Kerry Peresta's Blog, page 7

Holiday Creates Conundrum for Control Freaks

Christmas is here! I’m behind on shopping, but way ahead on pondering. I’m trying to mentally and prayerfully prepare to be patient, kind and tolerant as I entertain  the fantasy that having a ton of company in my house is endearing and fun, and not really a lot of work.

Both the biggest test and the biggest joy of my life occur when all my adult kids visit for a few days, complete with  toddlers/sippy cups/dogs/hamsters/gerbils/laundry/whatever. My personal challenge, with fingernails digging into my palms and jaw clenched, is to exhibit patience. Interpretation: do not raise voice, do not attempt to control things, do not stalk out of rooms angrily. This type of immature reaction to chaos can cause huge rifts and offense. Besides, I get tired of repenting. At some point, I should mature as a Christian and become more Christ-like, resulting in less repenting.

I keep waiting.

The analytical part of my brain tells me “this is just the way I am,” then I remember the foundational Scriptures I’ve internalized since  age 27 – that “I can do ALL things through Christ who strengthens me,” and “be conformed by the renewing of your mind,” and “nothing is impossible with God.”

This includes cleaning up muddy paw prints with a grin, surveying the two-year-old’s latest wreckage in my den with bright eyes, smiling at the shrieking of happy children or jubilant adults that have had a little too much spiked eggnog. At the very least, my self-control should be stout enough now to help me clamp my lips together rather than say something I will regret later.

I think I’m getting better.

I wish I was one of those people who could tip-toe through the chaos, blithely happy, unseeing. Without picking up, putting away, or muttering under my breath. Unfortunately, I am the type of person that gets nauseous at just the thought of watching an episode of “Hoarders.” Some people are like this about ”Animal Rescue,” but I can watch that without a single stomach flip. “Hoarders” is the more nightmarish of the two for me.

I spend too much of the holiday trying to prevent messes, running frantically after babies with a damp cloth or a box in which to toss scattered toys. Heaven forbid if my  off-white carpet should get a stain. All of these things can be prevented, my overwhelmed brain keeps shouting at me, and I, in turn, have been known to leak a shout at the offending party, a sure-fire way to ruin a holiday game of Monopoly or Chinese Checkers.

I come by this behavior honestly. My dad was a rip-roaring dynamo about mess prevention, and there was hell to pay if something broke. I realize, in retrospect, this was not the best way to enjoy visits from extended family, and to this day I fight the tendency to rip-roar my head off like he did.

The great news is that six years ago I married a lively and invested picker-upper; a man who doesn’t mind one whit if things get messy. When the last kid is Mom-waved, post-visit, down the road, he’s cheerfully willing to dig in and clean.

God knew.

This year I am pondering a lot of things. My mother’s health is in decline, my first novel just released, two of my temporarily-home-again kids just moved out of my house and into their own place together, a daughter’s family has struggled with life-after-Navy reinvention; lots of serious life-stuff going on. It does tend to spin perspective a different way. I’m hoping the inevitable disorder and messy chaos has less hold on me this year. Hoping that I’ll major on the majors and let the minor stuff slide off, like Teflon. That’s what I want to be: a Teflon Aunt Bea, younger and hipper. With thin thighs.

My goal when they arrive is to go an entire day without a single nag, a single anxious shriek, a single parental raised eyebrow. To simply enjoy my family.

That’s doable, isn’t it?

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Author Interview for “The Hunting” Blog Tour

Click on icon for dates and blogs involved in tour!

When did you know writing was for you?



In high school, I consistently excelled in English and composition; anything literary. I even made straight A’s on grammar and identifying parts of the sentence! It was so easy for me. The sad thing is I didn’t even think about majoring in it in college – I still can’t figure that out. I was an art major.

After a crazy, bizarre journey through ill-fated marriages, raising four kids, and keeping my head above water until they were grown, I finally had time to breathe. I wrote a letter to the editor. He liked it. I got a call. “Do you want to do a humor column?” YES! Do I get paid, I asked? “Of course not!” I did it anyway, and to my delight, people LIKED it. I had a following. I got recognized in grocery stores! (Okay, so the town was really, really small, but whatever). I got hate mail! That’s when I knew I’d arrived. I was hooked. That was in 2009. I started writing “THE HUNTING” in 2011.

How would you describe your books?

Fast-paced. Engaging. Funny. Realistic. Probing. Tear-jerking. Clean. Elements of suspense. Elements of romance. Uplifting. Hopeful.

At Hampstead Book Fair! Build that fan base!

I typically write about women who have major issues, but are blind to them and thus begin a journey of consequences and self-discovery. (Somewhat like – cough,cough – me.) They may fall into a huge pit they’ve dug for themselves and someone else must pull them out; or they clamber out of the darn pit by themselves. My first book was written almost on auto-pilot as the words came pouring out in a torrent. My second book is moving more slowly because I’ve tackled a subject I haven’t exactly lived, but know so many women who have. So I’m doing more research for backstory. Since I’m a debut novelist, I’m not exactly sure where my keyboard-pounding fingers will take me, but I’m pretty sure it will have to do with flawed female protagonists that wrestle with life. Or their kids, or their men. Either way, they have serious wrestling issues.

What is the hardest part of the writing process for you?

Organization and structure. I’ve had enough writing instruction to know that there are major plot points and scenes that attach to each point and character arcs to consider. Trust me, I’ve even scribbled the illustrative diagrams in my notebook. I know that the protagonist must fall into major despair and then be pulled out only to be pushed back again and almost killed, metaphorically or physically, before final resolution of the story. I know all this. I do. But I struggle with making sure it’s all included, so my initial outline is kind of a scrawled, haphazard work in progress. I am much more organic in how I write, but I do visit the outline now and again.

What are your favorite genres to read?

Interestingly, I love murder mysteries and stories about the criminal mind. (Yes, I love the show “Criminal Mind” too!) I’m a sucker for all those cop shows. But since I’m clearly devoid of the inner workings of police or detective work, I just cannot bring myself to write in that genre. All my stories, however, have cliffhanger, suspense stuff going on.What do you want readers to take away from your story?

That there is always HOPE no matter how dark the night. That we are never alone, not really. A dark, long tunnel is just that – a long tunnel. There is always light at the end of it. Additionally, laughing at ourselves and realizing we are just sojourners made of clay is a huge help in wrestling with our adversaries. A little humility goes a long way, and a hand reached out for help takes humility. It’s good to ask for help. Especially if it’s from God! Prayer works.

How important do you think social media is for authors these days?

Oh so VERY impossibly important. I was overwhelmed at one point, had a long talk with myself and decided I would choose four, major on those, then go from there. Twitter. Facebook. LinkedIn. Goodreads. Plus, an author website is important and it should contain a blog. One that has relatively recent posts that are interesting to the author’s genre. On my personal back burner are Pinterest, Google+, Tumblr. I found my publisher on Twitter through relationships I’d developed there, and my website designer through LinkedIn. LinkedIn has incredible writer groups that run the gamut of information. It is imperative that authors have a basic understanding and relationship with social media. I’ve barely scratched the surface.

What would be your advice to aspiring writers?

1) Find a local critique group. They are invaluable! Plus, other writers have connections you may need. Use them!

2) Attend book fairs and writer’s conferences. Such a depth of information! You’ll meet authors hawking their books that will share first-hand information and also agents that sometimes will critique a sample of your work. Don’t be shy,ask!

3) Look for opportunities to improve your craft. Local community colleges offer many types of writing courses at reasonable rates. Many are at night, if working hours are a problem. Online courses are an option, but for me, the community is important as well as the skill. Seek to improve your writing via any route you can find.

4) If you’ve finished your masterpiece, ask your writing buddies for the name of a good editor. A good editor is invaluable. LinkedIn has thousands. Try to get a recommendation. Hire an editor before submitting your manuscript.

5) Persevere. Your success may be right around the corner!

Cookies Can Soothe the Rumpled Soul

Marital communication is an ongoing trip down Rumpled Expectations Lane.

Recently my daughter and her husband participated in a marriage Bible study that pointed out men’s thoughts are held in separate, locked compartments and women’s thoughts are tangled masses of intersecting wires.

I do agree with this. But I don’t think it’s wise to know about it.

For instance, when my husband talks about something that is important to him, I internalize it and plug it into every area of our lives in order to honor that thing if possible. My mind is definitely on par with a mass of tangled wires.

When I share something that is important to ME with my husband, he locks it up in an airtight compartment never to be remembered again. It’s in a compartment, and it stays there. Forever. I completely agree with the locked compartment theory.

Every time I insist that he remember that particular thing, he cannot, and perhaps it is because it is in the compartment all locked up. After six years, he must have thousands of tiny compartments in his brain, because he cannot remember most of the stuff I tell him.

So my question is this: what is the advantage to knowing this information? Wouldn’t a marriage be better off not knowing? Because now I hold him accountable for his dumb locked compartments, and my tangled mass of wiring just gets her feelings hurt if he cannot unlock them. He, however, in typical male acceptance of anything female, holds me accountable for nothing. When I try to explain something I might’ve done to offend him, he just waves it off in total and utter forgiveness. It is infuriating.

When my tangled-mass-of-wire brain does something that I find incredibly charming because, well, after all it’s based on what he told me is important to him, we cannot seem to meet on common ground. Because at the back end of the wiring vs. compartment thing there should be  forward momentum toward clearer understanding of one another. Right? Which should then lead to a new level of intimacy. (chortle, chortle)

It all breaks down with us because when I do this incredibly charming thing  he simply smiles and goes about his business as if nothing special has happened. I am thinking if it’s so dang important to you the LEAST you can do when I try to honor that thing is acknowledge it!

The resultant intense conversation causes him to break out another compartment, lock the information inside and throw away the key.  It’s like a marital Groundhog Day.

I wish I didn’t know this stuff.

I am going to go eat a cookie.

 

 

 

 

Brother-Sister Combo Launched, Sparks Fly

Moving can spark temper surges with anybody, but throw in a brother-sister combo, and you’ve got fireworks!

And not the fun kind either. More like those  smoke bomb-thingies that fizz ugly reddish smoke, smell obnoxious, and sputter to a disappointing stall.

My husband and I cheerfully offered to pay for the U-Haul, drive it, help unload the storage unit, help unload the truck and move stuff into their new apartment, and return the truck. All they had to do was show up, right? Tote and haul. Not a big deal.

Wrong-o, dear reader.

The first clash occurred early. No surprise that the adult kids in question wanted to sleep in and the adult driver in question wanted to get the show on the road. Okay, so that’s a given. After the adult kids were prodded reluctantly out of bed and realized a crack of noon start was out of the question, plans unfolded smoothly. I even began to think the day would be fun! Ha! Ha!

I have learned by this time that the main causes of family clashes are 1) communication and 2) communication. People are different and everybody has their own opinion of what an event looks like, right? I know this. I thought everybody knew this. Being the sage and egregious mom I am, I wisely decided I would not be the communication catalyzer for once. They were adults. They could certainly talk to each other. But did that happen? Of course not.

My husband pulled me aside this morning and asked me to tell the kids what to expect and when to get up. The kids talked to me this morning and told me to tell my husband what they expect. I got mad and yelled at everyone to talk to each other. Specifically. In detail. AND LEAVE ME OUT OF IT.

Apparently this strategy did not work.

Pulling things out of the storage unit and loading the truck went well. I didn’t direct, I didn’t command or freak out. (Which, unfortunately, I do sometimes.)  I did offer a few suggestions, which my daughter begged me to stop doing, so I did. Personally, I didn’t care how or what we moved. I was so happy my twenty-three-year old son and twenty-five-year old daughter were moving in together (and out of my house) nothing much could upset me. I did what I was told and responded when asked. My daughter happily stepped into the role of mover-in-chief and the fireworks started about that point as my son decided he deserved equal footing.

They butted heads like billy goats. To my credit, I didn’t butt back or try to fix things. They would figure it out. If they don’t kill each other first, living together should  build great character and patience.  My blanket exhortation to everyone today was: Chill.   I left the clashing to the kids. Well, mostly, anyway. A small sample went like this:

Daughter: “No. No. NO.” Determined expression, arms crossed. “I hate that couch.” Finger points sternly at her brother. “It was HIS decision to take that couch, not mine.”"

Son: “It’s AWESOME, Erin. It’ll look great on the patio! You’ll see.

My husband (unfortunately) joins the fray: “Yeah! It’ll be great! It’s perfect! If you don’t like it after a while, sell it!”

Daughter” “No. No. NOOOOO. It’s ghetto. People will think we’re white trash!”

Son: Snorts. “No it’s not! It’s awesome!”

Daughter: “You’ll see it from the street!”

Friend of son helping us move: “Who cares?”

Daughter: Sighs. Moans. Turns her back and crosses her arms.

Me: Head down, hiding grin, trotting back up stairs to grab more stuff out of the truck. Oh the joy of standing aside and simply letting things happen. Maybe I was finally reining in my codependent tendencies to control everything. For once, I didn’t try to make everyone happy.  And somehow, things turned out just fine without my screamin…oops I mean input.

As an aside, the guys talked her into the ghetto couch on the patio. Temporarily.

It’s now been four hours since we left their place. I haven’t received an outraged text, phone call or a personal visit from either of them. The night is still young, however. I’m picturing my daughter working frantically to hang every picture and put up every dish before she goes to bed, and her brother scowling as he’s pressed into service whether he wants to be or not.

Wait. Got my first call. Do I have extra shower curtain rings? And by the way, could I come up with a couple extra pillows? And what did we eat for dinner tonight? He’d be over in a few minutes.

Sigh.

Going Home Again a Wild Ride

Sometimes, going home again is an emotional roller coaster.

I just returned from spending a week with my eighty-year-old mom.  To say it was depressing is an understatement.  Imagine a hermit crab washed up on the beach upside down, burnt to a crisp by the sun and crinkled into a nub, powerless to flip over, trapped in its shell. That’s how I felt after a week in her house.

The blinds were drawn in a gloomy nod to isolation. The thermostat was set to 85 degrees, about the same temperature as outside. To save on the a/c bills, she said. There was little food in her brand-new refrigerator and she was pencil-thin. Not hungry, she insisted as I pled with her to eat more.

She is still very independent, but her hearing, eyesight, and patience have deteriorated to a muddled mass of confusion. Plus, to complicate matters, she is firmly in denial. As far as she is concerned, she can drive, she can hear just fine with her hearing aids, (I get enough to understand! So what if I miss a few words? Huff, huff, mad face).  If she cannot hear people on the phone, she simply hangs up on them. In the meantime, to communicate with her, I must yell my brains out. She seems to think this is normal, appropriate behavior.

I’ve been back in my snug little house a week now. I’m trying – really hard – to flip right-side-up and uncrinkle. But it’s amazing how this particular visit sliced through my best intentions like a Ginsu knife. I reverted to a selfish brat intent on proving my decisions were better than her decisions, nanny-nanny-boo-boo. And in most cases, they actually were, but my attitude was not exactly stellar.

Something about going home again.

I have been a victim of magical thinking where she is concerned. You know, the fairy dust-sprinkled thoughts that say: my mom will be healthy and cogent until age ninety or so, and then she will die peacefully in her sleep without the need for assisted living research, prolonged doctor consultations or second, third and fourth opinions. She will be able to handle her bills, the housework, her diet, the yard and assorted repair issues with finesse, maturity and wisdom.

Right.

In the face of her pressing health issues and loss of cognitive abilities, I am reeling with what-if’s and how-to’s. She is becoming the child and I’m being dragged kicking and screaming toward caregiver.

The fairy dust-sprinkle thoughts have now been replaced by heavy-boulder thoughts: I don’t have a mom anymore, she cannot even hear me! Do I really have to take care of her? I don’t even know how to begin to talk to her about serious life changes! She’ll cross her arms, plant her feet and refuse! Research living facilities? Take over her bills? Be on call 24/7? Maybe I’m over-reacting. That’s it, I’m imagining things. She’s okay. Really.

The stress I am carrying since I returned has erupted like Old Faithful all over my family, which, interestingly. has grown lately.

On good days I imagine that I look exactly like this, and then I look in the mirror.

My twenty-five-year-old daughter has relocated to the area and has ’come home again’ temporarily until she finds a job and a place to live. After visiting my mom, I am able to better see through her young eyes, and I’m betting  she’s asking some of the same questions about me: When did she start yelling that way? Is she always like that?  She doesn’t even act like my Mom anymore. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to her about serious life changes. Maybe I’m over-reacting. That’s it, I’m imagining things. She’s okay. Really.

I guess all daughters carry fairy-dust-sprinkled thoughts when it comes to their mothers. Although lovely indulgences, they are worthless during an actual altercation - I mean visit – with mom. My magical thought processes got a swift kick in the hiney, and I have some serious thinking to do. Grown-up discussions need to take place soon. I have to come to terms with the fact that I am, in theory, a grown-up.

Sigh.

Growing up brings with it an entirely new set of rules about going home again.

When I figure out what they are, I’ll let you know.

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