MotherReader

Sometimes reading to your kids is boring. There, I said it. We like the idea of the day ending with all of the annoyances forgotten as we cuddle on the sofa with our precious children, sharing our favorite books as they listen with adoring expressions on their well-scrubbed faces. But I know the reality is just as often pushing the laundry aside to make room for you and two kids who are still arguing over who got the biggest slice of cake — which apparently one child rubbed in her hair — while handing you the one picture book you can’t stand as the cat vomits a hairball at your feet.

Charming, huh?

There are many motherly myths that make us feel like we’re Doing It Wrong. And the ones that produce the most guilt are the ones that tell us how we should feel. Maybe you’ve heard how you bond with your baby at birth? It’s true that you might surrender to a warm rush of instant love and pure joy. Or you might be like me at my first child’s birth, wondering what you are going to do with squalling mini-person now. (Love came later.)

Certainly nursing your child is a magical experience, connecting you to the spirit of womanhood through all time. That is, assuming that you figure out the latching-on thing and you don’t mind leaking at inopportune moments and you don’t get infections or chafing. And even then you spend this most beautiful experience watching Oprah, or get so blasé that you open the door to the UPS man because you are NOT going to miss out on your Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVD’s just because Little Miss Sucks-a-Lot won’t FINISH UP ALREADY!

And while I was moved by how much my girls looked like angels when they slept, it was generally not a respect for all that was holy that caused me to thank God. It was more likely relief that I wasn’t going to miss yet another episode of Survivor.

So — reading to your kids. It can be a wonderful experience, a chance to slow down in the busy day and share something together. I dare say that often you will find it a nice thing to do. My point isn’t to tell you that reading to your kids is boring, but instead to give you permission to sometimes feel like reading to your kids is boring. Because when we as mothers set ourselves up to a certain expectation to how something Should Be, we can fail to work with How It Is.

Think of reading to your child less as a bonding experience and more like dinner. It could be prime rib or Hamburger Helper, but either way it’s important to eat. At reading time, the stars may align to make it a cozy tradition, or the day’s drudgery may make it another chore. And that’s okay.

While my goal was simply to validate less-than-blissful feelings about reading time, it would be cruel to leave without a little advice on banishing the boredom. Think about varying the routine in terms of the five Ws — Who, What, Where, When, and Why.

Who — If you can switch off on the reading with Dad or an older sister, go for it. You can even have a reading time where Junior reads to the dog as you let your mind turn to thoughts of George Clooney. Ah, Clooney.

What — Just because your child wants to read the same book again doesn’t mean that you have to do so. On days when you are more patient, you’ll be happy to chug through Little Sparkly Fairy Princess again. But reserve the right to say, “Not today, honey.” Look for good book recommendations or ask at the library to add some fresh books to your mix. You’ll be happier for it, I promise.

Where — If you always read by your child’s bedside or on the couch, take it outside. Or stop at the library or bookstore and read there. Change your surroundings just because you can.

When — I am a personal fan of bedtime reading because in my unorganized world, it was hard to forget to do it. The pajamas tended to tip me off. But if you’ve always reached your limit at the end of the day, make reading time in the morning or after lunch or before nap or whenever works for you. Here’s a thought: You can even change it according to what works that day, week, month or year.

Why — Well, this whole post has been about the why. You can read to your child because it is a beautiful way to connect while instilling a valuable skill. But on days when you’re not feeling it, you can still read to your child because it’s just a good thing to do. I’m sure that all the “perfect moms” would agree.

Check out more on today’s Share a Story — Shape a Future topic, Reading for the Next Generation, with Jen Robinson.

Thanks to those who commented yesterday and kicked off National Delurking Week. I truly appreciated your congratulations on behalf of my daughter, and I loved reading about the things that were making January great for you. In fact, I’m going to continue with the positivity theme with today’s delurking topic: What’s your resolution or goal or motto for the year?

For me, 2009 was a crappy year. I hate to even say that, because I can’t negate the big, wonderful things in my life. My family is generally healthy, financially comfortable, and amazingly connected. We all support each other in our individual ventures, do a lot of things together, and simply enjoy each other’s company. I feel blessed and lucky and grateful. But.

If there ever were a year where I felt cursed in a death-by-a-thousand-paper-cuts kind of way, 2009 was it. Nothing was devastating, but nothing was easy either. I lucked into someone who would look at my picture book manuscript — and she left that job. I hoped to be more involved in the Junior Girl Scout troop, and had the whole thing dumped in my lap in September. I made peace with losing my job in June, to find out that additional budget cuts mean that I am never getting it back.

And it was my whole family that went through this craptastic year. Bill was promoted in his job, to find himself swamped with meetings and leading a department in an era of belt-tightening. He was thrilled to participate in the International Shootout, but it would be the one time that we lost valuable equipment. The fifth grader got a terrible, homework-obsessed teacher. The teen had her iPod stolen. It was like this all year. I’m not going into all of this for sympathy, but to set the stage for my 2010 motto:

Clean Slate.

You see, with so much going wrong it became hard to do anything at all. Everything felt tainted with history, baggage, failure. But what if I approached things this year without guilt or annoyance or despair? Instead of berating myself for not answering those emails, I could just answer them — or delete them and let it go. Instead of blaming someone else for not being organized with my troop, I could just set the time aside to get things together. Instead of being paralyzed by what to do with my manuscript, I could just send it out.

It’s come to me in this year of “growth” that much of what holds us back is in what we won’t release. The tasks themselves are often less onerous than what we bring to them. Guilt. Blame. Anxiety. Doubt. Discouragement. We can’t banish these feelings, but maybe we can push them aside once in a while. Backtrack where we have to, but without issues. Let go when possible, without remorse. Start over when we can, without fear. Look at tasks and relationships differently, as if they were fresh.

What could I accomplish with a Clean Slate?

How about you?

As I’ve been working on the KidLitosphere Conference, I’ve already made some mistakes. I’ve already heard some suggestions that are too late for this year. I’ve already had a period of feeling like a failure for not getting more participants. Because while we are right in line with the previous years’ attendance, I was sure that the proximity to New York City and the need for publishers and authors to find more ways to boost their online presence would make this year’s conference a sellout. I would have bet money on it. In fact, I kind of did, and it’s only due to the supreme kindness of the Sheraton Crystal City Hotel (book your next author’s luncheon there, folks!) that I’m not out a chunk of cash.

Why am I telling you this?

Because when you put yourself out there in a big way, it’s a risk.

I know that a lot of people appreciate me taking this on, and it warms me. I’m excited about the opportunity to contribute to my community in this way. And yes, I love doing something important because it makes me feel important.

But I will also hear criticism and I will make mistakes and I will leave people out and I will hurt people’s feelings and I will feel stupid and I will wish I hadn’t bothered.

Because when you put yourself out there in a big way, it’s a risk.

If I remain open-minded, I hope that the criticism will lead me to different ideas. I will learn from the mistakes, and can pass that knowledge to others. I’ll remember the many different people involved and make the effort to include them — not just on my terms, but on theirs as well. I can allow myself to feel stupid, and then ask for help. I’ll recognize that it is always worth the bother.

Again, why am I telling you this?

Because my friends addressed legitimate issues in an online initiative, and are getting dismissed as naysayers and haters and sour-grapers. And the person who ran the initiative is a good person who is feeling bad, and her dismay is bringing her support from her friends, but sealing this perception of meanness without really knowing the issues.

Because it reminds me in another way of what I’m seeing in Congress, where there are legitimate concerns about health care reform on all fronts, but it’s all about naysayers and haters and probably some sour-grapers instead of being about fixing the problems.

And because, on the other hand, being afraid of the criticism, the mistakes, the hurt feelings makes it so much easier not to try — whether it’s leading a cause or running the show or writing a book. As William Shakespeare says, “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”

Or as Sawyer from Lost says, “Cowboy up.”

I am bone-tired after a Girl Scout trip to the waterpark Great Wolf Lodge and an extra day with my mom, brother, and niece in Virginia Beach. I got to see my niece for about a day. She’s almost two years old now and so cute. My brother brought her over to my mom’s house and then she spent the night with us there. Sure, she woke me up at 2:00 a.m. and then didn’t sleep past 7:00 a.m., but it was totally worth it.

The overnight trip to Great Wolf Lodge was a big success. Thirteen of my fifteen girls were able to go, plus three other adults to help with driving, food, and overall supervision. I was right in there with the girls on the different water slides, and grabbed a few of them over the day to join me on the scream-inducing Tornado slide.

It was on this Tornado ride that I got to really feel twelve years old again. And not in a good way, though it taught me something important. During our trip, I tried do something with all of the girls. For the most part, the girls were happy to have my company for these short intervals. But the morning we were going to leave, I caught two of the girls and asked if they’d go on the Tornado with me one last time. They agreed, one more reluctantly than the other, and off we went. We walked up the tall tower, waited our turn, and both of them started looking over the side of the staircase away from me. At first I thought that they were looking for some of our other girls, so I asked A. who they were looking for. She said that they were just looking and I said, “Oh.” She must have caught my hurt tone and started talking with me. The other girl, E. wouldn’t turn around. When we were past the staircase, she still would barely talk to me. When the ride was done — I screamed like a little girl — they both bolted; A. was somewhat friendly but E. didn’t acknowledge me at all.

I retreated to the hot tub feeling like I was twelve and had been shunned by the popular girl. True, I had an adult perspective on it, and this girl’s rudeness wasn’t going to affect my social standing in middle school, but I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being left out, dissed and dismissed.

I thought about how reading reminds me of being an insecure teen, but this incident put me right back in the feeling. Let me tell you, it was awful. But truly, how helpful to really understand what my daughter, this troop, all middle-school girls feel. It made me wonder how writers of Young Adult books can get down to that core and make it real.

I’ve also wondered what to do next. I want to talk to the girl, E. I want to talk to her mother. I want to talk to the whole troop about appropriate behavior. I also want to pretend that the whole thing didn’t happen. I did hug my daughter that night, and told her that I understand the plight of being a teen in a new way. I can hope that the experience will make me a better mother, a better troop leader, and maybe even a better writer.

I’m feeling all discombobulated today, and I blame it all on this dream I had last night. I was my age, late thirties, but I was marrying someone from my high school. In the dream, a friend of mine had recently backed out of the wedding, so I apparently decided that I would marry the guy instead. He and I seemed to be okay with the fact that we weren’t in love, or even that close, but we were getting married anyway. It ended when the alarm went off in the middle of me singing my vows in the form of “Somewhere” from West Side Story.

The cool/odd thing was that groom was just some guy I knew in high school. He wasn’t an old boyfriend that you’d suspect I’d remember. He wasn’t even someone I hung out with. He was a guy in my chorus group that I liked. Apparently, that was enough for my subconscious to reproduce him in my dream. Even stranger to me was that the hall was filled with people from high school that I was remembering — bits of their personalities, their relationships, and definitely their faces. And other then my high school reunion a year ago, I haven’t thought of these people for years.

If I blame being out of sorts on the dream, then I lay the blame for the dream squarely on the shoulders of the book Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac, by Gabrielle Zevin. It’s an interesting book about a girl who loses four years of memories — and an important four years at that — when she hits her head. She has to piece some parts of her life back together and discover who she really is again, making her question her choice of friends, boyfriend, and activities. While amnesia can have that soap-opera-plot feel to it, I found it easy to go along with in the book. I think it works particularly in a teen book, because often those are the years of reinventing yourself, sometimes repeatedly, but without the benefit or hindrance of forgetting who you once were. The characters and relationships were realistic and kept me engaged in the story. A well-written and very enjoyable book.

But I think that my dream came from this passage, my favorite part of the book, namely because it’s so true:

“I don’t see him much,” I said to Dad finally.

“It happens, baby,” Dad nodded and patted me on the hand, and then he read my mind. “You forget all of it anyway. First, you forget everything you learned — the dates of the Hay-Herran Treaty and the Pythagorean theorem. You especially forget everything you didn’t really learn, but just memorized the night before. You forget the names of all but one or two of your teachers, and eventually you’ll forget those, too. You forget your junior year class schedule and where you used to sit and your best friend’s home phone number and the lyrics to that song you must have played a million times. For me, it was something by Simon & Garfunkel. Who knows what it will be for you? And eventually, but slowly, oh so slowly, you forget your humiliations — even the ones that seemed indelible just fade away. You forget who was cool and who was not, who was pretty, smart, athletic, and not. Who went to a good college. Who threw the best parties. Who could get you pot. You forget all of them. Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They’re the last to go. And then once you’ve forgotten enough, you love someone else.”

I loved that part, because it tells teens that all of the drama of high school fades. I know myself that it seemed like all of it was incredibly important, so much so that it could be overwhelming. But maybe an even better message for me now is that these memories are always a part of you, even if only in your dreams.

First of all, and non-kidlit-related, OBAMA! There, had to be said.

Next, the poetry for Poetry Friday is hosted this week by A Year of Reading. Once again, I bring you song as poetry. I think of this one from Toys every New Year:

If I cannot bring you comfort
Then at least I bring you hope
For nothing is more precious
Than the time we have and so
We all must learn from small misfortune
Count the blessings that are real
Let the bells ring out for Christmas
At the closing of the year
Let the bells ring out for Christmas
At the closing of the year.

Now, I’ve been enjoying the posts popping up all over regarding the thoughts, resolutions, and goals for the new year. I loved Sara Lewis Holmes’ theme of The Year of Once (Upon a Time). In fact, I printed it and taped it on my desk at work. I dug deep to see myself in Robin Brande’s Year of Independent Thinking and Laura Salas’ Year of Losing Control. But the best I could come up with for a theme is The Year of No Plastic Spoons at Work, which doesn’t particularly inspire.

As it turns out, I had a rather stressful holiday week. Don’t worry, both I and the immediate family are fine. Really. But there was a lot of emotional turmoil from the extended family that I soak up like the Bounty quicker-picker-upper. We spent the first five days of vacation involved in various visits, meals, and gift exchanges with Bill’s family, where there were lots of last minute schedule changes and “issues” that kept it all lively. You know, where lively means stomach-churning.

Then we spent the next four days hosting my family, including my busy — but delightful — toddler niece. Oh, and did I mention that there was a visit to my actual messy house from my ninety-six-year-old Grandma? You’ve got to at least try to clean up for Grandma. Oh, and just as I needed to do the Cybils judging with my fellow panelists, my husband was taking my mother to the urgent care center for an infection that was coming back with a bullet. Which kept my mom here for another day — and as I was trying to open up some communication among us, I ended up causing a big blow-up where the actual phrase “If I died tomorrow...” was uttered. Fortunately, my brother had the quickness to reply, “Tomorrow’s really not good for me.” Gotta love family getting together for the holidays.

At least I got a notebook computer, or I’d have to call the whole thing a wash.

So, if you’ve read this far — and bless you if you did — I’m giving myself the weekend before I start the new year. And I’m telling anyone else who needs a mother’s permission to take the extra time as well. It’s my New Year’s gift to you. I have to admit to myself that I need some quieter time to reflect before I can arrive at a soul-centering theme or goal or resolution. Or even to decide not to arrive at a soul-centering theme or goal or resolution. In which case, The Year of No Plastic Spoons at Work stands.

A day where you wake up to the anguished cry of, “Mom! The cat threw up on my social studies project!” is not going to be a good day. Oh, it may get better. In fact, one might say that it pretty much has to get better from that point. But it’s probably not going to be a good day.

As you carefully clean the cat vomit off your daughter’s project, you try to reassure her and yourself that it was lucky that she was using crayons, because the waxy finish made this much easier to clean and really it’s not noticeable at all. Well, except for the smell of regurgitated cat food. But you’ll take care of that with air freshener, and when that doesn’t work, with Febreze.

In the end, you wave the paper around to dry it of the attack of the smell-reducing chemicals, and advise your sixth-grader not to sniff it herself, as her strong gag reflex will certainly make it impossible to turn in — because of course it’s due today. You pray that the teacher has a cold with a very stuffy nose.

In tucking the project into the sixth-grader’s backpack, you have a moment to reflect on this accident waiting to happen — because face it, half of your earthly belongings are on the floor these days, and it was just a matter of time before something important was lost, or broken, or vomited upon. And the best chance to tackle it was yesterday, when instead you spent about three hours with the other daughter on her social studies project — because if you leave her alone for two minutes, she’ll stop working and start playing with the tree ornaments. So, in accepting her ADD, you sat on the floor with her and kept her on task, only resting your eyes — not napping — on the couch for ten minutes toward the end of the project. This turned out to be the ten minutes in which she wrongly drew the only scene in the whole stupid project that had to be done exactly the way it’s been told. But she drew Pocahontas saving John Smith from an Indian with a bow and arrow, not by putting her head over his on the pile of stones, and whether or not we want to verify the accuracy of that event or even look upon Pocahontas as an American hero for basically saving Jamestown and in doing so setting the events in motion which will eventually wipe out the Native Americans, the fact remains that the accepted scene has not been drawn because you took your eyes away for ten minutes.

Oh, and that project is spread out on the floor too.

None of this will make the Christmas letter.

Perhaps today is a day best left to the secret project that’s cooking over at Brotherhood 2.0, sure to be a winner. Or searching out fifteen tiny gift bags for the fifteen bracelets I bought for the Girl Scouts in my troop. In any case, I think it will be later today that I’ll post more Cybils reviews. Surely you understand.

For years I bemoaned the fact that the Christmas season began the moment the turkey carcass left the table. I didn’t realize how good things were when Thanksgiving marked the beginning of The Holiday Season. Now the carved pumpkins haven’t even grown mold before the endless supply of Halloween decorations (Skeletons! Bloody fingers! Decapitated heads!) are swept off the store shelves and the Christmas hoard makes its appearance (Lights! Giant inflatable Santas! Aqua-Dots! — uh, oops.)

It’s official: Halloween is the new Thanksgiving.¹

Last week I went shopping for new winter PJs for the girls and shirts that didn’t reveal my muffin-top from my so-fashionable mid-rise jeans. (Hey, anyone else notice that high-rise jeans are coming back with the label of “slimming?” I hate the fashion industry.) The Christmas onslaught was unbelievable. Everything in the stores seemed to scream that Christmas is right around the corner. Inside the panicked mom within me shouted, “ONLY FIFTY SHOPPING DAYS LEFT! MUST BUY STUFF NOW!” Fortunately, my internal slacker mom slapped her, and all of were able to stick to our original mission of pajamas and women’s shirts with only one High School Musical doll tossed in for good measure.

So, it may come as a surprise to some that Thanksgiving is actually a week away, and there is still time to share seasonal books with the kids at school, in the library, or on the stoop. I’ve read to my daughters’ classes for years, and the teachers are always happy to have me offer. In kindergarten the parents sometimes come in to read, but not so much in the later grades. I’ll go about once a month, on a schedule convenient to both the teacher and me, and share some great books. I love it, the kids love it, and the teacher gets twenty minutes to grade papers.

This time of year, I usually start with a picture book about the first Thanksgiving, striving for one that is low-key on the historical elements, since so much of that is under question. I had a perfect one, and now I can’t remember the title. So, I’m going to look around for it, and in the meantime, feel free to suggest your own pilgrim story in the comments.

For school-age kids, I’m very fond of Thanksgiving in the White House, by Gary Hines. When young Tad Lincoln realizes that his tame turkey is destined for the dinner table, he begs his dad for an official presidential pardon. The event did happen, though this is of course a fictionalized version. The book includes some of Tad’s exploits in the White House, and a section at the end briefly describing Abraham Lincoln’s life and presidency. Interesting, humorous, and educational too!

I like to close with a funny Thanksgiving book, and for a couple of years ’Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving, by Dav Pilkey, has been my favorite. This parody of the Moore poem features a group of school kids on a field trip and eight happy turkeys that win their hearts. They are all having a good time together, until the kids realize the fate of the turkeys, and find a way to save them. The book is certainly funnier to kids who are familiar with the original poem and can compare the entrance of Santa Claus with this description of the farmer, “He was dressed all in denim, / From his head to his toe, / With a pinch of polyester / And a dash of Velcro.” I usually bring some book version of “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” to leave with the kids to compare — or I read it the next time I come back.

If you have a favorite Thanksgiving story, whether Pilgrim or Pilkey, share it in the comments. I’m always looking to expand my repertoire.

I love books in verse because they are so quick to read. What? You think the same thing, admit it. Sonya Sones also does a good job of making them funny, realistic, and completely enjoyable.

What My Girlfriend Doesn’t Know is a direct continuation of the story of What My Mother Doesn’t Know. In WMMDK, Sophie starts dating Robin, a boy very outside of the high school social circle, during the school’s winter break. In WMGDK, the break is over, and now they’ll have to see what happens when a popular girl dates a boy whose name is synonymous — literally — with loser. This poem from the book pretty much sums it up.

As Sophie and I walk through the halls,
holding hands on our way to art class,
it feels like we’re committing a crime.

Everyone who sees us
looks offended, grossed out,
horrified, even,

as though I’m King Kong,
and Sophie’s the little blonde
struggling to escape from my huge hairy fist.

They’re gawking at us,
like Sophie’s Beauty and I’m the Beast.
Like I’m Shrek and Sophie’s Fiona.

I can feel her palm
beginning to sweat in mine.
I can feel her fingers stiffening.

But I try to let go of her hand,
so that people won’t know
we’re together —

she won’t let me.

The relationship is difficult for both of them. Sophie is losing her friends. Robin feels responsible for her unhappiness, and additionally has to look more closely at his own social status. He finds some refuge in a college art class that he is allowed to take. On campus, the students don’t know his past or his age and accept him for the funny, smart, talented guy that he is. In some ways, that only makes the situation harder.

As someone who regularly dated... let’s say unexpected guys in my own high school and college careers, I could relate to the story. It’s all too easy to say in books that it doesn’t matter who is identified as cool or uncool, but as someone who’s been there, it matters. You try being the smart kid whose arty boyfriend goes through a punk phase, though I have to admit that I lost interest just before the mohawk made its appearance. His, not mine.

In this book I was intrigued with the boy’s point of view of the odd-couple relationship. Teen girls may also appreciate the boy’s perspective on the early stages of making out. I’d say it was a tad overdone on the “it will all be better in college” message, but maybe smart teens need that idea hammered home by someone other than their parents. There was definitely a strong message for girls to take it slow with their boyfriends — but with two daughters, you’re not going to find me objecting to that concept.

Let me tell you a little personal story.

As a teen, I went to a private school for a couple of years, and then transfered into the public high school in tenth grade. A lot of the friendships were already signed, sealed and delivered by then — especially as my community generally involved people who had never ever moved. I may have been the only new girl out of two hundred tenth graders. Having trouble finding my people, I ended up with a unique crowd of artsy folk. And things were okay.

But in eleventh grade, I found that my group didn’t really fit me anymore. Some of them had gone from artsy to druggy. Some were heading to the VoTech school for half the day, while I was staying after for music and theater.

So I set my sights on a group of girls who were also into music and theater. It wasn’t necessarily easy. I’d talk to them in homeroom, but if I walked out to our lockers with them, they’d start leaving me out of the conversations. Then I could walk to the lockers, but if I walked down the hall with them, they’d talk about people I didn’t know. Then I could walk down the hall, but I knew I couldn’t sit at lunch with them. I just knew. But by the end of my private campaign, I was not only in the group, but a trend-setter within it.

Additionally, each day I’d go home and tell my mom of my progress in a detached way. I didn’t get bent out of shape that they didn’t embrace me from day one. Why would they? They didn’t even know me. If I wanted to be part of the group, then it was up to me — not them — so I made the effort. I remembered to cut out the article from Seventeen about the cute actor that one of the girls liked. I always had an extra pencil on hand to share. I may have made a mix tape.

Didn’t my feelings get hurt sometimes? Sure. But that’s life. These girls weren’t actively mean. They didn’t say nasty things to me, but they weren’t going to make me their new best friend just because I wanted it. I had to prove that we had something in common, that I’d add something to the equation, that I was... worthy, I guess. It didn’t hurt that I was talented in our shared interests of music and theater, but that wasn’t enough really.

There had to be that “click factor.” Not “clique factor.”

Now put that whole experience in with the blogging world, and you’ll get my point. It parallels my own experience in blogging almost perfectly. Instead of “music and theater,” it’s “books and reading.” Instead of “talk to them,” it’s “comment.” Instead of “my mom” it’s “my husband.” Instead of “article in Seventeen,” “extra pencil,” and “mix tape,” it’s “emailed them about something kid-lit-related,” “linked to a great post,” and “started the 48 Hour Book Challenge.”

And you know what? I’m still doing it. I keep up with my kid-lit peeps, but I still reach out there. I comment on Surburban Turmoil, though she’s never mentioned me. When Defective Yeti — an A-list blog — had a contest, I played and I told people about it and he mentioned me for it and I probably got some new readers.

Now when I opened up my interview question meme yesterday, one person said they’d do it. ONE. What a great chance that was for a blog who wanted some face time to get attention, because I went over to Zee Librarian to look at her blog. And lo and behold I saw this cool thing she had done with her young adult display. I found she writes about movies too, which I love, and I’ll certainly be back to visit her. That’s how you do it, people.

Am I saying that the kidlitosphere is like high school? Noooo. I’m saying that all of life is like high school — in a way. Things become more refined, sometimes. But if you need proof, look at who society pays — athletes and actors (beautiful people).

I bring this up, because Monica brought it up and wanted some feedback. I commented there, and at Fuse#8, where I originally saw the post. She didn’t mention my article on how to be a B-list blogger specifically, but she did reference the A-list, B-list status thing. My idea in writing that article was to tell other blogs how to get out themselves out there — assuming that’s their goal. It doesn’t have to be.

As for Monica’s related point of how to teach our children within classrooms and literature and parenting about not excluding people, I’ll teach my daughters not to depend on everyone else being nice and fair, because life isn’t nice and fair. However, be nice and be fair. I’ll teach my daughters to be proactive about their destiny, not reactive. Oh, and that friendships — even blog and literary friendships — take effort, time, and often that “click factor.” And that’s not the same as “clique factor.”