A Potato At Rest by Emily Perkins

Emily visited the Window in April of 2022. She shared information on Facebook this week, so it seemed to be a good time to share it here, too. Thanks, Emily. Beyond pretty and funny, she's also scary talented. - Liz

My hair color comes from a box.

Actually? My HAIR comes from a box. Essentially, my stylist is the UPS guy. I’ve worn wigs for the last twenty some years, and I wanted to share some of my story.

When I was 16, I went in for a haircut. My hair was thick at the time. My stylist would always say she could thin it out and it would still be two heads’ worth of hair. But at this haircut, she asked me if I knew I had a dime-sized bald spot on my head. I honestly hadn’t noticed it. We decided to get it checked out, just in case.

The doctors ran a variety of tests. I had to have an ultrasound and bloodwork, as hair loss can be caused by a variety of reasons, many of them indicating more serious health issues. What it ended up being was alopecia. You may have heard a little bit about this in the news recently, but back then, I had never heard of it.

Not much is known about what triggers alopecia, but they do know that once it starts, your immune system sees your hair follicles as foreign bodies and begins to attack them. Specifically, I have Alopecia areata universalis, which affects the entire body. Leg hair, arm hair, eyelashes, eyebrows, even down to nose and ear hair.

At the time, though, it was just a small circle on my otherwise thick head of hair. One bald patch became two, two became three, and then I finally began to notice it elsewhere when half of one eyebrow began to fall out.

My first wig

Between my junior and senior year of high school, the loss had increased to the point that I decided to get a wig. I had actually been quite candid with my classmates about my hair loss during the previous year, but many still didn’t suspect that I was wearing a wig when I returned to school.

Looking back, I have made some. . . questionable wig choices. This one wasn’t that bad, for a first-time user. It was short and blond, and didn’t really draw that much attention, but then, being the dramatic soul that I am, I decided I wanted a long, curly red wig. The first week I wore it to school, some guy bullied me in the hallway. Shortly after, a kind teacher randomly complimented me on my new hair color, not knowing about the incident that had occurred moments before. I ran to the bathroom and cried.

It wasn’t the first or last time I cried over my hair loss. Hair is really tied to women’s identity in most cultures. How many ads have you seen where the gorgeous model has her lustrous waves blowing in the wind? And there was I looking like a potato at rest. Anyway, I do remember that bullying incident fairly clearly, but I also remember the number of people who came to my defense against that jerk. My supporters vastly outmatched my detractors. Even people whom I was not particularly close to offered their support. I count myself lucky to have that environment when I was going through my formative years with my hair loss.

The first month or so at college, I would wear my wig down to the dorm bathrooms and wrap my bare head in a towel turban so that no one would know my secret. It took many years to come to the point where I felt comfortable letting people know that part of me. Many more years passed before I finally began to feel beautiful in my own skin.

Photo by Justin Schuman

When I lived in NYC, I regularly celebrated Hairless July and August, as it was too dang hot on the subway to deal with wearing what essentially feels like a sock cap on a crowded, sweaty subway. These days, I wear a wig most of the time. Not because I’m embarrassed, but just so I don’t have to deal with questions from every Tom, Dick, and Harry that I encounter on a daily basis.

I’m more than willing to share my story with people one on one, I just don’t want it to always be the first thing people notice about me. My pasty dome can be a bit of a distraction. I do, however, go without my hair when I’m out and about, specifically in the summertime. I’m very frequently told how “brave” I am.

While I appreciate this sentiment, I long for the day when women can step out of the house looking however it is that they ACTUALLY look, and feel confident and like their best version of them. I shouldn’t have to be brave to look the way I do. Yes, it is unusual, and yes, I certainly have plenty of moments where I wish I was “normal,” but this is just how I am. And I'm okay with that.

Below, I’ve compiled some tips I’ve gathered over the years, in regards to Baldie Beauty. They are not at all comprehensive, and I’m by no means an expert, but I wish I had had something like this when I first began this journey. 

I make most of my wig purchases online. I've used Vogue wigs and Wigs.com with good results. There are, of course, varying levels of quality of wigs available, so read the descriptions and reviews carefully.

I tend to buy synthetic rather than real hair. Aside from being less expensive, they hold their style better and require less upkeep.

Long wigs and curly wigs also require much more upkeep. I tend to go no longer than shoulder length. I do find that short (less than chin length) curly wigs often look the most “wiggy.”

Bear in mind when purchasing a wig, many don't have a crown that will allow you to do any sort of crisp part. If that's a look you desire, go for a skin top wig.

A lace-front wig will allow a natural looking hairline. Be sure to get a lace that matches your skin tone. (There are many wigs that are made specifically for African Americans, for example, and the lace would not blend in with my pasty whiteness.)

As far as brows and lashes, I use Clinique brow powder with a Smashbox angled brow brush. The long handle allows for more control. The powder will definitely last through a normal day. If you are doing something more strenuous, you might keep it in your purse for touch ups. If you sweat, DON'T RUB that area. They might fade slightly, but they won't come off unless you rub them.

I usually start with a very thin brow on each side so that I can make sure they are even before filling them out.

I use a Revlon twist-up eyeliner in brown black, although lately I've been trying out L'Oreal's Le Liner with great results. I line the top and bottom of my lids and I find the twist-up will go on more smoothly closer to my lash line than a pencil would.

I save the false lashes for special occasions, and even then, only my upper lid.

If you're smooching someone for long enough, you'll likely lose an eyebrow, so make sure that's a risk you're willing to take.

The most important tip: LOVE YOURSELF AS YOU ARE. My friend Ambyr and her partner Justin wrote a song that I like to listen to on repeat. The chorus gently encourages to “tell yourself you love you.” Do it. Love YOU. Even if you feel like a potato at rest on occasion, that doesn’t mean that you can’t be a hot potato.

~*~

Emily Perkins has always had a penchant for the dramatics and graduated from the American Musical and Dramatic Academy with a certificate in the performing arts. Since returning to her hometown of Wabash, she has enjoyed performing in many community theatre productions around the area, as well as a few professional gigs. For her day gig, she works as an optician at Family Optometry in the great little community of Peru. She's a proud Auntie and has a pretty decent boyfriend. If you are experiencing hair loss and have questions for her, get her contact info from Liz.

The Perils of Writing Under A Pseudonym by Susie Black

I love when Susie visits the Window--she's so funny, and such a good writer, too! I didn't know how to put this in here, but she has a free swimwear guide she'll be glad to send you. Just email her at the address at the end of the post. - Liz

When I was ten years old, I hated my first name. I was the only girl in the elementary school with that first name. I longed to be like the other girls with a more common first name. Something boring like Linda or Mary. A first name so commonplace there were several in the class that had to be differentiated by using the initial of their surname. Mary B. or Linda J when they were called upon. From the depths of a ten-year-old’s despair at the oddness of my first name and not fitting in; suddenly the solution came to me. As uncommon as my first name was, that’s how deliciously common my middle name was. I explained my problem to the teacher and told her I preferred to be called by my middle name rather than my first. To my great relief, she readily complied.

Unfortunately, my euphoria was short-lived. After a week of her calling me by my middle name, regrettably, I didn’t respond a single time. By week’s end, my teacher informed me that she was going back to calling me by my hated first name. “You might not like it, but you respond to it.” By now you might be scratching your head and wondering the point of that journey down memory lane. Bear with me. There is a point here…I promise.

If you asked me to describe it, the Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series is the result of Walter Mitty morphing into a woman and becoming an apparel sales executive. Since I have knocked off several fictional characters who are perilously close to actual people I might not have minded eliminating in real life, I thought it prudent to conceal the true identity of the protagonist, Holly Schlivnik, and write her stories under a pseudonym, or as it is more commonly known as a pen name.

So, once I’d decided to write under a pen name, the search for the perfect pseudonym began. What type of pen name to choose? Something flamboyant? Perhaps a clever play on words; an unforgettable name that everyone would remember.

I daydreamed of being interviewed by Oprah Winfrey on a TV special after my debut novel Death by Sample Size became the Oprah Book Club's all-time best seller. Then the shrill voice of my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sutter, squawked inside my head, and my daydream quickly became a nightmare. Oprah introduced me to millions of fans….and a repetition of fourth grade on steroids happened as I stood backstage waiting for my name to be called and waited, and waited until Oprah’s producer whacked me on the head with a clipboard, asked if I didn’t know my name when I heard it, and shoved my onto the stage. Yikes. There was a disaster waiting to happen. Now what?

With a history like mine, the smart money said to ditch the pseudonym. Logic dictated go with your real name. Well, no one ever confused me with Albert Einstein. Since I always loved a good challenge, I threw logic out the window and soldiered on with my pseudonym search. To paraphrase Dirty Harry, a girl’s gotta know her limitations. The most important criterion for the pen name wasn’t finding something tricky; it was choosing one I’d remember to answer to.

Since I write cozy mysteries, here are two clues: The first name of my pseudonym is a version of my real middle name. This one is a gimme. The surname of my pen name is the translation from another language to English. Let’s see how alert you are. Can you guess my real middle and surname? If you want to give it a whirl, write to me at: mysteries_@authorsusieblack.com

Death by Jelly Beans

“Brings a whole new meaning to the rabbit died.”

Mermaid Swimwear President Holly Schlivnik discovers the Bainbridge Department Store Easter Bunny slumped over dead and obnoxious swimwear buyer Sue Ellen Magee is arrested for the crime. Despite her differences with the nasty buyer, Holly is convinced the Queen of Mean didn’t do it. The wise-cracking, irreverent amateur sleuth jumps into action to nail the real killer. But the trail has more twists than a pretzel and more turns than a rollercoaster. And nothing turns out the way Holly thinks it will as she tangles with a clever killer hellbent on revenge.

Death by Jelly Beans Buy Links:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/death-by-jelly-beans-susie-black/1145804565?ean=2940186124580

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/212700868-death-by-jelly-beans?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=PWl56Hmfkz&rank=1

https://www.bookbub.com/books/death-by-jelly-beans-holly-swimsuit-mystery-book-5-by-susie-black

Amazon.com : Death by Jelly Beans

Named Best US Author of the Year by N. N. Lights Book Heaven, award-winning cozy mystery author Susie Black was born in the Big Apple but now calls sunny Southern California home. Like the protagonist in her Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series, Susie is a successful apparel sales executive. Susie began telling stories as soon as she learned to talk. Now she’s telling all the stories from her garment industry experiences in humorous mysteries.

She reads, writes, and speaks Spanish, albeit with an accent that sounds like Mildred from Michigan went on a Mexican vacation and is trying to fit in with the locals. Since life without pizza and ice cream as her core food groups wouldn’t be worth living, she’s a dedicated walker to keep her girlish figure. A voracious reader, she’s also an avid stamp collector. Susie lives with a highly intelligent man and has one incredibly brainy but smart-aleck adult son who inexplicably blames his sarcasm on an inherited genetic defect.

Looking for more? Contact Susie at:

Website: www.authorsusieblack.com

E-mail: mysteries_@authorsusieblack.com

Book Cover Contest by Liz Flaherty

They say not to judge a book by its cover but I need you to do just that. If you liked the cover of my book, Pieces of Blue, please vote for it for the Cover of the Month contest on AllAuthor.com!

I’m getting closer to clinch the "Cover of the Month" contest on AllAuthor! I’d need as much support from you guys. Please take a short moment to vote for my book cover here:

Click to Vote!

Thank you!

This Week by Liz Flaherty

As a Democrat, I've had a wonderful, hopeful week. A few days after the end of the DNC, I'm still feeling that. Still feeling the joy. Not to mention some sleep deprivation. I'd love to make this whole column about politics, but I'm not going to. Nearly everyone who reads it knows where I stand and within the personal friendships, we don't talk about either my stance or theirs. While that's hard for both sides sometimes, it's good for the friendships. 

As the mother of teachers, my kids are back in school just like yours are, which means I get to worry again about the things all teacher parents worry about. And get cranky about. Low wages, keeping their classrooms safe in ways we didn't used to have to think about, teaching kids what they need to know and what is true, making sure the students get enough to eat.   

As a nana, I got to see a picture and hear about our youngest grandboy playing varsity soccer for Danville. I got to see pictures of his brother climbing on rocks in Colorado. (GOT to see is wrong. It scares me to death.) I got to see another grandson and hug him. 

As a lifelong rural dweller, this week I got to watch the seasons changing every time I look out the window. I've seen sunrise and sunset every day. I've pointed at the place where Broadway Landing is going to be, listened to the yeas and nays of partial use of solar and wind power over only fossil fuel, and mourned the loss of small fields and big trees. We drove past the school road last night and saw the "Friday night lights," at North Miami, bringing back memories and reminding me to keep feeling hopeful. 

As a Christian, I've missed church two weeks in a row. Once because we spent a few fun days in Kentucky and once because a friend and I had a fun day signing books at a winery. While I do believe God doesn't take attendance, the Sunday morning time in the fourth pew is precious to me. I'll be glad to slide back into place tomorrow.  

As a human being, I am appalled by cruelty in any form. If you know something's going to hurt someone--even if it's "just" their feelings--for heaven's sake, don't do it. It's really easy. And when you DO hurt someone (also really easy), own it and apologize for it. 

As a columnist, I'm kind of tired. I'm also grateful to those of you who continue to visit the Window every Saturday even when what I write makes you roll your eyes. I don't have the words--shame on me--to say how much I appreciate it. 

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

Meandering Through the Words by Liz Flaherty

I had to look up the word cabal this morning, because I'd never used it, and even context didn't clue me in on what it was. In truth, I should always look up words I don't know, because too often the person using them doesn't know what they mean either, so even context can really mess you up some. 

It sounds kind of silly, I guess, maybe even disingenuous, to say I love words, since I use so many of them. Some of them, like just and that and look, I use so often that when I do a global search of a manuscript and take out the unnecessary ones, I need to write a new chapter just to bring the book back to the length I want.

That might be an exaggeration. But not by much. 

When I was in high school--I think it was junior year--our literature class had to read Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. Although I liked the wow factor of a young woman having an affair with a minister and carrying his child out of wedlock in the 17th century--after all, it would have been just as shocking in the middle of the 20th century and, of course, all Hester's fault--I hated the book. I still regret the six weeks we spent on it when we could have been reading something...readable. 

But I have to admit that even now I remember Hawthorne's overuse of the word ignominy and all of its derivatives. If he'd had global search abilities with his quill and rag paper, I'm sure he'd have used it a lot less. 

I try to understand why we read the things we read in class, why we were introduced to Shakespeare and why we read parts of Beowulf and the Iliad. It was to introduce us to classics. At the time, I thought it was to encourage us to love reading and learning and I couldn't understand why it fell so wide of the mark. I didn't like any of it. 

However, reading all kinds of books is what taught me I like reading genre fiction best. I don't particularly care if it changes my life. If I don't like it, I don't finish it--life is too short to read what I don't want to. (Case in point, I never read another Nathaniel Hawthorne book.) I read for entertainment and to learn things. Especially things I like to know that clarify other things. It's a wonderful chain, the learning one. 

I learned about seasonal disorder in a romance by Jackie Weger. I learned about the Iron Range and Minnesota's lakes in books by Kathleen Gilles Seidel. I learned about the 19th century in books written about it by people who did the research before they wrote them. 

If it were left to me, I would never have read most of the classics on my mental bookshelf at all. (Other than Louisa May Alcott--she's a whole life chapter unto herself. I'll spare you.) Except for the words I learned in them. I had to look them up and develop a wish to use them in drawing a picture a reader could see. Their writers used a plethora of words, and they never used one word when 56 of them would do. But they sure could draw those pictures. 

This was certainly the long way around from me having to look up the word cabal, wasn't it? I'm trying to find my point, and I think it's one I've made more than once. If you use words without understanding what they mean, you're telling lies. If you use words only to hurt someone or create a false picture of them, you become the villain of whatever story you're promoting. 

But if you learn from them, if you use them to explicate what you say and mean, they're like the gift that keeps on giving.  (No--I don't actually use the word explicate. I looked it up to be a showoff. You can do that, too!)

I hope when you read something that you enjoy and learn from it. Check sources. Quit in the middle if it's not making you happy. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody. 

Come see Nan and me at the Whyte Horse! 

Keeping Settings and Secondary Characters Fresh by Nan Reinhardt

One thing I’ve discovered as I’ve been writing my River’s Edge series of books is that readers fall in love with settings and secondary characters as much as they do the main characters. They anxiously await the next story because it means another trip to a place we all want to live or at least visit. Series are a special kind of escape for readers and writers. For me, as author, the warmth of Mac’s Riverside Diner, the fun of the Four Irish Brothers Winery, a cruise through the colorful fabrics at the Seams Pieceful quilt store, pastries from Paula’s Bread & Butter Bakery, or a stroll along the River Walk are just a few of the good reasons to keep telling stories there.

But it’s not enough to use the same setting, the stories have to evolve naturally from it and the town must evolve with it. So new places must crop up in your old setting. Disasters that affect everyone in the town will inevitably become part of a story, as will the restoration of old familiar landmarks, like Aidan Flaherty restoring the River Queen riverboat in Christmas with You or Gerry Ross turning the old cotton mill into a boutique hotel in Meant to Be. Changes mean the setting becomes a developing character itself.

With each new book, readers find new places in River’s Edge to visit—Sudbury’s Nursery and Garden Center takes center stage in my newest novel, Make It Real, where we meet Kara Sudbury, just home from living in England for six years and her grandparents, Ginny and Hunter Sudbury. In the next book in the series, Made for Mistletoe, which releases October 24, Dot and Mary Higgins and their quilt store, Seams Pieceful are in the spotlight as secondary characters.

These secondary characters may never have their own book, but like the setting, they do have their own stories. Readers love to follow townsfolks to see just what’s going to happen next to background characters. In Book 1 of the Four Irish Brothers Winery series, we meet two secondary players, Carly Hayes, Sam’s uptight, high-society mom and Mac Mackenzie, a flannel-wearing Cordon Bleu chef who owns the diner in River’s Edge. An unlikely pair for sure, but by the end of Book 2, Carly and Mac are an item, and although they may never get their own book, their story progresses, and we watch their romance blossom as the main characters’ stories are told. They’re together, running the diner, and still madly in love in Make It Real—book 12 that happens in River’s Edge.

It’s important to introduce new secondary characters to interact with the old ones so the town and its stories don’t become stale, but putting old background folks into new situations is also a fun way to bring interest to your familiar setting and your stories. In my second River’s Edge series, The Lange Brothers, I tell the stories of three brothers who are all first responders. Each brother has his own book, yet woven throughout the three books is their mother’s love story with hotelier Gerry Ross, whom we met back in Book 2 of The Four Irish Brothers Winery series. So Gerry and Jane become a seasoned romance in River’s Edge, adding just a touch more fun to that little town on the banks of the Ohio. See how that works?

Each time we enlarge a secondary character’s story, we are inviting our readers further into our setting and our series, welcoming them into our fantasy world, where life may not always be perfect, but where a happily-ever-after is always guaranteed. 

Out now from Nan Reinhardt!

Make It Real, book 2 in the Walkers of River’s Edge series:

They were only faking it….

A landscape designer for his family’s construction firm, Joe Walker, is nearing completion on one of the most important projects of his career—gardens for spec homes that if they wow, Walker Construction will survive. When a freak accident sidelines him with a broken leg, the firm hires a competitor. Her ideas are radically different, but his stalker ex arrives to play nurse, and Joe needs more than gardening help.

After six-years working in English manor gardens, horticulturist Kara Sudbury returns to River’s Edge to help in her grandparents’ struggling garden center. She’s thrilled when Jackson Walker hires her to execute his injured cousin’s designs. Ignoring Joe is difficult because he’s as sexy now as he was in high school and even more stubborn. But when Joe asks Kara to play the role of girlfriend, they strike a deal that will help Joe handle his tenacious ex and put Sudbury’s Nursery back in the black. Kara’s up for the subterfuge…for a price, but then the pretense feels real, and Kara is reminded that every rose has its thorns.

Buy Links: https://tulepublishing.com/books/make-it-real/#order (links to all outlets are here)

Links to Me: https://linktr.ee/nan_reinhardt
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/nan-reinhardt
http://www.nanreinhardt.com/
https://www.facebook.com/authornanreinhardt
https://instagram.com/NanReinhardt
https://x.com/NanReinhardt

Excerpt:

The gun went off, the woman screeched, and Joe let out a loud oof, then a groan of pain. He released the gun and lay still, his head, face, neck, and bare chest stinging from the blackberry nettles and his left leg feeling very weird. Scout barked and ran up to him, licking Joe’s cheek and panting dog breath all over him.

“Did you shoot yourself?” The woman was there, too, stepping carefully through the brush until she was about a foot from him, her smooth, tanned legs only inches from his head. “Oh my God!” When he opened one eye and looked up at her, her face, which was vaguely familiar, had turned from angry to ashen and horrified. “Your leg!”

The sting of the blackberry thorns had somehow kept him from noticing what was now agonizing pain in his left shin. He started to turn over, but she stooped down and put a dirty gloved hand on his shoulder. “No, don’t move.”

“My face,” he managed, but it was hard to even speak because of the brambles sticking him everywhere, and shit! Was that poison ivy under his cheek? Inanely, his mind went to a couplet, his cousin Jack had taught him and Cam and Eli years ago—leaves of three, let it be; leaves of five, let it thrive. His glasses were gone, and his eye was blurry, but yep, that was three leaves. No. No. No. “I gotta . . . gotta get up,” he mumbled. “Poison ivy.”

The woman held him in place. “That’s the least of your problems. Your leg is really messed up.”

He lifted his head and shoved up with his arms, bringing his upper body out of the brambles, but dropped right back down again as pain shot through his left leg, leaving him nearly breathless. He attempted to peer over his shoulder, but all he could see was his own butt in the slipping-down sleeping shorts. When he tried to move the leg, pain, more excruciating than before, shot through him.

“Stop moving, will you? Your leg is stuck on a branch sticking out of this log and I can see”—she looked down his body at his lower extremities and her pallor grew even grayer—“oh crap, I can see a bone sticking out of your shin.” She plopped down next to him, heedless of the poisonous plants covering the ground, and pulled her phone out of her shorts pocket. “I’m calling 911.”

“You just sat in poison ivy,” he ground out, lifting his head again and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from adding idiot. He was pretty sure he owed her one. But on the other hand, he also needed some help here.

“It doesn’t bother me. I never get it.” She raked her fingers through her hair as she spoke to emergency services, relating what she believed happened, making him sound like a colossal dumbass as she speculated to the dispatcher that she thought he might have shot himself.

“I didn’t shoot myself,” he said as loudly as he could, given he’d dropped his face back on the ground because even the slightest movement sent red-hot fire through his leg and up into his thigh.

“Yeah, he says he’s not shot, but his leg . . . man, it’s pretty awful. Not bleeding too badly, but there’s a sharp piece of a stick stuck in his calf and his shin’s broken for sure”—she gulped—“I can see the bone. No, no, I won’t touch it. God, no!” She looked down at him. “What’s your address?”

He moaned, his mind a blank.

“It’s on Fourth Street behind Sudbury’s Nursery. Maybe the 2900 block?” she said into her phone.

“It’s 2917,” Joe managed.

“It’s 2917,” she repeated for the dispatcher, paused to listen, then asked, “What’s your name?”

“Joe Walker.” That came out stronger, but the effort exhausted him.

“Oh, crap! Joey? Joey Walker?” She bent her head to peer down at him, and her eyes, which were an unusual golden-brown color, were huge.

Nan Reinhardt is a USA Today bestselling author of sweet, small-town romantic fiction for Tule Publishing. Her day job is working as a freelance copyeditor and proofreader, however, writing is Nan’s first and most enduring passion. She can’t remember a time in her life when she wasn’t writing—she wrote her first romance novel at the age of ten and is still writing, but now from the viewpoint of a wiser, slightly rumpled, woman in her prime. Nan lives in the Midwest with her husband of 51 years, where they split their time between a house in the city and a cottage on a lake. Talk to Nan at: nan@nanreinhardt.com.

What Would You Do?

We wear a lot of hats in our lives. We do a ton of different things. We are  a ton of different things. I worked for the post office for 30 years, I worked in factories (badly...so badly), I worked in the library, I volunteered. Those were things I did. I liked many of them, was good at some of them, and am glad for those opportunities and responsibilities--I learned from all of them.

But there are things I am, too. I'm a mom, a nana, a wife, a writer, a Christian, and a few other things that go beyond just doing. I'm female, a heterosexual, white. If I have secrets in my family tree about ethnicity or predispositions, I don't know what they are. I don't care. 

But in my list of things that I am rather than what I do, being a mom is top of the list. It's the most important thing I've ever done. I made every imaginable mistake in the process. I'm still making them. There were incidents in my kids' growing up that made me lie awake for many hours on many nights. I prayed a lot, yelled a lot, was scared...oh, a lot. 

Because...you know...I didn't know what to do. 

If one of my kids' gender had been in doubt--too much testosterone in my daughter or uncertain "parts," in any of them, I wouldn't have known what to do. If drugs were a problem, or alcohol, or mental illness, I wouldn't have known what to do. Because loving them wouldn't have been enough. I'd have had to have been their advocate. More than that, I'd have had to have been the advocate of the people they were, not the people I expected.

But I think of the parents of the people who are hated. The artists whose renderings others shudder at, the athletes who are demonized for whatever reason, people who present as something other than who we believe they should be. 

I don't like abstract art. Being totally honest, I haven't completely "gotten" any since Norman Rockwell died. I'm virtually never able to see and feel what the artist saw and felt. But I can like the colors, the emotions that are sometimes palpable. I can say Wow, look at that instead of referring to it in ugly terms.

I've learned something in art galleries and while living, and probably while writing this. Those things that we humans are...they aren't up to us. I knew from the first breath of my first child that I was no longer the same person I'd been the day before. I knew the first time I typed a story that I wasn't the same person I'd been before Aunt Gladys let me use her typewriter. 

While I wanted to be good at all those things I did--and sometimes I was--life went on when I wasn't, it went on when I was criticized, when things weren't always fair. 

When it came to the things I am, it got a little stickier. I don't take well to criticism and disrespect for my faith, I am deeply wounded when my writing is denigrated and sneered at. When others dive into cruelty and untruth to or about my adult kids on Facebook, I am livid.

It doesn't matter that they are parents of adult kids themselves. It doesn't matter that they are themselves flawed or that instead of growing up into the people I expected, they grew up into themselves. 

There. Finally, I get to the question in the title. You are a parent, from the first breath on, and very little after that first breath goes as you expect it to. 

What would you do, then, if your child was something that a bunch of really loud people disliked and disrespected? You can't protect them, especially when they become adults, but you can still feel their pain as deeply as your own. You can still wonder if you did something to make them different from what you expected or intended. Because if they hadn't been "different," they wouldn't be hurt, would they? They'd be safe, wouldn't they? 

I wouldn't be embarrassed if they weren't different. (The sad truth to that statement is that I don't know that it's not true. Sometimes I'm not especially proud of my own shortcomings.)

It's very easy to say things like I'd never put up with that or He was raised wrong or If that was my kid, I'd...

You'd what? And think about it before you answer. Because when it comes right down to it, I don't believe you know for sure any more than I do. Instead, I'd rather go for empathy over accusation, kindness over vitriol, and--as always--truth over not. 

Congratulations to the Olympians. To the students and teachers who went back during these past days, go out and change the world. To you especially, have a good week. Be nice to somebody. 

You Know You're Old When... by Liz Flaherty

I forgot it was Saturday and no one reminded me! This was on another blog and Substack yesterday, so I'm sliding into home just behind the ball and using it here, too with a change or two. Plus adding a  plea for a vote at the bottom. Thanks as always for reading the Window. - Liz

In case you were in any doubt about it, there are ways to know you're getting old. Or already are. It is not necessary to admit it to anyone, so if you like, you can just keep it between you and me. 

On before-and-after pictures of home remodeling, you like the before better.

Your kids are the age you were when you first began to think you might be old.

By the time you get home from having your hair colored, your roots are showing.

Laughing hard comes with a penalty. So does sneezing. Coughing's not good, either. 

You no longer care what you have for supper. Or if you eat supper. Or if anyone cleans up after it. 

You begin to think of other generations in terms like snot-nosed brats.

You don't like it when other generations think of you as...all those mean things you see on Facebook.

You forget...well, no, you don't actually forget things--you just have to be reminded.

Making the bed takes enough energy that you need to sit down for a while. Maybe have something to drink and some chips. 

Being set in your ways becomes unattractive as you sink into curmudgeonity. (Nope, not a word, but it should be. Remember you saw it here first.)

You talk too much about being old. Not sure why that happens, but it does. Case in point, on your birthday, you even blog about it. 

Furniture displays remind you of lobbies in medical facilities. They all look alike and you can't find a comfortable seat. 

You still love buffalo plaid even though it seems to rule the fabric mosaic of the 21st century. 

A date includes a doctor's appointment, picking up a prescription, stopping at the grocery so you can forget what you needed to get, and going to lunch, followed by a nap.

You don't get why being a cat lady is a big deal. 

You've accepted that the f-bomb is a word that must be used in every sentence to show one's non-conformity to the mores of the 20th century--before buffalo plaid became the national design--but sometimes you still flinch. 

You've forgotten that you used to feel guilty about not doing spring cleaning, Now you just feel free. And somewhat dusty.

You know that the left lane is for passing. It's not for living in, road rage, or escaping...whatever the hell it is you're trying to escape. 

You know your faith is your own. You don't have to explain it, you shouldn't deny it, and you shouldn't expect everyone else to share it. 

You know not all old people are as well mannered as you are. This is undoubtedly because all their joints ache, their organs malfunction, and someone's trying to take their car keys.

You've seen more, cried more, laughed more, and loved more than anyone else in your family. You absolutely cannot believe how lucky you are.

Although I was old yesterday on my birthday, I'm older today and I don't feel one bit different. Blessed, though. Very blessed. Have a great week, and be nice to somebody. 

I'm pleased that the cover of Pieces of Blue is in the running for Cover of the Month at the AllAuthor site. If you like the cover, I'd so appreciate your vote. There are a ton of others there to choose from, too. Here is the link to vote. https://allauthor.com/cover-of-the-month/18151/  Thanks again!

Cover of the Month Pieces of Blue Hey Everyone, I’m excited to tell you that my book has been nominated for the "Cover of the Month" contest on AllAuthor.com. This will help me a lot if I could see some votes coming in, so please remember to vote my book. Vote Now »

Thanks, Liz Flaherty