While getting my two oldest girls off to school this morning, there was much groaning and dragging of feet and "do we have to's?" Usually they head off to school without a fuss. But we've all just come off a lovely holiday weekend. The weather was warm and sunny. We enjoyed the beach at the end of our street. The "big girls" spent a day up in Boston with their Auntie eating gelato in the north end and visiting the aquarium. We gardened a little, and cooked out.

It feels as though summer's already here. And then this morning, they had to get their heads back in the game for THREE MORE WEEKS OF SCHOOL! Even I was dragging my feet and groaning. We're all a little burnt out on the school year, and the taste of summer's freedom was just too sweet.

On my second cup of coffee, I realized I needed to do something to boost morale. It was time for a speech. [Insert eye-roll here.]

"We have 18 more days left a school," I said. "And we could go into these three weeks like we are now, bumming, or we could focus on the things we like about school and try to enjoy some part of each day."

No reaction. They weren't buying it. And in truth, I wasn't yet, either. But I pressed on.

"Come on, what's one thing you do enjoy about school? There has to be one thing for each of you."

"My friends," said Sofia. "Sally and Staci, Anna and Caroline."

"That's right!" I said, excited she was playing along. "And Sally will be away for the summer, so you can look at these days as the fun time you get to spend together before she leaves for vacation."

I was getting somewhere.

"And four-square!" Isabel chimed in "Yeah, I like four-square too," said Sofia. "And I have a really nice class. This is the last time we'll all be together."

"Exactly. So, when you're all outside at recess together, look around, and think about how nice a class it is, and feel glad you're there."

It was my turn: "I'll miss the moment when I get you both to the bus and I can have my coffee in the quiet. I'm going to savor that moment everyday until the end of school."

Now, I was starting to believe my own words. "It's called living in the 'present' and enjoying it."

"Like Kung Fu Panda!" said Isabel. "'Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why they call it the present.'"

(Thank you, Master Ooguay.) "That's it," I said. "You've got it."

There was no more groaning. They packed up their things and headed out the door. I won't exaggerate and say that they were excited, but they were considerably less bumming.

The lesson of staying present, of not resisting what I can't control, is one I learn and relearn again and again. But when I remember it, and live by it, my life, my writing, my family is always better for it.

So, for these last few weeks of the school year, I'm going to take my own advice (and Ooguay's) and find something to enjoy and appreciate in each day. Because as corny and cliché as it sounds...today truly is a gift.

After a lovely vacation week visiting my family in the southeast, this is the official start of what I'm calling my "full-time-part-time" writing career.

I'll admit, day one (yesterday) consisted of not so much writing, but more desk-clearing and laundry. Still, it was a good first step.

This morning, as the cursor on my screen blinked in anticipation, I felt the first real wave of panic hit me since making this decision. All the usual fears invaded my brain: What if I get a massive case of writer's block? What if writing during nap-time and evenings isn't enough? What is no one pays to me to write a single word EVER AGAIN!? 

Typically, when in the throes of a good "career freak out," I head out for a walk. I'm not great at meditating in stillness, but a brisk walk often helps me quiet my mind. This morning I had two problems: First, the baby was napping, hence me, "butt-in-chair" in front of my computer. Second, it's pouring rain and chilly here in Barrington today, and I needed to be distracted -- not drenched.

So, feeling a tad desperate, I decided on another type of movement meditation: My kids' Just Dance game for X-Box 360.

I know very few people over the age of 17 who look cool doing Just Dance or any of those Wii or X-Box dance games, and I assure you, I am no exception. But this was an emergency.

So, I pulled the drapes, cranked up the volume, and just... danced. Until all I was thinking about was how to a master a move that no one looks good doing who isn't in a boy band.

I let go. And laughed at myself. And when the music stopped, and I realized I'd bested my high score in "Shake Your Groove Thing," I felt better.

My lesson for the day? Sometimes butt-in-chair isn't going to happen, until you shake off the fears (even if it's only temporary) that are holding you back.

And if a quarter turn and a hip slap is what works... then do it. Just dance.

"La sangre llama," said my father as my baby daughter bounced contentedly on his lap. Typically, she'd be a little strange with someone she doesn't see regularly scooping her up out of my arms and whisking her away, but she wasn't. Her eyes were taking him in, moving over his bearded face in that intense way of hers, when she popped the chubby thumb from her mouth, and a sweet smile spread across her cherubic face.

La sangre llama. It means: "The blood calls."

It was something my Titi Rosie first said seven years ago when she and my father visited us from Florida. My middle daughter Isabel was still a baby, and despite having just met my dad for the first time (and battling her first bouts of stranger anxiety), she snuggled up on his lap like he'd been rocking her to sleep every night.

Now, I'm someone who values the family we choose as much as the one we are are born into. I come from divorced parents who remarried, have a large extended family, and several friends who are as dear to me as blood relatives. I know very well that the bond of blood relation is not all there is to it.

I feel fortunate for all of my familial relationships, including ones that have been made through marriage, or the long history of friendship.

But in the case of my dad, who lives far away, I'm so grateful the blood calls, and that despite the distance and the long months between visits, my children are drawn to their Pop-pop like magnets.

As I spend time with my dad, his wife, my sister and brother, and all my relatives here in Florida this vacation, I fall into the relaxed rhythm of family... and my soul feels restored.

My Pop, with my youngest daughter Esmé

I enjoy naming characters, but I'm hardly scientific about it.

I know writers who've given more thought to naming their characters than their first born. They do exhaustive research, try out several variations, and go back and forth with their critique groups to find just the right moniker.

And this is wise, because a character's name is extremely important. It's the first impression, a clue to his or her personality.

But I just don't seem to do it that way.

For me, it's a gut thing. My characters' names just happen. If it wasn't such a cliche, I'd be tempted to say they name themselves. (It really does feel like that sometimes.)

Perhaps it's because I tend to take a Dickensian approach. Oftentimes, my characters will have names that embody who they are and what they do: A mouse named Tibbles for instance, or a hare called Mr. Fops.

Sometimes the connections are more nebulous, but nonetheless, when I hit on the perfect name, issues of its appropriateness to time period and genre seem to fall into place.

Conversely, if I'm struggling, I know there's more work to be done in fleshing that character out. It's actually a fine litmus test for character development.

If you're looking for more (reliable, instructional, scientific) information on naming characters, I found this fabulous four-part series from "The Prairie Wind," Newsletter of the Illinois chapter of SCBWI.