Happy "Valentines"

Re-posting some old thoughts from a few Valentine's Days ago.

 Valentine's Day has never been a day I celebrate. I don't expect flowers, don't even want a card and frankly wouldn't even notice it if not for the advertising to guilt my husband into buying me something to make me feel special on this special day.

Don't get me wrong. I'll cut out paper hearts with the kids, set out bowls of those little heart candies and help decorate valentines to pass out at school. And I admit it isn't bad having something to look forward to on these long dreary winter months.
What I love more than anything in the world is celebrating little impromptu Valentines exchanges on random days and moments throughout the year.

Like my 4-year-olds new habit of responding to any annoyed motherly look by quickly saying, "I love you Mommy!"

I love that our first-grader is practicing his new writing skills at school. At the writing center he is allowed to use stationary and envelopes to work on his own project. Very frequently while unpacking his backpack in the afternoon I'll find a sealed envelope covered in stickers with "to mom" or "to dad" scrawled in pencil across the front and a letter inside saying, " I love my dad. He is the best dad."  

I love that my husband and I figured out the other day that last March was the last time we had a babysitter for something other than work … and neither one of us cared.

I love that my elderly dog is now slow enough that I walk him around the block instead of the other way around. And my cat, while just as elderly, allows the boys to squash him with love and purrs to prove it.

I love that my boys end every phone conversation, no matter how brief, with "love you!"

I love those stolen blue-eyed glances I catch when I'm volunteering in the classroom or watching a gym class. The quick look-and-see-if mom-sees-me-and-look-away-if -she-does looks. 

I love the tender bedtime confessions of "mom I don't ever want to get married and move away. I want to live with you forever."

It's not that I don't appreciate a day to pay tribute to love and friendship. Heaven knows we need more of that in this world. I just don't like the added pressure to somehow manufacture or come up with something that happens so wonderfully and naturally almost every day of the year with so little fanfare. If only we could bottle up those little moments for a real Valentine's Day gift at the price you ought to pay for something that precious -- free.

Cherish This Time

My friend’s heart is broken.  He lost his wife of more than 50 years last fall.  Stupid cancer.  Seeing him suffer breaks my heart too.  Tonight I was chatting with him about his cherished memories of their beautiful lifetime spent together and he said to me through tear filled eyes, “Cherish every moment, Pam.  It goes too fast.”

 

Seeing him suffer makes me feel desperate to do all I can to more fully appreciate all I have. I do try every day to cherish life and all of its precious moments.  To live each day to it’s fullest, appreciate my health while I’m healthy, to love my boys while they’re young and appreciate every nuance in each stage of development, to spend time with my parents and friends sharing conversation that has meaning and purpose, to laugh, to hug, to kiss goodnight.

But it is virtually impossible to open your heart and mind wide enough to fully fill every sense with appreciation for the countless things I have to be thankful for.  And I worry about whether I cherish every day enough?  Do I really treasure every moment that I have been given?  Am I doing enough to soak it all in, to see the beauty and promise, to enjoy the ride?

 Because, while I’d like to spend all my time in a state of appreciative euphoria, instead, the dog vomits on the floor, the cable goes out, the health insurance company denies your claim, gas prices go up, the kids have homework even I can’t figure out, laundry sits unfolded, and suddenly any sense of serene contemplation of my joyous gifts is put on hold to deal with, well my life.

It is the great mystery of life.  How am I able to cope with the disaster and chaos that presents itself so readily and randomly and at the same time be happy and grateful to have the opportunity to face life’s challenges knowing that the alternative is pretty grim.

When my first baby appeared in this world he was the greatest miracle I had ever witnessed.  And the feeling that surrounded our little family as we huddled over his beautiful, perfect, newborn arms and legs and toes and cap-covered head was as close to epiphany as I believe I have ever come; a time of unparalleled amazement, wonder, awe, humble relief, joy, satisfaction, and pride.  Then, he cried.  He cried, and cried, and cried.  It was ritualistic.  Every day like clockwork he would start in the late afternoon and continue for hours, undaunted by any and all attempts to offer relief.  It was like war.  Our dog would stand with his face pressed against the garage door begging to escape the insane noise of the household. 

Brutally tired, frustrated, and instinctively jealous of all the maternal images of peaceful snuggling bundles of joy, I can remember the feelings I desperately tried to control and dissect when I would hear the inevitable phrase, “Treasure this time with your baby, it goes by so fast.”

I can remember being alone in my room listening to the crying coming down the hall as I took a break from the front line, sarcastically longing to shout to the world what I really thought of this time with my baby.  It went on this way for six weeks, the longest no doubt of my life.  But now, when I consider the first 42 days with my son, it seems fair to say, while I didn’t treasure those times then, I somehow do now.

With that perspective in mind, while I seek a way to achieve a higher level of consciousness where I can savor every delightful breath for the miracle it really is, I also look for ways to best cope with the now moments that I know I will cherish in due time, once they’ve ripened.  While I strive for a road with fewer bumps, I may not drive it, so whatever scenery the journey brings I hope to enjoy the ride the best I can with humor, patience, and gratitude and know I’m doing the best I can when I fail.

And this long cold winter, I pray for peace for my friend and all who are suffering from the cruel reality of losing their beloved, and hope happy memories will sustain. 

Birthday Milestones

In January at our house on the first day of the month, we take down the Christmas flag out front and fly the Happy Birthday flag.  That’s because 50% of our household celebrates a birthday this month.

Just before he turned two John was chatting with a woman at the library and said he was having a birthday the next week.  She said, “ Oh, how old will you be?”

He quickly replied, “Seven.”  Even though he’s always seemed mature for his age, it’s still hard to believe he will be a teenager this month.    

It’s a milestone I remember approaching myself very vividly all those years ago. I couldn’t wait to be a teenager.  It is when I started getting “Seventeen” magazine at the grocery store, when the songs all started to make sense, when I gave up glasses for contacts and when everything seemed possible.  Now, it seems impossible it could be happening to him.

But at the same time, I face the impossible reality that I also celebrate a milestone birthday this month.  Frankly, I have staged quite a war in my head over how to best handle the situation.  Part of me would very much like it to pass without notice and to simply pretend it’s not happening, to hide it quietly from the world.  Unfortunately, the other part of me, the Mom who has to answer to two inquiring minds who will want to know why it’s OK for me to lie, knows it’s probably better to just act as though it doesn’t bother me at all and simply walk right past it like it’s just any other day.  So I’m hoping confession is indeed good for the soul and will be taking the honest route and embracing the day with open arms.  But in a nod to vanity the actual number shall remain unmentionable. 

It’s interesting really how everything seems to appear in just a little different light in the second half century.  When I was turning 13 I knew I was invincible and it was a great big world ready to be conquered.  I was ready for my first car and hoped it would have FM radio.  I couldn’t wait to check off my list of things I dreamed of doing.  I feared only acne and such social embarrassments as being the tallest one in school.  But failure wasn’t one of them. 

Now, I know that mortality is to be respected and I wish I could figure out how to make a child’s teenage brain heed the caution I so desperately want it to recognize.  I now see the world as threatening, a bully waiting to pounce on someone so young and naïve to dare to think anything is possible. The joy of driving my sensible and economical crossover vehicle is tainted by the challenge of actually seeing since my bifocal contacts don’t seem to bring either near or far items into full focus.  My dreams strayed long ago from career ladders to just making sure we don’t fall off of one; hoping for good health, to avoid any of the disasters we are insured against, and to somehow save enough to retire at least from a fulltime job.  I fear the effects of gravity and sun and worry about such social embarrassment as using the senior discount at the grocery store.  Acne cream has become wrinkle cream.  My memory fails me every day.

And so as we blow out our birthday candles this year we will enjoy different levels of enthusiasm for our milestones, my son and I.   He will be thrilled and proud.  I will be less so.  But my hope is that the energy emanating from my new teenager will somehow radiate to his parents and to give us the insight we need to be hip while managing not to break one, to be cool even through hot flashes, to understand even when the language changes, to laugh because life doesn’t have to be so serious, and to remember the bright spark of light that is your youth, even though your too young to appreciate it until your 50.

All is Calm All is Bright

When the kids were little they would make desperate attempts to keep their time in the tub extending longer and longer in spite of luke-warm water and prune wrinkled skin.  They would shove chubby hands over the drain, giggling head to head, at their losing battle to keep the water from running out. Then finally climbing over the edge like war weary soldiers, accepting defeat, they let me wrap them mummy-like in giant towels and squeeze them dry.  In that exact moment as I breathe in their squeaky clean smells I feel for a fleeting moment, peace.

Fast-forward 10 years and I’m the one shoving my hands over the drain.  But slowing down the clock is no easier than keeping water in the tub.  And my quest for peace is like finding a sock that’s not inside out in the dirty clothes hamper—next to impossible! It’s a hurry-up world and since they long ago gave up baths for the more efficient shower I search for my moments of solace somewhere else.  

My oldest, just weeks shy of becoming a real teenager, has so much going on in his world I marvel every day at his scheduled life and the battles we fight both together and separately to get it all done.  Yesterday I dropped him off at school at 7:30 in the morning to take part in early band practice and he didn’t return home after basketball practice until nearly 6 at night.  After that he downed a quick supper and then hit homework for another hour and a half.  Sometimes the overwhelming stress of it all pushes us apart, and other times it pulls us back together and I see us both holding on tight to make sure those moments outweigh the others. With every sideways grin, and laugh out loud, and unexpected “love you” running out the door I feel the water racing through my fingers as I push against the drain.

For my youngest, I had anticipated a year of tears.  I told his principal at the beginning of the school year to expect to see me crying every time I’m there this year since everything he does will mark our last time to experience it in elementary school.  And yet, I’ve hardly had a time to mourn the passing of each milestone. And to be honest, a few of these 5^th grade “opportunities” will quite frankly become celebrations in my world when they are in my rear view mirror; like the 5^th grade bazaar. 

Since Kindergarten my children have taken a few dollars and some spare change to school on a special day in December when they can shop for delightful hand made “treasures” to purchase from the 5^th graders; everything from key chains to fleece pillows. Now it is Jakes turn to learn all about running his own business as he tracks his expenses, time investments, and manufacturing costs and launches into production of “Jake’s Refrigerator Magnets”. 

Our home has become an assembly line of clear acrylic rocks, tiny round sports related pictures, scissors, glue and magnets. Hopefully on the appointed shopping day when the schools’ students are to unleashed to browse, they will purchase all of these masterpieces so that they don’t come back to live on my refrigerator.  

As we glued the last magnet to the last football helmet Jake looks up at me, with glue sticky fingers, beaming with accomplishment and pride, and says with out stretched arms “These turned out awesome, Mom!”

“Thanks for helping me.”

 In that moment I realize, I may not know how to keep the water from racing down the drain, but I know enough to soak in and enjoy these moments of everyday life when all is right with the world and just for a moment there is perfect peace.  All is calm.  All is bright.

Can You Breathe?

Every day after school we make desperate attempts to get more than a grunt when we ask, “How was school today?”

“Fine.”

“What did you do?”

“Played soccer at recess.”

“What about learning—what did you work on?”

“Just stuff.”  Followed by, “I’m hungry.”

For our 7^th grader you can add, “Do you have homework?”

“Yea, quite a bit.”

But yesterday he announced his homework included a new twist.

 “I have to teach you CPR,” he said.

“What?” I thought.  This should be a challenge.

Then to my amazement he explained that thanks to a private donation, every 7^th grader in our district received their own mini “Annie” CPR kit that includes the demonstration model on which to practice the proper CPR technique.

“Isn’t that amazing,” he said proudly after setting it all up.

And it was.  But what was even more amazing was seeing him flawlessly demonstrate each step of how to save someone’s life right there on our living room floor.

 “Tilt the chin up like this.”

And then, “No, Mom, you have to keep your elbows straight like this.”

“You know most of the time, Mom, people die because people around them know how to do CPR but are afraid to do it,” he then explained.

“Even doing it wrong is better than not trying,” he said.

“Well, what do you think,” I asked.  “After this would you be willing to help someone?”

“I think so,” he said. 

None of us know how we will react in a real emergency, but if history plays any part I think my son is right.

He had the chance years earlier to prove himself capable far beyond his years in a crisis.

It happened, like all accidents very quickly.

One of our family dogs was a huge muscular 90-pound puppy whose desire for affection was only out weighed by his drive to play. He “invited” our other dog to play by tugging on his collar.

But on this day, his tug came while the other dog was sleeping.  Apparently when he jumped up in surprise the puppy was flipped over, leaving his bottom jaw and pointed canine teeth twisted into the other dog’s collar so that the harder the puppy pulled to get loose the tighter the collar became on the other dog’s neck.

I sprinted from the kitchen to help.  I tried to unlatch the collar, but its design had a metal loop that held the clasp in place. 

Connected only inches apart each dog was pulling in wild panic to get loose, causing the collar to dig so tightly into the other dog’s neck it was impossible to squeeze a finger under the collar.  I wrapped my arms around each dog’s neck in a desperate attempt to pull them closer as they fought to pull apart.

All this as my boys looked on.  Jake was only 5 at the time and was screaming, “Save Bucky, Mama!”

“Take Jake to the other room,” I shouted to John. “Don’t let him watch.”

I remember thinking I might be able to cut the collars and yelled to John who was only 7 to run for the scissors.

But it was obvious the collar was much too thick and too tight on the dog’s neck.

By now Bucky was becoming limp in my arms.  I thought he was going to die right in front of my son.

I could feel a sense of hopelessness set in.  Then in desperation I decided to rely on my little guy to help.

“John, lay down on the floor and look at the collar,” I said.  “Can you see where it’s twisted?”

“I think so,” he said.

“We are going to have to pick up the dog and roll him over to get Bucky free,” I explained.  “Which way should we roll him?”

Looking back I can’t believe it didn’t end in disaster.  But instead John said pointing, “That way, Mom, we have to flip him that way.”
And so the two of us pushed and pulled with everything we had and rolled him flailing feet in the air over his back to sweet freedom.

It had worked.

Without John, I don’t believe I would have been able to do it. 

“You saved Bucky’s life,” I said. 

“I did?”

“How did you know which way the collar was twisted?” I asked.

“I just guessed,” he said.

I laughed and hugged him, as I was doing again today, only 5 years later, gazing at a much larger version of boy, wearing the same grin.

And that’s when I knew for certain; this would not be one of the people standing on the sidelines unwilling to help.

On The Job Training

Over the summer my 7^th grader to be had a homework assignment to collect 3 bugs.  They were stored in my freezer for perfect preservation until the start of school.  Today, several weeks into the school year school I’m still asking my new 7^th grader when that assignment can be turned in.

“I don’t know.” 

It is the same answer I’ve gotten each day I’ve asked since school started.

I frequently begin the day with reminders like, “Why don’t you write yourself a note to remember to ask about turning in your bugs.”

To which I receive the standard shoulder shrug to indicate, “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.”

To date I still have a grasshopper, a beautiful butterfly (which we found already dead) and worm found in an ear of corn entombed in Tupperware beside my icemaker.

And just when my patience runs thin I draw from another parenting experience for understanding and support.

It is through this other parenting participation that I have learned much more than I bargained for and now I frequently rely on this wealth of knowledge to guide me in my day-to-day challenges with my own boys.

Maybe you have had the same opportunity for growth and discovery when you innocently volunteered for the role of team parent.

Yep, this is the place to be if you want a real lesson in parenting.

Some of the sports organizations I’ve been involved with call it a team rep, or a team manager or try to dress it up with all sorts of businesslike names to camouflage the real job.  That’s why I prefer “team parent” because that’s what you are. 

In this role, depending on the sport or activity, you have all sorts of responsibilities from recruiting volunteers to preparing game day fields or official paperwork to organizing fund raising events.

Over the years I have volunteered a number of times for this role, and now, I simply feel it would be a vast waste of resources to allow some inexperienced sole to attempt to take on these people.

It really is much like dealing with my own children. Telling them once just isn’t sufficient.  They will need numerous reminders, emails, texts, and even taps on the shoulder on the day of the required service so that they can remember not to forget.  Like my kids when the dishes need to be cleared from the table, when it comes time to do the chores, they will sit in silence hoping someone else will volunteer first so they don’t have to.  And like at home, when it’s time to do homework, everyone will want to know, “Can’t we do it later.”  Asking is never as effective as telling.  And a reminder of the consequences can sometimes come in handy as motivation to get the job done.  They will need a little nudge to clean up their mess or to help set up for the game.

But it’s nothing a little tough love and firm rules won’t fix.

Don’t get me wrong; I am the last one to criticize, since I’m no expert keeping my own life organized.  On our day to bring the Gatorade to a game I had to stop and buy it on the way because I forgot it was my turn.  And when it was time to run the scoreboard I didn’t respond to the email because I hoped someone else would do it first.

But it has all served as one big learning curve to dealing with life’s unexpected crisis’ that sometimes are only as big as you let them be.  If someone doesn’t show up we figure it out.  If our score is reported late I remind myself that the players are only 10 years old, and their college scholarship isn’t hanging in the balance of the outcome of this game.  If the clock is wrong because the operator doesn’t know what he’s doing, we just smile and feel thankful it’s not us with that responsibility on this day.

And so, this week I will send reminders for game assignments made weeks ago but likely forgotten, I will gather $8 per family even if it’s in $1 installments, I will remember not to forget a copy of the team roster and carry an extra in my car, and I will simply smile and nod good morning yet again to the bugs in my freezer when I’m getting out the waffles.

Football Season

I wrote this three years ago when John first played football in 4th grade.  He is already done with the sport, at least for this season, and maybe forever, time will tell.  But these memories are still fresh in my mind as if happened just yesterday, and some still remain with Jake this year as he races into his second year of tackle football.

The squirrels in our neighborhood are on some kind of crazy rant.  They’ve buried nuts in my flower pots, they’re walking around on the sidewalk and porch like they own the place, and they run top speed toward the wheels of the cars passing on the streets until they see panicked drivers slam on their brakes –then once the danger is passed, they run laughing back the other way as if to spite us.  Perhaps there is just something in the fall air that instinctively makes them act this way.  Or, maybe like me they’re relieved to feel a crisp bite to the air and they just don’t care.

            Fall causes me to scamper around like a crazed squirrel too, cramming kids, sports equipment, chairs, blankets, sweatshirts, homework along with the cell phone and lap top into the van for the daily run.  There’s no longer room for groceries since we travel equipped for any weather condition, any sports site, or any delay in the action when we can multi task.   

            This year much of our mad dash also involves wearing a helmet and padding.  We’re experiencing the trials, tribulations and triumphs of 4^th grade football for the first time. 

            That means equipment, lots of equipment.  It’s all necessary I understand, for safety purposes.   But at our house, it’s mostly there to provide an annoyance because,   inevitably, some of it is going to be lost. 

            The prospect of wearing the time honored football uniform comes with much anticipation and excitement.  Actually wearing it comes with challenges no one could have imagined.   On the night the uniform first parades into the house, the problems start at the top with the all important head gear.  As I peer in through the face mask opening into my baby’s eyes, I can see padding mashing down his forehead and pressing his cheeks inward toward his lips.  His eye brows are noticeably pushed downward.  It looks very safe.  So safe in fact, we fear he may have to sleep in it since it won’t budge to slide off his head without taking his ears with it.  The equipment experts have informed John, that the helmet must fit snugly to provide the proper safety.  Also, he’s told, when he’s sweating it will be easier to take off.  But on this night, the only one sweating is his mother as I pull outward with all my might trying to pry each side of the shiny black shell off of his precious skull without bloodshed.

            When at last we have success, we hold a tearful family meeting about how to advance the helmet wearing process without ruining the entire season.

            Figuring out how to wear shoulder pads poses little trouble so our confidence is bolstered until we get to the bag of white pads that are apparently suppose to fit into the pants…somewhere…somehow.  

            Since a few with snaps seem to match up with snaps on the pants, that gave us a place to start.  But placing the rest of the rubbery safety equipment into their proper location was a little like putting a spatula into a pair of panty hose. 

            Finally we achieved our goal and my son stood before me, completely padded from head to toe in order to play a game in which the purpose of the padding had escaped me until this moment.  People will be hitting this sweet boy that I’ve raised, so hard he needs to wear armor and he’s expected to do the same back.  Naturally I cried.

            Several weeks into his season, the helmet poses no more problems.  It’s true; it slides off a sweaty head more easily.  The pads and uniform are only a challenge for me as I continue to ask who thought white practice pants was a good idea.  And we’ve had the chance to witness our first real game and watch a real swagger on the heels of our padded up 4^th grader as he runs around the field a changed man; a football player.