Bee-Beep!

It really should come as no surprise that I’m writhing in pain on the floor, in the dark while everyone else sleeps peacefully around me.  I’m sure I looked a little like Wile E. Coyote caught, once again, the gullible fool by the crafty Road Runner… Bee-Beep. 

No matter how many times I ask that this not be the case, these huge sports shoes that weigh as much as a frozen chicken and cost more than both my prom dresses put together, are constantly in the middle of the floor where I am trying to do almost anything other than trip over them.  And now, as I sit cradling my foot after walking full steam down the hall in the dark and, of course, ramming right into the roadrunner’s cleverly placed anvil, I swear, again, I will make these children listen next time.

If it’s not one son’s shoes in the middle of the floor, it’s the other son’s four water glasses beside his bed, each filled with the water he thought he needed the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that.  “Please!” I repeat again and again, “Every time I come into your room I should not need to leave with an armload of dishes!”  It really does seem to be a reasonable request.  But there are others too.  There are the inside out socks in the laundry followed by the inside out pants, complete with the inside out boxers still attached…a talent really when you think about it, but annoying none the less. There’s the popular notion that we apparently live in a place where it’s acceptable to leave plates, food, wrappers, Gatorade bottles or all of the above, strewn about wherever we were last enjoying what was once inside.  Again, I lecture, I plead, I reason, I lay down the law; I make them return and retrieve the litter.  But, alas, nothing has worked so far to remedy the problem.

I know that I really should have consequences for these broken rules.  But in the grand scheme of our lives, the shoes on the floor, the socks in the laundry and the extra dish to wash all seem so small compared to life’s real problems.  Plus, there is the nagging irony in all my talking.  Ironic since I’m the only one who seems to be doing it.  

It wasn’t all that long ago that my children produced a virtual fire hose of conversation, we could barely keep up or get a word in.  Now, their words drip out from a leaky faucet.  Led by the oldest child, who can manage an entire conversation in which his answers consist of one-syllable responses, some of which aren’t even actual words, just sounds.

And just as I’ve started to resign myself to the fact that the long conversations are gone, I get an unexpected one here and there just to throw me off.  The catch is, the timing won’t be mine to decide.

For instance, at the end of another busy day when I am about to drag my self off to fall into bed, at my weakest moment, my teenager perks up, suddenly full of information, and happy to share.  Or during church, when all is quiet, he is suddenly ready to whisper to me an entire week’s worth of information that mysteriously comes pouring out, with colorful detail, wit and humor and full-blown genuine candor.  Yet, when I have waited all day to ask, “How was your day?” I receive the monosyllabic “fine” and “good”.

What I’ve come to realize is this.  It is not mine to determine when these golden moments will arise, but how I react is.  So, no matter how tired, or busy, or interrupted I feel, I am trying to clamp my lips shut tight and open my ears.  Because sometimes life’s most important lessons don’t come from a lecture they come from complete silence. And life’s most important battles are usually not the little ones at all.  A good reminder on a night when my smallest toe is barking the loudest. 

BuckyThe Wonder Dog

It’s a rare and frigid night.  I have the house all to myself.  It’s the perfect night to snuggle up in a blanket and catch up on show’s I’ve missed, or to read more than a page of a book before being interrupted, or to soak in a long hot bath.  But instead I’m simply going to spend a quiet evening with one of my best friends in the world. 

We met him seven years ago.  He was a rumpled, shaggy mess, full of anxiety and pent up energy, and bursting with love to give.  He had big soul-searching brown eyes, velvety soft ears, crazy unruly bear-like fur, and longer than normal legs for a Golden Retriever.  He was timid and shy when we met at the Humane Society, but what he lacked in exuberance he made up for with his persistence, continually reminding me to pet him by gently placing his paw on my knee whenever my hand left his head for more than a minute.  His off kilter way of lying down so that his front legs splay outward, much like a seal, endeared him to us even more.  He was lanky and clumsy and adorable. It was love at first sight.

We brought him home and he was an instant fit for our family, smart, quiet, obedient and friendly.  And so gentle he once carried a squealing baby rabbit inside his mouth from one side of the yard to the other, then gently deposited its saliva-covered body at our feet, unharmed. 

He’s been known as Bucky for the second half of his life, we will always wonder what he answered to during his early years and how it is that we got so lucky to have him. 

 

We do know he’s a creature of habit.  He knows mealtime like clockwork, both his and ours.  When we sit down to dinner, he perches under the table on high alert for crumbs, spilled milk, or any random tidbit he can scavenge.  Just the other day he was able to sample the crust of Jake’s grilled chocolate cheese sandwich.  We had experimented with the concoction, giving the old favorite a twist using thick slices of sweet fudge-like chocolate cheese.  As crazy as it sounds, Jake deemed our experiment delicious, and said, “Wow who ever heard of chocolate cheese! What are they gonna think of next, tomato flavored cotton candy?”

We laughed and figured it was actually possible in this world where it seems nothing is impossible anymore.

But tonight, I know the reality is, everything really is not possible.  Our old friend’s time shared with us is winding down.  His spirit may be as young as the day he came to live here, and his will to please and play is still as strong as a puppy’s, but his body just can’t keep up.

Of course we aren’t alone.  So many others are saying good-bye to their own fragile friends just like I am tonight.  We all see the signs. We slow the walks, fight the arthritis, guide the blind, dish up special food, direct the confused, itch the now unreachable favorite spot, and tell them every night what a good dog they are. 


Another family we know was also watching their dog grow older.  Their daughter said of their dog, “Mom, he isn’t old, he’s just wearing old pajamas.”

     

I like that.  I think Bucky’s in his old pajamas here beside me tonight, sweet and quiet, and I wonder if he is also thinking back to our long walks, stopping at his favorite tree in the fall so he could enjoy an apple along the way, visits to the dog park, putting up with the cat preening him, chasing squirrels, and sneaking away on his own for secret jaunts around the neighborhood. 

Saying good-bye is not easy. That’s why the only thing I’m doing tonight is hanging out with my best friend one more time.

Spin Doctor

“Mom, this big kid at school keeps pushing me.”

“What?” I am surprised and worried. “When is it happening?”

“Usually at recess but sometimes in school too.”

“What are you doing when it happens?” I ask.

“Usually just standing around with my friends,” he says.

“Does he say anything to you?” I ask.

“No, he just shoves me in my shoulder and walks past,” he replies a little tearful now.

We sit down together to talk more about the circumstances.  Is my son being bullied? Should we call the school? Should I be worried about his safety? Then we consider another possibility.

“If you’re just standing there, and it doesn’t seem like he wants to hurt you, do you think it’s possible that pushing you is just his way of trying to get your attention?” I ask.  “Do you think he might just want you to include him as one of your friends, and has a different way of showing it?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” my son says thinking it through.

At 11 years old words aren’t always at the top of the list for ways boys get their point across.

Unfortunately, once they do start using them, it isn’t always easier to communicate.

 All my life working in the public eye I have wrestled with how to manage the feedback I get.  It is an inevitable part of the job and not hard to reason why so many feel compelled to sound off with their thoughts since the talking heads are right there in the living room as though a surrogate part of the family and pounding out an email takes so little time and somehow relieves some pent up tension.

But the question for me, is how to manage the message when frequently the intent is not constructive, and the message isn’t that they want to be friends. 

Over time, you grow thicker skin.  But every now and then something can wiggle it’s way under there and fester just enough to make you second guess, to challenge your confidence, to sucker punch your self esteem, or as I like to think of it, to give you a chance to test your will power.

Often times it is the bizarre and random comments that get stuck in my head, not because I think they are true, but because they seem so odd I can’t help myself, I get sucked in, a moth to a light, banging my head over something so ridiculous yet irresistibly captivating.

The latest is this; an angry complaint that this column always focuses only on good news.

Yes, guilty as charged, read the other sections of the paper.  Walk away without another thought, right?

No, instead I actually spend hours trying to think through how to focus on bad news. 

There are many options after all, murders, sports doping, political disagreements, health problems, financial stress.

Each topic negatively impacts lives around the world every day.  Just not mine.

I don’t choose to ignore the negative stories of the day.  I choose not to allow them to make me a negative person. For me, the real lesson in all of this is the kind of spin you choose to put on your life and those living with you and around you.  You have a decision to make every day.  You can see the world as a dark place and choose to be bitter and angry.  Or you can choose to see the brighter side, to look for the good in people, to live a thankful life of purpose that pleases you and believe that is good enough in spite of criticism to the contrary.

That is the path I choose.  Those are the conversations I have with my boys.

That is the spirit in which I sent my son back to school the following day just to see what would happen if he looked at his pushy challenger differently.

“Guess what happened at school today?” he offered, hopping into the back seat after school.

“What?”

“When that kid pushed me, I just pushed him back the same way and said hey what’s up.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He just smiled at me and said ‘nothing much’ and walked on by,” my son said grinning.

“Guess you have another friend, huh?” I said.

“Yep.”

Fond Farewell

My morning started this way:

One son to the other, “Can I wear your white socks?”

Other son replies, “No!”

“Why?”

“Cause their mine!”

“So?”

“You will put a hole in them”

“No, I won’t”
“Yes, you will”

As the discussion escalates to shouting, followed by the inevitable shoving, I’ve had enough.

“Are you guys really arguing over a pair of socks?” I ask exasperated.

“Do you have any idea how much stuff you have?  You can’t possibly wear every pair of socks you own, anyway, you have so many!”

My tirade continues: “Do you know how lucky you are? You have food on your plate at every meal, a warm house, a family who loves you! And you can’t find it in your heart to share one pair of socks?”

By now their eyes are glazing over and I know they are in the just-act-like-your- listening mode.  But I forge ahead: “Learn to be grateful and generous with all that you have, share willingly, give happily!”

And with that we have officially launched into the holiday season.  It’s the season of giving, but so quickly turns to the season of getting. 

I worry about how to raise a child in this world of newer, better, faster. Can they truly be thankful; can they truly appreciate what’s important in life; can they become a strong, successful, satisfied adult who is still kind, thoughtful, generous, and yes, thankful. Can you even teach that?  Can they learn? 

I am banking on it, literally.

Just shy of 20 years ago my husband and I were attempting to purchase our first house together.  We weren’t even married at the time, and had a mere 5% as a down payment.  We were not getting very far with banks willing to take us on as a loan risk.  But one banker did.   We were grateful and told him so at the time.

Seven years ago we purchased our 4^th house since that day.  We loved its location, with trees, room to run, privacy and all we could dream of in challenges and charm.

We didn’t think the neighborhood could get any better, but it did.

To our surprise, right across the street lived the very banker who gave us our start.

Over the years our family came to know him along with his delightful wife as two of the most genuine, devoted people we have had the opportunity to know.

A true gentleman, and the love of his life, devoted and doting as though they were still courting even though they traded rings long before I was born. 

Without ever knowing, they have taught everyone in our family a little something about living the dream, openly finding so much more joy in caring for the other than in any selfish pursuits.  Their generosity and interest in our boys touched our hearts countless times with special little unexpected gifts and treats and the most lovely detailed thank you notes written in the most beautiful and delicate cursive script I’ve ever seen.

            

Their loyalty to one another was joyful, their love pure, a groom and his bride right to the end.

           

 We have lost them both now, he a long, heartbroken year after her.

They quietly lived their happily-ever-after in their little house in the woods, right across the street, but the lessons they were teaching us couldn’t have been shouted any louder.  

 It is with heavy hearts we remember so many of life’s most simple lessons and how quickly they can be forgotten in a busy rush to get it done world.   But I also find peace and hope in this joyful season, knowing that yes, you can learn these lessons of life if your lucky enough to have a good teacher.

Making the Team

I am cutting an onion and squinting into the stinging tears blinding me to my task.  But it feels good.  It matches my mood and I actually welcome the feeling.

We didn’t want, or expect it, but we have received the opportunity to help teach and guide our son through one of the difficult life lessons of overcoming disappointment and adversity.  Given the choice I don’t suppose there is a parent anywhere who would say they would choose to see their child go through these “life lesson” experiences, but then, it isn’t a choice of whether to go through it, typically, it’s a choice of how you decide to navigate through the fallout.

For me, it’s like there is a marble in my brain and it is rolling around in one of those maze games trailing down every path, every wrong turn, every dead end, trying to analyze every minute detail, every angle, every scenario of our current situation, not to place blame or point fingers, but to find some way, any way, to make it not hurt my son.  In the end, though, the marble comes to rest at the natural landing spot, the one that says, there is no way to make it not hurt.  It does.  He is.

Those old enough to have perspective on life, to have survived this type of thing and look back with wisdom and knowledge that time heals, and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and you can make stepping stones out of stumbling blocks; those people will say that this type of experience will build character, or light the fire of a competitive spirit, and will turn good athletes great.  But those living in the moment just feel bad.  

Our son didn’t make the team.  We were sick as we faced the task of delivering the news and watching our sweet vulnerable boy experience the sharp pain of rejection, knowing we could do nothing to soften the blow, protect him from the fallout, or preserve his self esteem at the place it lived before.  He is too smart.

Looking into those sharp blue eyes, he called every bluff, he cut through every attempt to cushion the blow.  He got it.  Life isn’t fair, but it doesn’t matter.  It’s going to happen, like it or not. 

Here’s what I have learned. Delivering news to your child that you know will break their heart and crush their brilliant spirit changes a person.  For the first time that I could remember, I couldn’t hold him and say, “It’s OK.” In time it will be OK, but right now, it’s really not OK.  For every way parenting has stretched my emotions beyond anything I thought I could feel, this brought me to a new level, the other darker end of the spectrum of the joy I never knew I could feel until I first laid eyes on my son after he was born, or watched him speak, walk, and run for the first time.  The other side of joy is where I had now traveled.  This new place wasn’t nice, I didn’t enjoy it, but I’m changed because I went there. 

I also know this; my son reacted as I expected, with tears, questions, and heartache.  But my mind reels, and my heart melts at what else I witnessed.  I saw a grace beyond what few adults could hope for in accepting the unexpected news from his dad, I saw a depth of strength to muscle a smile for his mom through chapped tear stained cheeks so that I would feel better, and I glimpsed the man I would one day send into the world to face other unseen adversity, knowing there is more to life than making every team.  I saw someone I am proud of beyond anything words can describe, someone I love with every sense I have, and someone who is already a superstar, not because he made a sports team, but, this time, because he didn’t.

One Small Step

“Mom, wait.” Jake pleads from the backseat just as I’m ready to step out of the car. 

Since we are always in a hurry, no matter where we go, I am instantly annoyed.

“Why, Jake?”

He then holds up his hand and, between his thumb and index finger, produces a shiny white pearl; his tooth.

“This was bothering me,” he explains. 

So we find him a tissue to bite to stop his now bleeding gum where his molar once lived.

And while waiting for that to stop bleeding, he says, “Wait one more minute.”

“There you go, “ he says, grinning at my dismay, hand outstretched, with the culprit in his palm.

Just that fast he yanks out another tooth leaving two gaping holes in his mischievous smile.

With that, he is ready to go about the business of his day.  No drama, no fanfare, just the get-it-done attitude we love so much about him.

Maybe it’s because he is the second child, but Jake has always been quick to make decisions, and has little tolerance for those who can’t.  His desire to please is only out paced by his desire to be the first to please.

When it comes to big decisions that weigh heavily on some, like Halloween costumes, new shoes or menu choices, he knows with a moment’s consideration what he will wear, buy and eat. 

But his confidence and swagger come from living in a world of known commodities where he is capable and in charge.

This fall walking into the new world of middle school he felt neither.

Accustomed to the man with the plan running the show, I was surprised and caught off guard when the days leading up to middle school found someone entirely different staring up into my eyes, battering me with endless questions and potential scenarios of disaster in the unfamiliar halls he would soon be walking.

“What if I get lost?”

“What if I forget my combination?”

“What if the older kids are mean?”

“What if I don’t have friends in my class?”

No matter how many times we explained, or consoled, or visited the school he remained steadfastly mired in panic.

It finally dawned on me that his feelings were based not just on fear of the new experience, but the realization that he may not have anything to compare this feeling to in his memorable life.  He was experiencing these feelings for the first time, and was seeing the world through a fun house mirror, where nothing appeared as it should.

I agonized with him on the inside, knowing full well that in the end he would survive just fine, but feeling badly that no matter what I did or said it wouldn’t really matter; this was his path to walk alone.

Finally the day arrived.  He couldn’t choke down a bite of breakfast.  He wished out loud he didn’t have to go. And even dropping him off, he turned as he left to moan out loud one more time.

Not since kindergarten had I felt this way driving away. The day took an eternity to pass.  I thought of him constantly.

And finally it was time to pick him up.

“That was easy!” he declared steadfastly as he jumped in the car, all worries evaporated like a day in the life of a middle school mom.

And just that fast his equilibrium was back; his clock was back in sync.  But I knew a little part of him had stretched and grown, in just this one day, he was forever changed, another stepping stone crossed, the same boy as before, but now, with even more ammo in his arsenal to attack life fully armed as he always has, and with luck always will.

Half Way There

There is a pile of inside-out socks lying on the floor of my youngest son’s bedroom.  This is the case every laundry day.  He is in too big a hurry to turn them the right way when he takes them off and leaving them for him to fix is my way of protesting, as ineffective as it may be.  This is the story of his life.  He was born in a hurry and he’s been in a rush to get on to the next thing ever since.

In the last several weeks the whole family has been scrambling to get it all done.  We feel summer slipping between our fingers just like beach sand.  This fall my hurry up kid races his way off to school for the 7^th time.  For the first time it won’t be our old familiar grade school.  Instead he joins his brother in Middle School.

For the last couple of years, back to school has felt like a breeze.  Having done it for so many years in a row I’ve prided myself on my ability to be organized, and efficient at navigating through it all in a speedy no nonsense way.   What I didn’t realize is, that efficiency also gave me the chance to speed through the process and ignore the passing years until suddenly, this year, one small bit of nonsense did get in the way.  The tiny little issue that keeps nagging at me. This is the “halfway there” year for the baby.  As we enter his 6^th grade year I realize that after this one he has just that many left; six more back to school days, six more school supply blitzes, six more school pictures, six more lockers to fill, six more summers to enjoy.  And I know how fast we got here, so that can only mean one thing; I’ll be looking back on this six years in the blink of an eye.

How can that be?  Time really does fly by.  I know I meant it when I said it as he walked into Kindergarten for the first time.  How could he have passed through toddlerdom that fast?  How could he already be walking into school?  But now, I really mean it. Now I really know.  Now I can say with real conviction, the days are long but the years are short. And just that fast our youngest is poised to enter that next phase of his life just as he was when we sent him walking through those doors of elementary school wearing that oddly oversized backpack, ready to take on all the new challenges ahead of him.  Now, his back pack may fit better, but I know he’s still the same hurry up guy he was those few short years ago, he’s just dashing through different doors.  Back then he loudly and enthusiastically shouted, “Love you mama!” as he raced into school each day.  Now days when I drop him off he’s just as enthusiastic, but he shows his affection with a quieter send off, never leaving without turning to very deliberately mouth the words, “Love you!” before slamming the door and taking off.  Each time I soak in the moment and hope he doesn’t out grow it, ever.

My mom used to say to me when the kids were younger,  “When they ask you to play don’t say no, because before you know it they will stop asking.”  No truer words could be spoken.  Each of the last few days of summer I took time for just a few minutes to quietly appreciate where we are at right now and who my boys are at 11 and 13 and, poised at the starting line of the next race, looked for every opportunity to play that I could get; before the push, push, push of homework, and rush of activities, and before the next lecture on turning the socks right side out.