It’s safe to say I hate change. I’m still eating the same thing for breakfast (cold cereal with blueberries)
that I did five years ago. I’m still hanging out with the women I met at a new moms group, even though
our babies are nearly grown. I’m still living in Indiana, the state I moved to when I was a toddler, even
though I’ve always dreamed of living somewhere warm in the winter.

A few years ago I found this Question a Day journal that I thought was so cool. It asks me a question
every day such as “Should you have a Plan B?” or “When’s the last time you went swimming?” and I will
write the answers each day for five years. This allows me to see what I wrote in the past to the same
question and see how I’ve changed. After a while, I realized I would’ve enjoyed this journal much more
in my twenties when my life was in flux. Oftentimes I write the exact same answer year after year:
“What’s your favorite food?”: pizza and my Grandma Ruth’s chocolate chip cookies. When it asked what
I wished I could buy, I wrote more than once that I needed a new wool coat for work (the silk lining had
ripped and been mended repeatedly). Finally, I broke down last winter and treated myself to a new coat
only because my journal showed me how long I had been ignoring this simple desire. Somehow I forced
myself to buy the coat in a cocoa color instead of my favorite (navy blue). That was really hard.

Another example of how I like things to stay the same is illustrated by my television viewing habits. One
of my favorite shows to watch is Dateline. I’m not sure why (even though I’ve tried to explain it to my
husband many times.) There’s something comforting about hearing how a couple fell in love, while
smugly knowing it’s going to end badly. I enjoy trying to guess who did it—the husband or the boyfriend.
It couldn’t be anybody else. And I don’t want it to be anybody else. Whenever one of these true-crime
mystery shows covers an unsolved kidnapping or a random serial killer, I turn it off. I don’t want to be
reminded that I could be a victim, that a stranger I meet on the street could be a murderer. I have to
say, I’m not happy that it seems like Dateline lately is trying to break out of its mold by doing something
besides romance gone wrong stories.

So it makes sense that the main character in my latest book hates change. After all, Mark Twain said,
“Write what you know.” The fun part about writing for me is starting with a seed of truth then making it
better. That’s what I feel like I’ve done in “A Season of Change.” It opens with:

“Kimber Foley hated change. She hated when the IT department forced her to change her
password every three months, she hated it when Kroger stopped stocking her favorite chai latte, and
she really hated that fifteen years ago her husband went out for a drive and never came home. Just
walking across Summit College’s campus with her teenage daughter made Kimber’s stomach twist in
knots. Of course she wanted her only child to go to college, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet.”

Throughout the book Kimber struggles to let go of her daughter (who’s on the spectrum) while dealing
with her own panic attacks and a former crush. Ironically, I started this novel while living in the same city
I’d inhabited for 18 years, but I wasn’t inspired to finish it until I’d switched jobs and moved to a new
town. Just like Kimber, I realized that the status quo was no longer making me happy. Although I was
very hesitant, I’m glad I took the risk.

I often tell my daughter when she’s struggling with something new that “Change can be uncomfortable.”
Even though I watched Dateline last night and will no doubt buy another Question of the Day journal
when this one is filled, I treated myself to apple cinnamon oatmeal this morning and enjoyed tasting
something different.

Here’s hoping that you can push through the discomfort and discover that sometimes change is exactly
what you need!

A Season of Change is available on Amazon for $2.99.

Have you ever heard Bohemian Rhapsody played by a middle school orchestra? Well, I did last week.

I had been looking forward to hearing it after listening to my daughter practice it solo for weeks. Like every good mother in 2019, I pulled out my phone so I could video record it. As they started, the mom and grandmother on either side of my view pulled out their cameras, lifted them high in the air and blocked my view. Now I was recording other people's cameras recording the concert. They wiggled around every time I tried to move, so they were constantly interfering with this beautiful memory. I stuck with it, though, and recorded the whole thing. I'm not sure why. 

After the applause, my husband leaned over and quipped, "What would Freddy Mercury have thought about that?" It wasn't exactly the energetic Queen version or head-banging inspiration like in Wayne's World. But it was still kinda cool, I thought.

On the drive home I asked my daughter, "Have you ever heard the original Bohemian Rhapsody on the radio?" She said no. I replied, "Oh, you've got to hear it!" She said, "I don't like it." Confused, I reminded her that she'd just said she'd never heard it before. She corrected me by explaining that I'd asked if she'd ever heard it on the radio. She hasn't heard it on the radio, but she's heard it on YouTube.

​Boy, do I feel old!

The tooth fairy blew it last night. I went to bed early, so I put my husband in charge of playing the tooth fairy. At 1:30 a.m. he woke me up. Apparently, as he'd reached under the pillow, our daughter had bolted upright. He told me to go fix things. Rubbing my eyes, I stumbled down the hall to find my daughter staring at the doorway. I tiptoed out of the room.

The next morning, she placed the tiny tin box with her tooth on the kitchen table. "The tooth fairy didn't come," she said.

I'd just read an article that said by the end of elementary school, kids should no longer believe in such things. So, I decided to fish. "Why do you think she didn't come?"

"I don' t know."

"Do you think you're too old for the tooth fairy?"

"No."

"Hmm." I ate my breakfast and soon noticed tears streaming down her cheeks. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm mad that the tooth fairy didn't come."

Part of me had hoped this would be the end, but the tears changed my mind. She was a true believer and that was OK. "You know the tooth fairy forgot me once, too. I just had to put the tooth back under my pillow the next night."

I went to brush my teeth and when I returned she announced, "I thought I saw something in my room last night."

"A-ha! If you saw the tooth fairy, that's why she didn't stay. No one's supposed to see the tooth fairy."

"It kinda looked like Dad."

I thought about saying her dad was probably just checking in on her like he always does, but I was torn. I didn't want to keep pushing her to believe if she was old enough to know better. So, I just left for work. All day I thought about her tears and my heart ached. The end of the tooth fairy felt like the end of childhood to me. If she didn't believe in this, wasn't this the end of Santa and the Easter bunny too? I tried to remember how old I was when I figured it out. I remember placing a tooth under my pillow and purposely not telling my parents as a test. The next morning I knew. I was sad, but I never said a word to anyone. I certainly hadn't cried. Guilt set in. I'm pretty sure the test had come with one of my very last baby teeth, while my daughter still had plenty left. My husband called and said our daughter had pointed at him and announced, "You're the tooth fairy!" So, she wasn't crushed after all? I was confused.

That night she started talking about how she hoped the tooth fairy would come. I didn't know whether she was still a true believer or if she was playing me. If there was any chance her childhood innocence could be prolonged, I decided I wanted it to last.

Fearful that she would wake up again in the middle of the night, I snuck into her room after dinner. I put a dollar inside her tin box, removed the tooth, and feeling like a genius, put a tiny piece of plastic inside to rattle around. At bedtime, she started shaking the tin with eager anticipation. I should've told her to stop, but I didn't. Before I knew it, she opened the box and said, "Hey!" I played dumb. "Dad must've put this in here," she said. 

"I don't know. Why did you open it?"
"Because it stopped rattling." She ran to confront her dad, who had no idea what I had done. Finally, she went back to bed. I wasn't sure what to say, but my heart was heavy at what I'd done. I'd removed all doubt and ended the tooth fairy's reign.

"Well, at least I got a dollar," my daughter said with a smile.

Days later, I'm still thinking about this debacle. For some reason, the end of the tooth fairy hit me harder as an adult than it ever did when I was a child. I suspect the same will be true for my daughter. 

Do you remember how old you were when you found out about the tooth fairy?
​How old do you think is too old to still believe?

​

“What are we doing for Mother’s Day?” my 9-year-old daughter asks from the backseat.

I chuckle. “I don’t know.”

“I think we should do something to celebrate.”

“Like what?”

“Go to dinner.”

“Well, that’s up to you and your dad.” I drop her off at her grandparents’ house for the weekend and pick her up on Mother’s Day.

She greets me with a bouquet of yellow daffodils from Gran’s garden. On the drive home, she asks me repeatedly to take her to Barnes & Noble so she can buy me something with her $5. She adds that she hopes there’s enough to buy herself something, too, which makes me smile.

“Why don’t you make me something?” I ask. “That would be more special.”

“If that’s true, why did Dad buy you a gift?”

“Because it’s easier.” Not that I’m complaining about the pedicure gift certificate because that’s exactly what I wanted. But I know whatever my daughter creates for me will be one-of-a-kind. I know next year, even if she gave me the exact same present, it would be different because she will have grown and honed her talents a little more.

My mind drifts back to one of my first Mother’s Days. “One year when you were a toddler, you brushed my hair ever so gently and I thought that was the perfect Mother’s Day gift.”

She doesn’t remember. “Do you think you’ll have the energy to take me to the bookstore when we get home?”

My head starts to throb. “No, Sweetie. I’m tired.”

“But I feel like I should get you something.”

When we get home, she disappears into her room. But not for long. She comes out and hands me a white bookmark with a drawing of a cat on it. It took her about five minutes. It’s not even colored.

Here’s the thing: This gift represents who my daughter is. She doesn’t like to draw or color. She doesn’t like to be alone in her room. She is thoughtful enough to remember Mother’s Day and to know that a bookmark is an ideal gift for a mom who loves to read.

“I love it,” I say and give her a hug. “I’ll treasure it forever.” Longer than she spent making it. Long after my pedicure gets chipped. As long as I’m a mother, I’ll treasure a homemade gift from my child.


Award-winning author Karen Lenfestey writes “happy endings with a twist” in her novels. She writes about the complicated relationships between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, and of course, mothers and their children. Visit Karen's Author Page

I just heard that there's a company that will guarantee it won't rain on your wedding day for $150,000. Apparently, they seed the clouds the day before to force them to rain themselves out.

So many thoughts went through my mind at once: I don't believe it, A fool and their money. . . , and then What if someone else's wedding is scheduled the day before the rich bride's? Now the first bride's wedding is guaranteed to be ruined. It doesn't seem fair.

I'm sympathetic to how stressful it must be to plan an outdoor wedding, then worry until the last minute about the weather. But I prefer to leave some things, like the seasons, to a Higher Power not a higher paycheck. 

I planned my own wedding for August, a month famous for its low precipitation. (My birthday is also in that month and I never remembered it being anything but sunny). Even so, I quickly dismissed the idea of exchanging vows outdoors in a scenic park, knowing that I'd fret about the weather anyway. Since the ceremony was set indoors, I was confident it would be a beautiful day.

Instead, I awoke to gray skies. It misted then drizzled off and on all day. Concerned guests assured me it was good luck for it to rain on my wedding day. I'd never heard that along with the "Something borrowed, something blue" tradition, but I decided to believe them. You know what? The overcast skies didn't bother me at all. Because inside that chapel, as I walked toward my smiling fiance, it was a perfectly beautiful day!

Did something go wrong on your wedding day? Doesn't it always? :)


Like a wedding where everything doesn't go as planned, Karen Lenfestey's novels provide "Happy Endings with a Twist." Check out her books on Amazon. 

Thank you for stopping by. Please share this page with your friends using the social media buttons below. Leave a comment about your favorite women's fiction or chick lit author so I can send you MADE FOR TWO for free. Then visit the other blog hops by clicking here: Book Lover's Blog Hop

Midwest Writer’s Fellowship winner, Karen Lenfestey, writes “Happy Endings with a Twist.” Her first novel, A Sister's Promise, sold over 35,000 copies and was the #1 drama on Amazon for weeks.

I’ve been in a love-hate relationship for as long as I can remember. In high school I even wrote a term paper on its benefits and earned an A. In college I watched a documentary that showed when a relationship like mine ended, people became jittery and agitated as if they were going through drug withdrawal. But even then, I didn’t want to face the facts. I didn’t want to abandon the comforting voice that kept me company when I was lonely. Until my husband confronted me.

“Do you know how much money we spend on this?” I was in shock but I was also afraid to live without it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to cut the cord. Yes, I’m talking about my television. So before I agreed, I wanted to do a trial run. I’d try not to watch TV for one week. By the second day, I caved and flipped through all 100 channels. No matter how much I looked, I still couldn’t find anything worth watching. Five days later, I told my husband to cancel our subscription.

It’s been a couple of months now and I’m kind of proud of myself. I’d like to say I never turn on the “Magic Box” but that isn’t true. I watch a little of what our antenna picks up and supplement it with shows we get through Hulu. But within a few seconds, I see what’s on and make my choice. Most of the time, I turn it off.

The biggest difference I’ve noticed is that now my entire family reads more books. In this low-tech form of entertainment, I’ve found what I truly longed for. . . compelling characters that are there for me at precisely the moment I need them. I don’t need to wait for prime time for witty dialogue. I don’t need to watch pathetic reality stars willing do anything to be famous. And I no longer bemoan the fact that the censors seem to have fallen asleep, thus exposing my 9-year old to curse words and sexual innuendo. That’s because I’m reading a thriller while my husband reads a sci-fi and my daughter reads about cats.

I never would’ve guessed that I’d voluntarily walk away from television. You see, I grew up with frugal parents (in other words, we had no cable) who limited the amount of time I spent sitting in front of the screen. I was the only one I knew from the MTV Generation that never watched music videos. I didn’t know how to “Vogue” and I didn’t know what was so cool about “Thriller.” Part of me resented them for that.

But maybe it’s because of my childhood that this was a fairly easy adjustment. I didn’t suffer too many withdrawal symptoms as I limited my TV intake. In addition to enjoying the financial perks of cutting the cord, my evenings are filled with a lot more love than hate. Once I’ve flipped through the five channels we get and see there’s nothing on, I find something better to do. I turn to my faithful friends. Books.

Have you been brave enough to walk away from cable TV, social media or some other type of technology? How did it impact you?

 
Midwest Writer’s Fellowship winner, Karen Lenfestey, writes “Happy Endings with a Twist.” Her latest novels, A Weekend Getaway and Next Door Secrets, are about a thirty-something woman who must face the fact that she probably gave away her only chance at motherhood. Karen's first novel, A Sister's Promise, sold over 35,000 copies and was the #1 drama on Amazon for weeks.

If you leave a review for A Weekend Getaway by October 15th on Amazon, you could win an autographed copy of the sequel, Next Door Secrets. Simply leave a review on Amazon, then let me know by using the Contact Karen button at www.karensnovels.com. 

Here's what people are saying about A Weekend Getaway:

"When a plot has this much mystery, it's enticing, but what Lenfestey has done so adroitly is clever. She reveals Bethany's secret early in the story thus allowing readers the pleasure of watching Bethany move through a web of deceit, cunning, planning, and finally honesty." --RSRoberts


"None of it's easy, but Bethany grows in the process. She eventually makes decisions that open the door for her to find happiness of her own. If you like women's fiction, this is a good one." --Judith Post


"A real page turning book that will keep your interest until the end." --Amazon Reviewer


What will your review say?  

It took me months to realize I was teaching my daughter the wrong way to swim. My husband bought our daughter a Dora the Explorer fishing rod and taught her the wrong way to fish. Other things that I’ve flubbed include how to cut a steak and how to write cursive. Have you figured out my mistake? Here’s a hint: my daughter has something in common with Oprah Winfrey, Leonardo di Vinci and Henry Ford. Need another hint? If my daughter sits on the wrong side of me when we eat, we bump elbows. That’s right—she’s a lefty!

Once my husband and I uncovered that fact, we still had no idea how many activities in this world are dominated by what works best for right-handers. When I swim front crawl, I turn my head to the right to breathe. Apparently, it’s easier for my daughter to breathe on her left. Fishing poles are made for right-handed kids and if you want one with a reel located on the left-hand side, they cost hundreds of dollars! Now that I’m teaching my daughter to write in cursive, I see the bias that the “correct” way for letters to slant is to the right. Well, that’s not so easy for a southpaw. Fortunately, my mother-in-law is left-handed and she showed us the trick of tilting the paper in the opposite direction. When I write, the top of the paper tilts to the left, but my daughter needs to turn it the other way. But it’s still a challenge for her to get her letters to slant in the “right” direction.

I say all of this in honor of International Left-Hander’s Day, August 13th. For those righties out there, I challenge you to spend a day looking at the world through the eyes of a leftie. We put our right hand over our heart to say the Pledge of Allegiance. We shake hands with our right hand. We operate the mouse on our computers with our right hands. High school desks, scissors, guitars and the buttons on microwaves are made for right-handers. Perhaps you don’t think it matters. When you get home tonight, put your house keys in your non-dominant hand and try to unlock your front door. Apparently when it comes to ergonomics, the majority still rules.

I’d love to hear from you! What other activities are effected by being left-handed?
What other famous people are lefties?

Karen Lenfestey, a Midwest Writer’s Fellowship winner, writes “Happy Endings with a Twist.” She just released her fourth novel, A WEEKEND GETAWAY. To get the free e-book, FRIDAY A LA MODE, click here: