Shane Bolks's Blog, page 24

Parenting Fail

I know many of us feel like failures as parents. I do. A lot.

I try not to get overwhelmed by it, but rather to accept that it’s natural and then move on. We blogging moms could probably devote months of posts about how to deal with Mommy Guilt, but for today–and in the spirit of fun–I wanted to share this list of lighthearted parenting fails. Most of these happened when I was on deadline.

Serving popcorn and smoothies for dinner – What? The popcorn is a whole grain and the smoothie is low fat protein and fruit. We could do worse, like …
Serving desert for dinner – I bought frozen cheese blitzes and didn’t realize they were a desert. I thought they were like really big ravioli or something. When I discovered my mistake, I served them anyway.  Eat up, kids!
Forgetting to buy milk at the grocery store and then going to the drive through at Chick-fil-a for dinner so that I can scavenge the milk from the kids’ meals for breakfast in the morning. Again, we could do worse, like …
Running out of milk and letting the kids top their cereal with heavy cream instead.
Being so behind on laundry that my five year old son has to wear his 8 year old sister’s underwear for a few hours until I can get some washed.
Being so behind on shopping that we run completely out of dog food and I have to feed them human food for a day or two. Yes, that seems like a pet-owner fail instead of a parenting fail, but it’s not. When you’re opening a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and pouring it into the dog’s bowl, the kids notice.

I have done all of those things. Sometimes at the same time.

So what’s your worst parenting fail?

I’m That Lady Who Yelled At You in the Gym

So, a couple of weeks ago my three year old daughter started gymnastics. She’s what you call…strong-willed. Now, she’s one of three strong willed children that I have birthed so it’s a trait that doesn’t really surprise me much, neither does it phase me. Though, she’s different about it than my boys. She’s much more verbal. And let me tell you, sometimes her stubbornness is a sight to behold.

A while back she started using “I’m busy” as go-to response for when I ask her to do something she doesn’t want to do. Me: Go to bed. Diva Baby: NO I BUSY! (usually with a little hop) it’s both frustrating AND amusing. She’s kind of a master at that.

Anyway, all that to say I understand that kids can be frustrating. In fact, the first half of gymnastics class I basically spent flushed and awkward, apologizing for her refusal to let the teacher touch her until she started getting into the groove and realizing that it was all okay.

And also that, no, she couldn’t get up on the uneven bars with the big girls and do lots of flips right away.

Not only do I know that kids can be frustrating, I had, in fact, been quite frustrated with my own child during that very class. But even so, I was completely shocked when a woman with two kids came walking through the gym, SCREAMING and cursing at her little girls. They were probably five and two and this woman was unleashing a stream of foul language and guttural shrieking.

I moved without even thinking. And before I knew it, I was standing in front of this woman who was yelling and roughly zipping her daughter into her coat (part of her rant was that she had to help her small child into the coat…). She looked at me, I looked at her, and I knew I had to say something.

So I did.

“You need to watch your language in here,” I said. “My kids don’t need to hear that.” And then it’s slowly dawning on me NEITHER DO HER KIDS.

“Step off b*tch” was her response.

That was when I said, “It’s fine for you to talk to me that way. I’m an adult. I can handle it. But you should never speak to your children that way. It’s wrong.”

She sputtered and tried to tell me she hadn’t cussed at her kids. Then I repeated back to her what she’d said (censored, because…the kids.) She backed down then and walked away.

So uh…hi woman from the gym. I’m the lady who yelled at you. And I’m going to tell you why.

Kids are frustrating. I know that. I’ve lost my cool with mine before. I’ve made mistakes. We all do. But I don’t feel there’s ever an excuse for treating your kids the way you treated yours. I may have caught you at a bad moment. Maybe you don’t do that all the time. Maybe you never have before, in which case, I was just the wrong stranger for you to lose it in front of.

But the thing is, kids are kids. We’re adults. We scold them for being disrespectful. For stomping feet and slamming doors, but if we can’t keep our anger under control, how in all the world can we expect them to? They aren’t supposed to whine and cause any trouble or have emotion, but we can let fly and scream at them, humiliate them, in private or in public?

That’s wrong. It’s not fair.

In the moment, I just wanted to stop you from saying more hurtful things. But upon reflection, what I hope is this: that if you say things like that to your girls all the time, they’ll remember that someone stood up for them. That they’ll know it’s wrong what you do to them. That they’ll understand they don’t deserve that treatment. That it’s not their problem, it’s yours.

What I really hope, is that in that moment you saw yourself. That when I spoke your own words back to you, you really heard them. I hope you never speak to your girls that way again. But that’s a pretty lofty goal for one little scolding from a random person in the gym. But hey, I can hope.

We’ve all made mistakes. Lord knows I have. I didn’t say anything to you because I thought I was better than you. I said something because I thought your daughters deserved better than that.

And I hope if I ever lose sight of myself, and of my children, in that way, that someone will step in and defend them from me.

Sincerely,

The Lady Who Yelled At You in the Gym

No One Ever Said Anything About ….Guest Mom Sophie Jordan

When I was pregnant with my first child, and again later with my second, I was the recipient of countless anecdotes and unsolicited advice. We’ve all been there. I’m sure every mother knows what I’m talking about. Everything from what to do about diaper rash to potty training … and oh, the endless recounting of child labor.

I listened. I absorbed. There was one thing no one mentioned, however. No one mentioned anything about fear. No one ever said that the fear you feel as a parent supersedes any fear you’ve ever felt before.

I’ve been scared before. Plenty of times. Got in a pretty scary car accident as a teen. While abroad in Europe, my friend and I came much too close to experiencing the movie Taken firsthand. So, yeah. No stranger to fear. But nothing prepared me for the fear that comes along with being a parent.

When my firstborn was four months old, the pediatrician detected something “off” with the sound of her heart. I’ll never forget that moment – and average well-check that twisted into a nightmare. The pediatrician lingered over her little baby chest instead of moving on with the exam. The moments crawled – seriously, time stopped – as he listened. And listened. He said nothing as he repositioned his stethoscope again and again. I knew something was wrong.

Twenty-four hours later we were meeting with a pediatric cardiologist. I’ve never known fear like that in my life. Every worst case scenario flashed through my mind. After the specialist evaluated my daughter, she determined we could wait three months for an ultrasound at the local children’s hospital. For three months, I was left to wait. And wonder. And scour the internet on everything about heart defects – because yes, my daughter did have one. We just didn’t know the severity/type/extent yet. Fast forward three months (one hundred and eighty days of fear and anxiety and family members calling me crying – yes, not helpful).

Then the day arrived. Baby sedated (a stressful process in itself), we ultimately learned that she had pulmonary valve stenosis. I remember being devastated that it wasn’t a mere murmur – because I had been trying to fight down the fear and think positively for the last three months by telling myself this. I wasn’t prepared to hear anything else. Feel free to look PVS up for a more detailed explanation, but essentially we were told: a) she would have this defect all her life and wouldn’t outgrow it, b) it could stay/remain as they observed in the ultrasound and no treatment would be necessary other than monitoring and antibiotics before every dental visit, or, c) it could worsen as she grows, requiring open heart surgery.

So. More waiting. More fear. For years. Every year we visited. Age one. Two. Three. Four. Fear.

And then when she was five, they listened to her heart and … nothing. Well, a heartbeat, of course. Nothing as in no erratic rushing noise … no murmur. And an ultrasound confirmed that it was gone. The doctor looked cheerfully at my daughter and informed her: “You fixed your heart all by yourself, sweetie.”

To this day, if you ask my daughter about her heart defect, she’ll blithely inform you that she “fixed” her heart all by herself.

When my son was born the fear continued. At two and a half years old, I became aware that he wasn’t progressing verbally like he probably should be. Hello, fear, welcome back.

I began to worry this was an indicator of possibly a bigger issue. Another visit with the pediatrician. Eventually autism was ruled out and speech therapy began. Since then, his language has developed and improved. It turns out he has an isolated speech delay, but there still isn’t a day where some fear, some little niggle isn’t triggered … a phone call from school, from a camp counselor informing me that my daughter fell off the high dive ladder – and onto CONCRETE. We survived that one with scrapes, bruises and six weeks in a boot. Just a few months ago my son slipped on a wet floor. For hours he was nauseated and rubbing his head and complaining of dizziness. Cue me dialing the on call nurse and hovering and staying up all night watching him sleep.

Confession. There’s not a night I don’t check on them before going to bed. Me or my husband. I can’t tell you how many times I actually watch their chests to confirm they’re breathing. Maybe I’m hyper-vigilante because of my early scare with my daughter. Or maybe because I realize how fleeting life is, how precious my children are. Maybe all of the above.

I don’t kid myself that the fear can be ignored. Or that it will go away. As a parent, it will always be there. Every time I see the school name pop up on the caller ID. The first time they drive off in a car. Or go away to college. It will always be there. I can only accept its existence. Take a deep breath. And love my children. Count my blessings. Treasure every day. Treasure them. Live life fully and teach them to do the same.

Sophie Jordan grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s also the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Avon historical romances. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (lattes and Diet cherry Coke preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with true-crime and reality-TV shows. Sophie also writes paranormal romances under the name Sharie Kohler.

Life, death, and adorable balls of fluff

We first got our chickens about a year ago. We bought them at the local feed store and brought them home in a cardboard box, peep, peeping the whole drive. I can not stress enough how adorable baby chicks are. I probably don’t need to. You’ve seen pictures.

But I wasn’t in it for the cuteness. I had a long list of logical reasons why I wanted chickens.

I wanted fresh eggs from chickens I knew lived humanely
I wanted fresh chicken from chickens I knew had lived humanely
I wanted my kids to understand where their food comes from (even just this tiny slice of their diet)
I wanted my kids to grow up with a practical approach toward life and death and food and pets
I wanted them to see the circle of life first hand, because I feel like we’re too separated from all those things in our modern suburban live.

All of those reasons were good and solid and well thought out. They made sense to me.

Flash forward to the first death of a chick. The first one we could all excuse as normal. It died the day after we brought them home. It was obviously less healthy than the others to begin with. About two months later–when they were living outside in their own chicken run–one escaped and got nabbed by a dog. It was brutal and harsh. And it happened right in front of the kids. None of us were okay with it. But we reassessed our fence and moved on. By fall, we had four healthy strong chickens and things were going strong. One was a rooster, who was mostly nice, so we weren’t worried too much about him being aggressive. Then the kids wanted to try hatching some of the eggs we’d gotten. And we did it! We convinced a hen to sit on the eggs and twenty days later …. eggs hatched!

It was exactly the circle of life stuff I’d been hoping for! (Except for the fact that I was out of town at RT. Grrrr…) We put ten eggs under the chicken, and eight hatched. One died right away. Something was obviously just not right. And, yeah, we lost another to a dog, and reassessed our fences again. We were all managing the circle of life thing. (Though, for the record, the idea of me actually eating one of these birds outside of some post-apocolyptic survival situation is clearly ridiculous.) I felt really good about this chicken thing. I was at peace with life and death. I felt like a real farm wife. I was tough.

Then, Friday happened.

I went down in the morning to let the chickens out of the coop and into the garden, but one of the chicks (by now a pullet) was little more than a crushed heap of feathers. My heart lurched. My eyes stung. But I was tough.  Okay, so something had happened in the night and one of the chicks had died. I was tough farmer wife. I could handle.

Until I went in to pick up the carcass and realized the poor baby was still alive. The wound on his neck looked horrible and gruesome. But he blinked his little eyes at me and peeped. It took all the toughness in me to gentle pick him up and carry him up onto the porch. I found a box and settled him down. I called The Geek at work and asked if he had a minute. he said sure. And then I lost it.

See, I was prepared for a dead bird. I’ve been prepared for some losses. I’ve weathered them. I’ve moved on. But this? This, I was not prepared for. I was sure the chick couldn’t make it and I couldn’t stand seeing a creature in pain. I wanted to do the human thing and put the creature out of its misery, but I just … I couldn’t. I was tough. But I wasn’t this tough. This wasn’t death. This was dying. This was killing.

As I sobbed on the phone, my hubby gently convinced me to wait until he got home. So I was left with the task of making him as comfortable as possible. And of telling the kids.

My boy was sad, but tough. He’s already a little farm and less attached to the chicks. My daughter was distraught. By now the chick had perked up a bit. He was drinking sugar water and standing. We started to hope that maybe he was tough too. That maybe he would make it. I stopped googling ways to euthanize a chicken.

But the brief period of hope made it so much harder on my daughter and I when the chick finally passed on Sunday.

From a mother’s standpoint, the experience was brutal. It stirred up all the angst of anguish of my mother-in-law’s  death nearly two years ago. Like then, for my son it’s raised questions about death and the afterlife. (thankfully not about chicken heaven–an issue I’m not ready to take a stand on, but about human afterlife) But my daughter–my sensitive daughter–she just doesn’t even want to think about it or talk about it. After a brief bout of tears, she just shut that part of herself down.

I don’t know what this says about her. I’m glad she’s not wallowing in grief, but I know she’s sad about it and doesn’t want to be. It’s a tough lesson, learning that the things (and the people) we love die. That we have to pull ourselves together and go on. I wouldn’t wish this experience for my kids any more than I would wish losing their grandmother far too young. I wouldn’t wish it on them … but I did choose it for them. After all, this was the point.

Maybe each time around we  get a little better at handling it. Or maybe we just shut off parts of ourselves. I don’t know. All I do know is that the circle of life friggin’ sucks.

What Cleaning Closets Has Taught Me About Life

I’m an out of sight, out of mind kind of girl. I think that’s why I love closets so much. Open door, insert stuff, close door….ta duh…the illusion of tidiness. And yet every now and then…(IOW: nowhere near often enough)…this love affair hits a bump in the road. I’ll open a door and either have an entire wall of junk crash down upon me or, alternatively, be forced to wade through piles and stacks and boxes and all sorts of other lovelies to (possibly) locate what I’m looking for. Most of the times I shove it all back…but this past week I decided enough was enough. It was time for action. So I settled myself in for several days of “doing the closets,” never expecting to find myself pondering philosophy, instead.

You see, when you get down to it, cleaning closets is a whole lot like life…

Just because you shove something way to the back doesn’t mean it’s not there.  Shoes, scarves, memories or emotional pain. Hiding them doesn’t make them go away.
You really can forget about things…things that were once a big part of your every day life. What once defined you may, easily, one day be less than a memory. An awesome necklace or a love of painting or nature walks. Maybe time has separated you. But love can always be rediscovered.
Sometimes you gotta pull everything out, even stuff neatly tucked away in back corners–and make a way bigger mess–before you can really make anything better. Like old clothes, you’ll never truly let go of past old hurts until you pull them out and deal wtih them.
We hold on to too much stuff from the past, stuff that only serves to clutter up the present. The longer you hold onto shoes that don’t fit or memories that drag you back, you’ll never have room to move forward…with new shoes!
Wading through the mess may be painful, but the end result–getting rid of what you don’t need and discovering what you do–is more than worth it. It’s incredible how good it feels to let go of baggage, emotional and otherwise!.
The secret to accomplishing anything, even something massive and monumental and completely mind-boggling, is to…well… start Every closet can be cleaned, and every life can be rebooted. You just gotta let go of what seems overwhelming and go for it!

Bring a book – The Henry books by D.B. Johnson

I first stumbled on the Henry books while browsing at my local Barnes and Noble when my daughter was quite young. When I say browsing, I actually mean chasing after her while she pulled down books and stuffed animals and I frantically tried to undo the damage. Henry Works was face out. It had a bear on the cover. We like books with animals. In those whirlwind early days of shopping for children’s books, that was all it took.

It turned out to be one of those serendipitous purchases that I’ve been forever thankful for.  I read the entire book aloud (okay, probably more than once), before I thought, “Hey, there’s something familiar about this story. I wonder if I’ve read it before.”

Turns out the Henry books are based on the life and works of Henry David Thoreau. So, yeah. A little bit familiar. I’m an English major. In Henry Works, Henry spends the day walking through the woods around Walden Pond and through the village of Concord where he chats with neighbors, the Alcotts, and his friend, Emerson. When people ask, he says he’s working. When people ask what work he’s doing, he says he’s writing a book. At the end of the day, he returns to his cabin and sits down to write.

The writer in me loves the glimpse into how the creative mind works. (Um, not comparing myself to Thoreau, here.) The mom in me loves the unique drawings and delightful storyline. And I love being able to introduce my kids–in such a simple, palatable way–to the ideas of one of America’s great thinkers.

The other books in the series, Henry Hikes to Fitchburg, Henry Builds a Cabin, Henry’s Night, and Henry Climbs a Mountain are all in a similar vein. They feature great art, a dash of philosophy, and a focus on the delights of outdoor world.

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Emily McKay, aka. Hippy Chick mom,  lives and writes in the Texas hill country. She has two kids, two dogs, two cats, and 9 chickens.  She loves movies, food, yoga and books. And eggs. Lots and lots of eggs.

From the Land of Melting Princesses

They’re sitting there on the curb, the mother in her white Bermuda shorts with her hair in a high pony tail and her phone in her hand, the little girl in her fairytale dress with sparkly makeup and her hair all fancy. “Are you trying to make me miserable?” the mother snarls.   “Are you trying to ruin this trip for everyone?”

Quietly,  I continue walking

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The sun is setting and the water is cool and refreshing. Fifteen fountains shoot up from the one-foot kiddie pool, inviting little ones to play. Two boys and two girls, all somewhere between two and six, are running and splashing, while two mothers sit along the side of the pool with frothy drinks in hand. Suddenly one mom yells, “I said No. More. Splashing. Come here right now. Five minutes time out.” When one child hesitates, she grabs his wrist and yanks him down beside her.

Quietly I watch.

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It’s hot. The sun is beating down. They’ve been walking for hours, probably miles. The mother, father, and older daughter are surging toward something. The little boy is lagging behind, his head hung, his steps slowing. At first they don’t even notice, or if they do, they don’t slow to wait for him. They power forward, and he hangs his head even more. Finally the mother turns back.

Quietly I look at him, my little boy, shuffling through LegoLand like the most miserable kid in the world. This was supposed to be his day. We’ve talked about it for weeks. We’ve research and planned. We know exactly what we want to do. We’ve built it up to him, told him how amazing everything will be. But apparently we forgot something: him.

I stood there in the hot, muggy sunshine, with my husband and daughter continuing to hustle toward some attraction, while my little guy had just about stopped, and suddenly I found myself wondering what in the world we were doing. This vacation that we’d planned and dropped so much money on, this vacation that was supposed to make everyone so happy was, instead, creating a whole lot of misery.

In that moment I realized that all week long I’d been looking in unwanted, uncomfortable mirrors, that I was all those mothers. And then I found myself wondering why. That’s what I do. I’m a thinker. I analyze…everything. I ponder why things happen the way they do. And I found myself pondering whose vacation it was anyway? I mean, we say it’s for the kids (because really, would we  choose Orlando if it was for US?) But in hyper-planning our vacation to the Nth degree, in deciding exactly how things should play out and packing our itineraries chock-o-block full, we kinda forgot one key thing: kids are…kids.  Remove them from their home, their routine, their sleep schedule, not to mention healthy food choices, and drop them in the middle of extreme overstimulation, well, it’s next to impossible to expect them to be at their best.

(For that matter, the same can be said for us, the grown-ups, as well!)

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“That’s it,” the extremely tired woman shouts, just outside the Dumbo ride. “I’m done. I’m over it. This is now the worst vacation ever.”

Somber-eyed, on the last day at Magic Kingdom, my daughter tugs me down so she can whisper in my ear: “Mom…” she says. “Why are there so many mean moms here?”

Ouch.

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Upon reflection, I realize we went into our trip with goals and plans and hopes, but maybe also some pretty unrealistic expectations. Sometimes you really do have to stop, take a deep breath, and smell the roses — and stop worrying about the quantity of roses you intended to smell, or if these are even the right roses.  Sometimes, in trying to make everything perfect, all we really do is miss out on a whole lot of fun.

 

 

 

 

 

The Modesty Fashion Trend: What Do YOU Think of It?

Is modesty about being ashamed of your body? Does modesty mean hiding yourself away and looking like a grandma at age 16 or 25? Or is modesty about revealing your dignity? Letting your true feminine beauty shine?

Those are the questions posed by this articulate young woman in the video below. She used her MBA to create a bathing suit line with Audrey Hepburn as her inspiration.

I think moms everywhere eventually grapple with this issue when it comes to clothing their daughters. How much is too much when it comes to sexy outfits? Should Little Suzy wear that leopard-spotted underwear set when she’s five or six? I remember how hard it was to find my daughter dresses with hemlines below her thighs when she was 13 and I just wanted to get her something I thought would be appropriate for church or a wedding.

All over the internet modesty fashion sites are popping up not just for kids but for adult women, too. Some reference the Bible as their inspiration, but not everyone is into modesty based on religious principle. Some people are simply shy. Or not interested in sexualizing themselves for public consumption.

I myself have the goal of getting back into a bikini. Why? It will be my reward for exercising and eating right. And I like feeling free to bask in the sun–as much of me as possible–when on the beach. If and when I wear that bikini again, it will be for me. I can’t imagine that I’ll be torturing any man, LOL!

But hey, getting serious again: Are we women to be responsible for men’s reactions to us in bikinis or any other skimpy outfits? Or should men work on that themselves? Can they? 

I offer this video, “The Evolution of the Bikini,” as a springboard for discussion. Go to it, ladies!

Guest mom Hattie Ratliff (Robyn’s mom!)

We have a super special guest mom today. My mom! Please give a big welcome to Hattie Ratliff – Robyn DeHart’s mom. 

Let me say that I am not an authority on raising children, but I have been at it for a long time.   I’ve made my share of mistakes but all and all I can honestly say that they all grew up to be awesome adults.

A little about myself; I married my high school sweetheart at the age of 17,  had my first child at the age of  19 , the second child at 21 and the last at age 30.  I attended every thing the three performed in, made costumes, baked thousand of cookies, took in friends of theirs with problems, even watched scary movies.

I seemed to always be on the go.  I believe I spent as much time in the car dropping one here and another there, than I did at home. But I wouldn’t have missed a minute of that time.  And they did repay me.  They all gave my husband and I grandchildren, five girls, one boy.   Just when I thought my job that I loved was finished, I was now a part of six more lives.

The oldest is my grandson, who turns 21 in August.  He is 6ft 5 now, but will always be my little man.  I have had the privilege of watching him grow and am so proud of the man he is becoming.

The three oldest girls are ages, 19, 18, and 16.  The youngest of those just became an officer for her drill/dance team.  The 19 year old just graduated as Valedictorian.  And the 18 year old graduated and is on her way to perform on Broadway in New York, and my husband and I will be there.

When they were all little starting at age 8 until they started high school I held grandma camp ever summer.  They would come stay a week and we would have a blast. We’d cook and do crafts and go shopping and to the movies. And we’d stay up late talking.

Now I have been given a third chance to be a part of two young lives. My two youngest grandchildren, ages 2 and 4 (Robyn’s kiddos). I look forward to once again opening up grandma camp and knowing even at my later years that I will have a blast.

The reason I have told my life story on this wonderful blog is to nudge you a little to enjoy the moments with your children.  What they say is true, time goes by so fast. Don’t waste your time thinking about your mistakes instead stop and watch in wonder as your child does something or says something just the way you taught them. Tuck that smile or giggle away and when they are all grown up don’t be surprised if you hear that giggle again and see that great smile. And this sit back and know you did good, mom.

Guest Mom Tracy Brogan: Are We There Yet?

Love this woman. Love, love, love! She’s funny. She’s brilliant. She’s kind. And I’m so happy for her success. Returning PBK Guest Mom Tracy Brogan is a star, and like many stars, she’s not taking her success for granted.

I do wish for Tracy–and for you, dear readers–dreams to race toward and present-day joys. Thanks, Tracy, for reminding us that both are essential to happiness. And congratulations on your new release!!!  

Are we there yet? How often have you heard that whined/moaned/screeched/caterwauled from the backseat of your minivan? It’s so ubiquitous a question, I don’t even need to explain it. Kids are impatient. Whether it’s a 15-day day road trip to Yellowstone, or a 15-minute jaunt to the grocery store, they just want to get there.

These days so do most adults. Our instant gratification culture has programmed us to want to be there. Enjoying the journey is less important than arriving at your destination. For me, that is proving to be true in my writing career as well. I’m not taking time to smell the proverbial roses. I’m not stopping to savor each tiny victory. But perhaps the biggest impediment to me enjoying the process of getting there is that I keep moving the target.

Let’s back up a little bit and start at the beginning. For most of my life I’d been one of those people who said, “I’m going to write a book someday.” I had all the requisite fantasies of becoming an international, bestselling author who frequented Oprah’s talk show, but no plan, and little real hope of that ever happening. Especially considering I’d started dozens of manuscripts and had finished exactly… none. Something always interrupted my grand scheme. A crying baby, a new house, an episode of Friends, you know.

When my youngest daughter started school, I realized it was time to put up or shut up. I had to either finish writing a book, or stop talking about it because my friends had taken to glazing over whenever I brought up the subject. So, step one – draft and polish a completed manuscript. Selling it wasn’t even on my radar at the time. I plugged away while my kids were at school and after they went to bed. The house got cluttered, bills were set aside, but in May of that year, I got’er done! I was so proud of myself!

For about 37 seconds.

Almost immediately, that goal was rendered meaningless. What good was a book, even a finished book, if no one would ever read it? Suddenly, the quest became to sell the book. And that meant getting an agent. I gave myself six months. It took three times as long. During the process, I became quite adept at dealing with rejection. Sometimes I’d deliberately slam my fingers in a drawer just to practice experiencing that sharp agony, although most days there was enough rejection and self-doubt to keep that pain fresh! (I’m kidding about the drawer slamming, of course, but it might have hurt less than some of the query responses.)

I started attending conferences, and entering contests. Those seemed like minor accomplishments, too. I was networking, studying craft, learning that I had so much more to learn, And all the while I kept inching the bar higher. If I finaled in a contest I was pleased, but then I wanted to win. If I got a request for a partial, I wanted the request for the full to come soon after. I’d enjoy each moment for about a moment, and then it was behind me and I needed to leap the next hurdle.

As luck would have it, I managed to final in the holy grail of contests for unpublished writers, The RWA® Golden Heart. Not once, but twice. I was proud to sport that pink GH ribbon and I cherish every aspect of those finals. I am a Starcatcher and a Firebird. But by the second time around, I had an agent and my eye was on the prize of selling.

Once again, I’d moved my target. Rather than bask in the joy of the experience, I was looking to the next thing. In all that time, I never felt certain I was doing enough, or doing it right. I didn’t look back at the people just starting their journey and reminisce about how far I’d come. I only looked forward toward those ahead of me, and I wondered how to get to where THEY were.

It wasn’t jealousy making me ask that. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was respectful admiration for the effort they must have exerted to reach their place. It wasn’t envy. It was awe, and it still is. Surely those cool, fancy RITA girls know they have ARRIVED. Those authors with “best seller” added to their names must be confident in their abilities. They must have a system to their process. They must feel secure that they are loved by the masses and appreciated by their publishers. They must know the secret handshake.

Well, fast forward to today, just four years from when I started. I’m a RITA finalist for Best First Book, a double winner in the Golden Quill, and a finalist in the Book Sellers Best contest. My third book will be released tomorrow and I just signed my second three-book contract with my publisher. Although the NYT and USA Today won’t include my Montlake titles on their lists, both my books have sold enough copies to be considered best sellers. So I should be utterly confident in my abilities, right? I should be certain I know what I’m doing, yes?

Nope. I don’t feel it. Because there are more hurdles. There is the next book to write. Craft to hone. Marketing to master. Are we there yet? I’m starting to realize that as long as I keep moving the end-zone, I’m never going to stop to enjoy right where I am. And that’s a shame because I’m in a very good place. And this makes me wonder how many other writers create this same dilemma. Are you thinking about, and appreciating, all you have accomplished? Because you should! Or are you too busy looking at the road ahead and worrying how to get there? And then there. And then there.

I have a friend who compares this journey to sharks. If they stop swimming, they’ll sink to the bottom and die. I don’t want to sink, but I might need to pull over to the side of the ocean for a while and remember to enjoy this view.  Absolutely set goals, and absolutely continue to push forward toward new ones. But don’t forget to think about how far you’ve come.

Past or present, Tracy Brogan loves romance.  She writes funny contemporary stories about ordinary people finding extraordinary love, and stirring historical romance full of political intrigue, damsels causing distress, and the occasional man in a kilt.

She is a best-selling author, a 2013 Romance Writers of America® RITA Best First Book Finalist for CRAZY LITTLE THING, and a two-time Golden Heart Finalist in both contemporary and historical romance.

Her next contemporary romance, HOLD ON MY HEART, releases June 25, 2013. If you’d like to see the trailer, here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUB7zan3dCc&feature=youtu.be

Tracy lives in Michigan with her husband, her children and their overly-indulged dogs. Please stop by her website at tracybrogan.com, or visit her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/AuthorTracyBrogan