Sep 012012


It’s way too early but I’m up because I’m so excited to write about the FACEBOOK FLUB HEARD ‘ROUND THE WORLD.

In my little heart I’ve been flirting (obsessing) with the idea of getting another dog. I feel like Theo needs a lobster of his own species. (Can you imagine how confusing that sentence is for non-Monkeees? We need a Momastery glossary! Yes! Creating that today.) Theo is part of the reason we need another dog, but here is the real reason.

Oh my God – I love having a dog. I love my dog.

I work really hard on love. I study it and dissect it and try to understand all its complexity and beauty and pain. Love, however it’s done, is serious business. It’s hard work and can be completely confounding because people are involved. And people are beautiful and mysterious and broken and unpredictable and demanding.  But Theo is simple. And so loving him is simple.

I have so much love to give, but sometimes it’s hard to love my husband, because he’s a person and has needs and expectations. And often it’s hard to love on my kids because they, especially right now, are kind of rough. The girls are fighting constantly, nasty to each other, really, and Chase is starting to duck my affection. All is unfolding as it does and should, I know, but it’s sure as heck not a snuggle-fest over here these days.

But Theo. I can always love him. He is there waiting to receive my love and accept it and appreciate it. He doesn’t want anything complicated from me. I do not need to figure him out. I don’t have to be great or funny or particularly patient or even smile. Someone who loves you even if you won’t smile is a keeper. At night in bed, I curl up on my side and he makes his body into a perfect circle in the crook of my leg, right behind my knee. So there’s just this little bit of pressure on the back of my legs that is his presence. That pressure in the night and my morning coffee are two of my most sacred daily joys.

I’ve been traveling a lot to do speaking engagements (so terrifying and brutiful), and when the book comes out I’ll be traveling A LOT more. I’ll be MEETING and hugging you. I can’t stand it. Can we talk about that? How are we going to do book signings? I mean, we KNOW I can’t just sit behind a table and make small talk and sign my name and say NEXT. Should we have no table? Should we not sign and just hug and laugh and cry? I know I’m going to have something for YOU to sign because I want to hang all of your names, handwritten by you, on my wall. Gotta figure all that out.

Anyway, so far my Sister has come with me to everything. Lugging her precious cargo, Bobby. But I know that she’s not ALWAYS going to be able to come. And I want a Melton to bring with me. But none of the current Meltons, because, well, just NO. It needs to be a Melton dog. Because when I go do these nerve wracking things, no matter how hard I try not to, I’m always worried about being good enough and wondering if people like me enough. So I need the simple love of a dog to return to each evening. I think I’m going to need that grounding during the tornado I’m about to get picked up into- like Dorothy into Oz. LIKE DOROTHY!! SHE HAD TOTO!! SEEEEE!!!! I just thought of that. So it’s not ridiculous!! Anyway, the folks who live with me won’t let me take Theo, not in a million years. So I want my own little monkee. One who will travel this scary sacred upcoming road with me. One who will greet me with the same love whether I knock a speech out of the park or blow it big. If I have to go out into the big, brutiful world, I’m taking a dog.

I found the Naples Humane Society yesterday. I convinced Craig that we should just “go look.” Right. But to be fair, sometimes we do just go love on the shelter doggies without planning to bring one home. It’s one of my favorite things to do with the kids – fun for them and good for the dogs to get some loving. So we went and looked and played with several gorgeous mutts. But there was one, one lovie I kept coming back to because she was so little, and so terrified. She wasn’t barking, she was crying, whimpering, with her tail between her legs, looking up at us with huge brown eyes.  Amma cried because she was crying. So I asked the kind shelter volunteers if we could play with her. We took her in a room and she didn’t play. She didn’t know how. She was terrified. She kept running to the door, trying to get away from us. But then when she’d realize there was no escape, she’d run back to me, look directly into my eyes and sit still for a moment. Just a moment. And in the height of her fear, in that moment, she’d let the kids circle around close and touch her and she didn’t snap at them. She let them touch her. I think she’s a gentle soul.

We left. Amma bawled, like she does every time we leave a shelter. Craig said absolutely not, to bringing home little monkee. The shelter folks said she’d just arrived several hours prior from Puerto Rico and they knew nothing about her. Craig thought she was too much of a wild card. I’m not so sure.

I kinda dig Puerto Rican Wild Cards.

When I got home I posted her picture on facebook with this update:

“This is the one I want. She just came from Puerto Rico TODAY. She was so scared, she was shaking. Can you imagine? I mean she doesn’t even speak ENGLISH. Poor baby. I’m working on Craig.”


And then. All hell broke loose.

Immediately, my inboxes become FLOODED. Flooded with – I started realizing with mounting horror – emails from adoptive mamas who could NOT BELIEVE I’d posted a picture of a terrified orphan girl and used such insensitive language to describe her. One email said – you talked about her like she was a dog!

And then I looked at the picture again. And I read my post again. And all of a sudden I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry because I realized they thought I was TALKING ABOUT AMMA. THEY THOUGHT AMMA WAS THE TERRIFIED NON ENGLISH SPEAKING PUERTO RICAN ORPHAN (LOOK AT HER DRESS!) AND THAT I WAS TRYING TO ADOPT HER!

They were rightfully SHOCKED, the adoption community. After all we’d been through together!!! They thought I understood how one talks about and how one DOES NOT talk about adoption!! Like the t-shirt says, irony is not just the opposite of wrinkly. For the record, I don’t think they were being overly sensitive. I am not one who is in a position to call anyone overly sensitive. Pot/kettle/black.

I think it might have been the “She doesn’t even speak English” part that threw people. It was sort of a joke about the immigrant doggy, but not totally a joke. I think it must be terrifying, to be a pup and be transported to such a different place, smelling such different smells and hearing such different languages. I mean, Theo speaks English. Whatever. You know what I mean, right?

You guys. What unfolded next on facebook was nothing short of completely hysterical. Just go read the aftermath – some of the hundreds of posts from confused/mad/peeing in their pants monkees trying to make sense of the beautiful mess I’d made. Samples:

Katherine Ray – I can’t decide if it’s funnier that you got pounded for “insensitivity” or that people think that Puerto Rican orphans get shipped to Florida for the local population to visit at will.
Holly Forseth – What’s funny to me is that I’m sitting here refreshing every second just so I can follow this conversation. I just can’t quit! I have to know. Does Amma get to stay? Will the little Puerto Rican pup be living in high-condo style? Do I have to wait a whole week for the next episode?

For a couple hours last night, it was like being at a high school sleepover in our jammies with everyone laughing so hard they couldn’t speak and everybody holding hands to steady each other. It was phenomenal. And I kept thinking about how cool it is that when we let ourselves get heavy, to feel the weight of it all, God quickly follows behind us and, at least for a long glorious moment,  blows the heaviness right off our backs.





Sep 032012


Recently I was complaining to Craig about my confusion as to why my family can never seem to be places we’re supposed to be or do stuff we’re supposed to do. This confusion and panic always sets in at the beginning of the school year, when the four million papers times THREE start flooding in the house via the childrens’ terrifying backpacks. I spend all day worrying that right now, at this very moment, I am missing something important. And I usually am.

As always, I have very good intentions. But we all know that the road to the principal’s office is paved with those. I place all the reminders and announcements and event flyers in nice neat piles, telling myself that after the kids go to bed I will READ them carefully and WRITE things down, but then, you know: the couch happens to me.

Anyway, in response to my “life is too hard” monologue to Craig, he took my hand and walked me into the kitchen. He stopped in front of our family calendar. He stared at it, so I did too. I asked him what the hell we were doing there.



Then with much fear and trembling, he shared his idea that if we wrote things on the calendar, we might look at the written down things, and then we might be reminded to do things. Obviously, my response was to wonder aloud if perhaps he had never been taught to write, or if maybe he was unable to locate any writing instruments himself. But I got the point.

Still, I didn’t write anything down because it’s not a good idea to admit that your husband is right STRAIGHTAWAY. Who knows what would happen? He might become drunk with power and start making MORE suggestions. So I waited two weeks. And then last night I did it. I took down my calendar and I wrote things on it. I tried to make it look more like my friends’ calendars. Here’s how it looked when I was done. I proudly showed Craig.


Here is what Craig HAD THE NERVE TO TELL ME.

“Those are good reminders, honey. That’s awesome. That’ll definitely help. But it’s September now.”

Whaaaaat? When did that happen? So much wasted work. THAT’s why calendars annoy me. Starting over every MONTH?? But I fixed it. Here’s my September calendar.


I think things should go more smoothly for us Meltons this month.


In addition to my detailed, completely organized calendar, I bought THIS yesterday. It is a sink thingee holder.



It holds my scrubber thingee, which we use to scrub both dirty dishes and the kids’ fruit, which is so gross I can’t think about it too hard. I really don’t want to talk about it, please don’t mention it. Instead- LOOK! A sink thingee holder!!! To me- this sink thingee holder says to the world- THIS WOMAN HAS SO MANY BIG THINGS HANDLED BEAUTIFULLY, THAT SHE HAS  LEFTOVER TIME TO ORGANIZE HER SINK THINGEES. BRAVA, WOMAN WHO LIVES HERE, BRAVA.

Am Some Sort of Domestic Goddess.

Happy Labor Day, Lovies. Laboring is so hard.


Let us take a day OFF.


Love, G

Sep 052012


Last week, Arianna Huffington launched a new column in which she chooses her favorite Huffington Post articles from the previous week. In her first installment, she chose our Adam letter.

It made me proud and thrilled because it validated what Monkees know –  that children and kindness are BIG IMPORTANT NEWS. I mean, I don’t know many of them since I don’t watch the news, but do I know that there are A LOT of THINGS going on in the world. And with her choice, Ms.Huffington asserted that teaching children to be kind and brave is NEWS. Breaking news. Just be brave and kind. That is NEWS. Not just to kids but to you and me, too.

It feels like there are so many other things we need to be, but maybe that’s not true. Maybe we don’t have to be hot or sweet or brilliant or talented or even happy. Those things are nice, but they fade and are often out of our control. The idea that all we have to do is be kind to ourselves and others and try, sometimes, to be brave is NEWS. When you think about it, if everyone else adopted this NEWS, there’d be a heck of a lot less Bad News to report.

Anyway, I didn’t want to tell you that Ms. Huffington picked our letter because it seemed too braggy.

But I sent the article to Bubba and Tisha immediately, of course. I always do.

The first time Farah (the editor in chief of Huff Po Parents and now a dear friend) contacted me to write for her I died. I just died. Then I immediately called my parents. Writing that sentence makes me so scared. Who do you call when your parents are gone? Who do people call who don’t have parents waiting to celebrate every tiny and big thing?

My mom answered the phone. We’d just spoken three hours prior. Still, she answered like this:

“Well, Hiiiiiiiiiiiii HONEY!!!” Like it’d been four years since we’d checked in. Like it was a thrilling unbelievable SHOCK that I was calling. Like I was in a third world country and the likelihood that I’d have found a phone was nil. Like I’d been missing for years. She always answers like that.
“MOM, Guess what?” I said.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT? WHAT?” She squealed.

“THE HUFFINGTON POST just asked me to write for them!”


“No! Mom, I’m not kidding. I promise, I’m not kidding.”

“Oh my Gosh, Hold on. I have to tell your father. He is not going to BELIEVE THIS!!!!” (*squeals again* Yes, Tisha really squeals. All the time. Every day she squeals. And while she squeals she puts her teeny fists up near her face and shakes them and smiles so big it looks like she might crack. Or explode.)

The next thing I hear is Tisha yelling (without covering the mouthpiece) –

“DIIIIICCKKKKKK! DIIIIIICKKKK! The Huffington Post contacted Glennon!!!!! They want her to write something!!!!”

Bubba yells back –  something far off and muffled that I can’t make out.

Tisha squeals, “Wait a second! I’ll find out!”


“Yep, still here.”

“Daddy wants to know what the Huffington Post is. What is the Huffington Post, honey? Is it a newspaper? A book? We’re SO PROUD OF YOU!”

That’s how it goes. They don’t know. They don’t care. They just listen to my voice and if I’m thrilled, they’re thrilled. I think this means they finally trust me to be excited about the right things.

My dad sent me this email in response to the Arianna Huffington post news AND to this post, in which I called Hoda and Kathy Lee assholes. (In my defense – I apologized to Bubba first.)



“These are wonderful rewards for your hard work and deep faith in yourself and your gifts. I am very proud to be your Dad…99.9 % of the time. Except when you use ASSHOLE in print. But I did appreciate the preemptive apology. They are ASSHOLES but perhaps next time you could refer to them as Ilene Sullivan did to me when she indicated that I was a “Sorry sack of Siberian sheep shit.” It is more entertaining and much classier.


Love you,



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