Here's a link to the Query Contest run by literary agent Mary Kole:
KidLit.com query contest. Submit by Halloween!
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Summer Reading List
The summer of 2007 was all about Harry Potter.
Last year, it was the Twilight...New Moon...Eclipse...Breaking Dawn fest.
What will this summer's reading list look like?
It's shaping up as an ecletic mix. My current reading list includes Pride and Prejudice and Zombies; The Whiskey Rebels by David Liss (who wrote A Conspiracy of Paper, one of my favorite books); and The Egypt Game. While I'm at it, I think I'll reread Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games, which knocked my socks off earlier this year. The second book in her series, Catching Fire, comes out Sept. 1.
Last year, it was the Twilight...New Moon...Eclipse...Breaking Dawn fest.
What will this summer's reading list look like?
It's shaping up as an ecletic mix. My current reading list includes Pride and Prejudice and Zombies; The Whiskey Rebels by David Liss (who wrote A Conspiracy of Paper, one of my favorite books); and The Egypt Game. While I'm at it, I think I'll reread Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games, which knocked my socks off earlier this year. The second book in her series, Catching Fire, comes out Sept. 1.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Thanksgiving Food Fight
***Another old column that's also a favorite!***
Sumptuous aromas wafting from the kitchen. A majestic turkey poised on a platter. A whole stick of butter snatched off the table and gobbled in 30 seconds flat.
Welcome to Thanksgiving with the Martins.
Here's the backstory on that butter incident, which happened last year. We'd all gathered around the dining room table, offered thanks for our food and for each other, and proceeded to the buffet. All except for Paige, then 9 years old.
Per my instructions, my daughter, who has autism, remained at the table while I filled her plate, a system that served us well at holiday celebrations. This time when I returned with her meal, I could tell in an instant something was amiss.
Paige looked as if she'd applied great gobs of shimmering lip gloss from the tip of her nose down to her chin. When I spied the empty butter dish beside her napkin, everything made sense. My daughter the food predator had struck again.
If you're eating with Paige, don't watch your back: Guard your plate. She routinely astonishes us with the skill and swiftness of such sneak attacks. Look the other way, and your muffin has vanished; abandon a cookie for a split-second, and it's as good as gone. With the stealth of a sniper, she swoops in with nary a crumb as evidence of her offense.
The whole situation still makes me shake my head, particularly when considering that from ages 3 to 6, Paige ate only five foods. Back then if you offered her anything besides a banana, waffle, cheeseburger, French toast, or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she would turn up her nose and flee the scene. Out of concern for her nutritional well-being, I began sprinkling ground-up vitamins on her PB&J. All the while, our pediatrician and developmental therapists assured us that Paige's culinary horizons would eventually expand. They did – along with her the circumference of her tummy.
Paige's relentless pursuit of all things sweet and sticky finally forced us into action. My dad installed a lock on our pantry door. We started hiding cereal boxes and granola bars in the loftiest kitchen cabinets. Any tempting leftovers headed straight to the fridge in the garage.
Still, a girl must eat, so every meal we work on moderation and manners. We have seen our share of successes, too. Paige uses a fork, spoon and napkin correctly and without complaint. Most nights, she'll sit with us for the duration of dinner rather than doing the old grab-and-go. She also generally behaves well in restaurants and her school cafeteria, especially when reminded to slow down and savor the food in front of her.
Curbing her urge to overindulge, however, continues to test our collective resolve. Paige pays little attention to warnings of a stomach ache; she shakes off our assertions that she's eaten enough. At least she seems to understand the new house rule: Under no circumstances can she filch food off someone else's plate. And though her record remains less than perfect, we can now go for days without the issue consuming much time or effort.
For the moment, we have achieved a détente in our daily food fight. And for that, we definitely give thanks.
Lisa Martin is a lifestyles columnist for The Dallas Morning News.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Mother of All Bad Hair Days
***This is an old column but still one of my favorites!***
A Local Children's Salon Offers Mom Some Relief
By LISA MARTIN/Special Contributor to The Dallas Morning News
My daughter had just turned 5 when she got half a haircut. I swear on my own head it was as ugly as it sounds.
Back then, even a modest trim was a major ordeal.
I would put off trips to the salon until Paige's bangs tickled her nose and my husband started muttering the word "urchin." When I did manage to coax her into the stylist's chair, she'd sit still for all of six seconds. Paige invariably left with a mediocre 'do while I'd come away with a migraine.
This particular haircut proved the Perfect Storm – a wiggly kid, an anxiety-addled mother, and a stylist who looked as if she'd probably never even heard of the Farrah Fawcett feathers I had when I was Paige's age. The sole saving grace was the emptiness of the strip-mall salon. I had done a drive-by beforehand to make sure we'd have no audience; I knew my limits.
Of course, the whole misadventure might have taken a different turn if I'd simply told the hairstylist that my daughter has autism. I relied instead on a tried-and-true scheme for sidestepping the whole issue. Around strangers, I'd talk and talk and talk, as if my chatter would somehow mask the virtual silence of my nonverbal daughter. If I fooled anyone, it's only because the person figured poor Paige could not get a word in edgewise.
But on what morphed into the mother-of-all-bad-hair-days, the more manic my monologue, the more Paige seemed to squirm. Sweat beaded on the stylist's creaseless brow; at one point, I thought I saw her hands shake. A half a head later, the young woman threw down her shears.
"I'm afraid I'm going to hurt her," she whimpered. "I have to stop."
I wanted to say, "Honey, I've got to stop, too!" But for the first time during the whole mortifying incident, I found myself at a loss for words.
Months later, when I had almost come to grips with a lifetime of lopsided locks, I heard about the owner of a local children's salon who worked with special-needs kids. I drew a breath as I dialed her number – then I talked and talked and talked.
This time, though, I spoke honestly about our situation, going so far as to mention my dream of a tidy pageboy on my little girl's head. Miss Lita assured me she could help. My candor had earned me an ally.
To this day, once a month on Saturdays, Miss Lita opens her shop a half-hour early for Paige's appointments. Even better, never once in the last four years has she displayed anything but a calm, confident and caring attitude when it comes to my daughter, coif and beyond. Paige looks forward to each visit, as do I. With Miss Lita, I can talk about everything from Paige's struggles to write her name to how she finally learned to ride her bike to the latest issue of Vogue.
Vogue? Of course!
Miss Lita does run a salon, after all.
Lita Giddings' shop, Kazaams Kutz 4 Kids, is at 810 W. Arkansas, Arlington; 817-261-1233
Lisa Martin is a lifestyles columnist for The Dallas Morning News.
A Local Children's Salon Offers Mom Some Relief
By LISA MARTIN/Special Contributor to The Dallas Morning News
My daughter had just turned 5 when she got half a haircut. I swear on my own head it was as ugly as it sounds.
Back then, even a modest trim was a major ordeal.
I would put off trips to the salon until Paige's bangs tickled her nose and my husband started muttering the word "urchin." When I did manage to coax her into the stylist's chair, she'd sit still for all of six seconds. Paige invariably left with a mediocre 'do while I'd come away with a migraine.
This particular haircut proved the Perfect Storm – a wiggly kid, an anxiety-addled mother, and a stylist who looked as if she'd probably never even heard of the Farrah Fawcett feathers I had when I was Paige's age. The sole saving grace was the emptiness of the strip-mall salon. I had done a drive-by beforehand to make sure we'd have no audience; I knew my limits.
Of course, the whole misadventure might have taken a different turn if I'd simply told the hairstylist that my daughter has autism. I relied instead on a tried-and-true scheme for sidestepping the whole issue. Around strangers, I'd talk and talk and talk, as if my chatter would somehow mask the virtual silence of my nonverbal daughter. If I fooled anyone, it's only because the person figured poor Paige could not get a word in edgewise.
But on what morphed into the mother-of-all-bad-hair-days, the more manic my monologue, the more Paige seemed to squirm. Sweat beaded on the stylist's creaseless brow; at one point, I thought I saw her hands shake. A half a head later, the young woman threw down her shears.
"I'm afraid I'm going to hurt her," she whimpered. "I have to stop."
I wanted to say, "Honey, I've got to stop, too!" But for the first time during the whole mortifying incident, I found myself at a loss for words.
Months later, when I had almost come to grips with a lifetime of lopsided locks, I heard about the owner of a local children's salon who worked with special-needs kids. I drew a breath as I dialed her number – then I talked and talked and talked.
This time, though, I spoke honestly about our situation, going so far as to mention my dream of a tidy pageboy on my little girl's head. Miss Lita assured me she could help. My candor had earned me an ally.
To this day, once a month on Saturdays, Miss Lita opens her shop a half-hour early for Paige's appointments. Even better, never once in the last four years has she displayed anything but a calm, confident and caring attitude when it comes to my daughter, coif and beyond. Paige looks forward to each visit, as do I. With Miss Lita, I can talk about everything from Paige's struggles to write her name to how she finally learned to ride her bike to the latest issue of Vogue.
Vogue? Of course!
Miss Lita does run a salon, after all.
Lita Giddings' shop, Kazaams Kutz 4 Kids, is at 810 W. Arkansas, Arlington; 817-261-1233
Lisa Martin is a lifestyles columnist for The Dallas Morning News.
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