You know the rainy season is in full swing when visiting a macadamia nut sorting and packaging plant is an enticing option for afternoon fun. The plant is, you guessed it- in the jungle, surrounded by miles of mac nut trees, which are pretty, if repetitive. The plant itself is, well, an industrial plant. There’s a concrete walkway along the outside of the building, with a roof overhead and viewing windows to watch the nuts being sorted and packaged. The factory wasn’t running today though, guess they’re off for the holidays, but the girls had a blast running up and down the walkway, frustrating tourists, and trying their darnest to knock down the elaborate chocolate dipped/wasabi/toffee/curry/sea salt macadamia nut towers on display in the gift store.

To be honest, I was more mesmerized watching all the white people than the nuts. To know it’s a bit taboo to discuss race on a Mommy blog, but I’m going to anyway, because for me, one of the most interesting things about this island is (for the first time in my life) being a minority. I’ve gotten used to walking into a store, and being the only white person there. It’s a weird feeling. I’ve been here over 2 yrs., and gotten used to it. The only reminders are when people stop us to fuss over the babies. They always, always comment and compliment the girls on their blue eyes; coo over Mumu’s red/blond hair, give the girls the impression that they are, in appearance, rare. And they’re not, that’s the funny thing. They have no idea that in about a week and a half, we’ll be flying to New England, a place full of children (even twins!) who look just like them. I wonder if it’s going to turn their world upside down, or if they’ll even notice. They have spent their entire little lives on this island. For all they know, they are the only white toddler twins in the world. I hope they’re not too devastated when they realize that, in appearance, they are not special. Then again, I don’t think they think in terms of race at all. I’m the one startled when I walk into a place frequented by tourists (like the macadamia nut factory gift store), thinking- whoa, where did all these white people come from? The girls, they seem to think only in terms of- who can I sucker into picking me up? In the end, that may be the greatest gift this island gives them- the ability not to see race at all.

For all my big, excited talk about querying agents and submitting my manuscript, I have done neither. Gumption levels have sank perilously low. The problem is- I thought I should do more research before submitting. So I have, and dang, publishing is an even more terrifying jungle than the one I live in. The more I read, the more I’m convinced this will never, ever, happen. So I’m digging deep, determined to query at least one person by the end of the week, and trying to follow advice given by Noah Lukeman in his book, “The First Five Pages. A Writer’s Guide to Staying Out of the Rejection Pile.” Well, there are 197 pgs of advice in that book, and I can’t follow all of it, so I’m doing what I can with my manuscript- tweeking, tightening, and trying not to become so overwhelmed with detail and rules and procedures that I don’t submit at all. I’m also laughing very hard at a rejection letter printed in the book, that I thought I’d share with you all:

Most honorable Sir,

We perused your MS

with boundless delight. And

we hurry to swear by our ancestors

we have never read any other

that equals its mastery.

Were we to publish your work,

we could never presume again on

our public and name

to print books of a standard

not up to yours.

For we cannot imagine

that the next ten thousand years

will offer its ectype.

We must therefore refuse

your work that shines as it were in the sky

and beg you a thousand times

to pardon our fault

which impairs but our own offices.

–Publishers

Rejection letter from a Chinese publisher, from Louis Zukofsky’s “A”

Somehow I think my rejection letters will be more along the lines of “No, thanks,” but hey, a girl can dream

Last night, while drinking rum from hollowed out passion fruits (when in Rome, yo) my husband and I sat discussing the parents of an old college roommate. The husband in this pair was not so nice a guy, at least not to his wife. He treated her badly for years (mentally), left her for another woman, and rubbed it in her face. Prince Charming.

My first reaction was to be steamed that the man was being, and had been, such an asshole. Then I thought- wait a minute, assholes aren’t born over night. His wife must have known he was an asshole before she married him, and even if he wasn’t a full-blown  a-hole pre-nuptials, he must have displayed, at the very least, jackass tendencies- so why walk down the aisle anyway?

Then a more startling thought occurred to me- what if he was a nice guy, and marriage changed him? Warped him even. Is that possible? It made me wonder how I’ve changed since getting married. I don’t feel that different, but then again, we’d already been together for 7 years before we got married- it wasn’t all that much of a transition.

So- I’m very interested in other opinions. Do you feel marriage has changed you or your spouse, for the better or worse? And can a person can go into a marriage a kind, decent person, and come out the opposite?

I don’t think it truly counts as a mini vacay; it was only one day. But one day is enough

to conquer lava

Sand

Air

and Water.

To feel the sun

and watch it go down.

To share a quiet moment

before picking up the petals

and heading home.

Well… I did it. I finished my novel. Didn’t know I was writing one? Neither did anyone else, except my husband, my one and only reader. He says it’s awesome- it’s his job to say it’s awesome, just as it’s my job to be super interested in hearing him talk about accreting binaries and cataclysmic variables. And I am

It’s time. Time to start querying agents. Time for my small and fragile ego to take an enormous beating. Bring it.

I know odds are not in my favor, but then odds are never in my favor. Ask my best friend, she’ll tell you I have the worst luck of anyone she knows. My bad luck is legendary. I think it’s a good thing. I assume everything in life will be really, really hard, and on that account, I’m rarely wrong. I assume I’ll put up one hell of a fight, then lose, but I’m still all fired up to get moving.

I think people should do the things they’ve always wanted to do- whether it’s writing a book, learning to paint, starting your own small business, going back to college- anything. I’ve always been about going big or going home. Why have one baby when you can have twins? Why live in a cool, convenient city full of reasonable people when you could live in a jungle on a remote island, surrounded by whackjobs?

In this instance, the assumed failure doesn’t scare me. What could I have done instead during the nights spent writing my book? I could have caught up on my sleep, or watched TV. I can do both these things when I’m dead. Heaven is a feather bed and around the clock TiVo. But while I’m here…

It’s true what they say; when you lose the trust, you lose the relationship. One of my biggest fears in life is that I will one day lose my daughters’ trust, just as my Mother lost mine.

I already know that I will lie to them, mislead them, intentionally deceive. I will tell them their trumpet playing sounds like Louis Armstrong when it sounds like a foghorn; encourage them to keep blowing until my ears bleed. I will tell them Santa is real. I will tell them to pay full attention to a coach or teacher I know is spouting nothing but bullshit. I will tell them their book reports are of life- altering importance. I will tell them they look pretty when they think they do, but don’t.

It’s all small potatoes, I know. It’s what we all do, and hope our little lies and deceptions are done in the right way, for the right reasons. When, and if they are, they will maintain or even strengthen our relationships. The wrong ways, however, the little mistakes, can eat away at trust, dissolve it like coke on rusty nickels. A lot of relationships are damaged this way- gradually fizzing out over time.

With my Mother and me it was the opposite. Our trust was shot to hell in a single day, a single hour, a single moment. Just like that. I was 7, and I had long red hair. One day, my Mom said she wanted to give it a trim, cut off the split ends. I didn’t know what split ends were, but I agreed, and was excited over the prospect, as a haircut meant individual attention, a real hot commodity in a house of 5 kids. She put a chair by the window in her bedroom, and I watched the world outside while she snipped. When she was finished, she brought me to the mirror. I screamed. My hair had reached halfway down my back. She cut it to just above my ears. Dorothy Hamill. Wow. Had I adorable elfin features, or a delicate, bird-like bone structure, I might have been able to pull the look off. I don’t, and couldn’t. To add insult, I’d just gotten large, unflattering glasses. Staring back at me in the mirror was funny looking boy. I sobbed for 3 days straight, and mourned my hair forever.

My Mom yelled, then ignored, then insisted for the next two decades (and still), that there was no lie or deception- that all she did was cut off the split ends, which were apparently 12-14 inches long. It’s embarrassing to say that I was so devastated over something as insignificant as a haircut, but I was. I felt like my trust in my Mother had been shattered after that, and once the trust was gone, so was the relationship. In the years that followed, we never regained what we had lost. Long after the haircut was forgotten, the hurt and distrust still grew because we kept feeding it with our actions.

Now that I’m a Mother, I find myself making excuses for my own. She had 5 kids; she was tired. It was the year my parents extremely bitter divorce was finalized, she obviously had a lot on her mind. Maybe she was fatigued and overwhelmed- maybe she didn’t intend to cut it all off, maybe she just got distracted.

The truth is, until right around my 30th birthday, I hadn’t thought about the haircut in many years, and I didn’t realize until then how much it had affected me. I’ve never had long hair since. I’ve always followed a pattern where I let my hair grow out to below my chin, or at most, my shoulders, then I panic and have it chopped off. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I had twins and no time for haircuts and I burst into tears one day, telling my husband my hair had reached my shoulders and I had to get it chopped IMMEDIATELY. He just looked at me, puzzled, and said, “Why? It looks great- I really like it long.” Then the whole haircut story came tumbling out of me, ending with- “and I’ve never had long hair since.” My husband gave me the same puzzled look again and said, “Then why don’t you just grow it out now?” So, I’ve never had long hair since…until now. It is long now- for me, anyway. The longest it’s been since the age of 7. And I have split ends too- big ones, and I don’t care a bit. I’m going back to my Mother’s house in a few months for a long visit, with my long hair, and split ends, and 2 beautiful babies. I hope she doesn’t notice my hair. I hope she notices my parenting. I hope it makes her proud. I hope we can start over. I hope it’s never too late to grow out your hair, or to rebuild trust.

A momentous event occurred on the island today: we met another set of twins.

GASP.

Yes, it’s true. In the Pediatrician’s office. Office staff was uberexcited to orchestrate the introduction. Not only were these twins girls, they were born on the EXACT SAME DAY. Freaky deeky, huh? Two plus years on this island without seeing any other twins, they suddenly another set of female twins of the exact same age . I think the volcano goddess had a hand in this…

The twins we met today had pierced ears, like every female baby and tot on this island- except mine. I’m the holdout. I just don’t get the infant ear-piercing thing. It doesn’t seem fair to me to pierce ears on a child too young to make the decision for herself. I always cringe when I see teeny tiny babies with punctured ear lobs. A little voice in me cries why? Maybe I shouldn’t judge. Maybe it’s part of native islander cultural tradition, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just trendy. I certainly don’t have to balls to ask, so I may be pondering for a while. I do remember an island Mom suggesting I get the girls ears pierced in response to my complaining that everyone thought they were boys. A gender identity thing? Is that what it’s about?

What do you think- is it okay to pierce a baby’s ears? How young is too young?

All you clever, clever, Mommies out there- I need your help!

Here’s the dealio. I’m currently planning our 4-6wk visit to New England. It will be from early Decemberish to early Januaryish, and I am in desperate need of guidance in the areas of: toddler winter gear, toddler activities in the Boston area, and travel with 22 month olds.

I do feel a bit stupid asking about winter gear as I was raised in New England, and activities in Boston, as I lived there for 4 years. If the girls were in their twenties, I would have no trouble at all keeping them adequately dressed and entertained, but they’re not, and I’m totally ignorant in regard to tot seasonal wear and activities. So- pride aside!

Gear: What are the must haves for toddler cold weather gear? On a typical December day, what would you put on your tot? I don’t want to go overboard, as my tropical jungletwins will probably not take kindly to oodles of winter wear strapped onto their bodies, but they would even less kindly to bitter cold….so, what keeps your kids toasty and not too annoyed?

Boston Activities: We’re going to be in the Boston/Cambridge area for 1-2 weeks. A lot of that time will be spent with in laws flying in from England to hang with the girls. I will undoubtably murder someone or jump out the hotel window if we are stuck in our hotel room for 1-2 weeks. So please, please, tell me where to take my tots- any tot friendly activities, restaurants, etc., would be extremely useful and appreciated.

Travelin’: My girls did a whole lot of flying their first year of life- loads of planes, etc., but that was before they walked and talked. They have not been on a plane since they were 11 months, and I’m quite sure traveling with two 22 month olds will not be the same as traveling with two 11 month olds. So- travel must haves and survival tips please.

Many, many thanks in advance

I read a hilarious article a while back by a single woman. She claimed her single friends complained often of the lack of Barack Obamas to date. I wish I could remember where I read this- possibly MSN, can’t find it again. Anyway, she points out that if her friends had met Barack around the time Michelle met Barack, they would have immediately rejected him because he had big ears and a funny name, a crappy old car, and very little money. I mean, for all intents and purposes, the man was a waitress in a cocktail bar, no? But Michelle saw potential…

This made me think of a particular night in 98′, London, my freshman year of college. My roommates and I went to see Oklahoma in the West End. This was one of the awesome things about going to college in London- with a student ID, you could see just about any play for 10 sterling. The star of this production was a previously unknown actor, in his first debut outside Australia- Hugh Jackman. He was nobody then; the theatre was only a third full. At intermission we sweet talked the security guards into letting us move up closer- to practically the front row. And there he was…

That same year in college I had a long talk after class with one of my favorite lecturers and he told me about when he was 16 and he and his brother snuck into a theatre to see Sir Lawrence Olivier do Faulkner, and how it changed his life. Well, Hugh Jackman in Oklahoma didn’t change my life. Know why? Cuz he was crap. Crap, crap, crap. The whole production was crap. None of the actors could do American accents to save their souls, the singing was nothing to write home about. If I hadn’t spent so little money, I might have felt ripped off.

After the show, one of my friends became obsessed with waiting by the stage door outside for all the actors to come out, so we did. It was kind of anticlimactic. They opened the door, we looked at them, they looked at us, and we all went off in separate directions. I kind of wanted to say something to them. I really wanted to say, “good job!” but I couldn’t, because it wasn’t a good job, it was crap. And since I didn’t have anything nice to say…

Obviously, I didn’t see the man’s potential. If I were Hugh Jackman’s Mom, and he asked me, begged me, fresh after my seeing that performance, to tell him the truth about if he had what it takes to make it in acting- well, I would have been in quite a pickle.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the girls and their potential lately. I remember when Lulu was discharged from the hospital and a nurse was standing there with a clipboard, jotting down my answers to questions like, “What are your goals for Lulu? (3lb Lulu) What do you want her to achieve?” I said- in life? She nodded, and I replied that we just want her to be happy, to pursue something she finds challenging and fun and rewarding. Not concrete goals, I know. I’ve spent a silly amount of time worrying that I’ll encourage my girls in the wrong things- pursuits they may be good at, but don’t like, or that I’ll dismiss something they’re interested in but not good at, because, well, their bad at it. Because I failed to see their potential.

Now, I feel like it’s all falling into place. Thinking back to that Oklahoma performance, it all makes sense. I saw a lot of plays in my four years in London, some great, some not so great, yet Hugh Jackman is the only leading man I very clearly remember, despite the fact that he wasn’t very good. Know why? He enjoyed himself. He was the only actor I’ve seen on stage who seemed to be really, genuinely, infectiously, enjoying himself. This was his big break, and he was so damn happy just to be up there. So that’s the answer. I want to make it my goal to encourage my girls in whatever it is they enjoy doing, whether I see any potential or not. At best, they will get better, at worst, they won’t, but either way they will have enjoyed themselves, and that’s all a parent can hope for, right?

It has recently come to my attention that Lulu is less of a sweetheart and more of an opportunist than previously suspected.

We’ve gotten into a morning routine where after the girls have their breakfast, I let them watch Elmo in the living room while my husband and I eat our breakfast (in peace) in the kitchen. While I make coffee and Jungledad cooks the eggs and turkey bacon, Lulu will periodically poke her little head around the corner to check on us. I’ve often remarked to my husband that this is the cutest thing ever- She loves us so much she feels the need to check in on us every few minutes. Then this morning I realized something- she is not checking on us, she is checking on the bacon. It’s bacon love, not parent love. The little rascal magically appears at the table the second the bacon is plated (not a moment before), climbs on my lap, and  requests her share. Let’s just hope she never has to choose between me and a heaping plate of bacon- I wouldn’t like my odds.