For Mother's Day

originally published in Abilene Families
(originally written May, 2006)

As a mother, you would think that I would be all about Mother’s Day – a day just for ME, a day to get, get, get, and a day when praise is lavished on all mothers. Who could ask for anything more? Truthfully, mother’s day – especially the Hallmark version of it – makes me very uncomfortable. You know which kind of image I’m talking about – a young mother, clad in a pristine white gown in an immaculate, beautifully decorated home, holding a perfectly chubby, cooing baby as they gaze into each other’s eyes.

The poetry accompanying the image details the sacrifices the loving mother makes and how wonderful she is and on and on and on. I simply can’t relate: My home has never been immaculate OR decorated, I learned a long time ago not to wear white while holding a child of any age, and I regret how much time I didn’t spend gazing at my babies before they transformed into galloping toddlers, now pre-teens.

The words are what make me squirm the most. Mothers are not defined by the Hallmark moments, but by the horrible moments. Anybody loves to play with a giggling baby or rambunctious toddler, but it’s mom who cleans up when potty-training is not quite successful. It’s mom wiping heads and doing laundry and providing a clean basin when the stomach virus tears through the house at 3 a.m.

It’s mom holding constant vigil at a hospital bedside or waiting room. It’s mom lifting, feeding, bathing, and caring for a handicapped child day in and day out. It’s mom wearing a trough in the carpet next to her bed as she kneels for a child who has lost their way or is fighting in harm’s way or whose heart is broken beyond repair. I don’t know of any woman who would ask to be put in any of those situations, but those are the moments that define motherhood. We don’t want praise or pretty words about things we do that we would rather not do. It’s just what we do. It’s being a mom.

While these flowery thoughts and sentiments make me somewhat uncomfortable, they can be downright painful for many people. Mothers who must wait until they get to heaven to hug their child again, mothers who selflessly blessed an adoptive family with their own baby, mothers whose only children are really nieces, nephews, and friends since life has not brought her children of her own and countless other situations can bring pain and disappointment to this day of celebration.

As you think of the women you know that you would consider “extraordinary mothers”, they are probably women making it just one day at a time in extraordinary situations. You probably don’t call to mind a mom of two healthy children with a healthy spouse still living in the home. You probably don’t think of someone like, well, me. The extraordinary mothers we know may have many children raising them all to be successful individuals, may have handicapped or chronically ill children, may have lost a child, or may go to great lengths for her children to have normalcy in the midst of difficult life circumstances. Few of these women would want the accolades or flowery words of a Hallmark commercial. They are simply putting one foot in front of the other because another being in this life depends on it. It’s just what we do. It’s being a mom.

I can’t speak for all moms, but as much as I love words, I don’t want to hear many about what kind of mom I am on Mother’s Day. For me, it simply reminds me of all the places I fall short or what a bad attitude I occasionally have while doing what I do – being a mom. Oh, sure, I won’t turn down any gifts – diamonds are my favorite, sapphire is my birthstone, and if you’re buying a ring remember that my fingers are crazy skinny – but if you need to use any words, a simple, “Thanks for what you do” will suffice, and I wouldn’t mind hearing that once a week. Not saying, “But I don’t want to” when asked to do your job would be nice, because I rarely want to cook your dinner or fold your clothes, but it’s what I do. It’s being a mom. And, most of all, just grow up to make your momma proud.

Unfortunately, in the past year, my children have been acquainted with several children who have lost a parent to death. Knowing that anything can happen, I have been reminded at those times to let my children know what I want most for them out of life. At one point we were driving and discussing a child who had lost a parent and how hard that would be. I said, “If anything ever happens to me, first I want you to know how much I love you. And all I want for you in life is to love the Lord and to marry someone who loves the Lord.”

This brought a know-it-all nod from one child who said in a satisfied tone, “I knew you were going to say that.”

Very well, then. Carry on. That’s all I need to know for a happy Mother’s Day!

Considering Valentine's Day

originally in Abilene Families

My family experienced some minor medical drama the week between Christmas and New Year's while traveling out of state. On one of my many trips to the drug store, I had to stop dead in my tracks. I was perusing the Christmas decorations and wrapping paper on clearance. I turned around to look for more, and was faced with a shelf full of boxes of Valentine's cards that children will use to declare love for classmates. Before the confetti of the New Year's holiday is swept up, the shelves in stores are fully stocked with hearts, balloons, and all manner of Valentine props and paraphernalia.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 Maybe it's age, maybe it's motherhood, maybe it's global warming, but I don't think of Valentine's Day the same way that I did as a young, single woman or newlywed. Valentine's Day is a fun, light-hearted opportunity to lavish love on those around you, but life has shown me that love rarely looks like the front of a Hallmark card.

Love is not running along a beach hand in hand. Love holds the flashlight in the middle of the night, make-up long gone and tempers flaring, holding your tongue while your sweetie attempts an emergency home repair. Love isn't demonstrated by dewy eyes across a candlelit meal, but rather by one more run to the doctor or pharmacy when you are exhausted beyond reasonable or rational thought.

Valentine's Day lends itself to romance. Romance is wonderful and exciting, but won't take you very far when the stomach bug hits, or your "Love Shack" floods, or one of your parents is critically ill and/or dies. Romance will not be found in any of those situations, but love is there larger than life. Love brings the cool wash cloth again and again for the stomach bug, and mops and covertly repairs damaged keepsakes during the flood, and cries and holds and works and loves with an ill family member.

Love is not rose petals and champagne, but aching backs and work gloves. Love at my house never dances in an evening gown or tuxedo, but love supplies the elbow grease, the patience, the encouragement, and the clean clothes to face each day and, Lord willin' a comforting place to come home to when the day seems to come out on top. Love is holding tight when no words will fix it, and tears the only language uttered.

Love is not a polished, glimmery state. Love is messy, inconvenient, and frustrating. Love is giving up the last ounce of energy, sleep, time, or chocolate for the well-being of another. Love isn't found in romantic restaurants or destinations, but in hospital waiting rooms, the lobby of funeral homes, and kneeling in prayer next to race-car or princess beds in the middle of the night. Love is less about flowers and cartoon hearts, and everything about the value of another soul on this planet. I guess that's a little harder to put on the side of a coffee mug.

I will play along this Valentine's Day, like all the others, and I certainly hope for you to feel cherished on that day. But, later in the year when the toilet overflows while the drama at school comes to a boiling point and work causes too many demands to keep everyone civil, love will be there with a plunger, Kleenex for the tears, and hugs, pats, and kisses for all the things the plunger and Kleenex won't fix. Consider that your own Valentine's Day -- but don't look for Hallmark to make a card for it anytime soon.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. (1 Corinthians 13:4-8)

(Sarah's note: This was originally published three years ago and has been borrowed for sermons and published in various places around the Internet. It still is one of my personal favorites, too. Thankful for a day to stop and remember the love we have for each other, but more grateful for the God we worship that allows us to start over when we get it wrong.)

Duchess on the Run

originally in Abilene Families

“Ugh. Fine. Run, Duchess, Run.”

Why is it that a dog that deems it too cold and drizzly to go out in the back yard (where one would argue large dogs belong) is perfectly okay with bolting out an open door into the front yard where the weather is equally cold and drizzly?

It didn’t matter why, the fact was that my dog was on the lam AGAIN and one child was about to be late for school. I glanced at my dog happily frolicking in the neighbor’s yard, knowing that I had a choice. I could go try to get her back, watching her continue to bolt and run, (a game I don’t enjoy but that she could play for hours). Or I could get my daughter to school and let her run.

Either way, it would be a while before I secured my dog again. Off I went to school, knowing my dog hates yukky weather as much as I do, and that she would likely be waiting for me upon my return, pouting at the wait to get in.

Gone about 20 minutes with no Duchess waiting on my front doorstep when I returned, I went inside to check messages on my machine. I have met at least 50% of my neighborhood starting with a phone call alerting me that a kind person had grabbed my wayward dog and would hold her until I could come get her.

When I saw there were no new messages on the machine, my heart dropped with a new realization: Duchess lost her tags this summer and we never replaced them. I started to get physically ill as I realized that my dog was out playing freely in the neighborhood,  trusting that I had it under control to get her back when she decided she was ready to come home. Misplaced trust equaled misplaced dog, perhaps for good. Very sad me.

All day I periodically walked outside calling her name. I drove the neighborhood, scanning all bushes, allies, and alcoves for my Duchess. I called the pound. Nothing.

My daughter and I left on a previously arranged trip, leaving my husband and son to welcome Duchess home when she found her way back. I held onto that hope, but that didn’t happen. Days went by, and no Duchess. We became very familiar with the personnel at the pound, calling daily to hear, “No, I’m sorry.”

With every passing day, my hopes of recovering our furry family member grew more and more dim. Even the free ‘Lost’ ad in the “Reporter News” classifieds brought no result.

The fifth day, I finally got a different answer at the pound: “Yeah, you may want to come check.” Walking the cages, there were 12 dogs I wanted to take home, 3 that looked just like Duchess, but no Duchess... until... she heard my voice and came inside, jumping and wriggling, ready to be through with Duchess’ Grand Adventure of 2009. Oh, if that muzzle could talk.

With Duchess returned to her rightful throne, I have repented of my irresponsible pet owner ways. I immediately got her a replacement tag. That was only $8, compared to the $20 it cost me to get her out of the pound, not to mention the days of heartache and guilt (and gasoline driving around).

Please learn from my mistake: if your furry family member doesn’t have a tag, please get one today. If s/he hates a collar, consider a micro-chip. Your animal is trusting that you have it all under control. Do you?

From the Archives: Considering Valentine's Day

(I am taking a bit of a bloggy break this week. I am posting some of my all-time top 5 posts throughout this week. Enjoy)

originally in Abilene Families

My family experienced some minor medical drama the week between Christmas and New Year's while traveling out of state. On one of my many trips to the drug store, I had to stop dead in my tracks. I was perusing the Christmas decorations and wrapping paper on clearance. I turned around to look for more, and was faced with a shelf full of boxes of Valentine's cards that children will use to declare love for classmates. Before the confetti of the New Year's holiday is swept up, the shelves in stores are fully stocked with hearts, balloons, and all manner of Valentine props and paraphernalia.

Maybe it's age, maybe it's motherhood, maybe it's global warming, but I don't think of Valentine's Day the same way that I did as a young, single woman or newlywed. Valentine's Day is a fun, light-hearted opportunity to lavish love on those around you, but life has shown me that love rarely looks like the front of a Hallmark card.

Love is not running along a beach hand in hand. Love holds the flashlight in the middle of the night, make-up long gone and tempers flaring, holding your tongue while your sweetie attempts an emergency home repair. Love isn't demonstrated by dewy eyes across a candlelit meal, but rather by one more run to the doctor or pharmacy when you are exhausted beyond reasonable or rational thought.

Valentine's Day lends itself to romance. Romance is wonderful and exciting, but won't take you very far when the stomach bug hits, or your "Love Shack" floods, or one of your parents is critically ill and/or dies. Romance will not be found in any of those situations, but love is there larger than life. Love brings the cool wash cloth again and again for the stomach bug, and mops and covertly repairs damaged keepsakes during the flood, and cries and holds and works and loves with an ill family member.

Love is not rose petals and champagne, but aching backs and work gloves. Love at my house never dances in an evening gown or tuxedo, but love supplies the elbow grease, the patience, the encouragement, and the clean clothes to face each day and, Lord willin' a comforting place to come home to when the day seems to come out on top. Love is holding tight when no words will fix it, and tears the only language uttered.

Love is not a polished, glimmery state. Love is messy, inconvenient, and frustrating. Love is giving up the last ounce of energy, sleep, time, or chocolate for the well-being of another. Love isn't found in romantic restaurants or destinations, but in hospital waiting rooms, the lobby of funeral homes, and kneeling in prayer next to race-car or princess beds in the middle of the night. Love is less about flowers and cartoon hearts, and everything about the value of another soul on this planet. I guess that's a little harder to put on the side of a coffee mug.

I will play along this Valentine's Day, like all the others, and I certainly hope for you to feel cherished on that day. But, later in the year when the toilet overflows while the drama at school comes to a boiling point and work causes too many demands to keep everyone civil, love will be there with a plunger, Kleenex for the tears, and hugs, pats, and kisses for all the things the plunger and Kleenex won't fix. Consider that your own Valentine's Day -- but don't look for Hallmark to make a card for it anytime soon.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. (1 Corinthians 13:4-8)

Time Marches On -- A Little Too Quickly

originally in Abilene Families

Dirty clothes, graded papers, a video game cover, a roll of colored duct tape, part of a uniform that needed to be washed weeks ago, and a stuffed animal loved to the point of needing repair all litter the floor. I step over and around and pick my way through the teen detritus. Asked to bring something to school, I have entered the war zone.

I sigh and marvel.  I can’t resist sending a snarky comment via text: “Is there a religious reason the food wrappers are sitting on your dresser right next to your trash can? Are you morally opposed to trash cans?”

The truth is I am cherishing every bit of the hallowed mess. The broken pencils, movie stubs, football cleats, hair bands, ribbons for accomplishments, ripped papers indicating not-quite accomplished all sum up the essence of the child-metamorphosing-into-adult that lives here.

My teens are at a stage of life that has them swiftly heading away from me. Time is going entirely too fast. Before I know what has happened this room will fill with boxes then empty, save a few keepsakes and pieces of furniture. I want to see the joy in the mess and mayhem of life with them, because life without them will be far less colorful.

Every year as we prepare to usher in the new year, the word “TIME” gongs through my head like Big Ben’s chimes. Every year it seems the chimes come faster than they did the year before.

The alarm clock sounds, the school bell rings, the oven beeps that dinner is ready, all the sounds in one day, then another. GONG. The calendar pages flip, Christmas music is playing, now “Pomp and Circumstance,” soon it will be strains of “The Wedding March.” GONG.

Just short weeks ago we were in the thick of football, soccer, and marching band season. My daughter’s band had one movement that had the marchers form a clock. For the dream sequence it represented, though, the hands moved backward. As marching band gods would have it, the one I was there to watch on that field was positioned at precisely the midnight hour on the clock. GONG.

Oh, that I could turn back those hands on the clock just for a moment. We would have one more picnic in the front yard just because it’s Thursday. I would steal one more bony, squirmy pajama-clad cuddle after bath when everyone smelled soapy and fresh. I would read that Little Critter book one more time. Everyone would wear Superhero costumes to the grocery store -- even me -- because if we aren’t there to save the day, who will?

The clock isn’t turning back, though, and this day that I am standing in is the only one I have. Right here, right now, amidst an explosion of teen keepsakes, accessories, clothing, and, well, trash, this is what I have of these precious things, gifted to me by the universe. A whirlwind of comings, goings, late nights, early mornings, misunderstandings, apologies, and hugs that I have to reach up to receive.

So I find joy in the mess and the mayhem. And maybe, when I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll figure out what in heaven’s name that spot on the carpet is and tackle it.

Celebrating Christmas, Poppa Max Style

published in today's Abilene Families

As I consider the upcoming holidays, I would love to write an article about slowing down, enjoying this time of year, and remembering the reason for the season. The reality is that by the time this article is published I will be eating Tums as a regular meal, darting from one activity to another as a crazed woman with her hair aflame, and I will probably be on my way to a party that I resent needing to attend and coughing up money for a gift I didn’t exactly agree to give but am expected to contribute to. The rut is too deep, the habits too engrained, and I know myself too well. This will be a season of running and rushing and spending. So, instead of trying to take some things OUT of the season, I have decided to add TO the season.

As my family gathers this year for Christmas, one person will be noticeably absent. My grandfather, who we referred to as Poppa Max, finished his 90 years on this earth this year and is celebrating around the throne of Him whose birth we celebrate. My grandfather was a big man, in stature as well as personality. His absence this season will be tangible. So, to honor his memory, I have decided to add some things into my holiday season to make it Christmas, Poppa Max style:

Poppa Max meeting my Riley for the first time.

1. I will take an active part in spreading some of the magic of the holidays. Not only was my grandfather a physically large man, he had an enormous bass voice. As our family gathered on Christmas Eve, he would make phone calls to some of our pre-school aged friends as Santa Claus. Many were left in speechless wonder. Maybe I will jingle some of Santa’s bells outside a doubting child’s bedroom window; maybe I will give some of my younger friends reindeer food for them to sprinkle on their lawn on Christmas Eve; maybe I will help Santa respond to some of his mail. I will do something to spread the magic of this season this year.

2. I will remember Christmas for “the least of these”. Under my grandparent’s tree, there was always a gift for a Down’s Syndrome gentleman that is my parents’ age that attends the same church. Sometimes a record, sometimes a new coloring book, it was always a very tiny something to let Mitchell know there was a family that loved him. I will look around and see folks that others may not notice and just let them know that there is someone that loves them.

Poppa Max with my Ashley.

3. I will give and give some more. Giving was not a holiday exercise for my grandfather, it was his attitude and way of life. I will give in secret throughout the year – just a little secret between my Poppa Max and me.

4. I will laugh and laugh loudly. With his enormous voice, Poppa Max also had a grand laugh that filled the room. During the holiday season, it came quite easily, so tickled was he to be surrounded by family. I will put aside spending concerns and scheduling conundrums at least once a day to laugh with my family. I will let them know that my joy in their presence cannot be contained and I must laugh.

I think we all look back at folks who have made Christmas magical and special for us in the past and are no longer with us to celebrate. May you find something in those memories to share with others, spreading the magic and laughing all the way.

My sweet Poppa Max and me, at his 90th birthday party, months before he died.

(I originally wrote this in 2007, the first year we celebrated Christmas without Poppa Max. I still miss him terribly, and know that his laughter fills the birthday party for Jesus. It will be wonderful to see him again when it's my turn. Some other memories of my Poppa Max.)

Seasons of Parenting

Originally published in Abilene Families

‘Tis the season ... for something. Always. Right now, considering you are a timely “Abilene Families” reader, it’s the season to be jolly. On demand. Because the song says so, complete with plenty of Fa’s and La’s to go with it. It’s really hard not to be jolly while singing Fa La La La La La La La, so you may as well sing along and give in.

In a few weeks, it will be the season for resolving. On demand. Because the calendar says so. Whether you want to or not, it will be time to look ahead and decide to be a better you in the upcoming year. If you are having a hard time thinking of a way that you need to improve, you obviously don’t live with a teenager.

Soon that season will evolve into another, then another, and we will be back here again next year, wondering what happened to 2010. Life is simply a rolling tide of seasons strung together by heartaches and celebrations.

As a parent, many seasons seem to flow from one to another, rarely with much fanfare.  I do remember with clarity the first time I walked into a store and didn’t immediately have to dump $40 worth of diapers into my shopping cart. I also remember first walking into a store and realizing that no one in my house fit into toddler clothes any more.

The relinquishing of the pacifier still requires time with a therapist -- for me, not the child -- and  I did take note of walking home from elementary school for the last time with my youngest last year. But many other milestones and landmarks are missed as the seasons fly by, one after another.

One of my children recently requested to be able to try an additional sport next year. Our family reserved elementary school mostly for unstructured play time for our kids, and each child played one sport. Now that we have moved to middle school it has become a time to spread wings and try different sports and find where each child’s gifts and skills lie.

I was picturing what our life would look like during the time of this dual-sport season and it wouldn’t be pretty. But I reminded myself that “it’s only for a season”. One very brief, eight weeks’ long season of quick dinners and rushed evenings. ‘Tis the season ... for hurrying through life to wait for the athletics bus.

Dorothy Evslin is quoted as saying, ““It will be gone before you know it. The fingerprints on the wall appear higher and higher. Then suddenly they disappear.”

I know that no matter the season I may be in life, it will change by the time I realize where I put my keys. There is no time to sweat the small stuff, only time to soak in the laughter and sweep the annoyances under the couch with the dog hair.

This season, whether it’s time to be jolly or time to be resolving, I will do both. I will joyfully resolve to look around through the madness. I will enjoy the season with my family, for there will never be another exactly like it. It truly is the season to be jolly -- no Fa La La’s required.

Moving On

(I have had the privilege of writing for Abilene Families magazine for over 5 years now. When I learned I would be moving away from Abilene, I didn't know if I would be able to continue to write for the magazine. With this thought on my heart, I quickly wrote the following piece, so grateful for the time my family had in that precious place.

When I asked if I would be able to continue writing for Abilene Families even if I didn't live in Abilene, I got a wonderful mom and editor reply, "We'll see..." :-) And my editor allowed me to continue writing to the very end.

Last month turned out to be the last issue of Abilene Families magazine. Had I known that when I submitted my article, this is the one I would have submitted. It's just as well, I'm sure.  But the following is my 'so long, Abilene' piece):

My footsteps echo throughout the house, meaning we are making progress, though this doesn’t feel like progress. As more of my belongings fill the truck parked in the driveway, the house becomes vacant. As the house grows empty, my heart fills with memories grown within these walls. Birthday parties and broken bones, sleepovers and silly dances, lazy days and laughing fits all echo in my head.

We have spent so much of the last few weeks facing forward, looking to the new house, new job, new school, new town, and planning for the transition that I haven’t taken much, if any, time to look back. While men who wish they didn’t know us wrestle a mirrored armoire onto the moving truck, I pause at the doorway to reflect on all that this home and this town have been to us.

It’s only been nine years. As an adult, it barely seems a snap of a finger. To both of my children, it’s the majority of their lives. We moved to this town and into this house as my oldest was starting kindergarten.  They only know a spring where the wind howls constantly and summers of relentless, baking heat. This is the town they will always call home.

Leaving now, I wonder the meaning of it all. The difficulty of leaving is so great, I wonder why we had this brief stopover here at all. Why, nine years ago, didn’t the gods of employment simply take us to where we are going now? Why go through another painful round of transition?

The answer is simple when I think of my family’s benefit of being here. Teachers and friends have invested in my children’s education and growth, loving them and encouraging them. My husband and I also have been blessed and mentored and grown into better people than when we arrived here nine years ago.

Especially in the last year through uncertain times and difficult circumstances, we have been granted kindnesses and grace that we will never be able to repay, and can only hope to adequately pay forward. It’s easy to see from my vantage point that it was good for us to be here.

So I wonder from the city’s -- our friends, really -- vantage point. Did it matter that we were here? Was I able to let enough people know the difference that they made in my life? Did I thank enough of my children’s teachers? Did I make a ripple while I was here? Now that I am leaving, will it matter that I am gone? Not “will they miss me” but “did I make a difference”?

The slave-driving, task master of the moving team, who most people recognize as my husband, is impatient with my reverie. He is a goal-oriented guy who can only see how much is left to be done. This is not the time for great ponderings and musings, only time for packing and cleaning right now. Focus!

I make the final rounds of the last few boxes and stray belongings, sweeping up stray wrappers and the dog hair that the next owners will think magically springs from the baseboards.

The sound of my steps ricochet off the walls one last time as I cross to the door, toward the new town. The door creaks closed and with the final click of the latch, seals in the memories of the days we have lived here. The engine of the truck roars to life, ready to take us to our new home, to make new memories.

Rolling out of town I blink back tears, knowing not only that we will be back, but we have forever taken this dust-strewn town with us. It has molded us, lovingly formed and forged us into who we are today. There is no leaving it behind, only honoring those who have invested in our lives. Leaving the precious town in the rearview mirror that is partially obscured by a storage crate, I face my new destination ready to pay forward the encouragement and blessings of the last. Moving on.

Please Tell Me You Can Relate

originally in Abilene Families

We each have been given different gifts. Some of you will cure diseases. Some of you turn rooms into places of respite and relaxation. Some of you mold young minds into lifetime learners. My gift? I am the lowest common denominator in every situation. It’s a gift, really.

Some times you read this column and are called to treat your fellow man, perhaps your own family, with kindness and respect. Other times, when I am feeling confessional, you walk away thinking, “Get OUT! You do that, too? You are an even bigger klutz/ slacker/ more disorganized than me!” You’re welcome.

In keeping with this spirit, I would like to offer you a peek into a recent day at this house.  While it wasn’t a typical day, it’s rife with things that typically happen because that’s how I roll.

For this particular evening my calendar showed that Dad had a meeting, one child would be at a school activity, and one child at church activity after we picked up school schedule days before school started. For me, the thought of no one home to cook for was reason enough to celebrate. I planned to dig peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon and call it good. Don’t judge.

Text message from Dad, “Good news! Meeting’s been canceled! I’ll be home in time for dinner!” Oh. Well. Guess he’ll want his peanut butter on the bread.

I discussed the church activity. “Oh, no,” child responded. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to that.” Sigh. These people really know how to kill a peanut butter buzz.

In 2 hours I went from zero home for dinner to most home for dinner. I should probably do something. I shook some seasoning on chicken and threw it in the oven to bake. (FYI: this turned into a yummy, easy meal. I’ll see if I can share the recipe!)

As I rushed to wash raw chicken ook off my hands before we left to pick up school schedule, my liquid soap pump decided now was the time to exact revenge. I watched as a glob of soap hurtled into my eye. Alrighty then.

After 15 minutes of saline rinsing, contact rinsing, and make-up reapplying we were ready to go. Again. Only now it looked as if I had been smacked in my red, swollen, teary eye. Not the first impression I was trying to make at the new school.

No one seemed concerned with my appearance and when we got home it no longer felt like I was pouring kerosene into my eye. All in all, a fairly successful evening, if a bit of a rough start.

Squirting soap into my eye prior to a meeting at a new school turned out not to be the highlight of the week. That came the next night when I gathered all of my supplies to hem the band uniform (last minute, of course) and realized that the sewing machine power cord didn’t make the move to the new house in the same orderly fashion as my sewing machine.

You don’t want to hear the gnashing of teeth that transpired. All is well. I have made you feel better about your homemaking abilities, and you can go about using your gifts beautifying, healing, and teaching. I’ll be rinsing the soap out of my eye.

Decorating for Halloween? Yay or Nay?

originally in Abilene Families magazine

It was a gorgeous fall afternoon, if a bit on the breezy side -- not that fall afternoons come in many other varieties than breezy in West Texas. I had to leave one job early to go claim a child from middle school to shuttle her to the most recent athletic event.

As I drove along, my head swimming with deadlines unmet, emails to return, projects piling up, and family errands that must be done, I noticed what I thought was a neighborhood construction project. With a double-take on the tombstones, I realized it was simply Halloween decorations. Of course. Halloween decorations when it isn’t even October. For the love.

If you have been by or inside my home, you know that my landscaping, interior decorating, and holiday decorating can all be described as ‘minimalist’ at most generous. I’m just so darn happy to get food on the table and clean clothes in the drawers, anything in addition to that is considered extraneous and bordering on obsessively overachieving.

I actually do decorate for the holiday celebrating the birth of our Savior, but every year I get out less and less, and delegate more and more. I figure in a few years I’ll be down to having the kids put out one strand of lights each and call it good.

When the kids were little I would even get out a bunny or two at Easter, but that quickly declined to me crawling through the attic the day before Easter just to find the box with the baskets in it for the egg hunt. My own hunt before the hunt, if you will. Of course this was immediately followed by me crawling back into the attic the day after Easter to toss the baskets back in a random box, making next year’s hunt all the more exciting.

But to decorate for the holiday that is celebrated by going to beg candy off of the neighbors while dressed as a geometrically clad underwater creature? Um, no. Now, I could go down the pious religious road and say that it’s a Pagan holiday, All Hallow’s Eve, blah-dee blah. But the truth is, I simply do not have the wherewithal to decorate for such a short-lived event.

I think the entire reason I am able to decorate at all for Christmas is that school and life comes to a halt around Thanksgiving, allowing for decorating time, and if I am really on top of things I can get decorations thrown back in the attic before school gets too cranked back up in the new year.

With apologies to Halloween die-hards, I just can’t pull it off amongst soccer, band, volleyball, PTA, tennis, Open House, algebra homework, and the million six other things my family is juggling at this point.

So, instead of agreeing to disagree on the whole decorating for Halloween thing, let’s do it this way: if your home, especially your front yard is decorated for Halloween to the point that I mayenjoy it while I drive by, thank you. Thank you for giving my family something to enjoy about the season and the fun and frivolity that comes with Halloween that won’t be taking place at my house.

I, on the other hand, will be the lowest common denominator. I will be the house that the rest of you may look at to say, “Well, I didn’t do much, but at least it isn’t the Stirman’s house. Bless ‘em.”
You’re welcome. We all have our place in this world. I have found mine, and I am claimin’ it.
*****************************************************
So, what about you? Decorate for Halloween or no? How extensively? I am actually considering buying a pumpkin...

Who needs Halloween decorations with that under the table?

Spinning Plates

(originally in Abilene Families magazine)

The glow of my laptop pierces the darkness like a beacon, beckoning a weary mom come and work. Finally a moment of silence, though I was forced to arise in the 5’s, a ridiculous hour to try to think coherently. I can hear the whir of fans, the hum of a refrigerator. A baby cries out in the room next door.

A speaking engagement has called me away for the weekend to the far reaches of East Texas. So far east I believe that I could throw a rock and have it land in Louisiana, in fact. Pine trees embrace the road, the hills roll by lush green fields until a lake appears. In other words, nothing like the charred, barren dessert I left behind.

This is a remote place, this woodsy escape. If I hold my cell phone in the air reception seems to improve. This is terrifically inconvenient, as between speaking times I have been trying to negotiate a contract to buy a house. So I found a high spot to stand on, called home to talk numbers, dates, closings, and contracts at a volume that frightens wildlife.

Living the dream.

My momma called it spinning plates. I call it juggling knives. Whatever you call it, you know it because you do it too. You are surely in the middle of a season of doing more than seems possible or wise to accomplish at one time.

The fate of mothers is to coordinate a list of appointments, programs, jobs, meetings, repairs, and conferences. It is a blessing and a calling. A temptation and a curse to clutter the life beyond a manageable pace. A way of life I slip into easily, yet chafe against.

Moms become expert plate-spinners/ knife-jugglers out of necessity. If you can change a DVD while starting dinner and putting Barbie’s prom dress on all while on the phone rescheduling a meeting for work, it’s just another day at the office for most moms. Then there is the nagging feeling that it is never enough. We must form the parade to honor the pets, throw the party for our friend’s special birthday, and never forget the whales. Or the hungry. Or to recycle.

Woe when a plate gets dropped: someone gets sick, an appointment runs long, a repair person doesn’t show up on time (okay, that’s a gimme), or a last minute meeting gets scheduled or needs to be rearranged, or... you just need some extra cuddle time and a pajama day.

I try to embrace such interruptions as reminders that life goes on betwixt and between the crazy-making busy-ness, but too often there is huffing and eye-rolling and slamming about the necessity to rearrange my schedule. I’m a slow learner.

It might be that all the plates drop when a major event -- a diagnosis, an accident, news of the good or bad variety -- causes all of the other spinning plates to be inconsequential.

As the sun climbs up the trunks of the pines in this East Texas locale I close my laptop, finished for the moment with the writing part of my job for the day. My mind is already pinballing through my day, my week, and the month ahead to calendars to coordinate, programs to attend, and obstacles to hurdle.

If I am to maintain my SuperMom cape, I have to be ready for anything at a moment’s notice!

Oh... who am I kidding? We all know I’m doing well to make it to the end of the day having fed and hugged everyone. If we show up where we are supposed to be within 15 minutes of the start time it’s an added bonus. Sometimes the wisest thing a mom can do is know her limitations.

Losing Myself?

(originally in Abilene Families magazine)

My husband and I think that Super Bowl night is a good time to go to the movies without crowds. We only know sports figures from crime reports, and fantasy football/ baseball/ horseshoes is a time investment we don’t bother to make.

We aren’t sports people at my house. At least we weren’t... before we became parents.

I introduced myself to my son’s first little league coach by saying, “You know... I don’t really care for baseball...” Little did I know this man lived by the “Life is Baseball, The Rest is Just Details” motto and I may as well have insulted his mother. For some reason, Coach still loves me anyway -- but he never lets me forget that I dissed his sport.

Of course the universe laughed and I have children -- especially first-born -- that live and breathe all things sports. ESPN is a favorite channel, if TAKS covered batting averages and shots made “from the paint” of the pros it would be a no-brainer, and first-born is loyal to a fault to one city’s teams: football, baseball, and basketball all have her heart from that area.

And thus it was that I found myself last fall watching Game 6 of the American League Championship: Rangers taking on the Yankees. You might remember it as the game that sent them to the World Series, with Alex Rodriguez’s strike out being the final out of the game. I know enough about sports to know the sweet justice that had to be for the Rangers.

As I shouted and celebrated and wiped the tears from eyes, I looked around to realize that I was alone. Watching baseball. Voluntarily. And crying. What exactly was happening to me?

I wondered the same thing weeks ago as I woke my children at 5:30 on a summer Thursday morning (and they actually got out of bed), boarded crowded public transportation to bump along, then unload to wait in the heat with thousands of our closest friends to celebrate the Dallas Mavericks’ NBA National Championship.

The strangest thing about this scene isn’t that I was there, it’s that I wouldn’t have dreamed of being anywhere else on the planet at that moment.

Our children have made us lose our mind and hair. What’s left of our hair is graying. I am wrinkled and sag in places I can’t discuss on these pages. But bringing these people into my life has changed me. I wonder if I have lost who I am or if I am growing into someone better?

Somewhere between the 3 a.m. feedings and diaper changes and the 7 p.m. volleyball games and PTA programs, an actual person emerged. Someone with his or her own thoughts, ideas, interests, and opinions. How am I ever going to keep up? I have to jump in with both feet, of course.

A friend is adamantly not a dog person married to also-not-a-dog-person. Also victims of the humor of the universe, their third-born has longed for a dog since she knew what a dog was. Recently this family welcomed a puppy into the home.

Those of us that have walked that road know that in no time at all that dog will be an integral part of the family, with heaven and earth moved to keep puppy healthy and happy. Did my friend lose... or grow? I guess that depends on your perspective. I know that the third-born is one happy child.

We bring children into our lives expecting to influence and shape them into who we think they should be. Morals and boundaries are valuable lessons to pass along to our kids. But if we look and listen, occasionally these small people may lead us into a better understanding of the world around us.

And sometimes, they lead us to more fun: a day at the ballpark or a cuddle with a puppy. Not a bad place to be.

My BOGO's Gone Blinky!

(originally in Abilene Families magazine)

The economy may have affected your job situation, paycheck, or status. Gas prices have all of us evaluating our driving habits. One side effect of the economy is that a simple cost-saving measure seems to be bubbling to the top as America’s new favorite past time.

Scraps of paper, specific types of accessories, blogs with excessive! exclamation! points! with corresponding mystery lingo like BOGO, wyb, blinky, peelie, and OOP all characterize one of the money saving techniques known as couponing.

I have attempted to save a few bucks with coupons in the past, but it never goes well. I always end up buried under heaps of newspaper and clippings, looking like an Edward Scissorhand massacre gone awry.

Scanning the Internet, however, the coupon craze is the pastime of the stay at home mom (or, you know, SAHM). I marvel at the blogs devoted to this modern-day sport, soon to be an Olympic event. These women say they turned to coupons as a way to stay home with their family, yet it seems to have become its own full time job.

Never mind the time spent clipping and organizing, these gals are scouting every web site for sales and coupons, every store for clearance items, and every newspaper stand for extra coupons.

Then there is the non-stop blogging. *SALE NOW* *OVERSTOCKS AT THIS SITE* *BOGO ON KRAFT DRESSING* Whew. After they blog and tell us where all the sales are many return home from the shopping trip and take a picture of their haul, receipt, tallying the savings for the year and percentage of money saved vs. gasoline used divided by the numbers of planets in line. Truly... it wears me out.

Am I a lesser person if I just want to be able to feed my family without incorporating a slide rule and abacus to save some money?

Of course, since this is America, couponing has gone (cue fanfare music) “Extreme.” Or, what A&E network likes to call “pre-Hoarders.” Yes, put couponing with rock climbing, skateboarding, sky diving, and BASE jumping as another pastime to go extreme.

Even amateur coupon wielding folks proudly display their stockpile of cabinets, pantries, and garages full of cereal, soap bars, and shaving cream. Extreme couponers have their own bar codes and inventory list. Are these people expecting some sort of disaster that will make them unable to get to a grocery store for 4 years?

I understand wanting to pay the lowest price possible for a product, but are those bug-free boxes in your bug-free garage? How much cereal does your family possibly eat before cereal is on sale again? And will your family eat cereal or pasta that has bugs in it -- even if it did only cost $.07/ box?

I can’t stand to ever be on a bandwagon, but the economy has showed up at my doorstep, too. So I am trying to make another go at this couponing thing. You can tell by the little scraps of paper all over my house and the newspaper strewn hither and yon. You may also recognize me in the grocery store, zig-zagging the store as I chase down $.25 off a tube of Preparation H. This is what the fuss is all about?

Of course the Coupon Czars have convinced me to set up a special notebook. It’s an accessory -- what can I say? Maybe I should market a coupon purse. Of course, no one would ever pay full price for it, so that invention may not be worth the effort.

I don’t have room for the hoarding/ stockpiling portion of couponing, so it may be a bust for me. I have a few things tucked away here and there. I think I do have a back-up box of toothpaste for the next person in the family that runs out. I think it was a blinky. Or BOGO. I’m not sure. I think you have to go extreme to know the lingo. I have openings for sponsors, if you’re interested.

Mom? I'm Bored

originally in Abilene Families
posted here on 4/21/10

I was in the shower. Alone, as tends to be my practice. So a child wandered into the bathroom, of course. Does anyone remember back before they had kids when a bathroom was a sanctuary instead of a thoroughfare? Me neither.

“Mom? I’m bored...”

This was the first day of spring, the last day of spring break. Yeah, the day it snowed? That one. When we had all had all the fun with each other we could stand and couldn’t go outside. I could understand the boredom, but did I mention I was in the shower?

Hmmmm.... I would have to think on this one. Since I didn’t bring my “Bag-o-Entertainment” into the shower with me, I called out ideas:

“You could fold the clothes in the dryer!”

“What about picking up all those things off the floor of your room?”

“I’ve got it! You could write a 500-word essay on how my mom made my spring break the awesomest ever!” (My kids are accustomed to their writer mom using invented words such as “ridonkulous” or “awesomest”. Do not attempt until your children know the difference).

I couldn’t see the accompanying eye roll, but the child did wander away. Hoping for less sarcasm, I presume, though I was perfectly serious with all of those options as something to do.

When the kids were younger I had an “I’m Bored” jar. It had slips of paper in it with different activities on each slip of paper. Some of the activities may be a fun idea: “Build a fort with the covers from your bed,” “Draw a picture for Nonna and Grandad,” or “Play hopscotch with Mom.”

However, some of the activities weren’t so fun: “Clean windows for 10 minutes,” “Give the dog a bath,” or “Clean out a dresser drawer”. So, it was a gamble to draw from the jar -- would it be something fun or not? A job or a joy? (A funny side note: in asking my kids about their memory of this jar, they did not believe that I had any fun things in the jar, only jobs).

I found out which of my children will lose their shirts in Vegas as an adult, and which of the two isn’t willing to risk anything. Oh, don’t act as if you don’t want to encourage gambling in your children. I’ve seen you at Gatti’s.

One of my children never tried. One of them tried a few times, though I kept the jar on a shelf for a year or two. If nothing else, it kept the complaints to a minimum. Rather than complain to me and be threatened with drawing from the jar that I now realize they thought only contained jobs, they went off and found something to do that entertained themselves. I guess in that regard it promoted creativity, as well.

Perhaps it’s time for a teen version of the “I’m Bored” jar. However, most of the jobs my kids are capable of doing, they already do. Some fall into the “you live here, eat my food, wear my clothes, and use my gasoline so I expect you to do that” category, and a few are the “I’ll pay you ‘x’ for doing this” category. For those that I’ll pay them to do, I can’t afford to have them draw out of the job jar every time they get bored.

But who really has time to be bored anyway? What with all the texting, Facebooking, and I-have-to-be-there-5-minutes-ago going on. And soon (oh, all too soon) it will be friends picking up in the car going here and there, hither and yon. I’m not sure I’m ready for that, either.

Perhaps I will make myself a prayer jar, full to overflowing, with the prayers of a momma who realizes that these babies were never really hers to keep anyway. And, eventually, perhaps I shall shower in peace, as well.

An Ordinary Spring Day

One of those clear spring perfect temperature days is so rare here in Abilene, but this one was. The blue of the sky seemed to be from a movie set, too brilliant to be real. Grass was coming in emerald green, causing dads to think about mowing and moms to think about pedicures. The day held the promise that not one thing could possibly go wrong.

A TAKS testing day, even the state of Texas agreed: this should be a regular old school day, only quieter. Students should come to school well fed and well rested. The state couldn’t do much about how badly those same students longed to be outside in the glorious weather, if a tad on the windy side. It seemed the only danger of the day would be a wayward toddler, blown away by the stiff West Texas wind.

But then.

Sirens began to sound, phones began to ring, news crews were rounded up. “Officer down.” Officer Rodney Holder, killed in a motorcycle collision on Sayles Boulevard. Abilene took a collective gasp.

The loss of Officer Holder struck my own family to our core, as his family is dear to each of us. Officer Holder was “our officer” at our local elementary school. Tall and imposing in his uniform, Officer Holder was a regular figure on campus.

If you needed an officer to remind you not to do drugs, Officer Holder would come. If you needed a safety vehicle, Officer Holder would bring his motorcycle or a police car. The kids and parents knew him and his wide smile, a regular presence, the very symbol of safety and security.

*Officer Holder, right, with his friend and mine, Officer Ricker.

Things like losing a police officer aren’t supposed to happen on a regular day, are they? It was a TAKS day, for crying out loud. Mrs. Holder, the school counselor, had TAKS tests to distribute and count and sign and keep watch over. No, this day had taken a meteoric leap.

The occasions I have been blessed to be riding in a car while “great with child,” heading to the hospital to deliver the baby, I have been very mindful that the day around me is an ordinary day for those driving past, yet my world was shifting on its axis, never to return.

The same thought occurs riding in a funeral procession, watching people stop to buy gasoline or groceries, or fill up at the drive thru or catch a movie. Life is forever changed, yet somehow it goes on for the rest of the world.

Many phrases can cause a life to turn upside down in an instant: “The doctor called. It’s not good.” “They cut my job.” “Mom...(insert any of a million ways your child’s world could be rocked).” “I’m so sorry. There isn’t anything else we can do.” “There’s been an accident.”

In those moments, the lens of life seems to tighten into sharper focus. What is truly important becomes clear: those that we love, the things in life that will last, and the grievances that are worth getting upset about.

Turns out, there are only a precious few things in life worth taking the time and energy to fuss about when life is so dear. May my ordinary day words to my children be, “Have a great day! I love you!” Turns out, all too often, it’s, “Don’t slam the door!” or “You didn’t forget your lunch AGAIN, did you?”

As the weather continues to warm and we are again blessed with azure skies, emerald grass and just a little too much wind, I remember Officer Holder. I will back my foot off of the gas pedal, as I do tend to drive a little, um, “efficiently” I like to call it. Officer Holder called it speeding and longed for the streets of Abilene to be safe.

I will clutch my babies and my spouse just a little too long every morning, being sure they know I love them before life flies past us.

Thank you, Officer Holder, for continuing to teach the city of Abilene.

Thankful for all of our men and women in uniform, as well as their families, for whom there are no ordinary days.

Officer Rodney Holder, E.O.W.: April 29, 2010.

Teaching the Babies To Swim

originally in Abilene Families

One wouldn’t imagine that any outdoor job in a West Texas summer would be enjoyable, but I would venture to say that I have one of the best summer jobs around.

I suit up, and stand in about three feet of cool water and teach little people how to move their bodies through water.

Teaching swim lessons is a delightful glimpse of human nature encapsulated in a child’s body.

Some children come to swim lessons full of bravado: “I am the BEST swimmer ever!”

“You are? Well, would you put your face in the water?”

“Oh, no. I can’t do that...”

Some children come to swim lessons with fears fully realized. There may be tears when asked to do what appears to be a completely nonsensical act, like float on your back.

A swimmer all my life, I trust the water and it makes sense to me. However, to a beginning swimmer, none of it makes sense, especially the part about laying on your back.

As I tried to coax one beginner into floating on his back, he clutched me and finally said, “I am freakin’ out! Get me on land!”

As we move from “freakin’ out” to perhaps trying to get one little body moving through the water, the children who are mystified that they can kick through the water with face in the water and live to tell about it are a joy to teach. Once those swimmers start figuring that process out, there is no stopping them.

Of course, the Mt. Everest of all swim lessons is the diving board (cue ominous music). For the level that I teach, going off the diving board isn’t required but each child is given the opportunity to try each day, always with me floating underneath to catch any child that thinks he or she needs it.

On occasion, a hesitant swimmer will succumb to positive peer pressure and venture out onto the diving board. From the look in his eyes, you can tell he thinks this is not the wisest decision he will make today and perhaps he should consult his inner chakra for a better day to do this. Say... when he’s seventeen, or, you know, never.

But pride overtakes the inner chakra and he can’t just walk off the board. No, there’s no turning back once you are out there. Eyes full of terror, knees literally shaking, he sizes me up. Will I really catch him? How far can he leap and land squarely on my head? It has happened more often than I care to count.

Over the years, I have gotten better at gauging the distance a child can jump and how to get myself out of the way, but I never cease to be amazed at the amount of water a 40 pound child can displace.

I always wish I could capture two pictures: the eyes of the child as he leaps -- the terror, the questioning, the fear mixed with determination -- and the moment his face emerges from the water -- the joy, the pride, the victory mixed with relief.

I suspect I will have that same look in my eyes soon as I pull up to one of the local high schools to take my older child for the first day of high school. The questioning: How did this get here so soon? The determination: We will make it through this, with most of our sanity intact. Let’s roll.

You may be heading to pre-school or kindergarten, middle school or college with the same questions and determination. A few years down the road we will all emerge -- with joy, pride, victory and relief that we have made it through to the other side.

And at the end of it all, there just might be snacks and a warm towel.

Seeing the Future

originally in Abilene Families

WANTED: One lazy, hazy, crazy day of summer. Just one. A day to ignore schedules and deadlines and carpools and packing lists and pick-up times and simply enjoy the season. Our family didn’t find too many of those this summer. Seems as my children get older the cool places to be and time in the car for mom increase exponentially each summer.

We tried to enjoy a few slower days, but we had to leave town to do it. That meant we were paying for it and under the added pressure to really enjoy it! Now the summer whirlwind is screeching to a stop just long enough to throw me onto the school whirlwind.

I look into those faces that house eyes that roll at the sound of my voice and know that this is not a forever state of being. This is a season of life that I should be soaking up and cherishing. And I will, as soon as I find my keys, sign this permission slip, and fire up the crock pot. Yes, I will cherish it to the fullest while I ferry someone to the next must-do outing.

In the midst of my mania, I have a standing lunch date with about a dozen people each Tuesday. My husband doesn’t mind. In fact, he joins me, then he and I have our own private lunch date -- saving the best for last, I suppose. Along with hundreds of other people in this area, we have a Meals on Wheels route. It’s not remarkable about us, but there is plenty remarkable about the people we are privileged to serve each week.

Just like any other random grouping of a dozen people, some are easier to talk to than others, some are more enjoyable than others, and they come in all shapes, sizes, genders, and colors.

After having the same route for almost a year, we have become familiar with most of our regulars, what they would like to talk about, and if they even want to talk at all. One particular woman, probably 30 to 40 years my senior, has been difficult to get to know, simply accepting what is offered with a quiet smile and closing the door. The large dog she keeps for company prohibits much more conversation. Sometimes she appears a little unkempt with hair askew and pajama bottoms on with a blouse.

Not long ago, in making the handoff both of our thumbs were on top of the tray of food simultaneously. I noticed that our thumbnails were filed exactly the same way. As she reached to close the door, I noticed that all of her nails were like mine -- long and without polish. I like to keep mine painted, but a manicure hasn’t exactly been at the top of the agenda lately.

That one simple commonality caused me to see this woman in an entirely new light. She is me. There was a moment in time when she was running children to lessons and practices, darting to the grocery store when she could get the chance, putting on a nice dress to go to a dinner for her husband’s work when it was expected, teaching Sunday school, and all those things that fill my days now.

Gradually, life happened. Time robbed her of her husband, and likely the ability to properly grip a hair brush, or the dexterity required to button or snap pants making pajama bottoms a logical choice. In that brief glimpse of a set of fingernails, I saw how easily my life could evolve into hers over the course of years.

As I turned my back to her house, my husband at my side, a list a mile long of things that needed to be done yesterday tapping its foot at me, kids waiting to be picked up or dropped off, I was reminded of the blessing that is this full season of my life. I don’t have to stop for long --thank goodness, since I don’t have time -- to be grateful for the healthy, active family I’ve been given and the myriad of activities that come with them.

All too soon the nest will be empty, the calendar will grow dusty, and the rest of my life may mirror what a glimpse of a hand showed me. The tray I handed her may have sustained her for the day. May the reminder sustain me for this season of life.

Riding the Bench...

Originally in Abilene Families

My kids have been blessed to take after their father in athletic abilities. Their mother may or may not have been injured recently by stepping on a pecan. Watching my children grow and develop their skills in sports thrills me. They have been given many opportunities by coaches to learn and play, but sometimes a team simply shapes up where an athlete doesn’t get much time on the court.

One of the athletes in my home had a character building season recently when more time was spent on the bench than the court. The athlete handled it really well. The mom still has room for improvement.

I learned a lot that season about myself and about my athlete. Watching the athlete on the bench afforded me plenty of time to ponder bench sitting. It didn’t take too many games before I realized I knew many people who are currently benched in life.

Some folks have been benched and taken out of the game without warning by unemployment or sudden crisis. Others may have been wounded by a crisis or the stinging words of others and chosen to sit out this season, not quite ready to play at full speed.

Just as in sports, everyone handles being benched differently. Some become angry and want to blame the moment on the coach, the rest of the team, the officials, maybe even the weather. Others, like my athlete, simply take it as part of the game. Part of the game is playing time, part of the game is bench time.

My athlete taught me a lot about how to use time on the bench. It can be used to encourage your fellow teammate, benchmate, or even the coach. Time on the bench can be used to study your opponent and learn their weaknesses.

Occasionally, an injury will force a player to the bench and that time is simply for healing. I consider the wounded people all around me, weighed down by grief for the season. I hope they will simply use this time to heal and not try to hobble through the game of life injured.

During one sporting season I had opportunity to observe another precious athlete who also handled being on the bench with grace and aplomb. A strong athlete but surrounded by others focused on this sport, this was simply not her season. She spent the majority of most games on the bench, but when coach sent her in, she flashed a huge smile, full of gazillions of dollars worth of braces.

This precious athlete played her little heart out, encouraging her teammates through each play. When coach nodded to her to come back out, her shoulders dropped ever so slightly, but she flashed the same huge smile. Back on the bench, she encouraged her teammates there, and cheered on those players still in the game.

Life will occasionally toss me onto the bench. I will try to learn a lesson from some of my young heroes. I will put a smile on my face and try to use my time on the bench to encourage those around me on the bench. Other times on the bench may simply need to be a time of healing and rest, and I will try to simply rest -- though the pecan incident reminded me that I don’t rest very well.

When I am called back into the game, I will also smile, appreciating that I can still play. I will play my heart out encouraging those around me, ever mindful of those on the bench who may also need a little encouragement.

I had no idea I could learn so much from watching young people sit on a bench.

I've Got Your Back

originally in Abilene Families

“I’ve got your back.”

That has become a popular, if not overused, phrase lately. Spoken truthfully from the heart it is one of my favorites -- conveying a steadfastness to stand by your fellow man.

A coach said this to one of my children during a particularly difficult week -- not that weeks come in many varieties other than difficult in middle school. I was blessed that beyond simply recognizing that my child needed that reminder, the coach would go out of his way to speak these affirming words to my child.

Of course I wasn’t surprised. That is the very thing that has endeared this coach to our family and what makes him good at what he does. He recognizes that in sport and in life it’s never about taking care of yourself first and only, but watching out for your team, especially a player’s weak spot. Leigh Ann Touhy explains this very concept in the opening scene of the movie, “The Blind Side.”Two of my writing assignments this month were about seemingly different subjects, yet came down to the same point: “We couldn’t do it without the community.” I was assigned an article for Abilene’s Project Graduation, which helped seniors party safely for the 25th year in a row this year.

From restaurants to civic organizations to law enforcement to parent volunteers to many other funders and supporters, the Project Graduation board was adamant that Project Graduation would never happen without community support. The entire Abilene community steps in and says to our graduating seniors, “I’ve got your back!”

Assigned the feature story for this month’s Abilene Families, I also was honored to interview Captain Jason Pflug and his wife, Captian Megan Pflug who take turns being a long-term single parent while the other is deployed. From grandparents to babysitters to schedulers, an entire community of supporters steps in and says to this military family, “I’ve got your back!”

Much to the chagrin of my parents, I have always been described as “fiercely independent.” (Don’t worry: I got one just like me as payback.) It has only been in the last few years that I earned enough wrinkles and gray hair to see the blessing of the community around me: other parents, friends, people who adopted my children as local grandchildren, or nieces/ nephews, people who adopted me as a sister/ daughter.

Now that my children are heading deeper into the teen years, I see how much I need other parents to say to me and/ or my children, “I’ve got your back.” One of my dear mentors tells me she can’t get by without the network of parents she has looking out for her own children.

However, an unspoken rule among the parents is that one must never reveal the source of their information. If she tells her kids, “Joe’s mom said you were at Starbuck’s during third period...?” poor Joe has just become a target for the rest of high school, and she has lost a valuable source of information for the future for her kids.

Rather, when pressed, her answer to her kids about her wealth of information is, “Parents talk.” And do we ever. We’ve got each other’s backs. We have to, if we, or our children, are to survive this season of growth. It’s the only way we will truly have those eyes in the backs of our heads.

Settling into this wonderful community is great for that reason. I’ve got so many weak spots as a parent, I need all the community I can get looking out for my blind side.

And, while you’re looking out for me, don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, friend. I’ve got your back.

You're Doing It Wrong

originally in Abilene Families

A figure emerges, the cheery yellow raincoat and frilly pink umbrella a startling contrast to the blinding downpour surrounding her. She steps up to the car, motioning for the driver to roll down the window. In a drippy sweet voice she exclaims, “Hi, Jack. I’m Annette. You’re doing it wrong.”

So goes my favorite line from the movie “Mr. Mom,” that showcases Michael Keaton portraying an unemployed father of three managing the household as his wife, played by Teri Garr, rejoins corporate America. As this particular scene unfolds, he is unsuccessfully trying to navigate school drop off. Hence, Annette’s chiding:

“You’re doing it wrong!”

While the tone Annette used was so kind, there was no getting around the fact that Jack was going about drop off wrong and must be corrected. Annette was simply doing her job as cross walk guard duty.

Frequently in the course of a day, those words ring in my head:

“You’re doing it wrong!”

Generally it is about parenting. Lately I have noticed that most of my “doing it wrong” seems to be about the first-born child. Since many of our mistakes as parents occur with the first-born child, I have decided we should all agree to call first-borns the beta child.

Just as computer developers will come out with a program that they want you to try so that any bugs or glitches can be discovered and call it a “beta” version, I think we should call the first-borns the beta child.

The difference is that the child isn’t full of bugs and glitches, it’s the parents.

From diapers (disposable? cloth? Genie? service?) to pacifiers to when to call the pediatrician to... well, there are a million six opportunities to second-guess yourself and realize... you’re doing it wrong.
Mistakes are going to happen. That is why the good Lord provides us with erasers and Band-Aids. I just hate for my first-born that all of my parenting mistakes seem to pile up on that child so that I can realize, “Wow. That did not turn out the way I thought it would. I will do so much better with my next kid when we get to this stage.”

Thankfully, the beta child seems to have thrived as we parents have floundered. A responsible, observant, kind-hearted, young adult, first-born is a leader in most situations. Beta child also doesn’t mind leading child 2.0 through all the minefields mom and dad seemed to find.

As first born moves into being a young adult, the weight of these decisions move ever so slightly off of my shoulders and land more onto beta child’s hard drive. As we wade into high school and help first-born navigate AP versus regular versus dual credit classes, driver education choices, extra-curricular decisions, testing decisions, post-high school decisions... we realize every decision seems to be a stack of dominos that may set off a really cool display of artistry, or may simply make a jumbled heap of dominos.

But these decisions are less mine to make than they are now beta child’s. Thankfully first-born still values my input and wants to hear what I have to say, but ultimately the decision is with the child that will live with the decision. Beta child has had to live with plenty of my mistakes and knows that mistakes are survivable, possibly even character building. Live, learn, move on.

And, never, not once, will I approach and say, “Hi, hon. It’s mom. You’re doing it wrong.”