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Yes, my trees that change color are starting their shift. The temps are cooler (although I’m still watching for that last heat-wave we typically get before Halloween). This morning we were hit with gusts of wind–the kind that blow the leaves off the tree (and, unfortunately, the remaining pollen into my eyes). All these things feel the same.

But this year is different. For me, autumn is typically a time of slowing down. Or at least feeling more calm and quiet. I’m sure it’s something about heading into winter. And I tend to want to rush through summer, to get through the heat and all that extra summer activity (which, while fun, isn’t always my speed). So when autumn hits, I feel like I made it, like we can all move into a quieter mode and just sort of be for a while.

Except, you know, my son is in his last year of High School.

Yes, I’m going on about this. Yes, everyone experiences it. No, I’m not special. But, hey, it’s happening, and I’m feeling it.

Happily, he’s having a great year. Happily, he’s finding colleges that feel like a fit and feel very doable, too, in terms of getting in. Happily, he’s (at least this week!) finding a balance between independence and, you know, actually hanging out with us and still talking.

But time does not feel like it’s slowing down.

Life has been change since the day he was born. Schools, friends, interests. Little changes, like letting a beard grow in, then deciding to change. BIG changes, like music. But this change. Oh, boy. It seems like every week, something new comes down the road. And if you lay all the new things in a line, like stepping stones, they lead straight to a decision, a choice, and a departure. Don’t quote me on this, but I’m pretty sure he’ll visit, we’ll visit, our lives will continue to mix and merge, in all the ways we want them to. Hey, for all I know, some other change will come along, and he’ll land right back here for a chunk of time.

Still…

Autumn has never, ever played at 78 RPM before.

I have been so lucky to have this boy, this young man, in my life and home for the past 17 years. I am lucky, still. The other day I said to him, “Wow. Life sure is change.” And he said, in all that wisdom, “Thank goodness, right?

Still learning from him.

So, yeah, maybe this year, I need to not look at autumn as a slowing down. Maybe, just this once, I need to accept it as a leap forward.

Yesterday, we had to make The Decision about our cat, Lacey. It was one of those if-this-comes-back-again choices, and it did and very obviously. Which only makes The Decision the tiniest bit easier and doesn’t help the day at all.

I debated whether to blog about Lace or not. It always feels a little weird to put stuff like this out on social media. On the other hand, I know I don’t think it’s weird at all when other people do it. And then again, you know, for some of us, feelings take form in our minds as words, and then the words want to go somewhere. And then that helps. So…yeah. Blogging.

I’ve had a lot of cats. My parents were both veterinarians and had their own vet practice, and we pretty much always had three or four cats at any time, most of which had “found” us or been left at the clinic and brought home. When I met my husband, his cat adopted me, which was pretty awesome since Fred was known for his crankiness and not-high-love for most humans. Most, if not every single one, of the cats I’ve known have been pretty awesome in one way or another. And then came Lacey.

She discovered us by wandering into our yard one day when my son was about five. My husband told Ian that if he sat “really still,” the cat would probably come over to him. Which she did. And she never left. The vet thought she was about seven at the time. I never did figure out what her first years were like or where she might have come from, because she was clean, well-fed, and totally relaxed and friendly. This was not a cat who had been mistreated and run away and not a cat who someone had dumped, I was pretty sure. A wanderer, I thought. Except she never wandered again.  My son is now 17. Which, if the vet’s calculation was anywhere near correct, made Lacey about 19. It was no wonder things were shutting down.

Lacey was that magic combination of cat, both smart and sweet. If you know cats, you know that’s not all that common a mix. Sometimes the smart ones are cranky, and the sweet ones are, well…not the brightest bulbs on the tree. She had it all. She was a hunter, too–when she was younger she brought a cottontail bunny into the house (rescued by us, and a little helpful factoid for you: 409 does clean up rabbit pee!) and a baby bat (apparently they sometimes do their training flights during the day). She would meow in the middle of the night for my husband to come and play with the mouse she’d caught. I know, some people don’t like the hunting aspects of felines, and I’m not crazy about the corpses myself, but you have to admire that kind of talent and determination.

For the past few years, Lacey had definitely been a senior cat. She slept a lot, but was always there for TV time, waking up as we sat down and repositioning herself on a lap–she pretty much divided herself between my husband and son evenly. And this was the best thing about Lacey. There are dog people and there are cat people. I’m kind of a mix–I don’t want the care of a dog, but I will stop you on the street to have a little meet-and-greet with your dog, even if you’re in a hurry. And I don’t think I could live in a house that didn’t have a cat, because, hey–they really do add so much personality to the family mix. And, you know…fuzziness. But I know a complete cat person when I see them, and my husband and son fall solidly and heavily on that side of the line. My son doesn’t really remember Fred, who died when he was about three. But Lacey…I’m not sure Ian remembers not having Lacey. She has been the cat that either made him a cat person or, more likely, found the cat person already inside him and just merged with it. Just like I know that my son will always be reading and will always be building things and will always be playing music, I know that my son will always have a cat in his life. Sure, yes, there will be gaps–not sure most dorms allow felines, and life takes a bit of time to settle into and make the home that has the space for a pet, but he will find that place and he will find a feline to step into it. And take over. And while I think he would have gotten there on his own or with some other cat, I also know that Lacey has made this certain. She was a gift for Ian, for all of us, that–if I’d specifically gone out and looked for, I doubt I could have found. She came herself, and she changed our lives. I have always known that, yes, pets are part of a family, that they make a family, but–as many times as I’ve gone through this process before–that fact has never felt so true.

We will miss you, Lace. So very, very much.

If you follow me at Facebook, you probably know that, these days, my writing focus is on several picture books I’m revising. For someone who’s first book was middle-grade, who spent a couple of years working on a YA, and who has another middle-grade first draft waiting in the wings, this is a bit of a surprise. At least to me.

I’ve always loved picture books. Well, let’s say I’ve always loved a few, very-special-to-me picture books. Some came along from my childhood.

Others I collected in more recent years of being a mom and a writer.

But it was not a genre I ever expected to be writing in. When my son was little, yes, we loved picture books. We read STACKS of them. At the same time, though, I was–as a reader–eager to get to the books we could spend a little more time with. Jen Robinson recently posted about her daughter wanting Jen to read Little House in the Big Woods to her, and Jen asked about the first chapter books we shared with our children. Those were magic read-aloud years for me and, I think, for my son. From My Father’s Dragon to Lionboy the whole Harry Potter series, those were the years of long, pre-bedtime reading sessions, starting when my son was small enough to tuck himself up under my arm while I read to his being stretched out across most of the couch, leaving one cushion for me and the book. For Harry Potter, my husband took another chair in the room and listened, too.

And then…I wrote The Writing & Critique Group Survival Guide. For each section, including the one on critiquing picture books, I wrote some made-up text, “sample” passages, to demonstrate what to look for in a critique and how to present feedback. While I was working on the picture book “sample,” I had an idea. I had an idea I liked. I decided I didn’t want to “give it away” to the critique book. And so I made myself a promise. I promised myself that, if I left the idea out of the critique book, I would take that idea and write it into a picture book. And I would take that picture book through all the drafts it took to be “ready,” ready at least to submit.

I kept that promise. I’ve had good feedback on the manuscript, enough to know that, yes, I can write in this genre. And another thing happened. I fell in love with this genre.

Why?

Well, in all honesty, a big piece of this is the length. I went back to work part-time a couple of years ago, and while you will never hear me say that writing a picture book is easier than another kind of book, because it isn’t!, it is easier to fit the work into my life these days. Yes, I can do a revision in a weekend. I’m not saying it’s the revision, and I’m not saying there aren’t a lot of weekend revisions for each book, but I just can’t do that with a novel. When you’re feeling a bit discouraged about your writing pace and how well you’re juggling the work hours and the writing hours, there is something encouraging about seeing actual, concrete progress.

But there are other reasons. I love the way a single sentence, a single word, can be both the problem and the solution. I love (and, yes, hate) the challenge of creating an active, problem-solving protagonist who, as a child, has such limited options for taking charge and having an impact. I love having to write words that will sound right, not just read right.

And possibly, most of all, I love the image of my audience that is in my head as I write. You’ve heard authors say that we all need to find “someone” to write for, someone who we visualize at the other end of our story? Well, my someone is, like my son was all those years ago, curled up on the couch, leaning against a warm, welcoming reader. My someone is completely captured by the words and illustrations in front of them. My someone’s eyes are sparkling as they listen to and, eventually, tell the story. My someone is searching out that book from the hiding place where a parent, perhaps just a bit tired of rereading it, has tucked it away, and my someone is saying, “Again!”

I think, with picture books, I have discovered why I lean toward writing the “younger” books. Yes, as an adult, even a not-so-young adult, I still feel all that magic in books. And, yes, I know plenty of teens who feel it. But, maybe, just maybe, the magic is at its strongest for younger children.

And maybe I can be part of creating it.

This morning, I had to to go the vet, and my son had to get to school to pick up his schedule.

WE WENT IN DIFFERENT CARS!!!!!!!!!1

Because, yesterday, the boy passed his driving test.

I know, I know. Everybody gets there. I know, I know, now the worrying starts. It still feels good. For all of us. We live in the mountains, and unless your kid wants to walk/ride a bike several miles uphill on a major highway, he’s pretty much car-bound, in terms of getting to school, friends’ houses, music practices, etc., etc., etc. We’ve made it work. We’ve been as polite and pleasant to each other about coordinating schedules as it is possible to be. My husband did do a lot of the driving, but as the one who wasn’t working outside the house for many years and the one who’s working part-time now, yes, I did more of it.  And my son is so ready. He didn’t rush things; he was pretty happy a year ago to hang out at home a lot, catch rides with us when necessary. But then, this year, he got a Life. It’s a good life, the right life for him, and one–I think–with a minimum of things to scare Mom and Dad. It’s a life he should be having, and one he should be able to get to. By himself.

 Yeah, I should probably be feeling a big Wow! I should be thinking, in amazement, how did he get this big? And I am. I really am.

But, you know, also this,

• Yes, I’ve become a Doctor Who convert. I ADORED Christopher Eccleston. For those of you who assured me I’d also like David Tennant, okay, yes, he’s good, he’s cute, he’s sweet, but he’s not Christopher Eccleston. And to those of you who told me I’d love Rose, you’re absolutely right. What a fun actress! We’re hooked, although still seasons away from all the excitement about the 12th doctor. This feels a little bit like when I read Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, which–if I remember correctly–had dual points of view, and as I ended each traumatic, exhausting chapter, I had to grieve about leaving that character on the next page. Except, here, Christopher Eccleston won’t come back. Sigh.
• I’m sitting here, writing this post, listening to my son compose a bass solo (homework!) to Lullaby of Birdland. Like so much of what he does with music these days, I have no idea what he’s doing or how, but I know it sounds pretty darned cool. And it is more than cool to watch this world of his grow.
• It has been a busy, busy work week, but there have been and will be a few hours of picture-book revising. I was told by my critique groups that one of the PBs I’m working on is “almost there.” Yes, I know that can still mean plenty of revisions still to do, but close feels so much better than miles and miles away. I’m shooting for getting this back to them for our next meeting. LOVE critique deadlines.
• I’m amping up my meditation schedule. I’ve moved from searching for just the right mp3 of guided meditation on random days, to really trying to sit for 10 minutes of silent meditation every day. Sometimes I have a plan of what the meditation will focus on; sometimes, I just try to quiet that noisy mind I so often wake up with. I’m trying to think of my days as full, rather than busy, and sometimes I just sort of meditate all the to-do list items out of a tangle into a calmer, more linear sequence. Me and Bonnie Franklin.

• One week till school starts. Have I mentioned lately that my son WILL BE A SENIOR!!! He is so very different from the little boy he was not that many years ago and, at the same time, I can watch him now and see the roots of his personality all those years ago. But he has taken those roots and watered them as he wanted and pretty much pruned and directed and grown himself into the plant he WANTS to be. Oh, for pete’s sake, a GARDENING metaphor? From me? Motherhood turns you into a mushbrain. It’s going to be an insane year (hence, perhaps, the increased need for meditation), but an incredible one. If I could make sure that every eyelash and falling-star wish went toward him landing in The Place, for this next stage of his life, that makes him happy and healthy and still-growing, I would. But, really, all I can do is make sure he gets those applications in, get him to his auditions, and then, pretty much, hold my breath.

When I think about being a child or a young teen, what stands out to me is how far into the future my gaze didn’t go. I know a lot of people think of kids and teens as self-centered, sort of in a bubble of their own world, their own time. That may be partially true, but if it is, it has to make a kind of sense that, having lived so few years so far, they don’t stretch their vision decades forward, don’t yet look at people much older than themselves and say…there is where I may go. And maybe many teens do actually look that far out, and I was just one who didn’t.

The thing is, I don’t really remember thinking much about my what my life would be like at this age. This is probably at least partly because I moved out of the house when my parents were a decade younger than I am now, so my age now, at that time, meant grandparents.  Wonderful as mine were, they were still one more generation jump away from me, so I’m sure I simply loved them much more than I saw them as a potential future model. And, honestly, even if I did look at my parents as a pattern for how my life might go, that pattern would have turned out to be false–not in any huge things like love and happiness, but in subtle shifts that, obviously, work better for me than they would have for my folks.

All this is leading up to the fact that, here I am, once again, looking at where my life is and thinking, yeah, so…didn’t see this coming.

Last summer, about this time, I went back to work. Part-time and basically within school hours, but I still knew it would be an adjustment. Luckily, I like my job a lot, and, luckily, it’s definitely filling a hole that had bee in my life for a few years–a hole that needed something new and brain-stimulating-in-a-different-way to fill. And, honestly, during the school year, I didn’t see all that much difference.

Then summer came. It’s been a good one. I’m still happy to be working, and I got my awesome vacation, and weekends are treasures, but–once again–a “season” doesn’t feel like it did last year. Or five years before that. Or five years before…you know. It’s relaxing, yes, because–hey, no school for son–but it’s busier, duh! The motion feels steady and forward, like a set of wheels powered by kinetic movement. It used to feel like an oasis of long, slow, warm weeks, in which you barely noticed the turning of the clock, let alone the calendar. Neither is better. Boy, are they different.

It’s not like I’m surprised. If you’d laid out a plan for me decades ago, showing me that things would change, I’d have said, yeah, sure. Okay.  I think, though, that I would have also said something like, it’ll be easy/simple/straightforward/boring (pick your word), because I’ll be settled. I’ll have things figured out. I’ll understand life.

Mwahahaha!

And…thank goodness I would have been wrong.

Yes, life is more scattered, more chaotic than I thought it would be. Yes, there are changes coming–both for myself directly and through my son and husband–that I can’t predict, as much as the little control-freak-monster part of my personality might want to. Yes, there are days when I would happily swap the still-not-settled feeling for just a TASTE of boredom, when the unknown makes me anxious. But…oh, well. Whatever. If I had to live now with the “me” I would have visualized back then…?

YAWN.

I’m not here to shout, “Bring it on.” You can bet I’m hoping that most of the changes I’ll have to face will be good ones. But trade the sometimes-chaos for predictable and defined? For everything in its place and on my calendar? Nah. No way. Thanks, but no thanks.

I’m good.