With 9 queries out, I'm taking a break. I don't want to get too many sent out and exhaust my agent search this early, so I've got to force myself to think about other things.
Got any suggestions?
In the meantime, the latest installment of my column came yesterday. It's a smaller, local publication, so there's no link to give, but I'll post it here. Should be good for a distracting laugh (at my expense). From Every Mom's Column in The Buzz, Summer 2008 edition.
I think I might quite possibly be the clumsiest person ever. Sometimes I know the origination of and reason for an injury, but often times I find surprise bumps or bruises and wonder, “How’d that get there?” I’ve rammed into open doors (car and cabinet), smooshed fingers (and not just my own), fallen on the steps (going up and going down), and done other silly things… like land face-down on the floor because a teeny—but sneaky—swatch of carpet tripped me up. It’s a wonder—a big wonder—I’ve never broken a bone. I’d knock on wood here, this second, but likely I’d wind up hurt.
What got me thinking on this was an MRI I had recently. MRI, in my case, stands for Motherhood-Related Injury. It’s an injury I’ve sustained merely because I’m a mother. A clutzy mother. And it directly (or indirectly) relates to a kid (or not).
The night was seemingly moonless and pitch black, filled with slumbering quiet. I was fast asleep, perhaps dreaming of iced mochas or the clearance rack at Target, when my heart jolted me awake.
It was my toddler, crying hysterically from the top of the stairs. Panicked from my bed, I hastily grabbed my glasses from the nightstand. Throwing them up my nose, I rounded the bed, aiming to breeze through the family room to the stairs. But in my groggy—and I can’t stress this enough: clumsy—state, I cut the corner a smidge too closely. Just there, where the wall extends adjacent to my door, housing a built-in bookshelf, I met the flat, solid expanse with a great, loud force.
My body bounced backward and my glasses sprung from their perch, landing—surely broken, I thought—off in the distance. My hands found my poor nose as I bellered into the night, “I think I broke my nose!”
My husband, none too concerned with yet another of my self-inflictions, snuffled a bit and rolled over. Grumbling and hurt, I righted myself, retrieved my glasses (still intact!) and continued—ever so slowly—to the stairs.
In the few seconds between my collision and the journey upstairs, wouldn’t you know it, my daughter calmed herself. So I tucked her back into bed and made my way to the closest mirror. Just what I’d suspected: My nose had had a good battering. I doctored it up, hoping to keep any swelling or discoloration at bay. And as it turned out, by morning time I had very little to show for my midnight accident. Just a small boo-boo with some tender, very faint bruising. It was hardly anything to wink at, and I couldn’t get compassion from anyone.
Which, in all actuality, was just as well. I’d rather keep such incidences quiet, since they’re so embarrassing. So you’re sworn to secrecy. Share the details of this MRI with no one. It’s just between you and me…
ETA: Refreshing Yahoo every three minutes to check my inbox for query responses isn't a productive way to spend my time, is it?