Things My Mother Never Taught Me by Roseanne Dowell

Dedicated to my mother who passed away Nov. 22, 1996  

My mother never taught me about the thrill of a first kiss or the hurt of that first breakup. She never told me about the love between a man and a woman and the joy of standing at the altar vowing before God, family and friends to love him forever.

My mother never taught me about the emotions of holding my newborn child in my arms for the first time, or the feeling of responsibility for their lives. She never told me about the overwhelming sense of awe I'd feel knowing that this child came from within me. That I created the life, nourished it for nine long months, and now had to nourish and care for it in the real world. She never taught me I'd feel this amazing sense of awe with each child.

My mother never taught me the feeling of swelled pride at watching my children take their first steps or hearing her first words.

She never taught me about the combination of pain and pride I would feel as I watched my children waltz off to school looking so grown up and yet so young. So independent. She never told me how I’d feel when they came home and said “But Miss so and so said it was better to do it this way.” and the realization that I was no longer the sole influence in their life.

My mother never taught me about the fear of having a child in the hospital undergoing tests by a neurologist after a normal eye exam discovered a problem or sitting in an emergency room while your child undergoes an emergency appendectomy. She never told me how difficult it would be to watch your child suffer through typical childhood illnesses, stitches or broken bones.

She never taught me about the fear of letting your child go down the street to play or crossing the street for the first time by themselves.

My mother never taught me about dealing with my daughter’s first crush and heartbreak and lost love. She never told me how hard it would be to watch my children struggle to get good grades or make the team or try to fit in.

She never taught me about the pride of watching my child march down the auditorium to receive their diploma or hearing about their first job. My mother never told me of the deep fear I’d experience when they learned to drive or getting that phone call that told you they had an accident.

My mother never taught me of the excitement of their engagement and the trials of planning a wedding. She never told me of the happiness and pride I’d feel watching them walk down the aisle to stand beside the one they would vow to spend their life with or the worry that this child was now totally independent of you.

She never taught me of the sense of wonder I’d feel holding my newborn grandchildren for the first time.

She never explained that these feelings of worry and concern never go away when my children grew up. My mother didn't tell me the worries would only strengthen as my children married and had children of their own. That I’d have more to love and worry about.

She never told me was how it feels to be a mother.  She never told me about the joy, pain, and overwhelming awe of being a mother and grandmother. I now know why my mother never taught me these things.  Because these thing have to be experienced to understand the wonderful sense of being a mother.  

But the biggest thing my mother never taught me was how I’d feel when she was no longer here to talk with, to share my feelings with after she passed from this world. She never taught me how to deal with the sense of loss at losing a loved one or the pain deep within that I would carry through the rest of my days. She never told me how much I’d miss her.

Roseanne's books can be found at  Amazon

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Forced to stay in a nursing home while undergoing therapy, seventy-two year old, Mike Powell refuses to get out of bed, won't cooperate with the nurses, and won’t take his medicine. At least not until he meets Elsa. The tiny, spunky little Elsa sparks new life into him. 

Seventy year old, Elsa -left in the home while her son takes a family vacation - joins forces with Mike, setting the home on its heels, and later discovers deception and fraud. Can they find happiness together? 

Magical Birthday Wishes by Cheryl Wright

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I recently discovered a new technique for colouring backgrounds. It's very quick and easy, and is done using shaving brushes!

To try this technique, I went to my local $2 shop and bought a couple of brushes. The above card was my first attempt, and as you can see, the pink came out a little streaky. I have since come to discover you need a very light hand when doing this technique. Subsequent cards were much better.

This was an extremely quick and simple card to make, and after this one, I ended up making four more. All five will be going to Combat Cards in the very near future.

This card uses the following stamps:

Greeting:  Gina K Designs (from a very old set)
Stars:  Star Cluster by Lavinia Stamps
Main image: Mushrooms from Stamp-It Australia

I hope you've enjoyed this card. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next time!

Links:

My website:  www.cheryl-wright.com 
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/cherylwrightauthor 
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/writercheryl
BWL website: http://bookswelove.net/authors/wright-cheryl/

I remember Mom

She was always there. All my life, no matter whether things were bad or good. Mom was always there.  I'm one of the lucky ones, mom lived to be 94 and I guess I just got used to her listening to me.  Sometimes I'd tell her the same thing over and over again, working through my pain, my disappointment, or celebrating some triumph that only mom could understand just how much it mattered.

Mom at my home in Kansas City with my girls and my brother's two boys, taken shortly before my husband died.  I moved then, and moved again, and again, through it all mom was always there.  She was there for my girls and she was there for me. Mom kept me going; it didn't matter how crazy my life got, mom was there. 

A different life, another daughter, growing girls, and smiling faces, Mom was there, and when I left and went back to the youngest girl's father, mom was there. And when it fell apart again, mom was there. And when he died, she was there then too

Another life, girls all grown, and finally someone for me to trust mom loved that, loved my husband and the way the three of us shared our lives together.  For 23 years that never changed, the three of us together.  We shared so much, the three of us, the years came and went, in the fall she'd fly off to my brother's and while she was there we'd talk on the phone and she'd tell us about all the fun she was having in the sunshine, and in the spring she'd come back and life would pick right back up where it left off in the fall.  Mom was always there - there when I cried and there when I laughed, always there was mom.

 

A daughter, so beautful, so full of life and laughter, so much love - it hurts so much, so much pain and so many tears, so much loss.  Mom was there, always mom was there, she was there at birth when I said hello and she was there at death when I said goodbye. Always mom was there.

Then there was this, seemed like maybe my time was over - triple negative - the worst kind, lump the size of a golf ball, but mom was there. Always there was mom, she was there to listen to me and cry with me and laugh with me, always mom was there.  And when I beat it all, and we went back to being us and I survived, mom was there, always mom was there.

The years kept going by and finally she was 94.  Where did they go.  She was weakening, we knew she was, but none of us want that, we didn't want the change.  Mom knew time was growing short, and of course I knew, but she knew I didn't want to know and we pretended.  She didn't want to eat, but I'd cook soup and bake biscuits and tempt her and she'd eat. She didn't want to, we both knew she didn't but she would, just because I made them for her.  I'll never forget the last words she ever said to me.  I'd made her soup and she didn't want to eat, and I left the room.  I was hurt, and she knew it because I hated it when she didn't eat -- it made what was coming seem so close.  That night, I went back in the room to see if she was ready for bed and she held up her bowl.  "I ate it all,"  she said and showed me her empty bowl.

I hugged her, and helped her into bed.  She'd taken the mild sleeping pill the doctor had prescribed for her and she was already falling asleep.  I propped her up on the pillows and smoothed her hair.  She was already asleep.

I miss you mom, so much.  Love Judy

 

We've got Cows! By Tia Dani

(With apology to the writers' of the movie, "TWISTER".)

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Whenever we work at a restaurant, it means we're usually creating a new book.

Beginning a new story, always fires us up, however, sanity also rears its annoying pointy head and sniffs, "Where are you going to start?"

Since our stories are generally character driven, we first like to know our characters inside and out. We talk about who they are and what they specifically want. Once we've got their names and backgrounds, flaws, and why they are driven, then we work on where we're going with the story.

Actually sometimes a plot line will come to us first, but that's a topic for another blog later on. (Has anyone picked up we're always saving things for other blogs?)

Back to brainstorming. Our second step is who opens the story in their point of view? Normally we gear our books toward the romance genre (Dani's strong point), so we usually start with the heroine. Sometimes the hero will protest and win the argument. We're really not gender driven.

But here's where it gets tricky. Once we know the characters, know the underlying plot, we have to add flesh and blood to the story…the stuff that not only draws readers avidly into the book, but ourselves as well.

We rely on our handy dandy writing class rule. Every scene needs three parts:

1. Goal. What does the character want? CHECK. DONE THAT.

2. Conflict. A series of difficulties characters must face on the way to reaching their goal. CHECK…WAIT! HOLD ON…We're not exactly there yet.

Several minutes (actually hours) of discussion, heavy research, and some wine, maybe a lot of wine, one of us (usually Tia) yells, "We got cows!"

Imagine in the restaurant the looks we get are quite comical. "Cows? What cows?" Several people look around nervously. "Where?"

We grin at everyone and explain we're co-authors, Tia Dani, and Tia's yell, "We've got cows." is an expression for seeing difficulties (like in the movie where cows fly in the middle of a tornado.) Some nod and say, "I see." Others…look confused then go back to eating.

Now onto Rule Three: 

The Ultimate Disaster. What keeps characters from reaching their goals? By this time Tia is jumping up and down, waving her hands at a bunch of unseen cows in her mind. (Remember how she loves a great disaster.) Even Dani can't help but get drawn into the excitement. She has her own cows. With rapid-fire description, she embellishes great love scenes to go along with Tia's disaster(s).

By this time we have new people around us and we have to explain all over again.

But the really funny thing is, our waitress, who's gotten to know us quite well, strolls by and says with a grin, "Katie, bar the barn door. Tia Dani has their cows!"

                              This is how we look by the time we've finished brainstorming a book.

                                       © Graphixparanoid | Dreamstime.com - Mad Cow Photo

                                        cow photos by @ElisaLocci/DreamstimeStockPhoto

To find out more about the writing team Tia Dani and our books visit us at: 

http://bookswelove.com/authors/tia-dani/
https://tiadaniauthor.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/tiadani.author
                                                          

Did My Kid Just SAY That? by Gail Roughton

     

     

You never know what’s coming out of a child’s mouth next. That’s one of the perks of having kids. They can embarrass you one minute, have you in stitches laughing the next, and occasionally, leave you open-mouthed and slack-jawed in sheer amazement.

All my kids have done it to me at one time or another and my grandchildren do it to me now. But the family did she just say what I think she said prize goes to my daughter, Rebecca. She was eight at the time, leaning back against the bathtub and savoring the feel of the hot water. Bath time was one-on-one time, hard to come by in a family of three children and two working parents, and I’d learned to grab it with each child whenever the opportunity arose. Sometimes we’d just talk, sometimes I’d read to them. I don’t know who looked forward to bath time more, me or them.

On this particular evening, I remember I had a book in my hand. It was a rather special one, at least to me. An edition of Tales of Uncle Remus I’d had since I was twelve or so myself, purchased at the Uncle Remus Museum in Eatonton, Georgia, home-stomping ground of the author, Joel Chandler Harris, and the oral folklore that gave birth to the Uncle Remus stories. Okay, I was a nerd even at twelve when computers weren’t even thought of, I’ve never denied it. We’d been reading a story or two every night for a week or so. But Brer Rabbit wasn’t on my child’s agenda that night.

She sat straight up, fixed me with the amber eyes so large and gorgeous they’ve made strangers stop and stare since birth and asked me, “Mama, are we ever born again?”

Not a question Mama was expecting, I’ll tell you that. I wracked my brain for its possible source. Maybe she’d caught a telecast of a Church service on television? A talk show, maybe? Or heard a radio show I wasn’t aware of?

“You mean like — are we born again when we die and go to Heaven?”

“No, no, no!!!” Her hand slapped the water. “I mean when we die, are we ever born again, here, on earth? In another body?”

 Eight, I thought to myself. She’s EIGHT! Where the heck is this coming from?! I wasn’t so startled I didn’t recognize this as the most basic description of reincarnation I’d ever heard, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why she’d have thought of it. I fell back on the best child-rearing advice I’d ever gotten. No, not from my mother, or aunt, or mother-in-law, or best friend. From Atticus Finch of To Kill A Mockingbird. That fictional single parent and his major guideline of child-rearing got me through a lot while raising my kids, especially Rebecca, to-wit: When a child asks you a question, you tell them the truth. They don’t necessarily have to understand exactly what you’re saying, they just have to know you’re telling them the truth. Because they’ll know if you’re lying to them. 

So I gathered my wits about me and took a deep breath. “Well, that is, in fact, what many of the world’s religions believe, yes. That when you die you’re born again in another body.”

“But what do you believe?”

Great. Couldn’t avoid that, could I? “I believe it’s a probability it’s a possibility, yes.” I haven’t spent my entire adult professional life in a law office for nothing. “Becca, what on earth made you think of this in the first place?”

“I don’t know, I was on the playground the other day and it just seemed like I’d been there before, done the same things before, just in another body.”

Ah! De’ja vu, I thought. I was, in fact, rather relieved. A strange phenomenon, to be sure, but one pretty much everybody’d experienced at some time or another. I should have left well enough alone. But of course I didn’t. I just had to ask. “Well, then—who were you?” I mean, she was eight, of course she’d say, “A rock star.” “An Indian maiden.” “Cinderella”. Maybe even “An Alien Princess”. Something exotic, something dear to the imagination of childhood. Nope. Something utterly, completely, down-to-earth. Something realistic, and assuming that any universal recycling program called reincarnation does exist, completely possible.  “I don’t know," she said slowly.  "But I was black and had a lot of pigtails.”

From nowhere, I remembered my mother laughing about the stories one of my older brother told when he was small. Stories about “a long time ago when I was an old man.” So let the academics and professors and religious leaders debate all they want. I’ve never looked at reincarnation the same way since. I never will. Nor will I ever forget that night when out of the mouth of a babe came that beautifully basic and elemental description of such an extremely complicated and controversial belief, stripped right down to its barest element.  You know what they say about the sensitivity of children and animals. They know things.  Things we don't.  Or possibly...things we used to know but have forgotten?

Besides, I’m a writer. I’ve told you before—we never waste anything. We just recycle it into these things we call novels. Like my War-N-Wit, Inc. novellas. Wherein my heroine Ariel Anson Garrett wasn’t so sure about that thing known as reincarnation either. And boy, was she in for a surprise!

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