So here I am, alone in the barn, a little sick about what I promised Misty I would do. What if I mess up? I tell myself not to think about that. Instead, I hold my apron out and roll the stones in it. Soon I’m back where I started—under the oak tree. It takes a minute for me to figure out where I am, but it helps when I see my house in the same place it was in when I left. 

I gotta tell you, this traveling through time thing is like nothing you’ve ever done before.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure Mom and Stu are inside. The trick’ll be getting past them, dressed like a pioneer girl and making off with our whole supply of oranges. As soon as everything around me stops swirling, I go up to the kitchen door and peek inside. Nobody’s there. I see oranges piled up in the fruit bowl. Funny, most days I couldn’t care less about oranges. But today, I see them: fat, round, beautiful orange balls of juice. I open the door an inch at a time. It creaks some, so I need to do it slow. 

A second later, I’m in the kitchen. It’s almost too easy. 

I set the stones on the windowsill and grab a plastic grocery bag from under the sink. I stuff it full of oranges—all five of them. I imagine Lizbet sucking on them. Then I see her playing in a pile of oranges, even taking a bath in orange juice. 
Lizbet, covered in oranges.

I let the screen door slam behind me when I leave, but I don’t care. No Mom, no Stu. Got the oranges. I’m running again, back down to the oak tree. The bag is swinging and banging against my thigh, and let me tell you, it’s not easy running in a long dress and boots. I don’t see how Misty can stand it.  I get to the tree and remember a way important thing I forgot. 

The stones.

I left them on the windowsill. 

Brilliant, Diamond. Just brilliant. 

Man, do I have a knack for messing up. As soon as I think I have everything under control, wham! I’m back at the beginning, starting over again. This gets me thinking about all the stupid things I’ve ever done, like the time I asked Emma Jackson to come over to my house to play. Even though she acted all nice about it when she said “No,” I heard later she told somebody (who told somebody else who told me) that she almost died when I asked her. 

She would never come to my house. 

Then there was the time Stu and I--

Shut up, Diamond. Just shut up, I say to myself. You’ve got to get the stones.

Off I go, back up to the kitchen. Unlucky me, Mom and Stu both walk in at the same time I do. 

“Diamond?” Mom asks. 

“Oh. Hi Mom.” Here I am, trying to act like I’m not in a hurry to get back to the 1800’s to save somebody’s life. Not an easy thing to do, by the way.

“Get a load of that dress!” Stu says. “Where’d you get that?”

“None of your beeswax,” I say.

But Mom wants to know, too. “Where did you get that dress? And what are you doing with that bag of—what is it, oranges?” She looks at the fruit bowl: apples, bananas, and grapes. 

No oranges.

I think about Misty, not lying to her mom and all. 

“This old thing?” I say, looking down at my dress. “Don’t you remember it?” 

“I can’t say that I do.”

“Neither do I. It was in my playhouse. I think the oranges would look pretty on my table in there, don’t you?” 

I’m acting totally weird, I know, but no lies. 

“Diamond, what’s gotten in to you?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with you?” Stu asks.

“Don’t be ugly,” I tell him.

“Can’t help it,” Stu says.

Mom turns to Stu. “That’s enough out of you. I want you to march upstairs and finish packing your boxes.”

“How come I have to and Diamond doesn’t?”

“You worry about yourself. I’ll take care of Diamond. Now march.”

“Yeah, but she—”

“March.”

Stu gets all in a huff. He blows on his arm and makes a noise that sounds like, well, you know--flatulence, aiming it at me. He does leave, though, which gives Mom a chance to lay into me. 

“As for you, young lady” she says. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on? You’re acting awfully suspicious. What are you up to?”

“Nothing, Mom,” I say. “I’m just going to miss this place, that’s all.” What that’s got to do with anything, I don’t know. But it works. My mom comes over and puts her arms around me. She rests her chin on my head. 

“I’ll miss it too, sweetie. It’s been a wonderful house.”

I think about Lizbet, and something about my mom hugging me makes me cry. I’ve got to get these oranges back to that little cabin, or Lizbet’s going to die. I want to tell my mom about it, but I can’t, or she’ll never let me go back. Not that I could even get her to believe me. She sure didn’t believe me when I first tried to tell her about Misty.

My mom’s stroking my hair, which does sort of make me feel better. “Don’t worry, Diamond. We’ll like our new house, too. You’ll see.”

I don’t say a thing. When I stop crying, my mom starts in on me again, only nicer. “Alright, honey,” she says. “We really do need to keep moving. Have you finished packing the boxes I left in your room?”

I’ve got those crying hiccups that make it hard to talk. I shake my head, no.

“Why don’t you go on up and take care of that? I need to run a few errands—” she takes the grocery bag from me and dumps the oranges back in the bowl “—and you kids have got to get those boxes done. Take a peek in Stu’s room and make sure he’s packing, will you?”

“But, Mom, I have to—”

“No buts, Diamond. You’ve had plenty of time to pack up. I want you to go up there and get it done. Now.”

Dang. 

I stomp off.  

On the way to my room, I stick my head in Stu’s door. He’s sitting on the floor, in the middle of his junk and two practically empty boxes, dive-bombing army men into one of them. 

He doesn’t even look at me. 

“Mom says you gotta start packing,” I say. 

“Mom says you gotta start packing,” he says.

“Cut it out.” 

“Cut it out.” 

“Snot rot.”

“Snot rot.”

“I know you are but what am I?” 

“I know—” he says, but I slam the door. 

I’m pretty sure I know what he’s going to say.
 
                                                                #
 
So here I am, stuck in my room. My mom took my unicorn poster down yesterday, and my rug is rolled up, a burrito standing in the corner. I can hardly tell it’s my room. Misty’s boots sound hollow on my wooden floor--click, click, click—a stranger’s footsteps, coming from my own feet. 

When I was a little kid, I thought a humongous ogre hid under my bed, waiting to pull me into his hovel, which in my mind was a treacherous place to get pulled into. One day my mom got tired of hearing about the ogre and made me look under my bed. I still remember squatting down and lifting the dust ruffle, knowing I’d see two bloodshot eyeballs staring back at me. 

No eyeballs. Just dust and a comic book, one I’d been looking for.  

Not being able to get to those stones is much worse than anything I ever made up. I wish you had seen Lizbet, then you would know how crazy I feel, being kept prisoner here. If I don’t get back in time, she’s not going to make it. 

But then I get to thinking, and I wonder if that’s what’s supposed to happen. I mean, wouldn’t it mess up history if someone like me goes back and keeps somebody from dying? What if Lizbet grows up to be President of the United States or something, just because I went back and saved her? Now that I think about it, did I save her? Did she grow to be an old lady, or did she die after I left? Misty seems to think we’re messing with something we shouldn’t be. 

I wonder if she’s right.

I’m in danger of a serious melt down, trying to figure it all out. I’m also listening to my mom’s footsteps, wandering around downstairs. She sure is taking her time about leaving. I hear a thud, thud, thudgo across the kitchen, and a drawer slide out. That would be her getting her grocery list. Now to the front hallway, the sound of keys jingling. At last, the front door opens, then closes. 

Wait! How come her footsteps are still inside? 

She forgot something. 

I hear Stu down the hall, having a battle with his army men. There’s a lot of bap bap bap’s (machinegun fire) and eeeeeeoooow’s (planes falling from the sky). 
Stu’s noises stop. He leaves his room and clomps down the stairs, jumping over the bottom two like he always does. Thump!

“Mom!” he yells.

What now? I’ve got to get those oranges to Lizbet. I’ve made up my mind. Even if I change the course of history, I’m going to save that baby. Now that I think about it, what if I need to save her to keep history from changing? Maybe her growing into an old lady is what makes everything happen the way it does. I feel a heavy burden on me to keep history the way it’s supposed to be, but I can’t seem to figure out what that is.

Mom and Stu are downstairs, blabbing about something. 

“Stop talking,” I say.

They stop, almost like they heard me.

Now I hear Mom open and close the front door. From my window, I see the top of her head. She’s moving fast—down the walkway, into her car. She starts the engine, turns it off, gets out.

No, Mom. Stay in the car.

But she doesn’t. I hear the front door open and close. (By now, I’m like, dying.) This time, she turns around pretty quick. She’s back outside, in the car, pulling out of the driveway. I’ve got my hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt downstairs, grab the stones, and get back to the oak tree. 

I see her car go up the street and I’m outta here.

I tear down the stairs. I’m not even thinking about the dress, so it bunches up around me as I run. Stu stays in his room, thank God. Not that I care if he sees me. As long as I get the oranges to Lizbet, I can figure out what to tell everybody after I come back.

I race to the kitchen, over to the window. 

I stop. 

Save for a potted cactus and a ceramic frog, the windowsill is empty.

My stones are gone.

Learn about our online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with my easy english program! 
​
STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How do you think Diamond felt when she saw the oranges in her kitchen, knowing they could save Lizbet's life?
Try to remember a time you were trying to do something but you kept getting interrupted. Can you imagine how Diamond must be feeling now?
Where do you think the stones have gone to?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

So here I am, sitting on the floor, leaning against my bed, trying to write it all down before I forget. I guess you’ve figured out by now that I haven’t gone back to Misty’s. It’s not that I don’t want to. But there are a few things that got in my way:

1. My mom. When I checked in with her, she made me sort my laundry and put it in my drawers. I would much rather poke at a fire or tend—I love that word, tend—to my baby sister, if only I had one. But no. I get stuck folding underwear. 
2. Hunger. I wish I had eaten some cornbread and beans when I had the chance to, but I didn’t, so I had to go make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 
3. Me being freaked out. Since putting clothes away and eating a sandwich only takes about a second, you might be wondering why it’s been four days and I haven’t gone back. I keep meaning to, but every time I start rolling those stones, I get nervous. I’m gonna do it, though. Believe you me, I’m gonna do it.

 
Yeah, right. 

My notebook is killing me. 

I chuck it up on the bed. 

I keep thinking about me hugging Misty and her baby sister. I swear it, I felt like she was my sister, too. If I close my eyes right now, I can pretend I’m picking green beans with Misty in her garden. Only it’s our garden. And her ma is my ma. I know you’re thinking I’m just wishing it, but you’ve never gone back in time before. When you do, it feels like you belong there.

I’d give anything to see my sisters again. 

But I’m not sure about that traveling thing. It felt weird, me floating around in who-knows-what. I mean, how can I be so sure I’ll get put back together in the right order at the end of the trip? What if my feet end up on my hands, or my head is screwed on backwards? Even worse, what if part of me gets left behind? I can see Stu now, telling Mom he found my butt sitting in front of the TV. 

The more I think about it, the more of a scaredy-cat I become about throwing those stones.

But each day I sit here and do nothing, I turn into a bigger liar than ever. I swore I would go back and do what I could to help. Not that it looks like anybody needs my help, I keep telling myself. Over and over. Unless you count bringing back some twenty-first century powder for Lizbet’s bottom. But no matter how many times I think about everybody all happy in that cabin, I can’t seem to shake this bad feeling I’ve got. 

It takes me almost a week to talk myself into going. I have to go. We’re moving tomorrow, so I’m almost out of time. The problem is, it’s hard to get away from everybody. My mom has a zillion things for me to do, and Stu’s freaking out about the move. He keeps following me around, whining, as if I can do anything about it.

Finally I say, “Come on, people! Can’t a girl get a break around here? I need a minute! Just give me a minute!” I lay that on Stu and Mom at the same time, so they’re both standing there in the kitchen, mouths opening and closing like baby chicks when I go stomping out the back door. 

They know better than to try and stop me.

I go straight to my playhouse, which is where I’ve stashed Misty’s dress. I hurry up and put the dress on, even though I can’t reach all the buttons in the back. I grab the apron, tie it around me. Just putting the dress on makes me feel wobbly, like I’ve already stepped partway into that other time. 

Off I go to the tree. If you’re wondering where the stones are, don’t. They’ve been with me since the day I found them. I even sleep with them under my pillow. 
Right now, I’ve got them in my hand.

I get to the tree, scoop my apron up, and drop the stones in, all at once. When I make up my mind to do something, I just do it. I’m the kind of person who jumps in the pool right away, no matter how cold it is. I’m not going to put my toe in first. 

To me, that’s torture. 

In seconds, I’m back in Misty’s garden. I won’t even tell you about the ride; it makes me feel throw-uppy to think about it. This one was a head buster, so much air was whooshing inside me I thought my ears might fly off. You know how it is when you twirl until you fall down? That’s how it feels. Only, not like that, I just can’t think of any other way to tell you about it. But since I told you I wasn’t going to tell you about it, I’ll shut up.

Everything about the cabin looks the way it did when I left. Smoke’s coming out of the chimney and the windows are dark. The sun is shining—just like it is at home—and the oak tree hasn’t grown an inch. I wonder where Misty is. Maybe they’re all inside, except for Misty’s pa. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so I’m guessing he’ll be out in the field.

Okay, smarty-pants, I say to myself. You’re here. Now what? Do you just go bang on the door? I can see it now: “Hey, Mrs. D., Wazzup? Remember me? Diamond Joy? That weird girl who showed up and stole Misty’s dress? Well, here’s the dress. If you don’t mind, I’ll just take my little boy outfit out of the barn and head on home. Seein’ as all looks just fine here. I’d be most grateful if you didn’t call the sheriff or anything.”

So here I stand, like a statue in Misty’s garden. I don’t know what to do. Then I think about Harriet the Spy. The first thing she would do is snoop around, which I’m pretty good at. I figure I’ll start with the barn, circle back around to the cabin, and then go home. It would be totally fun to talk to Misty, though. Maybe I can work that in. 

Before I do anything, I look up and send out a warning, big and loud: “I want you listen to me, whoever sent those stones. If I don’t find anyone in trouble this time, I’m done. I’m not coming back anymore. I’ve kept my promise. Are you good with that?”

No answer, which is probably good, since I’d pee my pants if a giant voice started talking to me out of nowhere.

It crosses my mind that Harriet probably doesn’t talk to made-up people when she snoops. I glance around—nobody there to hear me, thank God—and make my way through the garden up to the barn. I slide open the door and get a big whiff of—well, you know what a barn smells like. The first thing I see are two horses, each in a stall. Their humongous noses turn my way when I come in. One of them snorts, which makes me jump. It seems weird to me that the horses are in the barn. Shouldn’t they be out in the field with Misty’s pa? 

I wonder why Pa isn’t working.

Anyway, I back out of the barn. The horses look mighty fine to me. Listen to me. I’ve only been here for about a minute and I’m already talking like a pioneer girl. (Emma Jackson would totally diss me if she heard me say “mighty fine.”)

Okie dokie, now a quick peek in the cabin and I’m done. I creep back through the garden and up to the side of the cabin. Good thing the windows aren’t too far off the ground. I don’t even need to tiptoe. I stick my head in one of them. Now that I think about it, Harriet probably wouldn’t have done that. The idea of spying is to make sure no one sees you. 

But nobody does. In fact, it’s dark inside the cabin, and I can barely see them. When my eyes get used to the dark, I see Misty’s mom and Misty. Mrs. Dance is holding baby Lizbet, and Misty’s sitting on a three-legged stool by her mom’s side, a rag in her hand. Misty’s pa and Timmy are at a rickety-looking table by the stove, watching. Pa’s got his elbow on the table, his head on his fist. Timmy’s eyes are wide open, like he’s spooked or something, and one small hand is opening and closing. 

The other is stuck on his face, his mouth sucking like crazy on his thumb.

Misty is crying real soft, but her ma snaps at her.

“Hush, Misty,” she says. “Get some fresh water on your rag.” Misty dips her rag in the bucket on the floor between them, wrings it out and wipes Lizbet’s face all over, her forehead, under her nose, in the creases of her neck. She dips her rag again and wipes Lizbet’s baby hands, her tiny feet.

This is the hardest part for me to tell you. Lizbet isn’t moving. I lower myself to the ground and grab my stomach. I wish I hadn’t seen what I just saw. Lizbet isn’t doing so good, and from the looks of everybody in there, she must be pretty sick. 
So I guess in a way, I was right. There was trouble in Misty’s home. The part I was wrong about was me helping. I’m not a doctor. I’m not even too good at aiming when I put a Band-Aid on. I’m the last person on the planet who would know what to do for a sick baby, no matter what century we’re in. 

I stand up and look back in the window. I guess my head popping up catches Misty’s eye, ‘cuz she looks over at me. She looks sad, the way my fourth-grade teacher looked after her husband died, the kind of sad that stays on your face a long time.

I’m not sure what to do. I feel like a peeping tom, and I’m wishing Misty hadn’t seen me. I’m afraid she’s going to think I’ve come back to help—like I said I would—and she’ll think I can actually do something. 

She drops her rag in the bucket. 

“I need to step outside, Ma. I’ll be right back,” she says, her voice hushed. 

Her ma doesn’t say a word. She just goes on holding Lizbet, not taking her eyes off her baby. She’s wearing her pretty yellow dress again today—the one with the lavender flowers on it—but it doesn’t look as cheery as it did when I first saw it. 
I sit back down again, waiting for Misty to come around the corner of the cabin. I see her, and she signals for me to follow. We walk down the hill to the barn without talking, but when we get inside, Misty slides the door shut and turns to me.

“Diamond Joy!” she cries. “Please tell me you’ve come to help us!”

“I—I—what’s wrong with Lizbet?” I ask, not sure what to say.

“She’s ill.” Misty’s all out of breath, even though she hasn’t been running. “She’s dying. Ma says she won’t last ‘til morning.”

When I hear this, I feel worse than I’ve ever felt in my life. I think of Lizbet, reaching her stubby hands out to me, saying “da da.” She’s about the sweetest baby I ever saw. She can’t be dying, but Misty says she is. And I’ve practically promised I would save her. 

Me and my big mouth. 

“What happened, Misty? What’s wrong with Lizbet?” I ask again.

“She’s very ill. Pa fetched the doctor, and he says she’s got scurvy.”

“Scurvy? What’s that?”

“People get scurvy when they don’t eat oranges. Or lemons or limes. Sailors get it at sea, but babies whose mas can’t feed them get it, too. When Lizbet was born, Ma was in bed for a long time. She couldn’t nurse the baby, so we had to feed Lizbet milk from our goat. And now she’s going to die. She’s going to die.”Misty puts her face in her hands and starts to cry. Her hands are red, her knuckles all flaky and chapped. 

I stand there, not knowing what to do. But after she calms down a little, I ask, “Can’t we go to the store and get some oranges for her?”

Misty shakes her head. “Pa’s been all over Wisconsin looking for oranges. Nobody’s got them; last winter brought such heavy snows. Trains couldn’t get through, and a lot of goods were never delivered, especially food. We hardly scraped together enough wheat and corn to make anything to eat. But oranges? I haven’t seen an orange since we came out west.” 

 “Misty, are you sure this—this scurvy would get better if Lizbet eats oranges?” 
“The doctor says so. But there are no oranges.” 

You can probably tell I’m working on an idea, an ingenious plan that’s showing up in bite-size chunks, coming together the way a puzzle does when you put the last piece in. 

I step in front of Misty and put my nose up so close to hers we’re almost touching. “Misty Dance, you listen to me,” I say. “I’ve got a whole bowl full of oranges sitting on my kitchen counter—honest to God. All I need to do is go back and get them.”

I open my hand and show her the stones. 

“Oh, Diamond Joy!”  

I swear, Misty’s excitement is catching. Now I’m excited, too.  “I just need to go home, get the oranges and come back. We’ll squeeze out the juice and give it to Lizbet. See?”

“Oh!” is all Misty can say.

“I just know this will work! You go back inside with your ma and Lizbet. I’ll bring the oranges around to the front door when I get back.”

“Oh, Diamond—”

“Go on! I need to get going if I’m going to get back here in time.”

“But what about—?”

“What about what?”

“Lizbet’s fate. Should we attempt to change what is meant to pass? And my parents. How will we explain the oranges to them?”

“We won’t need to. If Lizbet gets better, they won’t care where the oranges came from.”

“I am not certain this is the proper order of how things should be. We have already tempted fate enough.”

“Jeez, Misty. Where I come from, you’d totally be a Negative Nellie. You’ve got a problem with everything.”

Misty stands up, like she’s going to do a bossy hands-on-hips thing. But instead, she whispers, “Could you really get back here in time? You will come back, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be back.” 

Misty comes at me, and honest to God, I can’t tell if she’s going to shove me or hug me. She doesn’t do either, but instead, grabs my hands in hers, squeezing hard and closing her eyes. “No,” she says, still whispering. “You have to swear it.”

I know that’s a word she’d get in trouble for saying. When she says it, I’m like, like, proud of how much faith she has in me.

“I swear it, Misty,” I say. “I won’t let you down.”

Misty kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” she says. “I must hurry back inside now. My ma will be looking for me.” 

Before she slips out the door, she turns to me and says, “Godspeed, Diamond Joy. Godspeed.”

Then, she’s gone.

STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How do you feel about Lizbet being so sick?
What do you think it would be like to live in the 1800's with no grocery stores or doctors offices?
What would you do if you were Diamond? Would you feel confident telling Misty you could help?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!  Learn about our online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with my easy english program that is fun for your kids!

My Daughter Repulses Other Kids
by Mary Follin and Kristi Crosson
Read on Fredericksburg Parent & Family Magazine

THE PROBLEM: My daughter is desperate for a friend—even ONE friend would do—but every time another child pays attention to her (which is rare), my daughter does something to make herself as annoying as possible, like starting these odd clinging behaviors. And by clinging, I mean following kids around and talking nonsense. She might get stuck on a knock-knock joke, or a silly song, and most kids don’t know how to respond. She even reverts to baby talk when the other child ignores her. I’ve seen this happen before, but now her (third grade) teacher is bringing it to my attention, too. What really makes me sad is that my daughter is so sweet—and loyal—and would make a wonderful friend if she could only get through the awkward stage of getting to know somebody.

MARY SAYS: For whatever reason, some children are less adept at picking up on social cues, and your daughter might be one of them. While there may be other issues going on here (and I think it’s important you check into that possibility), there are some behavioral techniques you can share with your daughter to help her make friends more easily.

But first you need to put yourself in her shoes. While it’s obvious to you that she is intentionally turning off the exact people she wants to spend time with, she most likely doesn’t realize she’s doing it. To her, the other kids ‘speak’ a language she doesn’t understand, so she’s made up her own set of signals to use, like: Follow that kid.
​
Then what? She has no idea, but she knows she needs to do something. Thus, the knock-knock jokes and baby talk.

So please don’t point out to your child how she is bothering the other children. Right now, these annoying behaviors are all she has. Instead of encouraging her to give them up, offer her some more powerful tools and explain to her how much better they work.

Open your conversation with what she truly wants. Ask her how she feels about making a special friend, and if she’d like to come up with some ideas about how to do it. Describe in detail why she would make a wonderful friend for a very lucky person. (You describe your daughter as sweet and loyal. Who could ask for more?) Then, share with her a time when you felt awkward about meeting someone new, and tell her it can happen to anybody.

Next, let her in on the ‘secret’ to making friends that a lot of people don’t know. People love when you ask them questions! Tell her it can be tempting to talk only about yourself, but people feel good when you care enough to ask about them. This may be a tricky concept for a third-grader, which is why she'll need to practice with you.

Here are few questions to get her started:

What’s your favorite color? 
What do you like about school? (Or what DON’T you like about school, depending upon where your daughter is coming from.)
How has your life changed since the pandemic?
Do you have any brothers or sisters?
What’s your favorite food?
What’s the best book/movie you’ve ever read?

Once your daughter has chosen a few favorites, she’s ready to go deeper. She needs to learn to ask a second question about the same topic. For example, let’s say her new friend tells your daughter that ‘yellow’ is her favorite color. A second question could be, “Do you like bananas?”

The second question is harder because it can’t be memorized, so role playing with you is particularly important. Let your daughter play herself, and you be the new friend. Have her practice asking you the same few questions—many times. Each time, throw her a curve ball and help her think of a second question, based on your new answer. Stick with this until she can do it on her own.

Then switch. YOU be your daughter and let her be the friend. (She’ll love this!)

Learning a different way of relating to other people isn’t easy. But with enough practice, she’ll get more comfortable with it. She will also begin to exercise her ‘listening’ muscle, which is a critical part of relationships that many adults have yet to master.

KRISTI SAYS: I think making friends is harder for children in this generation. Some kids are so used to being in front of screens, let’s face it, they don’t know how to respond when real children want to interact with them. Add to that the hover-parenting culture and the prevalence of leveraging technology for “face-to-face” learning in the past year, and you have a recipe for social disaster. And at that age, kids have always been awkward.

At least, I was.

While I am quite the extrovert now, we moved every couple of years growing up and making friends was tricky. I’d get nervous and sometimes the only thing I could do was act silly. Not everyone liked that. I got rejected a lot. But sometimes kids would laugh about it and be silly with me, and it was wonderful.

As a mom, my heart breaks when my kids get rejected. My daughter (kindergarten) has the opposite problem to yours. She is very shy when she meets new kids. While I just want to jump in and introduce her to all the kids and get them to like her, I know I need to let her navigate these new surroundings in her way. She is learning to watch for opportunities to “be brave” and ask if she can play with others.

The problem is that when a new person is too bold, she gets intimidated by their strong personality. She gets fearful if the other child starts following her. It’s not that she doesn’t like the attention, she simply doesn’t realize the other child just wants a friend.

As a parent, I’ve had to sit down and talk about certain social cues to help her feel more comfortable. It’s my job to model these behaviors and to offer her ideas that can help her out. If I watch her struggle to say “hi” to a new person, all she might need is a gentle reminder that sometimes even a wave and a smile is a good start if she’s feeling too shy.
I also take time to tell her “great job” when I see her do something a little outside of her comfort zone to make a new friend.

Here are a few things that have helped us navigate the friend-making situation:

1. Visit with the same group of kids regularly. Sometimes strong personalities can be off-putting to kids, especially if they are shy like my daughter. By spending time with the same group of kids more than once, your daughter will get a better chance to connect with them and make a friend.
2. Get involved in something she can lead. It’s clear your daughter has some great leadership skills. There are programs like 4-H and Scouting that can help her use those skills and make new friends.
3. Let her play a new sport. Competitive team sports are excellent for development and also help kids make new friends more gradually.

Here are some other things you can try.

• Remind her that it takes time to make new friends and it may take a few tries.
• Teach her to listen and watch. She needs to listen to the other person and watch for cues. It’s great to talk, but good friends also listen and give their friends a chance to say something, too.
• Help her come up with 3-5 questions she could ask someone when she first meets them. Teach her to ask, then wait for a response. For instance, “What’s your favorite toy?” or “What do you like to do outside?”

There is nothing wrong with your daughter. She sounds amazing. The key is to help her learn how to take a different approach when trying to connect with someone new. Since she’s not shy, remind her that some kids are, and they might need time to warm up to her.

ASK MOM offers parents two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues—one from a mom with grown children (Mary), the other from a mom raising small children (Kristi). If you're looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn't around to ask, drop in! If you have a question for Mary and Kristi, we’d love to hear from you!  

​* Learn about Mary's online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with my easy english program that is fun for your kids for kindergarten phonics!

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“Misty,” I say. “It’s time for you to go home. And I’m coming with you.”

Misty’s mouth drops open. “You can’t come! My folks will not know what to do with you!”

“Yeah, I thought about that. But people around here don’t know what to do with me, either. I’m used to it. Still, I have to come. I think somebody back there needs me. Somebody in your family.”

“You are frightening me again, Miss Diamond. You are an awfully strange girl, and you may not come back with me.”

Wow. We’re talking seriously rude here. Maybe I should send her home. I mean, she’s the strange one, talking all funny, wearing a long dress and everything. And that apron! If she’s going to act like such a priss, why should I risk my life for her? But then I think about my promise, one that I can tell you right now I wish I hadn’t made. I told SOMEONE I would help somebody. 

Turns out that somebody is Misty.  

“Look,” I say. “I’d just as soon stay right here. But too bad for you, I made a promise.” Then I think about how an old-fashioned girl would say it. “A vow,” I correct myself. “I vowed I would help if the stones asked me to. Then they brought you here. You wouldn’t want to make me break my vow, would you?”

“I should say not.” 

“So let’s think this through. If it’s the stones that brought you here, my guess is they’ll take you home, too. We just need to make sure we bring them with us so I can get back. Last time, I rolled the stones like dice. That’s when you showed up. I’m thinking we should try that again. You hold out your apron, and I’ll roll them in there. The main thing is, the stones have to come with us. My mom’ll kill me if I don’t come back.”

I’m talking like a know-it-all, but inside, I’m scared. I have no clue how any of this works. What if I get stuck in the 1800’s and never see my mom and dad again? I would even miss Stu.

I step closer to Misty, and I’m rolling the stones around in my hand. They’re making a clackity, clack, clack sound. Misty stands there, looking at me. I can tell she thinks I’m nuts.

“Hold your apron out,” I say. 

She does what I tell her, like I’m the boss or something. 

“I’m going to hang on to your hand, so we stick together. Whatever you do, DON’T let go of your apron.” I grab her hand. I don’t know why, but I’m shocked to find that a pioneer girl’s hand feels just like mine. I get ready to throw the stones, but I stop, mid-air. I close my fingers around all four of them, holding on tight. 

Misty looks at me funny, then drops her apron.

“HEY!” I say. “Remember the part about not letting go of your apron?!” I can’t believe I’m yelling at her, but just think what would have happened to me if I had let go and the stones had ended up on the ground. 

“I say,” Misty says. “Do you recall the part about rolling the stones?” 

“Oh. Right. It’s just that—well, I couldn’t go through with it. I mean, we don’t really know what’s going to happen.”

“Diamond Joy, you hand me those stones. Whether or not you’re coming with me, I’m going home.”

Believe me, it’s tempting, but I don’t do it. 

“Look,” I say. “I made a promise. If I let you go without me, it’ll bug me for as long as I live. I’ll roll them this time, swear, but don’t let go of your apron.”

Misty holds her apron out. I grab her hand and toss the stones in. The funny thing is, deep down, I don’t expect much to happen. So, I’m shocked when I feel this strange kind of melting thing going on. My body turns all soft and wavy. Then comes the hot air, and now, here’s Misty and me, staring at each other again. But this time, we’re in a garden, standing beside an oak tree. A tiny one, like Misty said.

Turns out, everything Misty said was true. God’s honest truth—I’m in her garden. The sun is shining the way it is at home, but it looks fake, like I’m in a play or something and the stage is all lit up. Even Misty looks fake; I see this fuzzy haze around her. 

I’m wondering about myself, too. Am I really here? I want to find out by touching things: the oak tree, the ground—my face—but I’m way too freaked out to do anything. What if I can’t get back? I mean, it’s not like I know anything about Misty, or this place, or if all my body parts will even work here. I wonder if I’m still the same girl. Me, Diamond Joy. 

How could I be? I haven’t been born yet.

Now I know why Misty was so bossy about those stones. If I get stuck here, I’m in big trouble, and not the kind I know how to get out of.

Misty drops to her knees. She reaches her hands out on the ground and lays her cheek on the dirt. Her butt’s sticking up. “Thank you, Diamond Joy,” she blurts out. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

I see the stones tumble from her apron. That gets me going. I grab them and stuff them in my pocket. They’re smooth and cold, and I tell myself only a real girl could feel that.

Misty looks up at me. “They won’t approve of your dress here. Make haste. We must get you to the barn.”

It’s not like I have anything else to do, so I follow Misty to a large, woodshed-like thing she calls a barn. We tiptoe through rows of green plants, past the tiniest log cabin you ever saw. There’s even curtains in the window, made from the same cloth as Misty’s dress. 

You wouldn’t know it was my yard, and I keep wondering where my neighbors are. There’s a garden, a cabin, a barn and a field in the distance where the trees have been cut down. Other than that, we’re all alone in the middle of a forest. 
Spooky, if you ask me.

“Everyone’s inside eating supper,” Misty tells me. “I won’t get any since I’m late to the table. I need to go in, though, and get you some clothes.” She slides the barn door open and shoves me through it. “You wait in here,” she says, and slams the door shut.

At first, the barn looks empty. It smells like hay and there’s two empty horse stalls; the horses must be out in the field. Then I hear a shuffling. I see chickens scratching around, paying no attention to me. There’s other noises, too, but I don’t look too close. I pretty much just stand there. It’s dark in here and I don’t want to step on anything the animals might have left behind. 

I want to go home, but my house hasn’t been built yet.

I start to get all sniffly, but Misty opens the barn door, and I don’t want to start blubbering in front of her. She’s got a dress over her arm. Baby blue. 

 “I must have been at your house longer than I thought,” she says. “Supper is over. Ma says they were looking for me—and my green beans. Pa likes green beans. He’s back out in the field now.” She hands me the dress. “Here. Put this on.”

I do. It’s about the prettiest thing I ever saw. It falls to my ankles, and it’s got tiny buttons up the back that Misty has to help me with. Lace on the sleeves, too. She also brought me an apron and boots, but no bonnet. I fold my shorts and tee shirt and tuck them underneath some hay beside the door. I stick my flipflops in there, alongside my pile. I figure I’ll need to grab them quick when it’s time to go home. 

Oh, and one more thing. You better believe I take those stones out of my shorts and drop them in my apron pocket.

After that, we stand there, looking at each other. I’m pretty sure she’s waiting for me to say something. “So, tell me,” she finally says. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Now that you bring it up,” I say, “the stones weren’t too clear on that.”

“Have you no plan?”

The short answer is ‘no.’ All I can think of is checking in with Misty’s family. But what would I say to them? And what am I looking for, anyway? 

I have no idea. 

 “Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” I say. 

“It’s too late for such misgivings,” Misty scolds me. “You might have listened to me when you had the chance.”

“But the stones—” 

Misty butts in. “I dare say, we’re in a fine fix, Diamond Joy. Mighty fine. Now you’re here, and we don’t know what to do with you. Perhaps I should take you up to the cabin to meet my family, so you can see for yourself that everybody is fit as a fiddle. Then you shall have what you’ve come for, no?”

 “I guess so. But what will you tell them about me?”

“I’ve got between here and the front porch to figure that out. I shall not tell a fib, so I will leave most of it up to you. Now come along.”

 Back outside, I walk behind Misty, up to the cabin. I’ve seen pictures like this in books—and on TV—but this is real. A thin curl of smoke comes from the chimney, and from here, the tiny windows in the cabin look dark. We go up two steps to the porch. Misty stomps her shoes and walks in the front door, which is open. I do exactly what she does. Stomp and enter. It smells like a campfire in here. It’s so dark I have to blink a few times before I can see.  

Misty’s ma is right there, like she heard us coming.

 “Ma, I’d like you to meet Diamond Joy,” Misty says. Then she turns to me. 

Dang. I thought Misty was going to come up with something for me to work with. Now I’m the one who has to tell a big, fat fib—as Misty calls it—to Mrs. Dance, right to her face.

“Hello, Diamond. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Misty’s ma says. She looks slightly surprised. “And where might you be from?”

“I’m, uh, from Wisconsin, Mrs. Dance.”

“How is it that a little girl like you is all alone in the woods? There aren’t many folks out this way. And I don’t recall anyone with the surname ‘Joy.’ Are you lost?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m as lost as can be. I’m most grateful to you for inviting me in.” Listen to me, saying stuff like ‘most grateful.’ 

Now Mrs. Dance is looking at me kind of funny. “You shouldn’t be out in these woods by yourself. Unsavory characters and bandits have been known to pass through on occasion. And my goodness, is that Misty’s dress?” 

“Yes ma’am,” I say. “And I’m most grateful to Misty for letting me borrow it.” Then I add, “Most grateful.” 

“Think nothing of it,” she says. “We’re not ones to turn our backs on a stranger in need.”

Behind Misty’s ma, I see a baby and a small boy in bib overalls. The baby is in a wooden cradle, asleep. The boy is doing something with the fire; I can’t tell what. He keeps looking at me, though, but doesn’t say anything. I get this idea they’re all a teensy bit scared of their ma.

Mrs. Dance turns to Misty. “Misty, tend to the baby’s napkin. I’ll fetch a plate for our guest. Diamond, would you like some cornbread? We have a spoonful of beans left, if you would like me to set them out for you.”

“No ma’am. I don’t want to trouble you. I just stopped in to say howdy. I’ll be on my way now.” I’ve read all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books—twice—in case you’re wondering how I’m so good at pioneer talk. 

“Don’t be foolish, child. You can’t be off by yourself. Sit with Misty for a spell. When her pa comes in later, we’ll figure out how to get you back where you belong. I shall be out back with the laundry, and when I return, I’d like you to tell me how you have come to lose your family.”

I sort of feel like she’s mad at me, but when she turns to leave, I’m pretty sure I see a sort-of-smile. From behind, Mrs. Dance looks like an American Girl doll. She has long hair, like Misty’s, piled on top of her head, and a few loose strands curl around her neck. I love her dress, a pale yellow with lavender-colored flowers. Lavender is my favorite color. I have a lavender notebook, a lavender tee shirt, and a lavender jewelry box at home. In case you don’t know what lavender is, it’s light purple, the color of the prettiest flowers you ever saw.

Misty’s taken the baby out of its cradle. “This is Lizbet,” she says. “Isn’t she pretty?”
I look at Lizbet, and she looks at me. She has a moon face, round and sweet. She does this big, wide-mouth smile. Funny how red and puffy the inside of a baby’s mouth is—I never guessed it would look like that. She’s got two bottom teeth, like grains of rice, and her fat baby legs pump up and down, she’s so excited to see me.

Misty’s brother looks at me, too. “I’m Timmy,” he says.

“Hi,” I say, feeling all shy, which isn’t how I usually am. “I’m Diamond.”

“You have brown hair.”

I do, but it’s odd to have somebody tell me that, like it’s news to me. I can’t think of a thing to say, so I don’t.

Timmy keeps talking. “Misty says I shouldn’t suck my thumb.” 

Timmy seems barely older than a toddler, which to me, is a good age for thumb-sucking, but maybe it was different in the 1800’s. “When you get bigger, you won’t want to anyway,” I say. 

One thing Misty is right about for sure. Everyone here is ‘fit as a fiddle.’ Lizbet does a few tiny baby coughs, but Misty bounces her some and she stops. “Lizbet’s always done that,” she says. “She’s what Ma calls ‘delicate.’ She gets rashes, too, and she fusses most dreadfully. But Ma says she’ll outgrow it.”

“I cough sometimes, too,” Timmy says. 

“Yes, you do. But our Lizbet coughs an awful lot, doesn’t she?” Misty talks to her brother like a big sister should, not how I talk to Stu.

“I have a brother,” I tell Timmy. “But he’s not as nice as you.”

“Can he come see us, too?”

Uh-oh. I’m about to get myself in trouble here. “He doesn’t travel like I do,” I say. 
“Timmy, hand me a napkin, please.” Misty is busy now, peeling Lizbet’s diaper off. “And the flour jar.”

Timmy scrambles to an iron rack full of cloth squares by the fire and tugs one down. It’s got ties on it, two tails. For a moment I’m picturing Stu doing whatever I ask him to. 

Nope. Can’t see it. 

“Hmm. Only wet,” Misty says. She takes the diaper—napkin, I mean—and tosses it to Timmy, who drapes it over the rack. I wonder how they know which ones are clean?

Lizbet does a tiny baby cry when Misty sprinkles the flour on her bottom. Since I’ve never seen a baby’s bottom before, I don’t know if Lizbet’s bottom is how a baby’s bottom is supposed to look, but it sure looks all blistery and red to me. 

“Great idea,” I say. “Using flour for powder, I mean.”
“What else would I use?” Misty asks, tying the cloth tails into loose knots. 

I’m still wondering why Timmy put a dirty diaper up with the clean ones. “What do you wash those napkins with?”

“We don’t wash them unless they are soiled. They dry just fine by the fire.”

Yuk, I think, but I don’t say it out loud. “Lizbet looks sorta rashy. Are all babies’ bottoms like that?” I ask. 

“Timmy’s wasn’t,” says Misty.

“I don’t have a bottom!” Timmy crosses his chubby hands, fingers spread, over his bottom, the one he doesn’t have.

“I’m sorry, Timmy. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But Diamond’s right. Lizbet’s rashes are most unusual, and we can’t seem to figure out how to make them go away. The flour does not appear to be of much help, and the oozing is getting worse.”

So that’s it. I have traveled over one hundred years—and risked my life, I might add—to rescue a baby with a nasty case of diaper rash. 

Oh, brother.

I lean into Misty, talking low so Timmy can’t hear. “Looks like everything is hunky dory at your house. I guess the stones had nothing to do with you. I’ll probably never find out who buried them, but I better get back home. I mean, I don’t want to get stuck here or anything.” 

“You can’t leave now,” Misty whispers back. “Ma will worry about you, and she’ll chide me for letting you go.”

“Tell her I was bossy about it. And believe you me, you wouldn’t be lying. My brother says that about me all the time.”
Misty stands up. She’s got Lizbet on one hip. “Timmy, I’ll be right back,” she says. She waves me on through a doorway, into what looks like the only other room in the cabin. There’s feather ticks all over the place—one on a bed, two on the floor. A wooden chest has a candle on it. 

Just like in old-timey movies, I swear.

Lizbet is wriggling in Misty’s arms. She reaches a chubby baby hand out to me. I want to smell it, but I don’t. “Da, da,” seems to be all she can say. She says it a lot when she looks at me. I’m not sure how to explain this to you, but it almost seems like she knows me. 

“Diamond Joy,” Misty says. “I didn’t like you when I first met you. But I do now. I’m going to miss you, and I’m most grateful to you for trying to help us.” (I guess she was on to me the whole time, me trying to talk like her.) 

She laughs and gives me a hug with her free arm. Me, Lizbet, and Misty are all squished together, like we’re sisters or something. 

“Maybe I’ll come back and visit.” I say. “At least, until we move. Then we won’t live in Wisconsin anymore. The stones probably won’t know how to find you after I move.”

“Do come back. I’d like that very much.”

I take the stones out of my pocket. I cinch two corners of my apron in one hand, making a fold to catch the stones. I let ‘em drop, easy-like, into my apron. 
​
“Goodbye, Misty Dance,” I say.

Right before the wavy feeling starts, I look up and see something that tells me I’ve rolled the stones too soon. Over the bed I see a shelf. On the shelf is a wooden box, the same box I found the stones in. 

Whoever sent those stones sent them from here.  

When I see this, I know for sure that someone at Misty’s house needs me. I’m already on my way home, and I have no idea how to drive this thing, so I can’t turn around. But as soon as I check in, I swear it. I’ll come back as fast as I can.
After all, I made a vow.

STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How do think it would feel to travel through time? Is it even possible?
Have you ever changed a baby's diaper? Held a baby? How did it feel?
Why do you think the box is at Misty's house?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

At first, all I feel is a puff of air. A hot one, like I’m standing behind a school bus with the engine turned on. Everything looks kind of hazy, too. But then it clears, and I’m standing eye-to-eye with the strangest girl you’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a dress that goes to her ankles, and since you’ve probably guessed it’s Misty, you already know she has black hair piled on top of her head. With her hair up, her ears stick out a little. She’s staring at me, I’m staring at her, and I couldn’t tell you which of us looks more bonkers.

You would think one of us would say something, but we don’t.

Misty’s dress is a faded red, practically pink. There’s tiny white flowers all over it, and on the cuffs you can see a strip of white lace peeking out—on the hem, too. She has an apron on; it’s got ruffles and a bib. Hanging from one of her hands is a red-and-white checked bonnet, the kind I always wished I had when I was a little kid. 

Finally, she goes, “Pardon me, miss. Who are you?”

“I’m—I’m—who are you?” I feel funny telling her my name. Stranger danger, I guess. It’s been drilled into me since I was five.

“My name”—she stops here, like she’s about to tell me she’s somebody famous—“is Misty Dance.”

“Oh, I love that name! I’m Diamond. Diamond Joy. Joy’s my last name, not my middle name, in case you’re wondering. People usually do.” So much for stranger danger. If she offers me candy, I just won’t eat it.

“Diamond,” she says, like she’s not too sure about it. “I’ve not met a person who goes by that name.”

“My mom picked it. She said my eyes were sparkly when I was born, like diamonds. My brother’s name is Stu. I tell him Mom called him that because he’s stupid, but Mom gets mad when I say that. Most of the kids at my school know me. My name, anyway. I’m pretty popular. Not as popular as Emma Jackson, but close.” Now I’m wondering if Misty goes to my school. I hope not. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard her name, either. “Where the heck did you come from?” I ask.

It’s like she doesn’t even hear me. “Where am I?” she asks. 

Well, duh. She’s in my yard. What I want to know is how she got here. I didn’t even see her walk up. And even weirder, she has no clue where she is. Now that I think about it, if I was her, I’d be pretty scared. I step forward and stick my hand out, like my mom does when she meets somebody new. “You’re in my backyard,” I say. “And trust me, I’m not going to hurt you.”

She doesn’t take my hand, so I pretend there’s a bug on my neck and slap around back there. I probably say something like “Ew, get off!” too, but I’m not sure about that. 

“Pardon me,” she says. “I believe you are mistaken. This land belongs to my family.”

“Ohhhh. I get it. You’re moving in, right? Well that’s not ‘til next week. How did you get here? And where are your parents? Didn’t they put moving day on your kitchen calendar? My mom did. In red. There it is, watching me all the time. I can’t even eat a banana without thinking about how my life ends next week. How come you’re wearing that dress?”

Misty is looking around like I’m not even here anymore. She looks at the shed, our house. She squints at my playhouse. 

 Now before you think anything about me, let me tell you, I don’t play house anymore. But I hang out there when I don’t want people bothering me, people meaning Stu. My dad made it, and it’s hidden behind some bushes in our backyard, so no one can see me when I’m in there. It’s got two windows and a door where you can open just the top half. It’s also got a wooden stove, a sink, and a refrigerator. Table and chairs, too, and a cradle I used to put my dolls in.

“Diamond Joy,” Misty says, with a prissy stomp of her laced-up boot, “tell me this instant where I am. Where is my house? Where is my garden?”

I tell her, “I swear it. This is my house, and we still live here.” 

Now we’re giving each other the stink eye, like we’re going to stick out our tongues or something, but she gets all teary, so I back down. “How come you’re wearing those clothes?” I ask. “Your dress is pretty.”

Misty is sniffling. “My ma made it.”

“Did she make your hat, too?”

She nods.

“Can you tell me where you’re from? I mean, I’m just standing here, playing with a bunch of stones. Then bam! All of a sudden, you show up, like a magic trick or something.”

“I—I do not know what to tell you. I was merely picking green beans. I set my basket down, and I looked up to find myself in this strange, unfamiliar place. I don’t even see my garden. It was right here.”

“So you’re telling me you have no idea how you got in my yard?” 

“I do not. What I do know is that I was standing next to the oak tree my pa planted when we settled in Wisconsin,” she says. “He brought acorns on the wagon when we came from back east. It’s a little tree that stands yay high.” Here she bends over and pats the air with her hand. Then she eyeballs my oak tree, all the way up to the top. “Now I’m beneath a tree that towers above me. How can this be?”

“You were by an oak tree? Only it was little?”

Misty is still staring up at the tree, but then she turns to me. She nods. Her eyes are opened wide, like, HUGE.

I get this sudden tingle in my spine, a strange feeling. My dad says this tree is over a hundred years old. Either Misty’s telling a serious whopper, or she’s, like, ancient. If she is telling a whopper, she’s pretty good at it. 

“So, wait,” I say. “You’re saying this is your garden. Or was your garden. And you’re wearing those clothes. And your dad planted that tree. What year do you think it is?”

Misty tilts her head, funny like. “What do you mean?”
“Do you know today’s date?”

“I am not certain of the date, but I do know it is June, and that the year is 1885.”
I can hardly make myself believe what she’s saying. My mouth drops open and I practically yell: “Shut UP!”

Misty’s face is white, like a ghost. Come to think about it, she might actually be one. “What has happened to me?” she asks.

“I don’t know what’s happened to you,” I say. “All I know is that I found these stones, buried right here. And when I threw them on the ground, kapow! You were standing there. And now you’re telling me you’re from the 1800’s? I can’t believe it! You do talk funny, though. And we don’t wear clothes like that. I mean, 1885 was way over a hundred years ago! If what you’re saying is true, you’re a—a pioneer girl.”

Misty is, like, totally spooked. “How do I get back?” she whispers.

This I have to think about. I’m not really sure. But if she can’t go back, she can borrow some of my clothes. She wouldn’t blend in so good at my school the way she looks now. She could sleep in my room, too. I’ve got two beds, but one of them has all my stuffed animals on it. I could put those in a box--

“Are you a boy or a girl?” Misty asks.

“What?”

“Your dress is that of a boy. Are you a boy?”

“I am not a boy,” I sniff. “I’m a girl. We don’t have to wear dresses all the time like you do. Here, girls wear pants.”

“Pantaloons?”

“Whatever.”

“Your pantaloons are dreadfully short. The gentlemen must look at your knees.”

I think about my knees, for the first time in, like, ever. I also think about the boys in my class. “Yeah, well, good thing there aren’t any gentlemen”— here I do air quotes, even though I’m not sure Misty knows what they are —“at my school, since I’ve been wearing shorts since May. So, back to your little—problem.Do you have any idea how you got here?”

“As I have already told you, I was picking green beans. I set my basket down, and then I was standing here looking at you.”

“But what happened? What did it feel like? Getting here, I mean. Did you fly or something?”

 “It was an odd sensation,” Misty says, thinking about it. “I felt like a piece of fabric. As if I were a feather tick instead of a real girl.”

“A feather tick? What’s that?”

Misty looks surprised. “Why, we sleep on them. They’re lovely cotton bags filled with feathers. It was quite peculiar to feel such a thing—as if I were floating and flapping.”

I’m staring at Misty, trying to imagine her whipping in the wind on top of a flagpole. I can’t do it, even though I’m pretty good at making stuff up.

 She closes her eyes. Then she opens them and says, “As I stood amongst the green beans, I had a sense I was being summoned.”

“You mean, like, somebody calling you?”

 “Yes, actually. It was quite like a voice calling to me, but I didn’t hear it with my ears. Rather, it was as if it were coming from inside of me. I felt peculiar, and I looked up, skyward. The next I knew, I was floating.”

“What did it say? The voice, I mean.”

“Miss Diamond, I believe I was quite clear. I did not hear a voice. It just seemed as though I did.”

I look down at the stones. It feels like they’re looking back at me, even though they’re just lying there. “I’m guessing it was the stones,” I say, more to myself than Misty.

“Stones?”

I nod toward the stones. A tiny nod. I know this sounds weird, but I don’t want those stones to know I’m talking about them. And by the way, they don’t spell help. Two of them are flipped over so you can’t even see the letters.

 “Is everything okay at your house?” I ask.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. You know. No danger. No trouble.”

“I believe so. I haven’t been there for the past few minutes, but as far as I know, all is well.”

Of course, by now, your whole family is buried in some graveyard, I can’t help thinking. But I know better than to say that out loud. Instead, I gather up the stones and hold them out for her to see. They feel warm, but I tell myself I’m just making that up. I ask: “Are these yours? Did you bury them by the oak tree your pa planted? Hoping someone would find them, maybe?” 

Misty hardly even looks at them. “I did not.”

“Are you sure?”

“I should think I would know if I buried stones by an oak tree. That is something I’ve never done. I have too much work to do to engage in such childish games.”

Suddenly I get that hunch again. Like something’s wrong, but I don’t know what. “There’s a message on these stones,” I say. “Do you have a brother or sister who might have put them there?”

“Message?”

“Yeah. Look.” I arrange the stones in my palm to spell out the word help. “See what they spell? For some reason, when I threw these stones on the ground, you showed up, right in front of me. It’s like they called you here. These stones have something to do with you.”

Misty looks closer at the stones. She picks up the h and stares at it, all sides. Then she puts it back.

“Miss Diamond,” she says. “I have never seen these stones before. But here I am in what used to be my garden, only now it’s your backyard. Instead of a log cabin, you have a clapboard house. My family’s garden and our fields are gone. I do not know how your family feeds itself. You have a most unusual carriage in front of your house”— here she nods towards my mom’s car—“and your stable is too small for a horse.” Now she nods at my playhouse. “You summon me with the word help on four stones, and you say my family is in danger. I dare say, Diamond Joy, you have frightened me.”

I can hardly believe what this girl is saying. I don’t know where she’s from or how she got here. But I have this feeling that somebody at her house is in trouble. And even though I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m pretty sure I need to go back to the 1800’s with Misty and do whatever I can to save whoever it is that needs saving.
​
I mean, why else was I the one who found the stones?

STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How would you feel if you suddenly found yourself in the future 100 years from now?
Do you think Diamond helped Misty feel safe? 
If you were Diamond, would you go back with Misty? Why or why not?
​Write down your thoughts about this chapter and leave it in the Facebook Group comments!

Read in Fredericksburg Parent & Family Magazine

THE PROBLEM: I’m a little afraid of my five-year-old son. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but whenever I need to tell him he can’t do something, he gets extremely agitated, to the point where he’s red in the face. And he gets soooo angry at me! Too often, I give in. When I’m honest with myself, I realize I’m being overindulgent, but I can’t stand when he has these meltdowns. I feel like I’m walking on thin ice all the time. (Btw, It’s worse with me. My husband is better at being firm.) I know the obvious solution is to not give in so much, but I don’t seem to be able to do that. I hate to see him so unhappy.

MARY SAYS: It’s not always easy to balance this dynamic. If we’re constantly telling our children ‘no,’ they’ll end up thinking the world is a tough place to navigate. But when parents let children have their way ALL the time, Junior takes charge, and the home becomes a battleground. Even worse, kids know when they’ve gained control, which can be a scary thing for a five-year-old. A tendency toward anxiety can emerge, which is most likely what you are seeing in your son.

If you really ‘hate to see him so unhappy,’ you need to change this unhealthy dance you’ve got going between the two of you. Take the helm, Mom. He desperately needs you to. Your son will have a hard time collaborating with other people if he doesn’t learn he can’t always get what he wants.

Furthermore, when children are little, their boundaries include their parents. To him, you are an extension of who he is. Because you’re letting your son mistreat YOU, you are showing him it’s okay when people mistreat HIM.

If you can’t figure out how to hold your ground with your son, please seek help. And watch how your husband manages your son. It sounds like he gets it, and with a little practice (and a firm resolve), you can, too.

KRISTI SAYS: Giving in is jus­­t feeding the cycle. While it’s difficult to see our children unhappy or having meltdowns, it’s better they hear ‘no’ now and learn how to deal with it. After all, what happens when your child gets used to having his way when he throws a tantrum?

I love the fact that actions always have natural consequences. I remember one time when my oldest was three I told him he needed to put away his toys before he pulled out new ones. He had a huge meltdown, threw his cars and trucks all over the place, flung himself to the floor and yelled, “I don’t like it!”

It was so dramatic! After taking a minute to breathe, I took away his toys for the rest of the day.

Goodbye Lightning McQueen, Mater, and Duplos. I put them in boxes and bins and stuffed them into his closet. I did bend a little and let him keep his lovey stuffed llama and a couple of books, but that was it.

Needless to say, he never did that again.

If your child pitches a fit when you say “no” and you give in, they’ll keep on doing it. But when “no” means “no,” they learn there’s a boundary they can’t cross. They will try and cross it, but the more often you remain strong, the less likely they’ll try.

For instance, if you are heading out to do something fun, and your son doesn’t clean up his room like you asked, the natural consequence would be to stay home. While it may be inconvenient for you, it teaches your child he can’t refuse to do as he’s told and get away with it.

ASK MOM offers parents two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues—one from a mom with grown children (Mary), the other from a mom raising small children (Kristi). If you’re looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn’t around to ask, drop in! If you have a question for Mary and Kristi, we’d love to hear from you! askmomyourquestion@gmail.com

* Learn about Mary's online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with Mary's easy english program that is a fun way to learn kindergarten phonics for kids!
​
Read more ASK MOM advice.

Learn about our online phonics program.

Misty Dance isn’t like anybody you ever met. She has licorice black hair, past her butt, but you wouldn’t know it because she wears it in a bun. Like an old lady, even though she’s only eleven, like me.

“Diamond,” my mom says. “Misty’s not real. She’s an imaginary friend.”

No, Mom. She’s real. 

I might as well tell you I’m acting all in a huff around my mom, and not just because she doesn’t believe me. We’re moving next week and I’m mad at everybody. I’m not exactly a genius at making friends, and now that I have one—if you count Misty—wouldn’t you know it, we have to move. 

People at school like me, but they don’t come find me at recess or anything. Standing by yourself on the blacktop, you have to act like you don’t care, which I’m pretty good at. Mom says I shouldn’t talk so much, and it might be easier for me. Making friends, I mean.
​ 
“Other people need to talk, too,” she says. 

But I can’t help it. I got a lot to say. 

Mom thinks I made Misty up because of the move. She says I’m having a hard time with it, and I just need someone to talk to. Puh-lease. I’m way too old for invisible friends. Anyway, you’d have a hard time, too, if you looked like me. I’ve got mousy brown hair, sort of stick-out teeth, and if you like blue eyes, you would like mine. 

Me, I like brown. 

Sometimes, mostly when I look in the mirror, I wish I was somebody else. Like Emma Jackson. Emma’s the most popular girl in my class. She has curly hair that, like, cascades down her back.

But I digress. My dad says that a lot. He tells never-ending stories, then forgets which one he’s on and starts telling another one. You better pretend you have homework or you’re in for a long night. My brother, Stu, who’s two years younger than me, always says, “TMI, Dad, TMI.” My brother also says things like “easy peezy, lemon squeezy.” 

Total proof he’s a dork. 

Anyway, back to Misty Dance. Mom’s wrong about Misty. I didn’t make her up. You’re not going to believe it when I tell you this story. 

But first I have to warn you. If you’re reading this and it gets chopped off in the middle, you can bet one of three things happened to me:

1. I didn’t live to tell it. Hint: What I’m about to tell you involves serious danger.
2. We moved right in the middle of me writing it, and my notebook got buried in one of those big boxes my mom left in my room for me to pack. She only gave me two. Two. Like I could really cram all my stuff in two boxes.
3. I need to say goodbye to my house. Every bit of it, which is going to take forever. 

 
I love my house. One thing is, it smells old. It makes me think of my Grampa Sam. He lived with us from when I was a baby. After he died, I thought I would never stop feeling bad. If I had to tell you the God’s honest truth, I was right about that. 

Grampa Sam always used to say, “Penny for your thoughts, missy.” Then he let me talk as much as I wanted to. His grampa built our house, and it doesn’t seem right that we’re selling it and leaving Wisconsin just because my dad got a better job in Virginia. Kids on my bus think my house is haunted, but it’s not. 

It’s just old. 

I’m also going to miss the oak tree in my backyard, which is where I go when I need to get away from things, like Stu. It’s humongous and has a swing on it. You have to cross a bridge to get there, since the tree is by our creek. “That old tree has been waiting a long time for Diamond to show up,” my dad tells people, mostly in front of me. “It’s a good thing they found each other.”  

Anyway, what I want to tell you about starts here. You’re going to think I’m making this up, but I swear it’s true. So last week, school gets out, and I’m down at the oak tree on the swing, wondering what Emma Jackson does over summer break. She probably sits home alone because no one likes her. Yeah, right. I’m pumping pretty hard, you wouldn’t believe how high I’m going. When I swing up and stick my feet out, it looks like I’m standing upside down on a cloud. 

So I’m swinging back to earth and I see this pointy thing sticking up between the roots of the oak tree.

I drag my toe on the ground to stop the swing. A mystery! How cool is that? I look closer and see the corner of what looks like a box, poking out of the ground. A coffin. No, wait. Maybe a trunk full of jewels that fell from an Arabian princess’s caravan, which is what our last module in history was about.

I push at it, but it’s stuck. Off to the shed I go. I come back with a garden shovel that’s got pink flowers on it and dig around the box. Turns out, it’s not all that big. Still, you’d be amazed how long it takes to dig up a box that could only fit a pair of baby shoes in it. It’s all covered in dirt, but I can tell it’s pretty. I brush it off with my tee shirt. It’s made out of bare wood, and it’s got these teensy leaves carved on top. On the sides, too, like a vine that runs around the whole thing. 

There’s no latch, so I open the lid, easy. 

At first, I’m kinda let down. The only thing in there is a bunch of stones, like the ones in my backyard. Not jewels. Not even pennies, which I could have used to buy more beads for the bracelets I’m making. I take the stones out so I can look at them up close, and here’s where it starts to get interesting.

Each stone has a letter carved on it. Not like those fancy stones you see in garden shops that say things like Believe or Fairies Live Here, but more like somebody tried to scratch the letters out with a knife or something. I spread the stones out on the ground and line them up. Here’s what I get:

P-L-H-E

PLHE? What does that mean? Some kind of code? It makes me think of the way Stu’s breath smells before breakfast, so I fast make up a new word. L-E-H-P. Nope. P-L-E-H. Wait a minute. Now I’m getting somewhere. I switch the stones around and line them up in reverse.

H-E-L-P

Help.

My blood runs cold. I’m not sure what cold blood is, but I’ve seen it in books when something scary happens. The way I’m feeling now must be what cold blood does to you. 
But in about a second, I figure out it’s probably some kind of joke. I bet a kid from school put these stones here, hoping to fool somebody like me. I start to think this kid (boy? girl? Emma Jackson?) is hiding somewhere, watching, waiting for me to find their oh-so-hilarious box with stupid stones in it. 

I laugh, big and fake. “HA HA. That’s a good one! I can’t wait to tell my friends about this!” I’m doing a loud kind of not-yelling, in case the kid needs a little help hearing what I’m saying. I also stuff the box back in the hole, like I don’t care about it. 
I should have put the stones back in, too, but I didn’t.

“So much for THAT!” I say. 

I wipe the dirt off my hands. Then, in a major freak out, my mind starts counting up everything I’ve done since I started swinging. No nose picks, thank God. But it’s possible I was talking to myself. Out loud. Knowing me, I said something about Emma Jackson, even though I thought I was only thinking it. She’s the one who’s probably hiding behind the shed, sending pictures of me to everybody she knows, which is, like, the whole school.

I look down at the stones. Now it feels like they’re staring at me, too. 

Help, they keep saying. 

“What kind of help do you need?” I ask. “I mean, on a scale of one to ten, how bad is your problem?”

 Stones can’t talk, but I sure can. “Hel-l-o-o. Can you at least show me a sign? Maybe jump around a little? I’ve got these jumping beans my dad gave me. If you put them in your hands and warm them up, they jump around. My brother put one up his nose. Don’t ever do that. Then you’ll need help for sure. Anyway, it would be nice if you could show me a sign.”

The stones keep staring at me. As you might have guessed, they don’t do a thing. But something grips me. I’m going to call it a hunch, since I don’t know what else to call it. Deep down inside, I know these stones are trying to tell me something. That word, help, is starting to scare me. I rearrange the letters, but all that does is make it look like help spelled wrong. 

By now, I’m pretty freaked out. I pick the stones up. I’m thinking I’ll just throw them out in the yard. Get rid of them. But for some reason, I can’t do it, so I make a deal with myself. I’m going to roll them like dice. If they land spelling out the word help, I’ll spend the rest of my life if I have to, finding out who needs me. 

I swear it.
​
If they spell anything else, I’ll throw all four of them in the trash. The box, too. 
I squat down, thinking about all the things I could do before rolling the stones. Then I just do it. You’re not gonna believe what happens when I let go of those stones. Let’s just say, this is the part of the story where Misty Dance shows up.

STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How would you feel if you were Diamond right now? Scared? Excited?
Why do you think Diamond has a hard time making friends?
How would you feel if you were moving to a new house?
Who do you think Misty is?
​Write down your thoughts about this chapter and leave it in the Facebook Group comments!

Unless you remember what it’s like to be a child, you might have a hard time writing for one. Here’s what kids want hear about:

• The way you almost died when you found out your skirt was tucked up in your waistband in Mrs. Kramer’s fourth grade class
• How you felt when you went shopping for school clothes in August; the smell of the dressing room; the empty hangers on the floor; the excitement/fear of going into a grade you’ve been saying you’re in all summer
• The heartbreak of watching your best friend pass your seat to sit with someone else on the bus; that rubbery, gasoline smell; forest green seats; kids bouncing up and down (or slumped by the window) and yelling over the gunning of the engine

If your characters aren’t culled from the swirl of emotions you felt every time anything happened when you were a kid, your young readers might not stick with you.

Here’s some stuff they don’t want to read about:

• Waking up in the morning
• What the main character’s bedroom looks like
• Parents
• Teachers
• Morals/lectures​

​When you’re writing for kids, write for yourself. The person you outgrew years ago, but who’s still hanging out somewhere inside.

Writing for Kids is Like Therapy
Funny thing, when you really get into writing for kids, it kind of wakes you up. It’s as if that child is snoozing in there, hibernating under a blanket of all of the ‘shoulds’ that we tend to weigh ourselves down with when we get jobs, houses, and children.

You’ll know you’ve nailed that cafeteria scene when something inside you stirs as you type the final word. If you once sat on your bed with your ten-year old best friend whose mother just died—and you didn’t know what to say— you’ll know you’ve captured that awful day when your eyes blur as you watch the scene unfold on your screen.  

It’s a remembering that reaches inside of you and cleans you out. You begin to see the world through your little girl eyes again—in small glimpses, sure—but it’s there. You laugh when people walk into things. You might find yourself putting a quarter in a gum machine to get one of those big, stale gumballs. You might even pet the neighbor’s cat. 

And do make sure you have a real, modern-day kid read your stuff. Someone needs to check it for ‘language.’ You don’t want Beaver Cleaver narrating your story. But go too far on the edgy side, and you might be topping out of your age group. (Unless you’re writing YA, which pretty much has everything in it that adult books do.)

Maybe you're writing for yourself. If that’s the case, do whatever feels good and throw it in a drawer when you’re done!

​Learn about my phonics program for kids. Learn about Mary's online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with Mary's easy english program that is a fun way to learn kindergarten phonics for kids!

by Mary Follin and Kristi Crosson
Read more advice from ASK MOM in Fredericksburg Parent & Family Magazine.

THE PROBLEM: My daughter (she’s in sixth grade) lies about everything. I can’t tell if she’s living in a dream world, or if she’s doing it on purpose. I sometimes wonder if she is just exaggerating to try and impress her friends, but she also does it with me. The other day, I asked her if she had done her homework, and she said ‘yes.’ But she knew I was going to have to sign-off on it later, and when I checked her workbook, it was blank. This sounds like a small thing, but it happens all the time. It’s not like she didn’t know I was going to check it! I punish her whenever I catch her lying, so she knows I don’t like it. But she only tries harder to get out of trouble by telling even more lies. Sometimes I get angry at her, but mostly, I’m afraid the problem is going to get worse unless I do something about it. I’m just not sure what to do.

Some children's book authors are so good they become a part of you—forever. Each generation has its beloved writer(s), but for me and my sisters, Laura Ingalls Wilder was who we wanted to be. And if we couldn't be her, at least we wanted to know her. But since she died before we were born, we had to make do with what she wrote and where she lived.

This fall, my sister had occasion to get close enough to the town of De Smet, South Dakota, to justify a trip to Laura's girlhood home. Now a shrine to Laura Ingalls Wilder, De Smet was backdrop to the The Long Winter, By the Shores of Silver Lake and The Little Town on the Prairie, which spanned my favorite years in Laura's growing-up life.

The long winter was too short for me. I wanted to get up every morning and bust the ice off my wash water, like Laura. I also wanted to teach in a one room schoolhouse. (Laura hated it, by the way.) My future husband would ride up in a sled—or cart, depending on the weather—and pick me up after I rang the cast iron bell. School's out! And of course, Nellie Oleson would just happen to be passing by, furious that she wasn't the one riding shotgun in whatever sweet ride Almanzo had chosen to bring.

I wanted to wear dresses made of organdy, which I pictured being the orange color of those marshmallow peanuts you have to hold your nose to eat. I wanted to make those dresses. Me, a wooden bench, a sewing needle and yards of fabric on my lap—cascading to the floor—is what I dreamed of.

I wasn't alone in this. If you've read this far, you're probably one of the thousands of children—now grown—who was smitten by a plucky pioneer girl named Laura.

So my sister rides into town in a rented car. While De Smet is home to only 1,200 residents, it boasts a tennis court, a swimming pool, a nine-hole golf course and a nursing home. In other words, you'll need to squint if you want the little town on the prairie to actually look like one. That said, many of the old homes and buildings are still in use, and some people might describe modern day De Smet as a 'one horse town.'

But others might describe it as All Things Laura. Devotees are strategically situated throughout the town to reveal tidbits about Laura and her family that you might not have heard before. (We want them all. Every single one.) The First School of De Smet, where Laura was a student, is still standing, but the Brewster School, where she taught, is a replica. There are all kinds of staged scenes in each of Laura's dwellings with period furniture, clothing and toys like the ones Laura 'might' have used.

Laura Ingalls Wilder described her early years as being full of "sunshine and shadow." The books were about the sunshine—the shadow, not so much. My sister was surprised that Pa had to abscond with his family in the middle of the night from Burr Oak, Iowa, due to the landlord 'not being reasonable.' And apparently, while Almanzo Wilder saved the starving town by making a dangerous run in a blizzard to buy some harvested wheat, the Wilder home MIGHT have harbored a false wall, behind which the family was secretly hording its own stash.

But the biggest surprise was that the entire Ingalls family lived in South Dakota until they died—either together in one home or within spittin' distance of each other—except for Laura. Laura settled in Mansfield, MO, with her husband, Almanzo, and only saw her parents once before they passed away many years later.

What?! Only see Ma one time over a period of 35 years? Good, kind, gentle Ma (even if she was a bit stern)? And Pa, who played the fiddle that Laura so loved? What are we missing here? As kids, we wanted to live with the Ingalls, yet Laura appears to have left them behind in De Smet, no hurry to go back.

We may never understand this. But living was hard on the plains in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and the Ingalls bore their share of tragedies, many of which were not included in the books. If the pioneering life wore them down, we can only imagine the toll it took on their family.

If you're thinking about visiting a favorite children's book author's home town, brace yourself. You may end up feeling sort of sad. Your journey through the books was yours alone, and adding facts to your memories might not play out the way you think it will.

But if you're OK with reframing your childhood fantasies, have at it! Just be aware that you might alter forever the part of you that was formed by a complete stranger who felt like a friend.

ASK MOM offers parents and caretakers two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues--one from a mom with grown children, the other from a mom raising small children. If you're looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn't around to ask, drop in!
​
THE ISSUE: I’ve always heard how important it is to let children make their own decisions about little things, which I try to do with my three-year-old daughter. (What shirt to wear to school, if she wants to go to the park, etc.) But it feels like it’s backfiring on me! She takes forever to make a decision! She also becomes resistant to anything I suggest, and even throws tantrums when she can’t have her way. Help!
 
MARY SAYS: When children are young, they need trusted adults to show them how to make wise decisions. A three-year-old doesn’t want to be in charge—it’s too scary! Your daughter’s ability to make her own decisions will mature after watching you make decisions for her. Instead of presenting multiple options, offer her one and tell her why you’ve chosen it: “We’re having oatmeal today because it’s cold outside and it will warm you up!” Gradually, she will ‘get it’ after watching you, and she will be able to make her own decisions with confidence—and without tantrums.
 
KRISTI SAYS: I'm right in the thick of things with my threenager. If your kids are like mine, they say they want something one way, then change their minds moments later! It drives me crazy! The most important thing is that when a tantrum ensues, don't try to placate your child or give her whatever she wants. This will only teach her that fits work. Go ahead and let her have a fit (in a safe place of course). When she's calmed down, she's much more likely to be a reasonable human. I find that too many choices can be overwhelming. I stick with letting my kids make choices when time doesn't matter, and only giving them two options when it does. 

Learn more about our online phonics program to build your child's independent learning.  

Photo by Ketut Subiyanto

Introduced to schools in the 1980s, Whole Language takes a holistic approach to teaching children how to read. Words are deciphered by using the context of the story, the pictures and the sentences. (There is a lot of sight-reading in this method, too.) Simply surround new readers with the written word in fun and meaningful ways, and they will start to get it. The Whole Language approach is loosely based on the premise that children can learn to read the way they learned to talk.

One of the problems with this notion is that toddlers are motivated to learn how to talk. If someone is babbling at them, they want to know what’s going on. When the big kids are playing a game, the little one is all ears. And except for when babies are sleeping, they are practicing all the time.

As far as small children are concerned, reading is optional. (OK, it’s not really. But they don’t know that yet.) Some kids are motivated to learn how to read, but for others, it’s too much work to figure out. If reading is presented to this kind of child in an unstructured ‘guessing game,’ he’s not going to get it. And then later, when he realizes that being good at this game informs everything else he does, the anxiety sets in.

Perhaps there was an element of ‘luck’ to the record-breaking popularity of the bespectacled, black-haired boy dreamed up by children’s book author J.K. Rowling. After all, a lot of events had to fall magically in place before one small publisher finally decided to gamble on Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Legend has it that the publisher decided to move forward with the book when his eight-year-old daughter read the first chapter and asked for more.

What fabulous luck!

So what does ‘luck’ look like to you? (For example, what does it mean when you say ‘just my luck’? Has something devastating—or spectacular—happened?) Behind every stroke of luck there is typically an iron-willed belief and a lot of hard work. And when these two get together, luck happens.

Alchemy, if you will.

Rowling describes her books as touching on religious themes—but not overtly. She is a master at telling a story that has multiple layers, but all she does is tell it like it is. Discovering the universal truths in her mythology is up to each of us to do for ourselves.

And when we do, we feel something.

The Harry Potter series weaves a golden thread of longing, hope, magic and love, beginning with The Boy Who Lived and not stopping until the end. There’s a lot of darkness in the series, too. This epic tale appeals to the hero inside of us—child and adult alike.

I asked one (young) reader what he liked so much about Harry Potter. His answer was simple: “J.K. Rowling is so creative.” But these words didn’t come close to expressing what was on the boy's face—the way it lapsed into a dreamy, far-away look at the mere mention of his beloved Harry. Now a college student, this young man has read the entire series at least 20 times.

I love what J.K. Rowling revealed in her interview with Oprah. At one point, Oprah asked Rowling if she ‘knew’ that ‘one day every child in the world will know his [Harry’s] name.’

This excerpt from the 10/3/2010 transcript of that interview is riveting:

Winfrey: But isn’t it interesting that in the first book, when Harry is being dropped-off at his uncle’s, it is predicted – ?

Rowling: One day every child in the world will know his name.

Winfrey: One day every child in the world will know his name.

Rowling: Well, the screenwriter –

Winfrey: So, didn’t you know?

Rowling: No.

Winfrey: Wasn’t there part of you –

Rowling: Part of me –

Winfrey: Subconsciously, that knew? Yes.

Rowling: I – I remember once and it was like – it was like – well, like – I’m going to call it clash – a flash of clairvoyance now. Obviously if it hadn’t come true it would just be some crazy thought I had. But I do remember one day, writing Philosopher’s Stone, I was walking away from the café where I’d been working on –

Winfrey: Philosopher’s Stone which became Sorcerer’s Stone.

Rowling: Which became Sorcerer’s Stone, exactly. So that’s the first novel. And I had this moment where I suddenly thought – It was like another voice speaking to me and the voice said “the difficult thing is going to get published. If it gets published it will be huge.”

Wow. Great insight. One that begs the question: If you are a writer, are you listening to the voice in your head? Is your heart telling you it’s a go? If so, now may be the time to follow Rowling’s lead and start creating your own luck.

Just make sure it’s the good kind.

Leave a comment! Share your thoughts about 'creating luck.'

A lot of people have one inside of them. A novel, I mean. They think about it, they tell people about it—they might even sit down and write a few pages. But why do so few actually finish writing a novel?

For starters, it’s a big job. And when you have a lot of other things to do, it’s easy to shove your book off to the side, to be written when you have more time.

But if you are able to save it for later, it’s probably not burning a hole inside of you. (And if that’s the case, ‘later’ might never come.) If your unwritten novel haunts you when you’re at work, if you’re developing plots at night before you fall asleep and you’re annoyed with yourself when you see a novel that you could have written hit the bookstores, perhaps it’s time to figure out what’s stopping you.

One way to make sure your novel stays where it is now—inside of you—is to tell everyone about it. While some of your friends will be staunch supporters, the people closest to you might feel threatened that you are branching out and trying something new. They might say things like this:

“You?”

Or: “Shouldn’t you start with a short story?”

Perhaps you have someone in your life who’s even more blunt:

“But you can’t write.”

Most likely, you know who these people are. And if you find yourself unable to resist sharing your enthusiasm with them, you may want to ask yourself why you are opening yourself up to their lack of faith in you. Could it be that they are mirroring something inside of you about your ability to do this? If so, be aware that you will continue to seek naysayers until you believe you can see this project through to the end.

If you need to confide in someone, choose somebody who has always been your champion. As for everybody else? Resist the temptation to share. That way, their negative vibes won’t bring you down.

If Phileas Fogg can get around the world in 80 days, you can certainly write a novel by then, too. Consider this: if you write 1,000 words a day, you will have completed your first draft of an 80,000 word novel (a good length for most debut novels) in less than three months. Writing for kids? You’ll be done in six weeks.

But maybe 1,000 words a day demands more resources than you have to spare. No worries. Cut it down to 500 words. Still too much? Shoot for 250. The point is, if you break it up into bite-sized chunks—whatever that means for you—it will be easier for you to set up a schedule and stick to it. By doing this, you'll end up with a completed novel, ready to pitch to agents in 2015.

Let your time with your book be your favorite part of the day. Look forward to it. Savor it while you are engaged in the work you ‘have’ to do. You will find that once you begin writing on a schedule, your novel will stop torturing you. Rather, you will find that the mere thought of it can buoy you up—even when other parts of your life are weighing you down.

Why not tackle this mountain with a climbing buddy? You probably have a friend who wants to write a novel, too. If not, I suspect you do have a friend who would be willing to hold you accountable, and perhaps even read chapters to give you feedback as you write.

Or maybe you feel as though you need a real taskmaster to help you get through this. For those of you who are tired of ‘wanting’ to write a book and ready to get it done, you might benefit from the upcoming National Novel Writing Month. NaNoWriMo is a non-profit organization that provides support for first-time novelists who are willing to commit the month of November to writing that first draft. On an international scale, you can join with other writers who are sick of hearing themselves talk and are ready to write—a whole book in 30 days. Through this organization, you can enjoy pep talks, inspirational stories, contests and forums, but most importantly, you can join thousands of new novelists who have decided that the time is now (or more precisely, November) to get that story written.

Ever hear about the legendary warrior who led his troops by sea onto enemy shores? When they reached land, he ordered them to burn their boats. Think about what it would take for you to embark on this adventure, with no turning back. Once you’ve written one novel, it’s a lot easier to write the second one, which is how most novelists turn writing stories into a career.

How about you? Do you have a novel inside of you? Tell us about it!

Let's say your main character is a kid who rode on your school bus when you were eight years old. Or, your main character is you when you were eight years old. But now you’re all grown up and this guy or gal is only in your head. Good character development gets these people out of your head and onto the page so they are no longer inside of you. By the time you type The End, your characters should belong to the world.

So how do you do that?

Start by re-introducing yourself to your long-ago friend. Sure you knew this kid twenty-five years ago, but that’s a long time. Remember, if you’re writing in the time-frame of your own childhood, that would be an historical novel. Maybe you wore neon orange and lime-green parachute pants as a kid, but make sure your characters dress the way kids do now.

And notice how confident elementary school children are today. They’ll say anything to anybody. Even to grown-ups (with whom they’ll be on a first-name basis). These kids tend to have a better idea of what they like—and don’t like—and they’re not shy about letting you know.

Today’s boys and girls are more likely to be best friends with each other than they were back then. They’re tech savvy, and they’re less likely to be playing jump-rope or monkeying around on jungle gyms.

And in what appears to be an evolution of consciousness, the children of today are more comfortable with talking about how they feel.

You want your readers to get to know your characters by what your characters say and do. Let’s say that you want to show the reader that your eight-year-old protagonist (Jason) is lacking confidence in his ability to swim.

Here are three ways you can handle that:


1)      You spell it out for your reader:

Jason hung back. He wasn’t a very good swimmer, and he always felt embarrassed when he thrashed his way across the pool.

2)      Jason tells them, but in case your reader misses it, you tell them, too:

“Hey, Jason! Come on in!”

“I can’t. I forgot my towel.” Jason had hoped that no one would notice that he wasn’t swimming.

3)      Let JASON show your readers how unsure he is:

Sam and Eddie dove into the deep end. The water was a shade darker—and colder, Jason thought—when the drain was so far down you could hardly see it. He grabbed a kickboard from the deck and jumped in.

"Look! I'm Eddie! I'm a big baby!" Jason held his nose with two fingers and began splashing his way across the pool. The spastic sound of his feet slapping the water trailed behind him, but all he cared about was the clock on the wall over the picnic tables. Two more minutes, and the lifeguard would blow the whistle for adult swim.

A general rule of thumb is this: when your character talks, the reader should know who’s doing the talking without any prompting from you. While this can’t be the case for every line (Wow! Cool!—all kids say that), it’s helpful to think about this ‘test’ as you’re writing dialog. Each character should have a unique voice. I recall reading a book one time and wondering why it wasn’t working for me. It wasn’t until after I had finished the whole thing that I realized all of the characters spoke in the same witty banter.

While there might be one quirky character in a book, they can’t all be. The others need to be something different to provide contrast.

Mostly because that’s how it is in real life. Everybody’s different. And in order to create a scenario that your readers can get lost in, they need to feel the way they do when they meet real people—interested, curious and wanting to know more.

So you’re ready to write that novel. It’s been festering in the back of your mind for weeks—or years—and something about this moment is making you say “It’s time.” Short of a professor who threatens you with an ‘F’ if you don’t turn it in, how do you make sure you get it done?


Join a writer’s group. Or start one.

It’s not easy to add one more commitment to a long list of things you have to do, but if you want to hold yourself accountable for writing a whole book, you’re going to need help.

You’re going to need about two hours a week to meet with your new group, and about ten hours a week to write your book. So where’s the time going to come from?

You need to quit something. And the first thing that’s gotta go is reading. Stop curling up with a juicy book. Quit your book club. Reading (a lot) is the key to becoming a good writer, but writing is more important for you now. (Besides, if you are a writer, you’ve probably already done a good job on the reading part.)

Think of it like this. If you were going to be a chocolate maker, you would need to sample a lot of chocolate. But at some point, you’ve got to stop eating chocolate and start making chocolate. Over-indulgence will make you sick. You’ll get frustrated by all of the bad chocolate out there and how you could do it better. And when you taste a heavenly bite? You’ll get depressed, wondering if you could ever be as good.

Sound familiar? If this is how you feel when you browse through a bookstore, it’s time to stop reading and start writing. When you’re deep into your novel, you can start reading again. That’s when reading becomes an education rather than a pastime.

One woman I talked to who joined (and quit) a writer's group said that nobody wanted to say anything bad about anybody’s writing.  She didn’t feel she was getting enough guidance. The group was too ‘nice.’

Mine wasn’t. My group was mean. And because of it, I have a much better novel. Finished and polished.

Make decisions about how you will all work as a group:

1. Each person in the group critiques the week’s chapter without interruption from the author. After each person is done, the author gets to ask questions. Encourage the author not to defend his or her writing. (They won’t be there to defend themselves when people read the book after it’s published. Might as well get used to it.)
2. Identify what’s working and what’s not. Pretend the author isn’t even there, so that each person can speak freely.
3. Warn all members that the goal of the writer’s group is to get published and that it might be difficult to sit through the criticism at times. But also let them know that if they stick with it, they will surprise themselves with how good their writing becomes—and how bad their early stuff was. (I can attest to this.) You can’t see it without help.

Talk to people you know. Most likely, there is another closet novelist in your office, school or neighborhood. But if not, go to www.meetup.com or www.craiglist.com —two great sources for finding like-minded individuals. And if you can’t generate local interest, go wide. You can hold your meetings via Skype or Google Hangouts.

Don’t worry about needing to find people who are writing in the same genre as you. A good book is a good book. The members of your new writer's group will have been voracious readers for years. They can help you identify qualities about any style of writing that are uniquely yours—the good, the bad and the ugly.

Writing for kids is easy. The words are short, the books are short—the readers are usually pretty short. They’ve got to be less discerning than adults, right?

If your book is about wizards, mean girls or vampires, you might have a shot at going viral with a mediocre tale. But don’t count on it. Children have a sensor inside of them that gravitates toward good writing. Well-written children’s books rise to the top. And although it might look like an author simply got lucky by thinking up a good story, if you were to deconstruct that story, you would find an intricate piece of work that took a lot of time, thought and false starts to write.

Children are people, too. Myths, archetypes and human struggles resonate with them as they do with us. Kids want to cry, laugh, side with the hero and imagine themselves in the situations they are reading about. If the language is trite or the plot is forced, nothing happens inside. Write for the heart and you’ve got something worth reading.

Harry Potter aside, children usually prefer to follow one story at a time. Subplots bore them. If they’re headed down one path, they don’t want to be taken down another. Adults are a little more patient with this. We like to savor our books, make them last. If we have twenty minutes before bedtime to read, we feel lucky.

Children inhale books. They want to get to the end, even if they’re having a good time on the way. If the hero is on the verge of discovery (or death, or losing some kind of conflict), it’s best to stay on that track.

And if you are going to introduce a subplot, that’s okay if it advances the action. Just make sure that it supports the hero’s journey and the arc of your story. And please make sure your side trip doesn’t include parents or teachers. There’s no getting around that one. Adults should be background noise at best in a book for kids. (Remember the adults in the Charlie Brown TV shows? All they ever said was “Wah, wah, wah.”)

Pick up any work of middle-grade fiction—Harry Potter aside—and you will find that most of them take place within a few days. Maybe a few weeks, but seldom will they span a year.  Kids have a limited view of the future. If something big is going to happen on Saturday, that’s about as far out as they can see.

Young readers are going to want to experience your hero’s day. A rock comes through the classroom window with a note attached to it. The new kid smells like a banana. A best friend’s desk is empty, and the teacher looks like she’s been crying. The math problem on the board is a string of mysterious—yet strangely familiar—numbers. A secret code, perhaps?

All of this needs to happen even before the bell rings for lunch.

It goes without saying that a kid’s book should move along at a pretty good clip, Harry Potter aside. (Sure, the Potter books move. But they also spend a lot of time meandering in the halls, the cafeteria and out on the school grounds.)  Keeping the pace up is not always easy to do. There’s backstory that needs to be established, locales to describe, and characters to introduce.

Try doing it with dialog.

Kids love when the characters talk to each other.  How to talk like a kid is a topic for another day, but dialog is a great way to fill in the gaps and keep the story moving at the same time.

Be careful with this. Using dialog to clue the reader in can backfire if it’s too obvious:

“My parents told me they’re getting divorce and I have to go live with my dad. He’s moving to Chicago, so I have to start at a new school. I’m really bummed.” Alexander kicked at a pebble with his toe. He didn’t look up, but he knew that Casey was staring at him.

Now take a look at a more natural unfolding:

Alexander kicked at a pebble with his toe. “I’m not coming back next year,” he said.

“Why not?” Casey asked.

“Because my mom and dad are stupid.” Alexander wondered if Casey had heard that his parents were splitting up.

You may have heard that good dialog sounds the way people really talk. Well, it doesn’t. In real life, people aren’t that clever. And articulate. And they’re not always telling a story, which is a role you can never break when you are writing one. Good dialog is a delicate balance between sounding natural and moving the story along.

The Harry Potter series violates almost every rule for writing a good children’s book. Genius is like that sometimes. If you have a genius inside of you, throw the rulebook away and follow your muse.

By teaching your child to read, you are sharing wisdom that — until the last one hundred years or so — was imparted to only a chosen few. Not so long ago, reading was reserved for the elite, the revered and the powerful.

And if you’re using a phonics-based method, you’re going all the way back to the early Greek alphabet, adapted by the Greeks from the Phoenician alphabet. The Phoenicians were known to have used symbols to help native speakers recognize sounds of words they knew. In the beginning, the ability to read these symbols (consonants only—no vowels) was related to the culture, and a person needed contact with native speakers to understand them.

The Greeks changed all that. They added vowels and a system that made their alphabet more portable to other communities. The sounds were no longer attached to meanings. Rather, they were merely assigned to sounds in a word. A writer could actually mix them up to create new words, based only on the sounds.

Then the Romans ran with it and created the alphabet we still use today.

In other words, it all started with the Phoenicians. The genius of a phonetic alphabet stems from the innovative nature of this early civilization. And did you know that Phoenician means ‘Purple People’? The Greeks dubbed them that because the Phoenicians made the purple dyes for the robes of Mesopotamian royalty, and the dye-makers’ skin would often be stained a purple hue.

Think of yourself as a mentor or a guide, passing on a wisdom tradition that as the ‘elder,’ you are being called upon to do.

Kids don’t get enough lap time. If you have a preschooler or a kindergartner, is he or she getting at least some time each day on your lap? At the end of a long day—work, daycare, bills to pay, cars to fix, meals to make—is your child getting the one-on-one attention he or she needs from you?

Don’t blink. That soft, downy hair with the baby sweet smell will soon be a wistful memory. Much sooner than you know. And when your child is on your lap and turns to look up at you for reassurance with those bright, wide-open eyes, you will never feel so able to provide it as you do at that moment.

You are the elder. With your child on your lap, you are passing down knowledge to him or her that is endemic to a life well-lived. We text, email, post, blog—that’s our tradition. But sadly, many people aren’t very good at it. And just as in 1,000 BC, lacking that skill can separate people. Keep them shut out. Limit their choices.

You’ve been chosen. You’re the right person to teach your child to read, opening up a world of choices for him or her.

It seems odd to discard a tradition that has stood the test of (a really long) time. If you are teaching your child to read, I would encourage you to start first with a phonics-based method. Phonics can never harm your child’s effort to learn how to read. That’s because English is a phonetic language. You’re teaching your child exactly what is on the page in front of him or her.

But you can cause problems if you skip phonics. Phonics is a code. Obvious to some, but to others, a mystery. If a child is not able to decipher that code, he will struggle. And it’s much harder to teach it after he has tried to learn another way but has failed. Because now you are dealing with much more than a missing skill. You will most likely spend years undoing the belief that has developed in your child’s heart that reading is hard and he isn’t very good at it.

Nobody wants that for their child. Which is why we take our children on our laps and start teaching them everything we know. Like all the families, tribes and societies that have gone before us.

Tell your kids you are teaching them the ancient Secrets of the Purple People. They’ll love that.

How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. How do you write a novel? Make yourself sit down at your computer. Then, get up, go to the kitchen for a snack, eat it over the sink, sit back down again, look out the window and finally, go to Starbucks.

At least, that’s the way it was for me.

Getting started was the hardest part. After that, stopping was the hard part. I found that I had been thinking so long about my book, that when I actually sat down to write it, the first half or so seemed to write itself.

And the rest followed pretty quickly. But then it got hard again. Because once it’s done, you’ll most likely need to start over.

It took me about six months to write my 50,000 word middle-grade novel, and about two more years to do enough rewrites to get it in good enough shape to pitch to agents.

The main character in my book is named Skyler. When I completed my first draft, my oldest son read it. After he finished, he turned to his brother and said, “Skyler talks like mom.” Since Skyler is only twelve years old, that wasn’t a good thing. Twelve-year-olds don’t typically say things like “Why don’t we think this through?” Or “Darn it. I’ve got homework. I can’t go.”

My second draft was me writing the whole book over, starting with page one.

Writing is a solitary pursuit, but editing is not. Here are some of the reasons I’ve heard that people won’t show their stuff to anyone else:

• It’s so good, someone might steal my idea.
• People tell me I should change things, but I’m the only one who knows what’s right for my book.
• I’m afraid of rejection. What if they don’t like it? I would die if nobody liked it.
• It’s already close to perfect. I can tell. (And I should know. It’s my book.)
• My editor will edit it when I get a publisher.

Let’s pretend that all of these are good reasons to skip the part where you let friends, family and strangers (if they’re willing) tear your stuff apart. Because it is pretending. It’s a bad, bad idea to not get feedback on your book.

Solicit as many warm bodies as you can to read it. Your neighbors, your boss, your kids. Join a writer’s group. Upload your book to www.lulu.com or www.amazon.com and self-publish it. Not to sell it, but to hand a paperback to each of your readers. It will be much easier for them to read on paper than online, and they will be more likely to do it. Tell them to read it with pen-in-hand and make notes in the margins.

If you do this, I promise you will get depressed. You’ll get so many put-downs about your book, you’ll be tempted to quit. (Or you’ll find yourself wondering how people can be so stupid and that maybe you need new friends.)

And the worst? When nobody can seem to get through it. I’ve been sooo busy. But I’ll get to it. I promise. After I finish watching the last seven seasons of House in the next few weeks or so.

That’s feedback, too.

But after you’ve stuck your book in a drawer for awhile, the feedback you’ve been getting will start to percolate. You’ll notice patterns. What your (suddenly smarter) friends are saying will start to make sense. You’ll figure out how to fix it. And when you do, the next round of readers will reflect that. They’ll come back to you a few days later and say “I couldn’t wait to find out what happened.” And instead of telling you what’s wrong with your book, they’ll start musing about the characters and about what happened to them.

More like a book club than a billy club.

Here’s something I find interesting. I’ve seen writers defend the way they’ve written a phrase, a paragraph or even a plot-line, even though their readers are telling the author that he or she has missed the mark. Think about that one. Is the writer going to have the opportunity to explain his or her logic to everyone who buys the book?

If you’re not writing for the reader, you’re writing for yourself. Which is OK, as long as you’re not interested in getting published.

Leave a comment! We’d love to hear how you feel when people give you feedback on your writing.

Children want to learn how to read, but let’s face it, sometimes it feels like work. In the early lessons, there are some basics that need to be covered before the real fun begins. Learning all the sounds of the alphabet can take a long time for some kids, but until they know those, they don’t get to enjoy sounding out words and, well, reading.

When you are working with your child (on anything, for that matter!), does she wiggle a lot? Does he want to talk about what he found on the bottom of his shoe the other day? Does she look at everything but what you are trying to show her?

If so, good! Your child is perfectly normal. And fortunately, teaching reading with phonics is simple, straight-forward and works like building blocks. Over time, even the most distracted pupil can learn how to read.

But until that happens, here are 7 tips for keeping your child focused on what you are trying to do:

1. Keep it short. Three to five minutes a day, three to five days a week is the maximum amount of time you will want to spend on lessons. This will help make sure your child stays engaged during each lesson. (As an added bonus, you will always leave your young pupil wanting more!)
2. Praise your child. Reward her with hugs and applause, even when things seem to be moving slowly. There are certain personality-types that will do anything for praise. If your child is one of those, hang a chart on the wall and put a gold star on it each time you finish a lesson. Take her to tea when she earns a week’s worth of stars.
3. Be creative. Draw a picture of a word after she reads it. Or balloons when she gets her sounds right.
4. Get moving. To keep your child physically engaged, let him blow bubbles or throw a ball each time he gets a word right.
5. Make it cozy. Ideally, lesson time is on-your-lap time. If your child doesn’t get enough of this on most days, spending time on your lap will help keep him still. (Not too much time, though. You’ve got a short window before your child will want to get down. See #1!)
6. Check your child’s vitals. Make sure your child is comfortable, well-fed and rested before you begin each lesson.
7. Give it up. If it becomes too much of a struggle, stop and pick up where you left off next time. Sometimes, it’s a good idea to set the materials aside for a few weeks—or months. Take your cue from your child. She might be letting you know that she’s not ready yet.

In any reading program, the lessons really must stick to a 5 minute limit to accommodate the short attention span of a small child. (Or a busy mom!) One of the biggest downfalls is the overzealousness of the parent.  It’s tempting to keep pushing everything along so that you can start seeing results.

If this is how you feel, please don’t rush your child. There are no deadlines. Try to remember that each lesson is a time of enrichment, not measured success. 'Showing off' your child's reading skills to friends and family may put undue pressure on her. Believe me, as your child's confidence grows, she will proudly display on her own what she has learned!

Enjoy!

Mary Follin

Add to these 7 tips! I'd love to hear how you have helped your child sit still. Leave a comment.

Do children's book titles hold the same enchantment for you as they do for me?

Anne of Green Gables, The Long Winter (Laura Ingalls Wilder), The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, The Little Princess (or Sara Crewe), All-of-a-Kind Family, The Secret Garden, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. 

I imagine you have your own list.

For me, these mere words take me back to the world I dreamed up as a kid. A happy world. One that had cozy houses (which all looked the same in my mental construct), bosom friends (to quote the aforementioned Anne) and kids that got to be the star of their own show.

Stuff I always wanted.

Sure, bad things happened. But deep down, I knew that all would be well in the end. Even if someone died. It was just a matter of finding the good in it, which most of the characters managed to do.

Children’s books do that for kids. They create threads of feeling inside that stick with them, sometimes for life. They put a frame in place that helps children respond in a more thoughtful way to the real-life story that is happening around them.