meggriswold

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Titles are hard

Picking titles for a book you’re writing is hard. My Elizabeth novel is especially tricky.

One of the pieces of feedback I got when I queried the project 2 or 3 years ago was that the title then The Princess’s Guide to Staying Alive was too lighthearted and playful for the content of my book. In an early iteration of the book, the beginning was more light and ironic. That is not the case anymore.

So, as I began rewriting I started thinking about titles.

I want to communicate that it’s historical fiction in the title. Maybe that’s not necessary, but I want the fact that it’s set in Tudor England to be somewhat clear.

I want to telegraph the danger, the secrets, the intelligence and the strength that run through the story. It’s about an illegitimate princess who also happens to be the smartest person in the realm. That contradiction is important to the story.

What I landed on a year ago was Bastard Princess. I know that can be a little shocking to read, but let me explain. Elizabeth was a princess when she was born, because Anne Boleyn was still married to Henry VIII. Catherine of Aragon had been divorced, and her daughter with Henry, Mary, was now declared illegitimate–a bastard. When Anne Boleyn was executed for treason, Elizabeth was likewise declared a bastard. And when I say “declared” I don’t mean whispered. I mean Parliament passed an official act. Ambassadors to England wrote back to their home countries and described Elizabeth as “the bastard Elizabeth.” People most likely called Elizabeth a bastard to her face.

Coupled with this is the fact that Elizabeth was the best, or perhaps second best, educated person in the kingdom. The best scholar from Cambridge came to tutor Elizabeth and her brother from a young age. When her little brother Edward, destined to rule, split off and continued his studies alone, Elizabeth was then tutored by the second best scholar at Cambridge. A good education isn’t enough–I know this as a teacher. Elizabeth was very intelligent and tirelessly hard-working. She spoke and wrote English, French, Italian, Latin, and Greek. At age 11, she could translate a text from English to French, Latin, and Greek.

If there was anyone who deserved the title of princess, it was Elizabeth.

I also kind of like the shock that Bastard Princess provides. Princess is ubiquitous word in our culture right now. It’s splashed over clothing and products. It’s how many people refer to themselves or their family members. But when you pair “princess” with “bastard,” your brain almost can’t compute how those two go together. Princesses are spoiled girls with empty heads, right? They aren’t dangerous or defiant. But Elizabeth was both in danger and defiant.

I am also a huge fan of Hamilton: An American Musical. Opening line? “How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore…”

When I heard that opening line, I was surprised and intrigued. Lin-Manuel Miranda didn’t shy away from both Hamilton’s challenges and the insults lobbed at him.

Those were the same insults hurled at Elizabeth, changing “son” to “daughter.” And she rose above those challenges, those slurs, just like Hamilton did.

So, Bastard Princess it was.

Until I began to question myself when I began querying again. Nothing like querying to fire up the self doubt to the max.

Would Bastard Princess turn agents off? Would it turn librarians off who wouldn’t display it, lest younger kids read it out loud? Would teachers feel uncomfortable book-talking it?

Maybe. As a teacher, I know how important teachers and librarians are in putting books in kids’ hands. I’m cool with Bastard Princess, but would a teacher be cool with that in Tupelo, Mississippi where my in-laws live? Grrr. Maybe not.

To be fair, the working title is not often what the final title of the published book is. So the real question is would agents be turned off by the title? As the wisdom goes, don’t give an agent a reason to say no. They are overloaded with queries, and if they see a reason to pass, they will take it.

So, cut to me in my bed at 5:30 making a list of words and synonyms. I want to telegraph strength, danger, secrets, survival, intelligence. Here’s what I’m playing around with.

The Eloquence of Ashes

Princess from the Ashes (does it sound too young, like a book for a 5th grader?)

Ink and Ash

Only Ash Remains (too sad? too dark?)

The Shelter of Ashes

Acquainted with Danger (sounds like a Bond movie)

I tried a bunch of titles with words like withstand and persist and fire and storm, but they didn’t work as well. They sounded like the catch phrase for a sports drink.

I think I’m gonna sit on this for a while. Maybe see what comes of the first batch of queries. I’ve got a Manuscript Academy consultation coming up, and I can ask this then. Maybe something will come to me in a dream.

Writing

In the 5am club

Despite being not a night person, I’m not the kind of person who can hop out of bed at 5 am. I already get up at 6 am, and there’s something painful about giving up that last hour.

I started writing novels in 2012 when I only had one kid, and I did all my writing at night after bed time. One kid became two, and two became three. Still the nighttime was my preferred writing time.

Then we moved overseas. My teaching load is more mentally tiring. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I teach middle school now instead of high school. I really love middle school, but they need more energy and love and structure. I also teach three different classes in 5 blocks, rather than 2 different classes 4 blocks.

On top of the teaching, I live in another country, so I have daily interactions in another language. I love speaking Portuguese and learning, but it drains the brain.

So, when 8:00 pm rolls around now and the kids are all in bed, I find myself with very little mental gas left in the tank. During breaks from school I’m just as productive as a writer in the evenings. But during the school year, it’s hard.

So, I hiked up my jammies and set the alarm for 5 am.

The first morning I couldn’t even sit upright. I had to lay on the couch, completely flat, with my laptop on my legs. The second morning, I just leaned back and stretched my legs out. By the third morning I could sit like a normal human.

I noticed that my brain was totally focused on my writing in the early morning. I haven’t yet thought of my to-do list, I don’t worry about the laundry, I don’t feel an urge to book a vacation. My attention is narrowed in. As a result, I find I get a lot done in that hour. I probably accomplish as much in that hour as I would in 2 hours in the evening from 8-10 pm.

After a week and a half, I was so exhausted I started stuttering. I had to get more disciplined about going to bed on time. I can’t stay up late and get up early for very long. I went to bed at 8:30 pm one night and slept until 6:30 the next morning. That reset me. Now I’m better about getting to bed by 9 pm in time for some reading.

I take a day or two off each week, but I find that I wake up a little bit at 5 am. I get up quicker and I get to work faster. This might have to be my new normal, but I’m cool with that.

Uncategorized

Returning to an old writing project

I am very fortunate to work in a school that brings in authors for a week-long visit of workshops with teachers and students. Not only the students are inspired by these experience, but I have also been inspired.

Last February, during my first author visit at my school, one of our librarians told the visiting author that I was a writer. The author very kindly asked about my writing. I told her about my Elizabeth I novel. I’d queried it more than a 100 times. I’d had almost 30 requests for the full manuscript. All came back rejections. But when I talked about it, I felt something pulling me, even though I’d written another novel after that.

The author signed my copy of her book and wrote “See you on the bookshelf soon!” It had been almost a year since I’d looked at the Elizabeth novel. But she gave me the push I needed to take another look. I began revising again. It’s amazing how a book can feel so done to you, but time and fresh eyes reveal that it is still a work in progress.

I thought I might write this summer and continue working on it, but summer back in the States was filled with family visits and travel. I wasn’t able to carve time out to write.

In September, another author came for a week-long visit. On his last day, I brought him a book to sign and I asked him about re-querying a manuscript. He graciously answered that question, and asked about the feedback I’d received. After I told him, he quickly sketched out a plot structure on the back of a piece of paper. Then he asked me about the theme of the book, and told me I needed to plant that early on in the story. Subtle, but there. Then, I needed my character to try out all the wrong things before arriving at that right one.

This was a really great way to frame a character’s journey. Let’s say, for example, that your character learns that it’s always best to face up to your problems and take responsibility for your mistakes. So, first they need to try to hide. Then, they need to try to lie. Then, they need to blame someone else. They keep trying out all these failed paths before they get to the right one.

I came home that night and wrote out a bunch of notecards. I wrote all the wrong lessons. All the dead ends. Then I wrote the theme, the real lesson. It was amazing how in just a short conversation, the author I spoke to was able to help me connect to that theme and find ways the character will struggle toward that lesson.

The author, who–like me–writes historical fiction, also had good advice about altering history to suit the narrative. I told him that I researched it so much, that I had a hard time sacrificing the historical record to create more tension or better pacing. He had a good piece of advice. He said to make a list of everything I change as I write. Include it at the end of the book to tell readers where I took liberties or changed the timeline. I wasn’t trying to pull a fast one, I was honoring the changes I made, but I could assuage my guilt by already planning to list any alterations.

I knew I needed to let go of my fear of deviating from the history and the timeline. This isn’t nonfiction, it’s historical fiction. In the Hamilton documentary, Lin-Manuel Miranda talked about going to the writers of 1776 (or was it another musical? I can’t remember exactly) for advice. Hamilton’s life was so big and the research so vast, he couldn’t whittle it down. They told him just to write the parts that make a good story. I’ve thought about that a lot over the past few months.

There was something else I learned from the September author visit, but it wasn’t something he said that afternoon. I’d been reading his books aloud to students. I kept using his chapters in my lessons as beautiful illustrations of the plot diagram. A quick inciting incident to disrupt the norm. A series of 3 or 4 “Oh no!…Phew!” combos, escalating in danger and tension. It created such narrative thrust and energy. I knew that it created tension and a desire to keep reading because students sat, leaning forward in their seats, begging me for one more chapter. I started to get a feeling as a reader for that momentum. I wanted that in my writing.

So, I came home that night and started from the beginning. I gave myself permission to compress time, to move a few events up or down the timeline if needed. I worked that momentum and tension into every chapter, trying to make the events feel like an unstoppable flow or tumble. (I’m not sure if that’s the right image. Hopefully you catch what I’m throwing.)

I also realized there were times I didn’t put Elizabeth in the center of a scene. Usually it was because I didn’t have any historical evidence that she was definitely in a situation like that. I realized that holding back in that way is silly. Despite having a lot of historical record, I don’t know what every dinner was like, every night’s sleep, every lesson with her tutor. She needed to be more than a witness, she needed to be in the center of the action.

Concurrent with all this, I read a middle grade novel that I’d heard good things about. I did not love it. I had to force myself to pick it up and read another chapter. I just didn’t feel any desire to keep reading. I didn’t hate the voice or the narrator. Nothing was turning me off, it’s just that nothing left me wanting to read more. I reflected on what was happening in the writing. What I realized was that every chapter was independent of the one before it. Every chapter was a new day at school with not much build or carry over from the previous one. Like a series of short stories from a year in the life of the same girl.

I realized that what was missing was the building series of complications, one leading to the next. A problem leads to an attempted solution which leads to a new problem, and et cetera. And I realized that my writing may have suffered from a similar problem. Did my plot have a forward motion that grabbed readers and didn’t let them go? Maybe not DaVinci Code levels of hookage, but with at least a forward momentum that the story keeps readers with me.

I’ve been revising since then. But I’ve also been doing a fair amount of adding new scenes and chapters. In addition to the notecards with the failed attempts, I also thought about scenes I would need to show the character failing at those attempts. I thought about experiences that might be missing. There were scenes I’d been thinking about adding for months, but this conversation helped me give me the push I needed.

When I got my copy of the author’s book signed, it read “Write your book.”

I’m on it.

Travel

Vacating

Last weekend we spent 4 days at the beach. This Thursday, we are going to Buenos Aires for a 4 day weekend. 2 weeks after that, we are off to the beach in the Brazilian state of Bahia! It’s an embarrassment of vacations.

First off, let me share the pics from our beach vacation. We went to a beach called Juquei (or spelled Juquehy, I’ve seen it both ways.) If you drove to this beach on a Tuesday at, say, 10 am, it would take 2 hours and 45 minutes. Driving there on holiday long weekend, it took 7 hours. I looked at it this way: I pretended we were in Nashville and driving to Gulf Shores. That was 7 hours.

The beach was really pretty, the town was clean and had good food. The beach wasn’t super crowded and the waves were perfect for boogie boarding. Calvin really got into it, and Matilda was happy to jump on a wae as it rolled in. We rented a cute house one block from the beach that had a beautiful garden. Even with all of that, we probably won’t venture that drive again. I’d rather go to the pool in our condominium or fly somewhere!

https://www.instagram.com/p/B5BYwRth4jy/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

https://www.instagram.com/p/B5BY8DEBSIS/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

https://www.instagram.com/p/B5CnHTTBBvw/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

Teaching, Travel

Re-signing for two more years

Last summer the most common question we got was, “Are you staying?”

The answer is yes! We signed a new 2 year extension of our contract. It’s odd because we signed in October even though we aren’t even through our second year. Decisions about hiring are made early in the international teaching world because orchestrating international moves means visas, translating documents, wading through multiple governments’ bureaucracies, and sometimes shipping belongings.

Calvin is in the 2nd grade now, and we’ve committed to staying until the end of his 4th grade year. In October of his 4th grade year, we will decide if we want to sign on again for 1 or 2 years, if we get offered those extensions.

We came into this thinking that we wanted to find a school where we could stay for 4-6 years, so it’s a good feeling to have that hope and expectation fulfilled.

I think that many people heard our plans and thought there was a pretty good chance we’d come back to the US after 2 years. Maybe I’m wrong in that assessment. For people who live in the US and always have, I think it sometimes gives them anxiety to hear about people who leave.

We’re in it. I don’t see an end date to our international teaching careers. I’ve met other teachers or expats in different professions who are eyeing a return. They feel the distance from family, the glitter has worn off, they are looking for a change. I completely understand that feeling. That may come for us eventually, but I can’t imagine it. With the ability to change up our whole life every 5-6 years, our love of change and novelty will always be satisfied.

What we have gained as a family make it hard for me to imagine returning to a life in the US. Our kids’ excellent education at the same school where we teach. The language learning that happens for them and us. The travel, the adventures, the experiences. I’m also really loving this community. I work with smart, funny, committed, wise, innovative teachers and admin. They’re seekers and risk takers, and I feel accepted and valued by them.

So, here we go!

Travel

Our Portuguese Videos

Calvin is having a bit of rough time in Portuguese classes. It’s hard for him to be the kid in the room that doesn’t understand, so he’s checking out.

He also said that he wants to be YouTuber. Sheesh, how does he know what a YouTuber is?

I came up with an idea that solves both problems. We started making YouTube videos of the kids teaching Portuguese. We’re focusing on things they are learning or know already. I think it’s already helping out with attitude and enthusiasm.

Here is our first video:

And here’s lesson #2

Lesson 3:

I will post our other videos in a separate post!

Teaching, Travel, Writing

A new year!

Teaching new curricula (3 of them this semester!) is kicking my butt, and writing on the blog has been super hard.

But, I want to say, hello. I’m alive! I’m here!

A student wrote me a very sweet email, and after I wrote my response, I thought it would make a good update on how I’m doing. I’m pasting it here and adding one or two things.

I am good! Life is crazy. But not in a bad way. In a full way, and in a way that means I make lots of mistakes. I miss being an expert, being competent, knowing what the next day is going to look like in my class. This has been so humbling, but in a good way. I’m starting over, and it’s hard, but you start to realize what really matters or what you were missing in your old life.

The hard part has been writing. For a variety of reasons, I’m taking a break. One, I can’t take any more rejection. I know I looked like I was handling it all so well, but the rejections really built up and I couldn’t do it any more. Creative fields are so hard because there is 99% rejection in your responses. I love being creative, but I lost connection with the creative part and was only focusing on the response I was getting.

Someone told me I had to write for myself, not for publication. I only realize now that I wasn’t doing that. I am trying to reconnect with me, and why I want to write. Do I even want to write? I’m trying to let go of it and see if it comes back. Because I don’t know if I’m glad about how many hours I’ve given to rejection. I don’t regret the writing, but the time I spent querying and then getting rejected so quickly, so dismissively. If that’s what it takes, maybe that’s not what it’s about for me.

Ugh, I feel like I’m 22 again, trying to figure out what to do with myself. If only you got the answer and then were done. I wish!

I’ve been thinking about writing a lot. But when I find my mind wandering into thinking about agents and querying and publishing, I stop myself. I have to somehow write and separate it from publication. I probably need to be less intense. I can hear you laughing. “Ya think?” I can hear you saying.

I guess what I’m trying to figure out is, what does it look like, being a teacher who writes on the side?

One thing I’ve been doing is exercising. Between working and writing back in the US, I was not active, I didn’t exercise, and it was getting to an unhealthy level. Our school here had a 3K Turkey Trot, and after that, I kept running. I did a 5K in November and I have a 10K on February 3. Running is easy, cheap, and a good workout for the time it takes. I’m super slow and not awesome at it, but I’m enjoying doing it. A writer I follow on Twitter said to remember that we are computers wrapped in meat and we need to keep the meat healthy to make the computer run. I’m remembering that.

Brazil has been really good, though. We are doing a unit on cultural norms and taboos with 7th graders and I have so much personal connection. By seeing the norms and taboos here vs Nashville and Harpeth Hall is so illuminating. I’m questioning things. It’s not like Brazil is perfect, or Nashville is perfect. But I can see the differences and the effects on people. It’s also helpful for me to look at myself.

Teaching middle school has been awesome. And also challenging, but in a way I like. I have amazing colleagues who are smart and passionate and funny.

The kids are good. It’s been a rough 6 months, but I only realized that now looking back. I can see now that some things the kids were doing were because of the move, even though I didn’t see it at the time. But, to be fair, it’s also hard to parent 3 kids, so this may have happened no matter where we lived.

For sure, though, I am so happy to have distance from US politics and news right now. Every country has its share of bad news, but this break feels nice. I don’t long to be back. I’m not homesick.

Over the break my dad was asking me questions that all amounted to: Did you do the right thing, moving? The answer is yes. It took 6 months, but this feels more and more like home. And I know that this was a good decision.

Travel

A word about driving in Sao Paulo

I think in many ways, driving here is one of the most memorable things about living in this city. At least, it’s one of the first things I did after getting off the plane, so it’s rooted deep in my memories.

First, the motor boys. “Motor Boys” is what everyone calls the guys (and sometimes women) who ride through the city on motorcycles. They are mostly doing courier and delivery work. They are the grease that keeps the entire system running her. Seriously, they are a key part of the infrastructure of the city. And the reason is that they do not obey the laws of the road. They zip between cars, they weave between lanes, and ultimately it means they outsmart traffic. I was once at a stop light and there were 7 Motor Boys lined up between my lane and the lane next to me.

Oh, and if you don’t leave a big enough gap at stop lights, they will honk at you or slap your car. I’ve been in cars and had the driver back up and move over to make more space. It’s the price we pay to get things delivered in an efficient and cheap way. If regular cars did all of this work, it would triple the time because traffic is slow.

But damn if they don’t scare the shit out of you. They go so fast, so close to other cars, and sometimes they going into the lanes of oncoming traffic! They skirt within a few inches of your car, and I was warned that if I ever hit one, every Motor Boy in the vicinity will come to their aid, loaded with a lot of rage at the car who hit them. They are a protected danger of the city. We respect them and give them right of way, and in return, we can get documents and take out buzzed across the city at lightning speed. At least they all wear helmets.

The other thing is the hills. This city, and in particular the part of town where I live is so hilly. I don’t think whatever you are imagining is hilly enough. 45 degree angles, I kid you not. In the van that drove us around the first few weeks, I would have to close my eyes and clutch the seat in front of me as we stopped at a red light, the car clinging to a 40 degree hill. I was certain gravity and rubber would fail us and we’d go tumbling down the hill. It didn’t happen, though.

Next, the roads themselves are bumpy. There are speed bumps everywhere, which do ensure that people don’t speed, but they are fat and steep. Then there are drainage gutters carved into some streets across the intersection. There are then the just plain old bumps from patches to pot holes. It’s the bumpiest, hilliest, ride, watching Motor Boys fly past you.

Now that I’m driving, it’s even more challenging. 3 or 4 times I have driven the wrong way on a one way street. There are tons of them and I’m so focused on not hitting Motor Boys and finding the right street or parking that I don’t notice the sign saying it’s a one way.

There are also roundabouts. Of course there are.

The silver lining to all this is how nice Brazilian drivers are. Because there isn’t always a clear right of way, people are just really nice and let you in. You have to assert yourself, but as soon as you stick you nose out there, they just stop and let you go without any anger or frustration. They know it’s a tough place to drive and left turns are tricky, so they just let you in. The speeds are often quite low, too. But, the first few days driving our car I was too afraid to poke my car into a lane to get in. The cars were coming, they had a green light. The expectation is that you will just jump into the flow, like double dutch. I’m getting the hang of it.

This all comes back to a big observation I have of Brazilian culture. They don’t get ruffled. Long line at the hardware store and now that person wants to check the price of an item? No one rolls their eyes or huffs. Car just jumped into the lane in front of you? It’s cool. Baby screaming in a restaurant? Babies are cute. I didn’t realize until we got here how quick Americans are to get pissed that things are slow or crowded or inconvenient in any way. Does whining about the long line you got in actually help? Does sucking your teeth and sighing dramatically make things go faster? No. Maybe it’s what happens when a culture gets used to inefficiency and struggle. But listen, it’s not like it’s any longer of a line than anywhere else. It’s jus that people let things roll off way more. It’s a good habit to pick up.

Again, forgive the rush and lack of editing. I’m sure it’s filled with typos and incomplete thoughts. It’s a necessity! Consider this a first draft.

Travel

The first day in Brazil

There’s a lot to talk about in the day we landed in Brazil. We left Cincinnati at night on July 20, and arrived in the morning on July 21. We had 21 checked bags and a handful of carryon luggage.

When we walked off the plane, Matilda asked, “Is this Brazil?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Where my room?” she asked.

I have to explain. Part of us getting the kids excited about what was coming was telling them that when we got to Brazil, we’d go to our new apartment and pick our bedrooms. This is how we answered questions about where we were going to live. We picked our apartment from photos and videos sent to our emails. We had never set foot in our apartment. And there’s only so much you can see from photos in a rental listing.

What Matilda heard was that the plane would drop us straight at our apartment building, like a door-to-door bus service. If only.

We had to walk through the airport and go through customs. David had Everett’s carseat strapped to his backpack like a giant turtle shell, and we pushed Everett in the stroller. Or maybe Everett was in the Ergo and Matilda was in the stroller? I can’t exactly remember. We did that a lot on the US side of our trip. Keeping Everett close and calm in the Ergo was a life saver.

The line for customs took a while, but went smoothly. Then we had to walk to baggage claim. So, the thing about 21 bags is you have to get them out of the airport. Even if David and I each pushed a cart, there’s no way we could get 21 bags on two carts.

I found a few other teachers who were also flying in (all the teachers arrive on the same day) and just having someone that was connected to us was reassuring. None of them had as many bags as we did. Portuguese to the rescue! I found some guys who worked for the airport and explained that we had a ton of suitcases and needed help wheeling them out of the baggage claim area and into the terminal. The admin of the school would be on the other side waiting for us with vans and lots of extra hands.

The airport guys lashed together 2 or 3 carts of suitcases and we each pushed one and somehow we got it all out of the baggage claim. Seeing the school admin and other employees just outside the door wearing school shirts and smiling was a really amazing feeling.

It was a blur of introductions and meeting all kinds of people that I had skyped with or perhaps never heard of. Our bags were labeled and taken off to be delivered to our apartment later that day. We had also arrived with another family who had a 2 year old, so it was decided that the families with kids could go ahead and board vans bound for school.

I have to stop and write a little bit about the van ride across Sao Paulo. It was Saturday, but the drive still took about an hour, or maybe even a little more. The kids had made friends with various grown ups, Everett was in his carseat, but no one slept. Looking out the windows, my eyes were full to the brim. Super high apartment buildings and office buildings, crowded highways, graffiti, guys on motorcycles zipping through traffic. Bridges, almost-dry riverbeds, opulence and poverty. We saw it all through the tinted van windows.

My attention bounced between the kids, new teachers also arriving, admin getting to know us and welcoming us. It was chaotic but ebullient.

The vans pulled into the school and we got our first look. First impressions: very little of the school was indoors (“Did you know my school’s hallways have no walls?” Calvin said a few weeks ago. “In Nashville my school had walls in the hallways.”) The boundary between school and nature was thin. “Nature” was relative in a city of 25 million, but there were palm trees and flowering trees and all kinds of shrubs and flowers I had never seen and they were just a step beyond paved walkways and classroom doors.

The school was labrynthine and twisty, with pockets of order. A lot like the neighborhood around it with streets at all kinds of angles, punctuated by rectangular apartment buildings.

Brutalist architecture, lots of concrete and straight lines, but a lot of construction happening. An architect once told me you can tell the health of a city by the number of cranes on the skyline. Constructions a good sign of growth and change.

There was lunch in the cafeteria and 7 or 8 stations to stop in to sign documents, fill out forms, get our start-up cash, and learn about health insurance. I signed my name 50 or 60 times and collected tons of papers, and tried to remember the details of the kids’ bus schedules.

Meanwhile, the kids were amped up on exhaustion and adrenaline and were crawling around the floor and cackling like happy banshees. Parents reading this will know the anxiety with which I viewed this scene, knowing that any second that joyful, screeching laughter could become an epic melt down. We need to get these kids indoors and near a bed, stat.

There was a make-shift grocery store set up for us as well, and we loaded 4 tote bags up with basic groceries. At about 1 pm, a van drove our exhausted, bedraggled family to our long-awaited apartment so we could choose our bedrooms.

Again, didn’t edit this or even re-read. “No time!” the White Rabbit exclaimed.

Travel

I’m here! I’m alive! I’m sorry I haven’t been posting.

I had such grand designs of writing about our arrival. Then the actual arrival came and it’s been a whirlwind. I haven’t had any time to sit down and reflect–much to my dismay.

There is so much I want to say and record.

Then I remember Anne Lamott’s one inch picture frame.

So here’s what I can see through a one inch picture frame when I think about flying to Brazil with 3 small children:

On the flight from Cincinnati to Newark we realized we had left their tablets back at my parents’ house. This was a major blow, akin to Oedipus’s tragic fall. In our packing hubris, we forgot to get the tablets. The kids cried. We gave them our phones. All was well in the land of 21st century problems.

Matilda fell asleep in the stroller in our layover in Newark. This was a blessing to all because she was becoming insanely tired and cranky. When we boarded our flight from Newark to Brazil, I looked back as we walked dow the aisle and couldn’t find Matilda. Calvin ran back and found her curled up on one of the first seats, asleep again. She was so tired she decided to plunk down on the first available seat. It’s hard to explain to an sleepy 3 year old that we have assigned seats and those aren’t them. We finally got her to our row and she fell back to sleep on my lap.

Everett, on the other hand, was wide awake. At 10 pm. This is a kid who goes to bed at 7:30 every night. We strapped him into his carseat for take off, he was super tired. But there was a delayed connecting flight, so we had to wait take off until those passengers arrived. All that kid wanted was to sleep, but all the lights were still on in the cabin. He cried and cried.

10 seconds after take off, he fell asleep. He slept most of the night. Calvin and Matilda slept curled up like kittens on our row of three. They slept on me, on the window, on each other. Restless kittens is more accurate. Pigs in a barn? Not sure the right simile.

I got about 90 minutes. Too much responsibility and dry airplane air.

We landed. We survived. We were tired.

Okay, that’s all I got. I didn’t proofread (no time, don’t judge).