Shane Bolks's Blog, page 20

When Friday Met 13

“Forget it. I am so not going out tonight.”

“Um, hello? Friday night? Awesome party? The guy you’ve been dying to meet?”

“Yeah, but have you seen the calendar? The nifty little 1 in front of the 3?”

“Don’t tell me—”

But she did. My college roommate absolutely refused to go to the biggest party of the semester simply because it fell on the 13th of the month and a Friday. For her, that was reason enough to stay home, alone, where she was convinced nothing bad could happen.

Here we are again today, many years later, one of two times during 2013 when the 13th lands on a Friday. That means everywhere you turn, you’ll hear people talking about bad luck, ill omens, and warning you to be careful.

The superstition has a name, two of them actually. Upon mentioning this to my husband, he narrowed his eyes in that thinking way of his, then after only a few seconds rattled them off: friggatriskaidekaphobia (Frigga being the Norse goddess after whom Friday is named and triskaidekaphobia for fear of the number thirteen) and paraskevidekatriaphobia (Paraskevi and dekatreis being the Greek words for Friday and thirteen, attached to good ole phobia meaning fear). Yeah, I wanted to smack him. He’s not someone you want to oppose in Trivial Pursuit.

But why all the fear? What’s the deal with Friday the 13th, anyway? As a lover of All Things Freaky, I decided to do a little research!

Bad Friday

While I tend to be a big fan of Fridays, historically speaking the day has a pretty bad reputation. You could say it all started with Adam, Eve, and the fateful offer of an apple one afternoon. Yep, a Friday.

Then there was the Great Flood, which also began on a Friday. And the tongue-tying of the builders of the Tower of Babel. And the destruction of the Temple of Solomon. And, of course, we can’t leave Good Friday off the list of significant Fridays. In early Rome, Friday was execution day. During the Middle Ages, pagans considered Friday the most holy of days, prompting the Church to deem Fridays as the Witches Sabbath. Significantly more recently, we have the Black Friday stock market crash.

Over time, the legends began:

    Don’t change your linens on Friday. You’ll have bad dreams.
    Don’t begin a trip on Friday. You’ll encounter ill fortune.
    Don’t cut your nails on a Friday. Bad luck is sure to follow.
    Don’t get married on a Friday. You’re destined to a cat-and-dog life.
    Don’t start a job on Friday. It won’t last for long.

And finally: Don’t set sail on Friday. You’re journey is sure to be unfortunate. (There’s an elaborate story about a British government initiative to quell this fear, involving a ship, the H.M.S. Friday: they laid her keel on Friday; hired her crew on a Friday; including a man named Jim Friday as her captain; and yes, launched her on a Friday. She was never seen again. However, this appears to fall under the Urban Legend category!)

That brings us to the number thirteen.

The Devil’s Dozen

Have you ever stepped into a high-rise elevator and noticed there’s no button for the thirteenth floor?

That’s because the number thirteen has an even worse rap than Friday. According to numerology, the number twelve is that of completeness: twelve hours of the clock, twelve months of the year, twelve gods of Olympus, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve Apostles, twelve successors of Muhammad, etc. Add one, however, and you throw everything out of balance. How many were seated at the Last Supper? Yep, thirteen.

It’s not surprising, then, the number thirteen has its own cache of warnings:

If thirteen people sit down for a meal together, one of them is soon to die.
If you live on the thirteenth floor of a building, bad luck will follow. Hence, many buildings try to “cheat” by not labeling a floor thirteen.
If you live on the thirteenth street, misfortune awaits you. Accordingly, cities all over the world skip from twelve to fourteen when it comes to naming streets and avenues.
If you have thirteen letters in your name, you have the touch of the devil. To save you the research, I present: Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, Theodore Bunch, and Albert De Salvo.
Oh, yeah: there are thirteen witches in a coven.

So now we’ve got Bad Friday and The Devil’s Dozen. Add them together and you get the worst of the worst, a Friday that falls on the 13th. Interestingly, however, this simply seems to be a case of Bad + Bad = VERY Bad. Mentions of this superstition (or anything terrible, freaky, or cataclysmic linked to this day) are rarely found prior to the 20th century. Dan Brown made a case in The DaVinci Code that dread of Friday the 13th stems from the 14th century arrest and subsequent massacre of hundreds of Knights Templar, but historians counter that this is a recent connection. And…to muddy the waters even more, in Greece and Spanish-speaking countries, instead of Friday, it’s Tuesday the 13th that’s considered an ill omen. For the Italians, it’s Friday the 17th.

What do you think? Is there something to Friday the 13th? Would you start a trip that day? A new job? Go on a first date?  Cut your nails? What’s YOUR biggest taboo?

 

What if we lived in a world where Brussels sprouts were yummy?

We were watching Top Chef Masters the other day and the chefs were issued a challenge to cook foods for kids that they don’t normally like–things like beets and cauliflower. Now, I always have a problem with shows like this. I know there are foods a lot of kids turn their noses up at, but some of that is perception. If a kid hears, “All kids hate beets!” then they will think they’re supposed to hate beets. To make matters worse, for this particular challenge, some of the chefs were being punished from something earlier in the show and they were given the additional challenge of having to incorporate Brussel sprouts. “Because every kid hates Brussel sprouts!”

That’s what they said. Seriously.

Well, guess what? My kids love Brussel sprouts. They love them. It’s my boy’s favorite veggie.

I’m convinced, it’s all because I have a great recipe for Brussel sprouts, not because my kids are special. So, I thought I would share my recipe (okay, Cook’s Illustrated recipe), so that you can convert your kids, too.

Now, if you ask Robyn, she’s going to tell you that I love to cook complicated dishes with fifty-three ingredients. That’s not un-true. But it’s not true of this recipe. This one is easy as pie. Here’s the recipe. Try it. Seriously. So easy. So good.

Amazing Brussel Sprouts

1 Lb. Brussel Sprouts

1 Tablespoon water

3 Tablespoon oil — I usually use less

salt and pepper to taste.

Preheat oven at 500 degrees. Slice ends of sprouts. If they’re bigger than 1 inch in diameter, half them. If they’re bigger than 2 inches, quater them.

In a bowel, toss with water and oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Place on flat pan, cut side down. Cover with aluminum foil. Cook 10 minutes. Remove foil. Bake 10 more minutes. Some leaves will look brown and crunchy. Those are the great ones.  Serve immediately and enjoy!

So what about you? Do you have any great recipes that have tempted your kids to try recipes they normally wouldn’t?

September 11th and Children

First of all, RIP to all the Americans we lost on 9-11. And to all the children born on September 11, I hope your parents have been able to filter out all the noise and keep the sense of personal celebration that you deserve to have on your birthday. I wish that for the grownups born on this day, too.

A lot of you reading this might not have had kids on September 11, 2001. You might even have been a young teen yourself. But for those of us who were parents, it was really tough, as you might expect. How do you explain such a disaster to children without destroying their sense of security?

I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here to say that September 11 changed everything for the kids who lived through it. My son says his generation is dogged by the events of that day. We tend to forget about it on a daily basis, but it’s there, stamped into our collective unconscious. My sister, who teaches college, says that her current students–who ranged in age from 6 to 10 at the time of the attack–have so much more anxiety than their pre-September 11th counterparts. According to her, the anxiety levels have been getting progressively worse since September 11th happened.

No one was left unscarred.  I know personally of two friends who lost loved ones. One of them was a flight attendant on the plane that crashed into a field. The other was a stockbroker in one of the towers–he left behind a wife and two toddlers. And then in my own family, my brother-in-law was inside the Pentagon when the plane hit. And my brother was in the air on a flight out of Boston, heading to D.C. We had NO idea of either of their statuses for a while. Could my brother be in the plane that crashed in the field? Or was he possibly in the plane that crashed into the Pentagon? Was my brother-in-law hurt inside the Pentagon? It was terrible not knowing.

If it was such a trauma for the adults, imagine what it was like for the kids. I do know that where I lived, in Hickory, NC, the elementary schools turned on the TV’s in the classrooms. I can’t remember if they dismissed them early, and that’s because I was homeschooling at the time.

My two older kids were 8 1/2 and a brand-new 10.  We saw the towers fall. I remember falling to my knees, literally. I cried and prayed and said things like, “God help them!” as we witnessed, surely, thousands of deaths at almost the same time. I wonder if not only the world trauma of that day but the household trauma branded itself deeply onto my two older kids’ psyches. What happened to them when they saw Mommy so afraid? All I know is that in general, they have suffered more anxiety growing up than our third child, who was in diapers at the time and had no idea what was happening.

Of course, we talked about it. We talked about it a lot. The drawings and narration you see here were done by my then 8-year-old daughter the next day. She made a book entitled, SAD, SAD DAY.  I have to marvel at the resilience of children, how they are filled with optimism no matter what. Look at the cute winking heart on that top drawing! And in the bottom narration, my daughter leans heavily on her faith in God to make it all better.

Other generations of children have been scarred by war. I guess at this point all I can do is pray for the children who went through September 11th and hope that the day will always remind them that we can never take our lives for granted or the lives of the people we love. Maybe our children who witnessed that day’s events will also live less on the surface and more in the realm of the substantial. They “get” loss and death. May they use the knowledge and experience thrust upon them on September 11 to make the world a better place.

I’m curious: If your kids are too young to remember September 11th, how do you handle the day? Let me know in the comments! And of course, please share anything you’d like about your own experience. 

Hi, I’m Kieran. My family loves music and anything that makes us laugh out loud. Along with Chuck, my husband of 24 years, I try to teach our kids that we have to actively choose happiness–and if I accomplish nothing else as a mom but pass that one lesson along to them, then I think I’ve done my job. My oldest guy, Nighthawk, was diagnosed in kindergarten with Asperger’s syndrome, and now he’s a senior in college; his sister Indie Girl, who’s younger by 16 months, is a college junior; and my youngest, Dragon, is in tenth grade. For our family, it’s about managing your weaknesses and wringing everything you can get out of your strengths. And along the way, finding joy. www.kierankramerbooks.com

Guest Mom Tracy Wolff Answers Our Questions

Fellow writer and mom extraordinaire Tracy Wolff  is our guest today. Tracy writes under several nom de plumes. Check out her book covers at the end of the post.

*******

First off, I want to say thanks to Peanut Butter on the Keyboard for having me J  I’ve been a fan of your site since the beginning.  I think you guys are awesome—and give great advice for another writing mom.  I’ve got three boys of my own and they definitely keep me on my toes.  And I had great fun answering your either/or questions J

Cheerios or Captain Crunch: Crunchberries all the way.  When I’m on deadline, I’m a big fan of processed sugar—and the pretty pink  and purple “berries” are my favorite.

Cloth or Disposable Diapers: In my head, I’m a cloth diaper kind of person.  I love the environment, am a great recycler, am married to an energy efficiency engineer who has spent years working to save the planet … and yet I’m a disposable diaper person.  I tried the cloth diaper thing and I just couldn’t do it.  Sorry L

Midnight or Dawn: Can I say both?  I don’t sleep much, so I’m usually up til about one and then up again around four-thirty and I honestly like both times of day a lot.

Quiet Craft or Raucous Game of Wrestling: Again, I have three boys.  Quiet crafts don’t exactly cut itat my house.  We’re a raucous game of wrestling kind of family.  And also, hide and seek laser tag in the dark J

Favorite Mommy time off activity: I’m a huge reader, so obviously curling up with a good book and a cup of tea tops my list.  Also, my oldest (who is sixteen) and I pick a TV series and try to watch an episode every night after the younger two are in bed.  I really like doing that with him.  And if you want just pure indulgence : a trip to the MAC counter makes my whole week!

Now it’s your turn:  new lipstick or new pair of shoes?

Thanks for having me, guys!

Tracy Wolff lives with four men, teaches writing to local college students and spends as much time as she can manage immersed in worlds of her own creation. Married to the alpha hero of her dreams for twelve years, she is the mother of three young sons who spend most of their time trying to make her as crazy as possible.

Tracy has two books releasing October 28! Looks like some fun Mommy Time reading to me

What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

I definitely haven’t started this line of questioning with my daughter. I’m pretty sure when I was a kid I volunteered the information more than I was asked. I wanted to be a nurse, a teacher, an opera singer, Madonna, and a psychologist at different periods in my childhood.

My mom stayed home, so I didn’t have her as a career role model. She always said I’d be a good teacher because I liked to boss people around. The other day my daughter, who is a few weeks short of four years old, offered up her opinions on her future career path.

Baby Galen: Mommy, you’re an author?

Me (cooking lunch or dinner or doing dishes): Yep.

Baby Galen: But you write books for adults.

Me: Yep.

Baby Galen: Mommy, I am going to be an author, but I’m going to write kids’ books.

Me: You are?

Baby Galen: Yes. But I have to wait until I get a little bigger.

Me: Yes, and you need to learn how to read and write.

Baby Galen: I know how to write! I can write A and B.

Me: That would be a short book.

And off we went to another conversation, but what I thought about later was the fact that this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. I mean, it was the first in this incarnation, but it wasn’t the first time she told me she wanted to be an author. And it wasn’t the first time I thought, I don’t want her to be an author.

I promise you that when I was growing up the profession (I sort of laugh when I write that) of author never even occurred to me. I didn’t realize writing could be a job (again, laughing) until I was probably 25. Author is not a typical job, unlike firefighter, doctor, or teacher. Obviously, this interest Baby Galen has in being an author stems from wanting to do what her mommy does. Just like the kids of movie stars want to be actors and kids of engineers want to be engineers.

But I don’t want Baby Galen to be an author. Author is not a sturdy, solid, reliable job.  For most authors, writing is their second job. The rest of us have rich husbands, a trust fund, or have been doing it so long we’re finally breaking even or making enough to pay a few bills. There’s no health insurance, no unemployment benefits, and you’re only as good as your last sales report.

Yes, I love being an author. I love writing books, and I am extremely lucky to be able to do what I do. Would I have chosen this as a career if I didn’t love it so much? No way. It’s a lot of work for very little monetary reward and a hell of a lot of public criticism. There’s no job security. I want Baby Galen to choose a career where she doesn’t have to worry if she ‘ll still be employed in six months or whether she’ll be able to pay her medical bill if she’s in an accident.

What did you want to be when you grew up (or maybe you’re still working on that)? What do you hope for your kids?

Guest Mom Alyssa Alexander: The First Step

Welcome, everyone, to the funny, touching mom world Alyssa Alexander inhabits when she’s not lost in writing a Regency tale!

The First Step

It is the Eve of Kindergarten.

Pencil case. Check.

Backpack and lunchbox purchased. Check.

Bus number. Check.

Open house attended. Check.

Locker, classroom, bathroom and desk located. Check.

To do: Make lunch for the first day, pack up the backpack, lay out tomorrow’s clothing—for the record, my Biscuit doesn’t wear nice little polo shirts or khakis. He’s chosen a Ninjago ® t-shirt and basketball shorts for the first day of school.

Mama’s worries: Will he find his classroom or aimlessly wander the halls? Will he like the teacher? His friends? Will he exhibit proper behavior? (Always a worry with small boys of exuberant natures and overly curious personalities.)

Biscuit’s worries: Do they have snack time and outside time? (A boy must have his priorities.) And, when can he go to science class?

Aside from those minor (?!) worries, it seems like we’re all set. The bus will stop at our driveway tomorrow and pick him up. He’ll go to school, meet new friends, meet a new teacher, and hopefully learn the difference between U and V, which seems to be very tricky. Still, for us, this isn’t entirely unknown territory, as Biscuit has been in daycare since he was an infant and attended preschool as well. Same thing, different location, right?

Wrong. In so many ways. This is a step away from me, somehow, even though he’s been in daycare for so long. I know, I know, it’s just another in a long line of steps he will take that make him an independent man (assuming I’ve done my job right.) We’ve had some firsts before, of course. First day at daycare, first overnight visit at Grandma’s, first step. But that doesn’t make kindergarten any easier.

This is my first and last child. My only. There’s never been a first day of school before, and there will never be another for me. Or for him. So I guess that puts me and Biscuit on even ground, doesn’t it?

Yes, there will be the first day each year, but that’s not the same as the first day of kindergarten. With a bus. And hot lunch. And lots and lots of children I don’t know instead ten kids who grew up with him in daycare, moving from the infant room to the toddler room to the preschool room. I don’t know this (very nice) teacher, I don’t know the parents of these other children. I don’t know where everything is in the classroom or what he will do there all day. And I won’t get the chance to ask the teacher every day what he ate and who he played with and whether he took a nap. Yes, over time I will meet and become friends with many of these parents and children, and I can always talk to the teacher, volunteer and attend conferences.

But in reality, I have little no control over my child’s daily life. That’s a terrifying thought for this mother. I’m not overly protective—the opposite, I would say. But this is uncharted territory. There will suddenly be a barrier between me and my child. It is school.

And it is tomorrow.

. . .

It’s the morning.

He’s gone.

Yes, everything went wonderfully. We got up on time—even early. Biscuit popped out of bed, dressed in his favored shirt. Ate a big breakfast so he would be ready for a good long day at school. The backpack was filled with paper and his super hero lunchbox. A little heart sticker was on a piece of paper folded in his pocket in case he needed some love during the day. I have a matching sticker and love note tucked in my purse.

I was able to laugh as he ran down the driveway shouting “Where is my bus? Where is my bus?” We waited, and waited, and waaaaited. Then there it was, in all its yellow-gold, airbrake, unmistakable diesel-smelling glory.

He didn’t even turn around to look at me before he climbed aboard. He just went right up those steps without a backward glance, tumbled into the first seat with all his knobby elbows and knees knocking around. Then he looked at me though the little window. He was so short he could barely peek over the edge. But he was grinning. And blowing kisses.

And then he was gone. Leaving me in dust and diesel exhaust.

I cried only a little, as I watch my baby ride off with big, scary fifth graders. I had never noticed how really, really big fifth graders are. They I pulled up my mama jeans and went to work, and tried desperately not to wonder if he could remember where the bathroom was and if he could find his lunchbox.

. . .

He’s in bed now. Exhausted. Two more love notes are folded up on his chest (I will move them to the nightstand, though, so they survive the night).

All my worry was for naught. In fact, he told me “I can’t even answer all of your questions, because I’m too excited to talk!” So not only did he make it through the day, he thrived. New friends (whose names he doesn’t know), a new teacher, a numbered table to sit at (“I’m at table number one, mom!”), and that super hero lunch box ready for the next lunch.

Still, while he’s so excited for tomorrow, I’m left wondering what happened to my baby! Because instead of the infant and toddler I thought I had, I’m raising a boy. A real boy. With scabby knees and bruised shins, and questions about the universe and mortality and how popsicles are made and how bugs fly. A boy who will get on the bus tomorrow, grin at me and blow me kisses, and once again leave me in dust and diesel exhaust.

I guess, in the end, I’m doing something right. He will be carrying that little love note in his pocket, and I’ll have my love note in my purse. Until the day he doesn’t take the note to school anymore, of course.

But I think I’ll keep mine for a little longer.

Alyssa Alexander is pretty certain she belongs somewhere sunny. And tropical. Where drinks are served with little paper umbrellas. But until she moves to those white sandy beaches, she survives the cold Michigan winters by penning romance novels that always include a bit of adventure. She lives with her own set of heroes, aka an ever-patient husband who doesn’t mind using a laundry basket for a closet, and a small boy who wears a knight in a shining armor costume for such tasks as scrubbing potatoes.

Look for her upcoming debut, THE SMUGGLER WORE SILK, from Berkley Sensation on January 7, 2013, and available for preorder at Amazon and Barnes & Noble . And come find her on Facebook and Twitter !

Invisible Me

With those long, sometimes tedious, days of summer winding down and two restless kids buzzing around the house, I needed something to work on that I could bounce in and out of, something that would give me something on which to focus, but not require too much brain power. I remembered these handy little coupons I’d received when touring President Lincoln’s home in Springfield for a free Shutterfly photo book, and decided the time was right to get caught up on organizing many, many (MANY!) pictures. I had vacations to chronicle, as well as a new idea for Family Yearbooks.

So over the period of three weeks, I spent countless hours working on these photo books, and pretty soon an interesting pattern emerged.

Notice anything?  Anything…missing?  Anyone?

Let me offer up one more example.

Perhaps nowhere is The Omission more egregious than Christmas pictures. It’s like…I wasn’t even there.  At first I laughed it off. Picture taking is my thing. I enjoy it. The rest of the family, not so much. But after awhile, it began to get to me, all sorts of nasty thoughts creeping in: why doesn’t anyone ever want to take my picture? if something ever happened to me, there’s no evidence of the role I played in the family. It’s like I’m…invisible.

That thought really got me. Invisible. It harkened up all sorts of childhood memories, a time when I truly felt invisible, that I could go away or vanish and nobody would even notice. It’s  ironic that I ended up becoming a writer, talk about a fleeting, invisible profession!  (Little makes you feel more invisible than pouring your heart and soul, plus a whole bunch of blood, sweat and tears into a book that goes unnoticed–but that’s another story for another day…). But there I am, behind the camera and behind the scenes of so many others lives. I’m the one who makes things happen. I’m the one who shepherds everyone and documents the moments, the one who makes sure memories are preserved for years to come. But clearly I need to do a better job of getting in the picture, literally and figuratively. I need to participate in the moment, and I need to make sure someone takes the pictures to prove it, even if I have to ask them.

It also occurred to me that through my photo books, I have the power to balance things out. I snickered as I put together this page (selfie and all):

And this one makes me smile, too.

Maybe the mother/daughter painting outing only occupied three little hours out of the entire year, but as author of the Family Photo book, I made sure  it got a full page (out of 102)!

That’s the beauty of photo books. They’re versatile. They tell stories…any story you want them to tell.  A few years back I was looking through one of my catch-all drawers when I ran across an envelope of old pictures my parents had given me. An idea quickly took root, and I realized I could scan them in and make a photo book, complete with family history (and in doing so, preserving them).

I also did this with old pictures (all taken with film) of vacations my husband and I took before kids.

And for our twentieth anniversary, I dug out all the old pics I could find and compiled them in a History of Us photo book, with lots of pages of bad hair, bad clothes, fun times, and a whole lot fewer pounds!

Similarly, for each of my kids I created a Year One In Pictures book:

There’s something about photo books, the way they combine my two favorite creative outlets—telling stories and photography—that make them a  win-win for me.

I just have to remember to make sure I’m part of the story.

#ThankyouShutterfly

Speaking my language

Once upon a time when my nephew and niece were young (they’re both in college now) my sister sold Discovery Toys. She did it as a way to bring in some extra money while being a stay at home mom, but also because they had wicked cool toys. At some point she attended some sort of conference and while there took a workshop on the learning styles – she came home with all sorts of materials about it and it’s just been one of those things that has stuck with me all these years. First, it’s been helpful to me as a writer, to know what my learning style is (visual) and what that means for my writing process and my strengths and weaknesses. But here lately, it’s been cool as my girls have gotten older for me to identify their learning styles and try to work around them.

I’m just going to hit on some highlights of this stuff because I’m no expert, but I find it all particularly interesting and hope you will too.

Visual – learn from seeing

good at computers
likes to play with blocks/design things
does well in school
like charts and maps
like to read it themselves
appear to be quiet or snobbish at first
need encouragement to do physical things
need alone time

Auditory – learn from hearing

very musical and rhythmic
best in school
likes to talk
good at following directions
need background noise
good at languages
often hums or whistles (babbled a lot as a baby)
dramatic & outgoing

Kinesthetic – learn by doing

on the move/very physical
do things by their gut feelings
like to touch things
not great students
atheletic and physically coordinated
love the outdoors
easily distracted
need tangible things

As a mom I’m always looking for ways to better communicate and interact with my kids. Recognizing that Busybee is a kinesthetic learner and that Babybee is an auditory learner helps. I know that when I tell Busybee to do something, I need her to stand in front of me so I can put my hand on her – touching her arm engages her into the conversation and allows her to better hear my instructions. Whereas Babybee can hear what I say in the other room – now whether or not she obeys in another story, and that has nothing to do with her learning style and everything to do with her orneriness. It also helps me be a good wife. I know that The Professor is an auditory learner so no matter what he’s doing he wants to have noise on – TV or music. If I’m writing, but I want to be in the same room as him, I bring my earbuds so he can have his mind engaged by the background noise, but I won’t be distracted by it.

So how about you? Do you know where you fall on the spectrum? Or your kids or spouse? 

Ask the Centaur: When A Kid Knows Everything

by Guest Mom Theresa Romain

“Truly wonderful, the mind of a child is.”~ Yoda, Star Wars: Episode II—Attack of the Clones

“I know everything, Mommy.” ~My five-year-old daughter, Little Miss R

Hi, PBK moms—thanks so much for letting me join you today!

When it comes to shaping kids’ personalities, nature must play a big part right along with nurture. Don’t you think? There’s no other way my husband and I—quiet folks who could both oh-so-easily turn into hermits—could have produced a child like Little Miss R.

Little Miss R is, in her own words, a fairy princess mermaid ballerina centaur. (I’m still trying to get her to draw a picture of that one.) She has a very vivid imagination, as you might guess, and she will talk to anyone about anything. This kid has more social confidence at the age of five than I had by the age of…well, ever.

She told me recently that she knows everything. “Go on,” she said. “Ask me anything.” We went through serious questions, like “What is the meaning of life?” We went through silly questions like “What sound does a carrot make?” Nothing stumps her. She’s young enough to think she has all the answers.

On the one hand, I love this confidence and don’t want to squelch it.

On the other hand, I want her to, you know, have some humility.

On the other other hand (because moms have three hands, or at least wish they did), I thought this was a pretty funny game. And by the way, a carrot makes a sort of chomping, clicking sound.

Now it’s your turn. Since Little Miss R knows everything, what would you like to ask her? She’s home with me today, so I’ll run all your questions by her and give you the straight-from-the-centaur’s-mouth answers.

Historical romance author Theresa Romain pursued an impractical education that allowed her to read everything she could get her hands on. She then worked for universities and libraries, where she got to read even more. Eventually she started writing, too. She lives with her family in the Midwest, where she is working on her next book. On September 3, her Regency take on the Cyrano tale, IT TAKES TWO TO TANGLE, will be published by Sourcebooks.  

Please visit Theresa online at theresaromain.com , on Facebook , or on Twitter .

Raise Your Hand

Hey Readers,

Just a head’s up that Theresa Romain is out guest mom on Monday (Labor Day in the U.S.), and she will have her five-year-old daughter, Little Miss R, with her. Little Miss R has graciously agreed to answer any and all questions you might have. Start thinking today about the questions you have. Post them here, and I’ll re-post for you Monday or post them Monday. Little Miss R will answer!