I’ll tell you how it happens.

You just go ahead and live a little of your life and your blogging time diminishes to a little sparkly crystal of preciousness which you hold near your heart and stare at in your quiet moments.

Or something.

But we took a little family trip (to a sunny southern city) and we laughed and we hiked and we sang songs and we told funny stories and Kid 1 may have poured her coffee-machine hot cocoa into the bottom of her mug, forgetting that little detail of Turning the Mug Over. We swam and we fogged-in the hot-tub room and we ate 5 pounds of gummy worms among us. And those were a few really fun days.

But also. There was this other thing.

I’m querying, you see. And for me, querying is a mad mixture of exciting and horrible, much like cheese fondue or deep-fried anything. It feels so awesome right up until it starts feeling barf-inducing.

I’ve sent out several queries. I’ve gotten about 10% positive response. (No, Dad, that doesn’t mean offers of representation. That means people saying “That doesn’t sound too bad. Send the manuscript – or part of it – to me and I’ll have a look at it.” Which is so very, very positive. To me.) And I’ve gotten several very polite rejections.

Rejections, polite or otherwise, make me sad.

Because as much as I’d like to say I can separate myself from my work, it’s PERSONAL. You know? It is. And a tiny part of me wants to knock on the metaphorical doors of these nice people and say, “But LOOK at me. I’m nice. I’m groomed. I’m wearing accessories. And also, I know how to write a book that is Good.”

Which, naturally, I can’t say to them, because that’s not how it works.

Which, naturally, causes ulcers.

Naturally.

So I live with it. I put on a happy face and I do a few deep sighs once in a while. I send out five more queries. I eat a piece of something delicious (which was, up to yesterday, a square of almond toffee, but from now on until later, it will be something sugarless and without white flour, because also the one-pound-a-week thing isn’t working no matter how many positive thoughts I send its way. See note above re. gummy worms) and I move on.

Also, because I have had some successes (remember those positive responses?) I bought myself a book. “The Fault in our Stars” by John Green. I hope it’s glorious. I have reason to hope. Because he’s brilliant, and stuff. (But mine wasn’t signed. And I might have to do something about that. If you’re not a Nerdfighter, you may not know that JG signed like 150,000 copies of “TFIOS” for the first run. Who gets a first run printing of 150,000? John Green does.) **UPDATE: I looked it up. Only the PRE-ORDERED 150,000 books are signed. Pre-ordered. 150,000. Signed. Go, John Green. You go.

So, on we go, ulcers and rejections and smiles and carrot sticks and all.

We’re a One Goldfish Family.

Do you not know this story?

Maybe you should head over here to read all about it.

(Minion is still going strong, and there’s a strangely gleeful flip to his fins today. But I’m not saying it means anything about the loner lifestyle. I’m not.)

Then she figured out a cute way to answer him [2]. And she’s so glad.

And at the precise moment that she was answering this boy (who does not share his name with a conveniently purchased product), another boy left another cute thing on the porch of our house.

Ahem.

What? Who gets asked twice?

Um, Kid 1 does. (Did I mention that this is her first official date-dance? Because she just turned 16, and I am some kind of Nazi mother who doesn’t allow dating before that magic birthday? Well it is. And she did. And I am. And I don’t.)

She’s a wreck. Because. She has to say no. To another cute friend. And there’s some concern about the jerkiness of saying, “Oh, shoot. You’re too late. Maybe next time, huh?” But she handled it (quickly and openly) — in a cute way [3].

She may have said, about the guilt/happy-sad/troubled feeling, “this sucks.” I may have looked over at her with my disapproval eyebrows, since that word is Not Ladylike. Then I may have said, “indeed, it does suck, and welcome to popularity.” To which she may have said, “pass, thanks anyway.”

Because, people, what I’m telling you is that My Kid 1 is, above all the things that make her great, Genuinely Kind. She doesn’t want to hurt feelings or offend or any of that Unkindness. And that is a rough road. But I’m glad she’s on it.

—

[1] So there happens to be a bottled-water brand that is my Kid 1′s name. So he froze his name inside a bottle of “her” water, and she melted it to discover who was asking. We’re so proud of our little Dasani Wilhite. (Just kidding. Aquafina Wilhite wouldn’t think that was funny at all. Oh, come on, Arrowhead Wilhite. I’m only kidding.)

[2] Husband finds my lack of cleverness disturbing, but I am not a huge fan of the cute ask-and-answer. Alas, it is How We Do Things around here.

[3] Beef Jerky ,anyone?

Or just take my word for it: I don’t need anything else hairy, smelly, or germy inside my home.

But you know, sometimes things just happen.

The boy wanted a turtle, and his sister bought him one of those science-y things that you drop in a bucket of water and it grows to an unreasonable size. The boy wanted a dog and we bought a stuffed animal that he still sleeps with (shh – he’s seven and doesn’t read blogs, so there’s no reason to tell him that you know about Snuggle Puppy). The boy wanted a fish and he went to the county fair and won one.

Oh, dear.

He brought me the fish in a zipper snack-sized bag. A big fish for a small bag. I held on to it for an hour and a half, while it leaped around in its plastic vault. Before he ran off to test his stomach’s strength on the freaky carnival rides, I warned him that the little darling in the plastic bag might not last until we got home.

“No problem, Mom. It’s just going to be fun while it lasts.”

Well, okay.

Fast forward FIVE ENTIRE DAYS, and Minion is going strong. Well, except yesterday when he started … listing. To the side. Swimming backward and sort of … listing. Husband, ever the Animal Rescue Agent [1] pulled out the Big Guns: Goldfish Rescue 911. I wish I was making this up, but I’m clearly not that clever. It’s a real site, and he really read every word (I think).

Turns out that Minion was suffering from Lack Of Oxygen. So when I came into the kitchen, I found Husband pumping air through a basketball pump-drinking straw contraption. He had already done the salt-water dip and taken a cutting off a kitchen plant. Then I left for my meeting. When I came home, I found this:

Because, you know, plants give off oxygen until the sun goes down. Then, Carbon Dioxide, which we (fish and human) don’t particularly want to be breathing. So the fish got a “sunlamp” (which usually lives over the piano, so – wait for it – Kids can see their music when they practice). But not today. The lamp belongs to Minion, and with Minion it will stay.

Updates coming your way.

I know. Eyes Peeled. Me, too.

—

[1] Remind me to tell you about Mabel Huntington, the duck. It’s a good story.

I think I feel like that all the time.

—

Writing. Writing. Writing.

—

Like this time.

When the horrible consequence I wrote for my character to experience shows up in the nightmares of my baby. I did NOT read my words to my boy. Not even one of them. And I didn’t talk to anyone about the struggle my MC is going through. But hey, last night Kid 4 woke up several times, sobbing at the things he’s hearing in his head during his nightmare. Specifically, the same sorts of things I wrote into my story, waking my sleeping baby from his peaceful night.

This is a guilt I can’t figure out. I know that my writing doesn’t harm my Kids, [1] but I FEEL like I’ve done this to him. I made up this thing, a punishment for my MC’s line-crossing, and now my Kid 4 is suffering for it. (As am I. Co-sleepers, I am in awe of you. I have never, never encouraged kids to sleep in my bed. I do not love it. There is no sleeping for me.)

Is this even sane? Probably not. Remember, I didn’t sleep last night either. But I have to say, when I got up to write this morning, I wondered “Why am I not writing about ponies and cupcakes and birthday balloons?”

Oh, yeah. I remember, Because conflict drives story. And I want a story.

With all that implies.

Sorry, Kid 4.

—

[1] but that would make an interesting idea for a book, wouldn’t it? And I suddenly want to rewatch Emma Thompson’s Stranger Than Fiction.

That, apparently, is what they call the darkness before the dawn.

This morning, I went to take Kid 1 to her before-class class. At 6:19, I looked out the mudroom window (it’s a habit by now) and saw… nothing. Except the rusty box. Except, I couldn’t really see the door-thingie. It wasn’t properly light yet, so maybe it just wasn’t clear to me. Wait. No. WAIT. The door? Was CLOSED.

“Look. Look at it.” I commanded Kid 1.

She looked. She’s very obedient that way.

“There’s something gray in there.” We said that at the same time. We could see something sort of pacing around. Mind you, we’re forty feet away* from the trap, and the mesh door is CLOSED on the something, and we are realistic girls, and we recognized that what was inside the trap could well be Neighbor Tori’s scary one-eyed cat. But the gray thing inside the trap turned in such a way that we allowed ourselves some small measure of hope. Then it moved again, and no scary one-eyed cat has a tail like that.

By the time I returned from the school drop-off, Husband was home from early basketball, and Kids 3 and 4 were waving happy hands from the mudroom window. I pulled in with a wahoo, and Husband made me pose. Focus on the rodent in the box, not the decided lack of shower and makeup. It was six freaking thirty. Must I remind you?See it in there? Can you? It’s there. That sort of floating white part, mid-cage? That’s its head. It’s kind of cute after all, isn’t it?

And this one is Husband’s idea of comedy.

(Ha. There was no stink. The trap worked like it was supposed to. So far.)

—

So Animal Control has been called. Again. And they eventually called back. And said someone would come and take it all away, “release the critter,” and return the trap. So we could see if we’d catch another one. I just broke out in a cold sweat typing those words. Another one? How many do we have under there, anyway? Now my hair itches.

But, in all, great news today. And here’s the best good thing that came of it. If I had nothing else written** in the past week, at least I got a few thousand words done around this little misadventure we’ve had. That’s what we call The Bright Side, folks. Welcome to it.

—

* That would be an estimate. I’m spacially challenged. Always have been.

** But I did get other words written. Not very good ones, and not very many… in fact I may be writing the world’s worst book. But words are coming. Coming. Coming.

Mine was the moment I realized that I’d been adopted.

By a skunk family.

—

Here’s the deal. We haven’t seen the skunk (as in visual verification of black and white body) since Monday. MONDAY. This is Saturday. And it’s been snowing (I know) – so I can tell you that I haven’t even seen evidence of the rodent for at least two days.

Do you know what this means? I think I do. I think it means ice chips and an epidural. I think someone’s in labor.

Oh, I want to cry.

Because now I have a crisis of humanity to add to my disgust of the skunk situation. Can I capture a nursing mother?

Oh, bless. (My friend Maura used to say that. Isn’t it cute? I’ve never used it before this moment.)

Part of my crisis is spiritual. Is it RIGHT to steal a mama away from her babies? Isn’t that cruel? Evil, even?

But the other part is practical. Won’t they die without her? And won’t that … stink, come July?

My life is forever changed.

(Thanks a lot, Skunk.)

You understand that I can’t talk about it, don’t you?

Thanks.

Was.

Painful.

Here’s how it went down, as well as I can recall it past the memory-altering chemicals I’ve taken to help me forget. (Those chemicals are all derived from butter. This is a G-rated site, remember?)

I called the Animal control peeps at 7:10 in the morning, because remember that over the weekend, their pleasant and polite message told me they’d be in at 7:00? The very  nice police station telephone lady commiserated with me, and told me she’d have them call me as soon as they checked in. Then I drove Kid 1 to school. When I came back home, want to guess who was strolling around my yard, marking territory and snacking on my dandelion greens? Yup. Mama Skunk. I snuck into my garage and closed the door behind me before leaving the car. (Because, duh. I don’t take chances.)

Fast forward five hours or so.

I am not kidding.

I made another call to the AC. The (completely different) lady at the police station telephone desk did not commiserate with me very much. Or at all. In fact, she said, “What is the problem?” and I told her, and she said, “Oh, well, hey. Animal Control doesn’t handle skunks.” Um, what? “Or badgers.” Badgers? Do I sound like a person who needs something else to be afraid of, here?

—

Side note: Once a deer, having presumably been hit by a car on the road not far behind our house, chose to stagger onto the grassy hill in the church parking lot directly behind our house, where it died. Quietly. But still. Right there. And it was warm. Like, summertime warm. I called Animal Control (this was several years ago) and asked them if they’d very sweetly come on over and collect the deceased before it, well, exploded. (Did you know that a deer can explode? It is less than beautiful, as far as Sights and Scents in Nature are concerned.) The AC people told me, well, actually, ma’am, we don’t do that.

—

So, what, I’m wondering, does AC actually DO? Dogs and cats, as it happens. Dogs? And cats? Thank you very much, but I think even I could do dogs and cats if it became necessary. I may have begged at this point. I am sure I didn’t shed a tear, but I was on the verge of saying some impolite words. I went slightly confrontational and told the lady that I needed some help. I could not live with a skunk. She had to help me. To which she said, and I quote: “Nobody’s going to come over to your house and catch a skunk. It would spray. And that would smell.”

And… thank you very much.

After what might have appeared to be a stunned silence on my end of the phone, she said she’d try calling someone (an officer, or maybe not) to see if he’d “rent me a cage.” In which I could catch my own skunk. Because nobody was coming to my house to catch it for me. Because, remember? It would spray. And that would, remember? Smell.

Right.

Bad word.

Is anyone else getting an image of me, looking like She-Ra, Princess of Power, lifting a caged skunk into the back of my almost-new Honda Pilot? Just wondering.

So I did a little waiting, and a very nice man called. He said I could come on over to the Animal Control office at four o’clock and “lease” a trap, and someone would show me how to use it. And that the trap was built so a skunk, once inside, couldn’t lift its tail to spray. As if that were some kind of sufficient help. I said, “Sir. I have to tell you, this is more than I think I can handle. I am afraid of this thing. I don’t know if I can go out and set a trap for it. And what if I do it wrong? It will be angry. I know it.”

He sighed.

And said, “See you at four o’clock.” And – this part will matter in a minute – gave me the address.

This is a skunk story, not a Very Busy Afternoon story, so I’ll spare you the details of everything I had to do to get to the next important point of the story: I put a big black trash bag in my car and drove toward 635 West Airport Road.

Ha! Ha ha! Ha, ha, ha-ha-ha! That was obviously the AC people’s idea of a little joke, because Airport Road ends at number 535. I kid you not. The road stops, and there is a warehouse squatting there, right in front of my car.

I called the police desk lady once more. And said, “Oh, I’m sorry, but I am having a little trouble finding the shelter, because there is no more road here.” (I refrained form saying any of the multitude of bad words in my head.) She said that I needed to drive off the road onto the gravel track, and follow it around the curve until I found a building. Oh, of COURSE. And then she said, “Who are you?” And I told her. Then she asked me to hold on, because she had to radio over to the AC guy to let him know I was still coming. Because (due to the total lack of roadway) it was now 4:04. I thanked her again. Because, hello? That is who I am.

I stuttered along the gravel track, bouncing and dodging large holes, until I saw a small industrial cinderblock building. There was an “open” sign in the window. Joy. I picked up my checkbook (remember checkbooks?) and my plastic trash bag and walked inside. Where the smell almost knocked me over. The smell of old, and rank, and filth and illness and many, many dogs. All of whom wanted to greet me through the solid, windowless wall separating us. I had to use my Big Voice to be heard by the girl behind the counter. (She didn’t seem bothered by the smell, by the way. I think it was the major hurdle for getting a job there. “Does that smell bother you?” “What smell?” “You’re hired.”)

She had me fill out paperwork and leave a $35 deposit, which will be returned to me if I get the cage back to them within the next ten days. I asked her, what if I don’t catch it within ten days? Do I become the proud owner of an empty skunk cage? She looked surprised, as if nobody had ever asked her that question before. I took that as a good sign. She also assured me that when I catch the little guy, I can just call the office and someone will come pick up the caged skunk. I wept with relief. Then I asked how to bait it. Again, she looked surprised, as if nobody had ever asked her that question before, either. I stopped taking that as a good sign and started wondering if she had actually been interviewed for her job at all. “We could google it,” she said. TRANSLATION: Lady, you can google it when you get out of here.

She fiddled around with the cage until she figured out how to work it, and then handed it to me. All 30 by 18 by 12 inches of rusty metal. With a grated end. For peering at my prize, no doubt. Which, if all goes well, will be the TAIL END OF A SKUNK.

I ran outside to my car. I breathed. A lot of good air. I brought the cage home, listening to the metal creak and slam as I dodged the man-sized potholes in the gravel road. I googled “bait skunk trap” and found a multitude of disgusting suggestions. I opted for the tuna-peanut butter-berry combination.

Which has not worked as of this moment. (Yes. I just went to the window and checked again.) But I don’t know whether to blame the skunkless state of the trap on the bait choice, or on the five new inches of snow on the lawn.

The thing obviously has some kind of skunky brain if it knows that the right thing to do on a late April day with five inches of snow (and counting) is cut your losses and stay in bed all day.

I’ll keep you all informed as to the latest developments. Don’t worry. As if there was any avoiding it now.