PANCAKE DAY!

This was the first message I received from my husband this morning. Sitting in a classroom, 400 miles away from home on his birthday, he thought of pancakes.

Years have passed since our first Pancake Day. Every Sunday morning we pull out the griddle, the Bisquick, the bowls, spoons and measuring cups. I measure, my daughter pours and everyone inhales the cozy aroma of pancakes. Occasionally we substitute cinnamon rolls or biscuits, but it is still called Pancake Day. I love this tradition.

I don't remember any traditions from my childhood. Lord bless my parents if they tried, but we were so scattered, separated, moving here and there - I truly don't believe they could. Maybe that is why it was so important to me to create new traditions for my family to enjoy. My kids won't let me forget Pancake Day. They remind me of the little things set in place at holidays and scold me if I try to change. As frustrating as it may seem at the time, I still smile, happy that they will remember these small moments, the stolen wishes of a Mom that hopes her children live happily ever after.

Even as I type, my daughter confesses new traditions in the making. She wants to write stories (like Mom), and maybe she wants to be a teacher when she grows up (like Dad). Curled up sideways in a wing chair, she scribbles the lines of her first great story, called Mystery Space (It was a foggy day in Finkletown, WA where six friends gathered at a club house.), complete with illustrations!

I am so glad that she sees how important writing is to me, and proud that she feels the same. Do you hear the clang! clang! clang!? Another link in our chain of family traditions has been forged.

Happy birthday, Terry! Happy Pancake Day! Miss you.

Why are there knife marks stabbed into the butter?

First and foremost, know that I love my children. I often write of inspirations, and my children must be at the top of that list. But winter months, trapped indoors and bundled against the freedom of SPACE, have caused me to wrinkle my brow at an exceptional number of huh's.

Although my novel should not be considered autobiographic, my protagonist and I have a lot in common. We are both mothers to one son and one daughter, we are both married to strong-willed men, and we both use a sense of humor to manage the aforementioned similarities. With this in mind, I have found myself making notes of those moments that cause me to wonder how to avoid checking myself in to the loony bin. These notes will likely become scenes, back stories or one-liners somewhere along the line of my story.

Here's a few teasers of the situations that may find a place within the 94,000+/- words of my novel:

• Who dropped all these potato chip crumbs in the bathroom?
• Is Bailey in the bathtub, because there's water dripping from the ceiling again?
• Tell me again why you set your shoes on fire.
• What has happened to all the silverware?
• After it rained I found your socks/underwear in the front yard.
• Why is there a doll frozen in a block of ice in my freezer?

I can't, of course, share all of my gems with you, but be assured the list goes on and on.