The Adventures of the Blackberry Hill Kids

By Lena Carpelan

After 11 years of childless marriage, calm and efficient Swedish-American Anna Sjöholm Masters has an unexpected attack of horrormones, loses her mind, and begs her husband for a baby. The result is the Blackberry Hill kids, an endearing trio of rapscallions who cheerfully romp through life as their aging parents valiantly try to keep order in the midst of chaos. From bilingual Collin who loudly counts to "sex" at Wal-Mart; to struggling readers who stumble through "the itchy bitchy spider," to reports from school ("Ashlee got a splinter in her butt and showed it to us for show and tell"), and with an insider look at pets, camping, family vacations, playing games, the endless quest to be biggest and best, and survival through the teen years, this collection of effervescent freeze frames, one liners, skits, and letters capture the essence of exuberant family life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lena Carpelan
• Release date: Jan 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986391019

Lena Carpelan

I love to laugh. Humor has seen me through being a child of divorce and the new kid in eight schools in four countries. It has seen me through the turbulent teen years, marriage, and parenthood. Seeing the absurd side of life was what made me run to jot down ludicrous comments and situations verbatim before dealing with them (my kids knew they were in trouble when I grabbed a pen...) "It's better to laugh than to cry" is a favorite saying. My books reflect looking at life through humor's softening lens... not because I don't think life is a very serious affair, but because I do.

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The Adventures of the Blackberry Hill Kids

Lena Carpelan

Copyright ©2015 by Lena Carpelan

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Table of Contents

Prelude: For Whom the Hormones Toll

Chapter 1 In Which Collin Counts to Sex at Wal-Mart

Chapter 2 In Which Brotherly Love Takes on a Whole New Meaning

Chapter 3 In Which a Sister Finally Arrives to Take Control of the Situation

Letter to Shelli: Misery Loves Company

Chapter 4 In Which Picky Eaters is a Gross Understatement

A Family Vacation with Some False Starts—A Reenactment

Chapter 5 In Which Vacation May be a Misnomer

Letter to Grandpa Tim and Grandma Sherry—A Day at Blackberry Hill

Chapter 6 In Which Befuddled Parents Try to Keep Up

Chapter 7 In Which the Ague of Cabin Fever Strikes Blackberry Hill

Letter to Loretta: The Joys of Remodeling

Chapter 8 In Which Everybody Else Has a Horse!

Chapter 9 In Which Parents are Not Always Appreciated at Their Full Value

Why Moms Love to Camp—A Reenactment

Chapter 10 In Which There is No Such Thing as Mamma Wins

Chapter 11 In Which the Effervescent Bunch Heads Off to School

Chapter 12 In Which Children are the Measure of All

Letter to Northern Indiana Power & Light—Invoice Forthcoming

Chapter 13 In Which We Survive the Teen Years

Chapter 14 More Outtakes from the Teen Years

Epilogue: Letter to Maja and Jeff

And Finally: Free Advice to Other Mothers

How This Book Came About

About Lena Carpelan

Prelude

For Whom the Hormones Toll

I was a genius when I was 25.

Not that it took a genius to figure out that my life was pretty good. And a big reason it was pretty good—bordering on terrific, actually—was that I had no kids.

Many of Carl's and my friends had already taken the inexplicable plunge into parenthood, but their conversations, tinged with despair, inevitably centered on teething, temper tantrums, and the terrible twos. The alliterations fairly rolled off their tongues, as did horror stories of months without sleep; incurable bouts of colic, and seeping diaper rash. Yum! I so envied them—not.

Meanwhile, I had life figured out, genius that I was. And the reasons my life was amazing were all associated with the fact that I had no little darlings underfoot. Instead, I had:

A. Me, myself, and I. I could sleep in on weekends. I could store rat poison in lower cabinets (not that I had rats, mind you). I could shop 'til I dropped, while smugly eyeing frazzled moms towing begging, screaming, cranky, slimy children through the mall.

B. My finances. Except that our credit card took a hit when my husband, Carl, sometimes went slightly insane buying man-things at Bear Hunters R Us or Wide World of Trout, my finances were pretty much shipshape. Carl was a good husband who dutifully brought home enough bacon to cover the mortgage and allow a large cushion for fun.

C. My house. Maybe you are thinking I should call it our house, but the parts Carl claimed were only a bathtub-sized recliner, the remote, and a corner workshop in the garage.

My house was practically perfect. In my mind, I could hear the gushing article that some appreciative reporter would write for Amazing Yuppie Homes magazine:

Anna Sjöholm Masters' home is a symphony of pleasing elements. The Victorian mansion flows in hues of sand and cream, with just-right pops" of turquoise to add delight. Her thoughtful collection of eclectic antiques is artfully arranged. It is a homey and well-thought-out house, with gracious rooms that welcome and beckon.

Tastefully grouped artwork includes watercolors Anna painted during an artists’ retreat on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, as well as quilted wall hangings designed by local craftswomen.

Three charming dogs—a rescued Greyhound; a Humane Society mutt, and a silky, beribboned Yorkshire Terrier—welcome visitors with wagging tails."

There would be photos, of course, of me in cute jeans and Wellingtons in the herb garden, and relaxing on the cream-colored couch with the Yorkie in my lap.

And finally, there was:

D. Just enough fame. This is what the article would say about me: Sjöholm Masters is well known in the community. Her exciting recipes which combine elements from her native Sweden's cuisine with local herbs and flowers have earned her a loyal following in the Lifestyle section of the local paper. She can be found raising money for the humane shelter and promoting repurposing and salvaging of old barns in the area, and the local hospital and food pantry have also benefited from her many talents.

Didn't I say it was a great life?

Then I turned 30.

I know, I know. What a cliché.

Things were still great. But somehow, the perfect house, the old-fashioned garden, the job at the publishing house (not quite a career, but important enough to be described enthusiastically to casual friends) … it somehow ceased to be enough. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the shadow was there, silent. One day I was content; the next, toying with the unfamiliar notion of emptiness.

That was annoying, to say the least. Good grief. I had it ALL. I was content, busy, actually exercised twice a week, AND I had finally gotten a haircut that worked most days. So what was up with the discontent?

The answer was unexpected and unwelcome.(More like NOOOOOOO!)

A child.

The thought hit me with the force of a lake effect blizzard:

I’m lonely. Carl is nice, but he doesn’t need me. Not really, if you don’t count having someone to pick up his shirts at the dry cleaner when he works late.

I’m empty, because all I focus on is me.

But a child? I didn’t even like children, or had always thought so. Children were messy. They broke things. They threw up at inconvenient times. And they did disgusting things in diapers, which were stacking up in the world’s landfills.

It certainly wasn't that my friends' talk had swayed me. From temperamental two-year-olds, the focus now was on mouthy grade-schoolers and a few slovenly teens.

Anyway, Carl and I had always gravitated towards childless couples who didn’t insist on bringing their sticky-fingered little darlings to upset my fragile vases, stain lace doilies with grape juice, and play with untouchable groupings of irreplaceable antique toys.

But slowly, unnoticed at first, those friends had ceased to interest me. As we all crossed the 30-year mark, people tended to settle into two groups—the by-now affluent yuppies, who mingled impressive careers with vacation trips to exotic spots and could talk of little else (I, on the other hand, hated to fly)—and the frustrated nonconceivers, who were always happy to corner their audience with earthy details of artificial conception procedures, fallopian tube blockages, and sperm counts: And I told Tom he couldn’t go to that nuclear fusion conference because it would be right during my fertile period.

And now, I had turned into a biological clock stereotype. Boring post-30 empty uterus syndrome. Good grief! Was this all it came down to then? Reproduction? After all my lofty ideals of culture and refinement!

But what’s the point of it all? my heart asked. What’s the use of the culture, the cherished possessions, and the learned experiences if there is no one to share them with? And no matter how wonderful the dogs are, their interests really only stretch to digging up moles, and getting as smelly as caninely possible in the pond.

Well, what about those cherished possessions? my brain argued back. They’ll be smashed to atomic particles before a child is old enough to appreciate them. The cream sofa will never survive. A child will probably want to actually use my antique wooden wagon. I will hate that. I will be a nervous wreck. I will never enjoy a peaceful moment again.

But as the weeks went by, I found myself daydreaming about a child, not as a house- and life-wrecking monster, but as a little buddy. Someone to play with, to teach, to build memories with. We would be able to sign our cards in that smug fashion of parents: Love from Carl, Anna, and Kerstin. Or Carl, Anna, and Max. A family, not just a couple. Suddenly it didn't seem so incongruous.

I even—yuck!—caught myself looking in the mirror, imagining what I’d look like pregnant. And for the first time in my life, I thoughtfully studied women in maternity clothes, wondering how they felt. Most seemed so casual about their swollen bellies, going about their daily lives, cheerfully chatting about mundane matters, as if a momentous event wasn’t irrevocably approaching.

Then there was the slight problem of Carl. He was naively unaware of the battle raging behind my calm exterior, going to work and mowing the lawn and acting as if life was normal. He really had no clue, which made me mad. Shouldn't your life partner instinctively realize when something traumatic is happening?

Obviously, Carl was not one