park on that fateful chicken-killing morning. We don’t know each other all that well yet, so it seems she wasn’t sure how I’d receive her message. Truth is, I laughed my ass off! 

I think I’ve mentioned before that I and three others have been working on writing a textbook about medical terminology. This project has been in the works since 2004. 

It’s so hard to believe, but it appears to be done. DONE. DONE. As in, it’s at the printer being printed now! FINIS!

For the last several weeks, two of my coauthors have been wrapping it up, doing all the last-minute corrections and changes, and proofreading the laid out pages to make it consistent and gorgeous. So I’ve been out of the loop. 

Imagine my delight when I read these two paragraphs in two emails from my coauthor Elena (PH = Prentice Hall):

I get four blessed hours all to myself this morning. So, of course, I’m spending some of it rambling to the internetz.

We got our second CSA box this morning. Opening it was like having Christmas morning in June—that’s what Ian said so you know it must be truly exciting! We got: 1.5 pounds of summer squash (the yellow kind that look like bumpy UFOs), half-pint of figs, bunch of carrots, bunch of collard greens, a pound of bell peppers, a pound of heirloom tomatoes, 1.5 pounds of fingerling potatoes, a head of lettuce, and a bunch of rosemary. It also came with a recipe for Ratatouille that uses three of those veggies, a recipe for rosemary potatoes (using two box items) and rosemary dressing. Yum!

EDIT: Those figs are fucking OUT OF THIS WORLD! I ate three of them today, carbs be damned.

And some stuff about me . . .

I’ve worked out at the gym three times in the past week. My first two times on the treadmill were pathetic, but on Tuesday when I went I ran for 30 minutes and felt great! Much better than before. I’m eager to get in shape again, but even more eager to improve my mood and coping skills. I know that exercising regularly will help. This morning, I did the 30-minute “cross-training” mode on the elliptical trainer and it kicked my ass. Thanks to

dizzyburner

for the generous use of his iPod and to

foresto

for demonstrating how to turn up its volume.

My mouth is healing, but it still hurts. The backstory: Last Saturday my parents watched the kiddos so Ian and I could join a bunch of friends  on a whitewater rafting trip down the south fork of the American River. The ravishing

nonosays

set it up, with Andrew as the guide for one raft. Frankly, I was terrified by the time Andrew finished the safety lecture about what NOT to do in the river because you can die. My heart was pounding as we loaded into the raft and began practicing the coordinating paddling. I was anxious all the way until lunch time, then I seemed to hit my stride emotionally. When I started getting the thrill of the rapids and feeling the water splash all over me, I decided I really LOVED it. The day was beautiful; it started out really super hot so the water felt glorious, but then later it kind of cooled off when the sun went behind some cloud cover and the wind picked up.

When we hit one of the class-3 rapids (ironically called Hospital, if I remember correctly), I got smashed in the face—probably by the end of my own paddle. Hey, I’m new. It’s hard to say exactly what happened because it happened so fast and I fully do not understand the physics of boats on rapids, but I think the raft under my feet bucked upward while the water forced the business end of my paddle down. I was already leaning in toward the middle of the raft to avoid being tossed out, so I think my paddle nailed me in the nose and mouth. (It’s also possible the raft guide nailed me.) For a few minutes I was dizzy and I got tunnel vision. I felt my body thrown backward but managed not to fall out of the raft. Lost my hat, though. I got a fat lip, slight nosebleed, and the inside of my mouth was cut up. My nose was sore for days and the cuts inside my mouth have become all chancre sore-y. Both rafts pulled over and everyone acted very concerned and serious, which made me feel weird and self-conscious. I was trying really hard to keep it together and not cry. Anyway, I convinced my friends I would be fine and we continued downriver. The last half-hour or so was a bit wonky for me and more subdued, but I still had a wonderful day. The kids never remember my mouth hurts, so I’ve been whammed a dozen times since the accident. It’s been hard having a broken kisser when my husband is so damned kissable.

Work stuff: I seem to have a new client on the horizon. Sometimes just making contact with someone who understands what I do and recognizes my experience is a major feat. I’m told to expect some paperwork to fill out so I can be added to the freelance pool for a computer book publisher. There appears to be no test, which would be so lovely. Anyway, I’ve send out 15 to 20 résumés in the last week and I’m hoping at least 20% of them land on the correct desks. I persevere.

I’m presently taking a proofreading exam for a gimungous science textbook publisher. The stuff I’m proofing is physics for engineers. Shoot Me Now: There’s fucking MATH in it! While I’d like to land another new client, I’m really not sure this is the right fit for me. Why couldn’t they have sent me a biology text? I hate wasting time on an exam that I may not pass, but who knows? I’m trying to take the attitude that if I do somehow manage to pass the test, then I am capable and qualified to do the work. I guess that’s ultimately the point, after all. [Acceleration, yadda yadda, velocity, yadda yadda, x– and y-axes, yadda yadda, kinematics, yadda yadda, square-roots, time t, yadda yadda yadda.]

I’ve got some Asher updates to write, but not till after I work on my exam.

Scene: I’m getting out of the shower with Asher. We’re toweling off. Lucas is in the living room.

Lucas: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”
Me: “What?”
L: “MOM!”
M: “WHAT?”
L: “What?”
M: “What do you need, Lucas?”
L: “I don’t know.”
M: “You called me.”
L: “Oh.”

Aside M: !@#$%^&*!@!

The chicken. The chicken who ran right in front if my car. I don’t remember if it was the chicken chasing the other chicken, or the chicken who was being chased who died. But die it did. 

We were leaving Chicken Park (AKA Village Park in Fair Oaks Village) when it happened. I had just bundled both of my boys into the car to go home after having had a nice little gathering with two mommies and two babies from our Mommy Baby group. We had sat in the shade, talked, snacked on organic figs and organic pluots, watched the babies squirm/crawl/scoot/creep around on the blankets, and watched Lucas make a total dorky fool of himself trying to impress us all by running, jumping, climbing trees, and flying off the moving swing. 

So, I was driving away with my kids in my Smurfy blue Honda up a short-but-steep hill. I was going no more than 10 miles per hour because I was just driving out of my parking space, because it was a hill, and because there are children and chickens present. At the crest of the hill, two chickens darted out directly in front of my front wheels. I slammed on the breaks hoping that they would either dodge or stop, or maybe somehow duck under the carriage of my car. No dice. 

A man with sunglasses and a mustache was walking nearby and saw the whole thing. He looked at me as I stopped the car. He motioned for me to drive forward, which I did and then stopped again. He shook his head. I got out of the car. He walked over and picked up the dead chicken and started carrying it toward a garbage can. Then he started scolding me: “You shouldn’t drive so fast! Slow down! I see this every day! Now it’s dead. And it’s your fault.” 

I love being scolded by strangers for killing chickens. I love being told I was driving too fast when I was going 10 miles per hour. I love killing chickens, especially with my kids in the car so they can see me running them over. I love answering a dozen questions about killing chickens on the way home. In fact, if I could have 15 minutes every single day just exactly like those 15 chicken-killing, being-scolded, question-answering, weeping minutes, I would so LOVE IT! 

Lucas reassured me, “Mom, these things happen sometimes. You’re not bad.”

We arrived home. I wiped away my tears. I noticed Asher was already asleep. I got out and walked around the car to open Lucas’s door for him. He looked at me and presented his hands. He was covered in blood—his nose, mouth, chin, and both hands—all covered in bright, crimson blood. “Oh my God!” 

(My nerves were more than a little jangled at this point.)

I hustled him inside to the bathroom, gave him some tissue, and told him to tilt his head back. I went to the car to get Asher out and laid him down to nap. Then I went back and cleaned Lucas up. Turns out, he picked his nose until he bled—a lot.

All this before lunch. 

P.S. I’m sorry, chicken.

It’s been a day. I’ve cried  three four times today. I am not PMSing. 

I have to ramble a bit before I can hunker down today and try to find work. It’ll just take a sec . . .

I made a Chinese-esque fried rice dish last night for the first time. Lucas made faces and said “ew” until he tried it. Then he was Mr. Compliment. “Wow, Mom. This is really good. I mean, I like your cooking. But this is really yummy.” Asher liked it too, for it had some of his favorites all mixed in: eggs, ham, brown rice, onions, and broccoli. 

I ordered a CSA from Farm Fresh to You, an organic farm in the Capay Valley that delivers boxes of produce to our front door. I ordered a “regular box” for $29 per delivery, and we’re scheduled for one every two weeks. I figure we’ll do that schedule for a while and then decide if we want deliveries every week. So far, we’re doing great and working our way through the box. Everything has been delicious: a melon, white peaches, cherries, cauliflower, collard greens, spinach, strawberries, heirloom tomatoes, carrots, and a bunch of lavender. Our box came with recipes. The one for lavender grilled salmon was divine. 

I’m totally off my low-carb diet right now. Which is giving me a good reason to beat myself up. Ian’s exercising like crazy and eating more liberally because he can. I’m eating liberally alongside him. Time to buckle down again. Summer fruits, margaritas, and Mexican foods are so, so tempting though when the weather is hot.

EDIT: Also, I tried to cut off my left thumb yesterday. I guess, my hindbrain decided it wouldn’t taste good in fried rice.

I’ve been nursing a private, low-level anxiety for about two weeks now.  I don’t have a lot of work coming in.  What work I have had over the last two months has paid poorly, or rather will pay poorly if the checks I’m expecting ever get here. I can’t ask that publisher for any more work until the cash they already owe me is in my hand. 

I’m having to face the fact that I’ve had next to no work from my three biggest clients since February: One dropped my contract due to budget cutbacks, one hasn’t had any work to send me and the big project she really wants me on hasn’t started yet, and the third is just in the midst of the slow time of year. I’m really hoping this third client, who is also my biggest, will be revving up any minute now. 

So, I’m anxious. And I’m hunting. I hate hunting.

I’ve recently completed a dreaded copyediting exam (finance! ew!). I’ve rejoined an editing network. I’ve been checking job boards, mining old contacts, and sending out résumés. If the résumés land on fertile soil, I’ll be taking more unpaid exams.

This is my own fault. I allowed myself to get lazy about marketing. I took it fairly easy with regard to working for the better part of last year when Asher was small. It has caught up with me.  

I know it will be OK soon. There is a seasonal pattern to my business. I just have to have faith. But right now, I’m worried. I have to go pay my taxes now.

Asher’s signing is really blooming now. He’s picking up the signs we teach him much faster. He knows and uses these:

1. more (used also to mean “I want” with pointing)
2. eat
3. meat
4. milk (used rarely)
5. hat
6. hot
7. cold
8. water
9. cow
10. dog
11. bird
12. fish
13. up (as in, “Pick me up!”)
14. eggs
15. strawberry (just starting to get this one now)
16. apple
17. baby
18. bye-bye
19. flower (not an ASL sign; sniffing with wrinkled nose)
20. phone (Asher made this one up early on in his signing career)
21. pluggie
22. cookie/cracker
23. please (used only rarely, but we’re working on it; social lubrication, ya know)

Nowadays, the limiting factor is my ability to stay ahead of him and learn/relearn the signs to teach him. On my list of signs to learn are fork, mouse, rabbit, insect, meerkat, and Steven Colbert. I know a sign for Star Trek already, but I doubt his little hands have the necessary dexterity to sign “live long and prosper” in the traditional Vulcan manner. I guess instead we’ll have to go with the no-neck geek sign to tell Daddy we want to watch all those brightly clad adventurers.

Asher’s also performing these intense, tai chi-like hand and arm movements while staring meaningfully into my face, head cocked to one side, eyebrows furrowed, like he’s trying to beam his message directly into my brain and simultaneously marry his motion with the message. It’s as if he’s saying, “Mom, do you get me? Do you GET ME YET?” 

Um, sorry kid. You’re the one with the brain language center exploding with connecting neurons, firing synapses, and “Ah HA!” moments. I just have the rusty old wiring of a 36-year-old sleep-deprived mommy. I’m teaching you the signs, remember? I’m not too sharp when it comes to picking up your meaning when you invent signs. I don’t know what you mean when you use both hands to repeatedly beat on your head. 

Wait … maybe you mean “Dammit, woman! Are you dumb?!”