thinking it through

"You must be so proud!"

Actually, I'm proud, yes, but no more proud than I was yesterday, or the day before, or when he was 2, for that matter. My sons do what they do and are who they are because they were raised that way. They were raised with the expectation that they would become fine young men, and they are. Each and every one of them. I've always been proud of them. I've always loved them. I've always known they would be uniquely and truly them. Who else could they possibly be? 

Nor can I take credit for them taking to heart all that they were raised hearing. If I could, the dishes would always be done and the laundry put away on laundry day. In truth, I'm quite humbled when I think about the men they are becoming. The young women my two oldest are dating are beautiful, inside and out; self-assured, kind, warm -- exactly the kind of woman I would want in my sons' lives. But again, I'm not at all surprised. Their friends have always been the sort that I was happy to have around. All of the boys' friends have been solid people. I've loved them all, and still do, with all my heart. 

"You must be so proud!" The intonation is often tinged with surprise, or something like it. Proud, yes, but not at all surprised. We've been talking about this for a long time, whichever this this is. And we're probably more aware of any possible pitfalls than you can imagine, because devil's advocate is a fun game sometimes, and sarcasm is not always veiled anger -- it can also be just plain funny when used properly. 

Here's the thing, I'm recovering from long-term external definition of my emotions: someone else telling me (or trying to tell me) how and what I'm feeling. So, frankly, when you say "You must be..." my hackles get raised. Immediately. My problem, I know. And I know I don't always handle it as well as I'd like, so I've been working out how to improve the interaction. Clearly I can't tell every you all of this every time. I will tell you now, though, it lands on me as you telling me what I feel. Even when you are someone who doesn't know me well. Which is exactly who you are, because the people who do know me don't say things like that, although there are precious few of them with whom I've talked about this. They just know to express their own feelings. When you tell me how I feel, my instant reaction is a desire to say, "No, I'm actually rather nonplussed," because I'd like to see how many people know what that even means. But that is misplaced sarcasm, the sort that is veiled anger. 

"Drew, I want you to know that I am proud of you, but no more proud of you for this than I was proud of you when you were 2. Is that okay?"
"Actually, I think that makes sense coming from you. I mean, you're my mom. If someone else were to say that, it might be weird."
"Then that's what I might say: 'I've always been proud of him!'"
"Sounds good to me."

And pray for him. And for me. And for all of them. I do, every single day. 

lunchtime

"Mozzarella balls always seem a better idea before I eat them."

"Yeah. It's almost like my memory of them is better than they are. And cheese sticks are just bad when they get cold."

"Exactly.....Pretty much they are bad unless they are burning everything--the plate, your fingers, your tongue. If they are not too hot to taste, they really aren't all that great. Maybe I just don't really like mozzarella, and just never realized it."

"Ha! Maybe. But string cheese is good. Maybe it's the breading that's bad. "

"Yeah. String cheese is good stuff. It's mostly just raw cheese sticks."

Something to think about.

way to go

Yesterday morning dawned sunny and cool; just the type of mild weather I live for. For whatever reason, Guy and I were drawn together despite this disparity in our favorite temperatures. What we absolutely concur on is that a perfect day shouldn't be wasted, if at all possible. While enjoying coffee, muffins and the paper after Mass, and catching up on status updates, I mused that we should ask our neighbor if we could borrow a couple of kayaks and paddle around. (A friend had posted a picture that said, "Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy a kayak, and that's pretty darn close." My inspiration!) She said yes, and offered a couple of suggestions for a beginner like me, and by 11am, we were changed, packed and loading.

By the time we arrived at the river, the breeze had picked up to a wind, and I swear there were whitecaps on the Susquehanna. No smooth, glassy anything anywhere. Just a whole bunch of pokey looking peaks. After posting pictures of each other in celebration of our spur of the moment date, we asked a guy who was pulling out if it was worth going out. His response caught us both off guard--"No way!" he said. "It's really rough!" He went on to tell us that paddling upstream was the easy part; coming back and maneuvering into the boat ramp was quite challenging. He overshot it and got stuck in the reeds, then had to circle back around. We asked about a park about a half hour away, and he and a fisherman agreed that lake paddling would likely be our best water day.

Back into the truck went the kayaks, pfds and dry bags, and we headed north. We had a wonderful time, racing and bumping here and there, commenting repeatedly on the warm water. Getting stuck in the plant life and seeing more varieties of dragonfly than I ever thought there could be in one place. As we turned back, we pulled out our on-the-water-picnic of green grapes and the most luscious cucumber from a friend's garden, which we ate like an apple. It was a wonderful, relaxing, and rejuvenating day. After we got home, Guy and the boys grilled a steak.

Perhaps the best part of the day, though, happened much later. Four of us were sitting at the table, playing Euchre, when Son #2 came home from work. In his best 'oh, how I'm gonna love this' voice, he bellowed, "And where were you today?!" Laughingly, we told him we'd been kayaking. "I know! And how did I find out?? Because my brother saw it on Facebook! Is that how I'm supposed to find out where you are and what you're doing?!" He smiled and waved his arms around the whole while. "Don't you always tell us we have to text you or call you or otherwise let you know where we are?? I come home from mowing lawns, and do you think I knew where you were?? No!! My brother--my brother!--had to find out on Facebook, of all places!" Busted.

It was awesome! Not only did he remind us of the one thing we really did forget to do, but he also showed us something even more important. He listens to us. Despite the rolling eyes, the frustrated responses, the 'why should I?' responses, he actually hears what we tell him. And takes it to heart. I am thoroughly chastised. And proud of it.

notebooks

When I was a teenager, Dad frequently gave me blank journals and diaries. He said it might be good for me to write things down, to work things out; that writing in them might help me to better understand myself. Occasionally, I would start writing on the blank pages--mostly about boy troubles--but only about ten of those pages remain. Most of them were torn out and burned in the woodstove within weeks of being written. There was a part of me that suspected that Dad really wanted me to write in journals so he could better understand me. Every time I wrote the kinds of things that I thought diaries were for, I was quite concerned that someone else might read them. There was quite a chorus of "if no one should know...." in my head when I was a teen.

This past week, I was reminded of those journal gifts when I pulled out my notebook as part of my routine when reading. I've kept notebooks for years--lines from books that touch my heart, notes on lectures, thoughts on what I've read, heard or seen. And the fact that this blog is, as Anna Nalick says, "my diary screaming out loud," is not lost on me. I had forgotten about all those journals, though.

When the memory caught me, I was (am still) in the midst of pondering a question posed to me. Pieces had been falling into place, slowly--as they do, and probably should, but the picture was still unclear. Many times when I'm feeling particularly befuddled, I think of Dad. At times, he comes to me, with that feeling of an arm over my shoulders, a glimpse of his thoughtful eyes, and once his clear voice speaking in my head. More often, though, there is something much more subtle: I come across something he'd given me, whether concrete or abstract. Pulling out the notebook brought him to mind, which, of course made me wonder why. As I opened my book to read, I found my answer--another piece to my current puzzle. Possibly the most important piece so far--and, interestingly, a lesson I now know Dad had been trying to teach me since those days when he gave me the journals.

One of my goals is to get my notebooks in order, and consolidate where I can, to make a cohesive order. My notebooks are all over the place, and sometimes even consist of loose sheets of paper stuffed into books that may or may not bear any reference to the notes. It'll be quite an undertaking, but worth the lessons about me I will learn. Ordering the notes will not necessarily order my mind, but that is quite all right. If nothing else, the consolidating will unclutter my heart.

Anxiety is fatal to recollection because recollection depends ultimately on faith, and anxiety eats into the heart of faith. Anxiety usually comes from strain, and strain is caused by too complete a dependence on ourselves, on our own devices, our own plans, our own idea of what we are able to do.

~Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island, p. 224.

on a dime

I just got a text from a friend asking about lunch this week. A wonderfully bright little moment in my day, and it reminded me of one more thing that's about to change. I'm going to be starting a new job soon that will be an exciting change in our lives, and our lifestyle. Since the call came, I have been alternately bouncing and deflating, culminating in quite a blowup last night. Change management is usually one of my specialties, but most of the time, I am focusing my energy on guiding someone else through the stressors associated with "new" stuff. As a result, I didn't even really recognize what was running around up there in the attic space of my head. (You know that space; where ideas, fears, memories, and the name of that person you just saw at the grocery store hide like mice and spiders so that you can't quite find them until all of a sudden, BAM!! In your face!!)

My current position has been "home" for a year and a half, but prior to that, I worked in much the same capacity, in almost the same chair, for four years. That's a bunch of roots. I love what I do, and if it had been a full-time position, or even half again the hours I have, I would never leave. The faculty and staff are amazing to work with, to chat with, and to grow around, and the kids, though they would balk at the idea, are equally great to be around. The thought no longer working with them is more than just sad; it's frightening, and in some cases, gut-wrenching. Overall, I try not to think about the "stuff" that I do (many a monkey could do most of it, just not with my style and finesse!); it's the faces, the smiles, the friendships that I keep seeing in my mind's eye.

On the flip side, in my new position, across the river, I'll be working with grown-ups, doing grown-up things and wearing grown-up clothes. And I know that without a doubt, I can still be my silly, goofball self, since that is exactly who they met in the interviews. I already enjoy the company of the team I'll be working with, having seen them "in action" one morning, and sharing emails and a couple of phone calls working out logistics. I'm excited about getting to know them while learning the details and intricacies of a three-inch training binder (an estimated six months to a year of training alone). Learning is one of the things that makes me thrive, and I am chomping at the bit to learn, learn, learn every day! I like being the resident expert, but it's just not a challenge. I like mountains, rocks, twists and turns. And it's a busy place! Sitting still, stagnating, is also very difficult for me. Gotta have something to do. When I think of all that, I get so excited and happy. Almost giddy. All this and a grown-up paycheck, to boot! Holy wow!

We've faced quite a bit of change in our family lately: a new school (and home!) for Jonathan, a new swim team for Guy and the boys, a new sport for Joseph, band and high school for Drew, a job for Henry, the list goes on and on, as these are just the biggies. Then there are the changes Guy and I have made in how we run the house, and how we relate to each other and the boys--all changes that were a long time coming, well thought out, and that have made a huge difference in our lives (WAY for the good, btw!). By the time we got to see Jonathan at Family Weekend this past weekend, I think I was pretty much changed out. I had prepared myself for the house without him, and had truly enjoyed his time home during fall break, but I had completely forgotten how quickly a place can become "home" and how strange it can be to share that with someone else; how glad I was, secretly, that Parents Weekend was over and I could get back to my life. Because I had allowed myself to overlook that (pertinent) little possibility of college life, when I saw it, I got slammed with all the other emotional stress I was able to completely put aside while we ate together, watched football, and at night visited and played cards with our friends while he had his own fun with his.

It bothered me, more than it should have, and more than I ordinarily would have let it, that sudden awareness that our visit was pretty much done. Probably I just hoped that the weekend would last longer so I wouldn't have to think about real-life things, like my resignation letter, the bus schedule, saying good bye, saying hello [Sometimes the fact that saying good bye means that there will be hellos is so stressful for me that I want to hide in a closet. I think that may have been a factor here.], moving along, moving forward, growing just a little bit more. I overreacted, which I knew immediately, so I was embarrassed about it, and tried to force myself not to cry. God only knows why; crying is one of those things I do, whether I want to or not, all. the. time. I think I tried to keep it in because, of all my boys, Jonathan is the only one who has ever told me that it makes him uncomfortable. The others just shake their heads at me, give me a quick hug, or, in Henry's case, out and out taunt me (makes me feel like one of the guys). Even though he wasn't in the car with us, looking back, I think that's part of it. At any rate, I was not being myself, which led, in a circuitous manner, and in conjunction with the other stuff shoved unceremoniously to the back of my mind, to a nasty flat tire on the road of relationship health, complete with tears, frustration, and a very late night.

A common occurrence? No, although not unheard of in our neck of the woods. Normal? Heck, yes. We are human, and living together in close quarters, with different pasts, combined with our shared life experiences, and a boatload of everything to think about! A lot of factors came together and made some fireworks. Show's over; move along.

So an invitation to lunch is another of the bittersweet....I love this friend with all my heart, but a job across the river will make the option of lunch together pretty tricky. Then again, I also know that the effort in making arrangements to purposefully spend time with someone dear to my heart makes life worthwhile. See you Thursday, sweetie!

a great teacher

This morning, I woke to find news that a teacher of mine from High School had been murdered, outside his home. While I was shocked, I continued on with my morning as usual. At work, I told a co-worker, and after finding a news article online, emailed it to her, along with my thoughts at the moment.

I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.

He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.

In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.

When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.

I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!

jars and vessels

The recipe called for 2/3 cup of smooth peanut butter. When I checked the shelf, I found not one, not two, but three nearly empty jars. From the three jars, that apparently no one could use to make a sandwich, I managed to get just about all I needed for the cookies. Of course, this means that plenty of sandwiches could have come from those jars! It seems every time I use the peanut butter, there are nearly empty jars on the shelf.

And every time, I wonder where I have gone wrong.

When I muse aloud where I've gone wrong, the response is usually along the lines of "what are you talking about??" In reality, I really want to know! What I mean is, I never would have considered opening another jar if there was anything at all in an open jar already on the shelf--or in the case of my growing up, in the lazy susan. I would have gotten peanut butter all over my fingers trying to get the last bit out to put on my bread (like I did today for the cookies), rather than risk Mom seeing two open jars. I don't even remember her ever saying anything to me about it; it was just one of those things I knew, no matter what--whether it was peanut butter, ketchup (two bottles in the fridge yesterday), cereal (two open boxes of mini-wheats last week), or anything else (like the two bottles of water on my counter right now), we, or at least, I, would not risk the perceived waste or extravagance of multiples like that.

Three jars.

I guess to be fair, I must say that two of the jars were creamy, and one was super chunk, but the fact of the matter is, there were also relatively full jars open on the shelf, too. That's a grand total of five jars open, three of which were just about spent--but would never have gone anywhere if Henry hadn't asked for peanut butter cookies. Sheesh.

Where did I go wrong?

As I've mentioned before, in the past I have been prone to meltdowns. Occasionally, they appeared to be triggered by such minor infractions or annoyances. (In reality, they were stress related, but since the stress was due to my own internalization, we all managed to blame them on dumb stuff like spilled milk.) Did I not ever make my displeasure obvious when it comes to multiple open containers? Did I freak out too many times, so no one paid any attention? Am I really the only one who cares that there is an entire shelf of open peanut butter? Really? Have I cleaned up and taken care of the extra stuff too readily (like today, and like the ketchup yesterday), thereby not making the job seem unlikeable? Or the opposite--did I have one of them clean it up too often, so they really, truly convince themselves that they cannot see the already open containers?

From time to time, I've asked, "Why is there an almost empty jar of peanut butter on the shelf?" (I could not ask today--I was the only one at home.) Invariably the response is, "I thought it was empty." Which of course leads to the question, "Why didn't you rinse it and put it in the recycle then?" In response to which I'll hear, "Oh! I thought you meant the other jar...." Our household version of "not me," it seems.

Then again, every time I come across these jars, I'm reminded of one of the funniest things I ever saw out our kitchen window. As I cleaned up the kitchen after breakfast on a beautiful, sunny and crisp fall day, I looked out the window and saw a peanut butter jar bouncing across the yard. Thinking I would head out pick it up and put it in our recycle, despite knowing it was not from our can--it wasn't our brand--it started to bounce up the cherry tree. That's when I realized the jar was attached to a squirrel. More correctly, the squirrel had stolen someone's relatively empty jar, and was attempting to snack on it! I watched him carry the jar up; no mean feat, as the jar was clearly larger than him! Before long, the jar fell from the tree, making a rather loud "THUNK" as it hit the ground. As I laughed until I cried, I found myself quite thankful that I had not been under that tree! Ever since, I have been pretty scrupulous about cleaning out the jars before putting them in the recycle.

But I still wonder when or how my kids will "get" the whole "finish one before you start another one" thing. Or if I've really missed out on teaching them a really important life lesson.

on the fence

This morning, I have an interview. It's been a while since I've been interviewed for a job--more recently, I've been the interviewer, and I really enjoy that position at the table. This, not so much. And for a number of reasons, first of which is that I really do love my current jobs. Okay, so the summer one gets to me, but I love most of the people I work with, I love the work that I do there, I love my staff, it's mostly the commute and the fact that it's seasonal.

Mostly, I wish life, the world, the times were different, and that I had made, or been guided to make, different decisions in my life. But only sometimes. Whenever I think that, I look around myself and see where I am. I have four great kids, two nutty dogs, a house that I love (for all its faults!), two jobs that, in all honesty, offer me supreme flexibility for the aforementioned, and a husband who is walking this road with me. I am lucky, blessed, fortunate. My life is far from perfect, and lately more like novella than I find comfortable, but it is my life.

Why do I have this interview, then? Because sometimes it's more important to "have." With Jonathan heading off to college, and Henry following suit in just two years, we have different needs than we had before. I'm still struggling with it: a full-time job for the stability, or keep what I have and find a part-time evening job for flexibility? And would that really offer flexibility? What about my kids? That's always the biggest question: what about my kids?

Yesterday, vocations came up. Above all else, I am a Momma. It is more than just motherhood--I have long known it is my vocation. It was not a "choice" that I wanted to be a Mom when I grew up; it was a calling. I don't know why. Ours is not to question why, to paraphrase Tennyson, right? My duty, though, is to nurture. Perhaps that's why I'm a pretty good manager. Certainly, that is why I am unsure and nervous today. I don't know if this is the right thing to do; or, really, what is the right thing to do.

So I will do what I know. I will follow the interview advice of a dear friend, and be myself, and be honest about what I am looking for. What I am needing. And we'll take it from there. Wish me luck...

It's a birthday day in our house today. The day couldn't be much more different from that day 16 years ago when we welcomed our second son. Today is chilly and damp; sweats and socks in the summer weather. That day was hot and sticky--I can still feel it!--and we had been strawberry picking over the weekend. It was a Tuesday, a solid week before my due date, and I was determined that the strawberries would not go to waste, so we were standing in a stinking hot kitchen stirring jam on the stove when I started to think I might be having contractions. We were going to finish that jam, though, dagnabit, so we sweated it out, me thinking these contractions were not so bad, considering their frequency, and Guy asking if we should get moving and just forget about the jam.

Have you ever made jam? Just leaving it without cleaning up the mess is really not an option. I had ruined a batch the year before, and remember still the rock hard glob that I spent days chipping out of the pot. Our firstborn had been induced, so we really had no idea what to expect when it came to labor that was not closely monitored and administered, lying in a hospital bed.

Once the jam was finished, and the pot washed, I had been having 7 minute contractions for about an hour, Jonathan had been picked up, and we headed to the hospital, where I labored f-o-r-e-v-e-r because we had gotten there too early. No wonder I thought the contractions were no big deal--they weren't! Eventually, they developed into something (what a difference!) and, after much frustration of women who came in after us leaving before us, I pushed twice and out came our big-headed baby boy! All 9lbs, 10oz of him. I remember being so excited for his brother to meet him, and just as excited to not be pregnant any more in that heat! I also remember the nurses telling us that they did not have diapers big enough for him in the nursery--they had to go up to pediatrics to find some--and the little bit of panic I felt wondering if he would fit in the clothes we brought to take him home in! (He almost fit in those pajamas. He wore them just the one time!)

In the years that have followed, he has put me through just about every emotion and every frustration nameable, and many that are not. He has the ability to make me crazy raging mad, as well as to touch my heart so deeply I smile, cry and melt all at once. He is at times one of the most mature people I know (yes, "people," not "kids"), and at other times such a baby. He makes me crazy. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry, despite my best efforts. He makes me proud. He embarrasses me. I love him dearly, though there really are times when I don't like him much.

More than anything, I hope I have done right by him. I hope I have been the momma he needed when he was small, and the momma he needs now. Sometimes I see him do things, or hear him say things that just make me cringe, and I wonder if I have failed in some way. Those are the days I want to go back in time and hold him in my arms again--but then I remember that he was never much of a snuggler, and I chuckle at the memory. He always was a great hugger, though, and still is, when I ask.

Happy birthday, Henry Lou. I love you. So very much.

beginnings and endings...

Tomorrow is graduation for our oldest son. It's hard to believe it has been long enough since.......well, since ANYTHING for this to be the eve of such a special, wonderful, and, to be honest, emotional day. Although life is busy right now, I have found myself thinking of what this particular graduation means to me and to our family: he will be going off to college, and there will be one less person in the house, but he will always be here in so many ways. I look forward to the changes and challenges more than anything, as I have since the beginning of this adventure called parenthood. I often think of other milestones when a friend or relative experiences one, but graduations evoke a special set of memories....

My brother's college graduation, when we drove all the way to Ohio and met his friends for the first time. And how HUGE the arena at the University seemed to me. I had never seen anything that big in my life!

My own eighth grade graduation--the first time I picked out a "stylish" dress which, along with my sister's high heeled sandals, made me feel like a million bucks! Our class planned the entire ceremony, and learned all the words to The Carpenters' "We've only just begun". Along with my classmates, I felt so grown up, so special, and so very excited to move forward. Somewhere in my drawer, I have the picture Dad took when I got my diploma. That photo, in my mind's eye, is how I picture that night.

Horseheads High School graduation: sitting in the sun, in alphabetical order on the football field, as one of the few white robes (for girls) in my row, and one of even fewer stoles (for honors) and actually wondering if my parents would know which one was me from the back. (Silly me!! At the time I did not know that we, as parents, KNOW our kids when we see them!) I got an award that day that I wasn't expecting--a small scholarship award from the Business Department. I had taken a Marketing class--the only business class I took in high school--and joined DECA Club, where I competed in Manager Level challenges. I loved it! Being selected to receive the award was such a surprise! And after I received my diploma, Dad surprised me by being on the field, where he really wasn't supposed to be, but he was bursting with pride, and gave me one of his one-armed hugs that I loved so much.

My college graduation had a much different feel. I had been sick and out of school for three months, so I had fallen out of the loop with some of my friends. I was able to go through the ceremony, but I still had classes to take. The College had just gotten accreditation as a University, so we were granted University diplomas, which some of us felt were not deserved--we had not studied at the "University." We were young and cocky, and I was somewhat aloof. Most of my friends were going to continue their studies, but I was going to take "a year or two" off after my Associate's degree. I don't remember much of that day because I didn't care as much. That makes me sad.

But then there was my sister's graduation, when Grammy took a whole pineapple from the centerpiece of one of the buffet tables and stuck it in her purse! We tried telling her that it was a decoration, but she proclaimed that it was on the table with the food we were supposed to take, so it was fair game--and besides, if she did not take it, they would only throw it away! To this day, we threaten each other that we want to "pull a Grammy" when we see centerpieces that are not just floral!

And my husband's graduation, which was the first party I planned on my own. His ceremony was beautiful, and hearing his name announced gave me goose bumps. As a gift, I had gotten him a beautiful leather briefcase. For a long time, he used it, and every time I saw him carry it, I thought about him standing in the sunshine in his cap and gown. (I try to forget the stitches he ended up with, causing him to miss the end of his own graduation party, but I remind him that everyone else had a really good time, although they missed him terribly!)

When I earned my Bachelor's degree, I had to miss the ceremony because it was hours away, and was the same day as our son's Confirmation. That was quite an emotional time, as these were the first such events that Dad was not here for, and that leads me to tomorrow....

At odd times this past week, I've found myself remembering that Dad loved life events: big birthdays, weddings, reunions, graduations, and he would have had just the right thing to say to Jonathan to make him laugh and know that Grampa was so very proud of him. I hope that I can find the words tomorrow. I hope that he will listen with his heart, and with his eyes, because I don't know if the words will come to his ears from my lips.

But with all my heart, I pray that he knows that I love him, I am proud of him, and I am so excited for his future.

standing up

I have a confession to make: when I was a kid, I was bullied. Funny it should be that I feel like saying so is a "confession," and I don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny. Why should I feel as though being bullied is something that should be hidden? Why do I feel as though it diminishes the strength I have now? Today's headstrong woman is not related much to that beaten down girl. Not really.

What happened back then? Specifics, I cannot tell you. I have simply chosen for so long not to remember the details, that I really, truly don't know them. What I can tell you is that for at least one school year, "J" called me fat. On a regular basis. The fact is, I was fat. Not babyfat chubby, but more on the round side. The thing is, though, that was around 2nd or 3rd grade, and by the time she started saying it, I was dancing twice a week, and had thinned out quite a bit. I do remember that when I saw a picture of myself wearing my new green knit dress, I was horrified at the little girl I had been. And between that and "J" saying it over and over, I was convinced.

Somehow, though, I think there must have been more to the story, though maybe not. Our neighborhood was a circle, and my sister and I would usually walk to the corner to catch the bus before it went around picking up kids; when we first started school, we were ostracized because we went to a parochial school and wore uniforms--the only ones on the morning bus. It was hell. There were never any seats for kids "like us." Finally, the bus driver got fed up and assigned seats to the other kids so there would be an empty seat when we got on. Soon after that, we started walking to the corner, although the route had changed slightly by then, the bus less crowded, and things started to look up.

Yet I remember clearly the day I stood at our front door, straining to see the bus lights around the circle, hoping against hope that my mother would wave the bus on when it got to our driveway. I, the kid who loved school, books, classes, even homework, did not want to go to school. I didn't want to face "J" or the other kids who would stare, or worse, laugh, when "J" would call me fat names. I wanted to stay home, curl up in a corner, and hide forever. When I told my mother that morning, through tears of fear and frustration, all she said to me was, "She's just jealous. Now stop crying, don't let her get to you, and go to school." Even now I'm stunned. Jealous of what?

"J's" bullying affected me for a very, very long time. Through the rest of Junior High, High School, and into college, I was unable to handle (read: trust) more than one or two friends at a time. Every time I left the room, I was sure someone was talking about me. I never knew what to do or say to fit in. Until I bought my Senior Ball gown, with my own money, and heard the saleswoman tell me that it "fit like a glove," I honestly thought I was fat. (I still fight that self-image, and have a very hard time accepting when people tell me I "look great.") My first boyfriend dragged my heart through the mud--repeatedly--because I had no idea that it wasn't right. More than once, I berated myself for not having the guts to run away from home.

A few months ago, while visiting with one of my oldest friends, I learned that she, too, had been bullied by "J," as well as another dear friend of ours. In fact, she told me that just about everyone she had mentioned it to in our class had been. I was amazed. And wondered what the deal was.

When my son, who enjoyed school as much for the social aspect as the educational, refused to get out of bed one morning, and told me he'd rather die than go to school again, I panicked. He told me about a classmate verbally jabbing at him, daily. I felt like a failure for not picking up on it, for not nipping it in the bud. He was in elementary school--younger than I had been. I stormed into school, and demanded to see the principal and the guidance counselor, both of whom proceeded to tell me they just couldn't see that boy doing something like that. They reassured me that they did not think my son was lying, but again said that it couldn't have been that bad, because someone would have seen or heard something. I felt like a helpless 13-year-old again: no one had seen or heard anything "J" said, except me--and her other victims, or potential victims. Nothing of significance was done, and between that incident and what I now think was bullying by the teacher he had that year, it took a good three years before he really wanted to go to school again.

The other day, someone asked a friend why bullying is considered a crisis now, after all, it's been around forever. After quite a bit of what I think was really good discussion, someone pointed out that it's not that there is more prevalence today; rather, our tolerance has reached its limit, as it had with other social "norms" that are now considered other than normal. I think that's a very good way to concisely say what so many of us who deal with kids are feeling. The causes, in my opinion, are very involved, but he was exactly right: I, for one, am fed up.



College saved me. I finally learned to be someone I could be proud of, ironically related to an incident of a teacher bullying a classmate, and she stood up to the teacher. When I later took a class in which the instructor tried to intimidate me, I proudly stood up to him, and came out with both my pride and an A.

Shortly before I left for college, looking through my old pictures, I realized that all that time when "J" was telling me how fat I was, she was always much heavier than I was. If only that realization could have erased the damage done, perhaps having been a victim wouldn't feel so dirty. Maybe it's because I know people who have been through much worse at the hands of someone else; I don't feel worthy or something. All I know is that a part of me did run away, I just didn't know it.

one of those days....again

An hour ago, I was working very hard at not getting frustrated. Again. Over one of those "usual" things.

I love my kids, and I would do anything (within reason) for them. Sometimes I really wish they could see that. I really wish they would see the imbalance between the times they want or need something, and the times when I ask them to do something for me.

Today's frustration actually started two weeks ago. Henry was swimming at the HS District meet. Swimming is a huge part of the identity of our family: Guy coaches, all the boys swim for some portion of the year, and I spend a good portion of my time organizing life around the practice and meet schedule--one of those behind the scenes activities that gets far less recognition than it deserves. Case in point--this District meet. Simply around this day, I got a note in for Henry to be allowed to travel separately from the team, stopped for snacks for him, waited in line for over an hour, sat in a hot, loud and crowded gallery over the pool, and thoroughly enjoyed watching the meet, cheering for our team and the boys' friends from other teams, taking pictures, texting results to Jonathan....and after the meet, in which Henry not only swam a best time, but hit a time he never imagined, I was literally told by another mom, and Henry himself, that I am not the first person he would hug. She actually pushed me away from him. And he let her. No explanation (still), and what's worse, he agreed that she was the one who gets the first hug after the race of his life. It hurt and confused me, but what could I do?

The following week, he was a little less happy with his swim, so he was in no mood to hug anyone. Whatever. This week, Jonathan told me he needed new basketball shoes--every single day--until we ordered them. Joseph and Drew have been asking for new sneakers, too, and when we are going to get them (I was actually planning on today, and have even been telling them so, with the occasional question of why we have to wait so long). Then, last night, after another great swim--this time at the HS State meet-- I stood with my arms open for a hug, and Henry hugged a coach, his girlfriend, and then stood looking at me. Eventually he did hug me, and even told me that the reason he doesn't hug me at those times is because he thinks I might cry (which I do, but I cry when he doesn't, too, so I'm not sure why the happy/proud tears are worse than the hurt/sad tears).

Given all of that, I did get especially frustrated when this morning I declared that everyone needed to take one hour to select a flowerbed and weed it, and was given grief. Jonathan simply could not spare an hour because he has English homework to do and needed to take a shower. (English homework which, by the way, four hours later he has not yet worked on.) Henry definitely did not have an hour to spare because he needed to take a shower and get ready for practice. In the pool. (which I realize is not the same as a shower, but still!) Drew and Joseph headed out without argument, and got to work. After I unsuccessfully tried to conceal my anger and frustration, I went out to weed a flowerbed of my own. They all weeded, but grumbled about the part of the job commonly referred to as "cleaning up after oneself," and honestly weeded far more than I had anticipated in that hour.

Why did I get frustrated? For the same reason parents all over the world get frustrated: they don't understand what we do for them. They don't understand what we sacrifice for them. They don't understand that I would give up shoes for myself, and have. I would give up every minute of my social life for the sake of theirs, and have. I am willing to learn how to grow vegetables (something I've never been able to do successfully), and can or freeze them if necessary so they can have some spending money at college because I will need that much less to buy groceries. I don't think it's too much for them to understand, even with consideration of the "adolescent egocentrism" they all are experiencing. Instead, I figure it's some kind of failing on my own behalf. Rationally, I figure it's normal. I'm a sometimes frazzled mom, so I don't always think rationally, I think emotionally, whether I like it or not.

And today I don't like it. So now that a little weeding is done, and half the family is at one practice or another, I'm going to work on some other projects, and shake this frustration, so I can start the week feeling like I've accomplished something more than the "usual weekend." And later I'll run and sweat out whatever is left of it.

the roar--an element

My comments at the recent CHHS Football Banquet.....

Once upon a time, Coach Gay mentioned a program that he called Reading with the LIONS. The aim of the program, in which Junior and Senior players give up their lunches or study halls to read to elementary students on game day, was intended to help demonstrate to the players that they are role models to their young fans, even when they are not on the field. Additionally, in introducing themselves, posing and answering questions, and generally being the center of attention in the classroom, they would hone their public speaking skills.

I volunteered to organize this program for Coach Gay mostly because I knew teachers in the District, and he did not. What I saw and heard amazed and impressed me more than I expected.

The teachers were so accommodating and grateful for the player visits, and for seeing their former students so grown up. The elementary students were thrilled to have a change of pace. This much I expected. What blew me away were the football players…

They transformed from a nervous gang of semi-coerced kids, asking for books with “lots of pictures” or “only 3 words,” to an eager team who also played in 5^th grade gym class and sounded out words like “philanthropic”—cold.

As if that wasn’t enough, I received emails from teachers and parents who were impressed at the transformation in their kids: reluctant readers were now asking for books; math-shy kids were looking for LION stats in Saturday’s paper; even kids who were planning their weekly wardrobe so they could wear blue and white or a football jersey on Friday. The nurse said a student told her the worst thing about going home sick was missing the LION Reader. A high school teacher observed a delighted elementary student pointing out that week’s reader, and the huge smiles on all three faces: Player, Mom and Child.

Making an impact is something that more often happens on a smaller scale than we realize. I read in a picture book once that meteorites that make big craters are sometimes just tiny rocks, no bigger than a fist. The LION Readers have been a meteorite. Their impact truly did go beyond any classroom. When I met our Superintendant, Dr. Reeder, he said two things to me that I’ll never forget. He said, “Oh! You’re the LION Reader Lady!” And then he said, more seriously, “Their visits to Eisenhower and Hoover have been key in how well the team is playing. It gets their minds off the game a little so they can focus when they get to the field.”

Parents, thank you for raising boys willing to give of themselves, even when it seems to be a small thing: those small things are the BIG things. And thank you for your willingness to pitch in when I needed drivers and chaperones. Juniors and Seniors, thank you for opening up to your fans, and answering questions ranging from “What’s your favorite dinner?” to “What’s your favorite play?” And for being such good company in our travels. Freshmen and Sophomores, your day will come—I hope you’re looking forward to it.

Coach Gay, thank you for setting Reading with the LIONS in motion. The initiative, in every way, was a success. You said to me once that it is exciting to catch glimpses of the men these players will become. Through Reading with the LIONS, the classroom teachers and I were blessed with a preview of the teachers, uncles, fathers, coaches, these Camp Hill LIONS will one day become.

lion pride :)

Texting with a friend today, I had to admit that "I'm going to spend the entire day/night [Friday] crying, what with all this 'proud of them' I have in my heart." Friday night is a playoff game. A game that, back in the spring, Coach seemed sure we could see, even though many of us parents had our doubts. So much has happened since then.....

At the time, our boys had been coming off not just one, but 3 or more losing seasons. They had never really played as a united team. Watching them, and listening to my son talk about the team, it really sounded like three disparate groups trying to come together for just two hours each week. We didn't know how anyone could overcome that. I remember distinctly one dad saying, "Coach, what you have here is a team of smart kids, but not necessarily gifted athletes." He went on to say that they all had their athletic abilities, and they all had heart, but, when all is said and done, they are more brainy than brawny. We all hoped, to some degree, that the boys' hearts would not be broken.....

Since that day, I've watched and listened, as a mom, as a school employee, and as a fan, and what I've seen has amazed and impressed me. Looking back at that first meeting in the spring, when I left thinking, "I like him. I really like him!" I realize that as he spoke to us parents, he reminded me of Debbie Allen at the beginning of the "Fame" episodes: "You've got big dreams...right here's where you start paying--in sweat." Coach assured us that the boys were ready for the challenge, that they could make it to playoffs, that they were going to be a team. A real, honest-to-goodness team. All the parents I talked to seemed to agree--we liked what he had to say, but wondered if he was being realistic.

All summer, the boys worked out together in the weight room. As they got stronger, they also got to know each other, as well as the coaching staff. By the time practice started for the season, the boys were beginning to 'team up,' to know that they needed each other to get through the tough stuff. Coach made minor changes to the day-to-day stuff, too: no soda, zero tolerance for trouble or fading grades, insistence on knowing the playbook, and not just faking it. Coach insisted they be "real;" that they be honest with him, with each other, with themselves.

The transformation I've witnessed goes far beyond the field, where they have shone like stars. As a whole, they boys have learned some unexpected lessons. Coach asked that they read to the elementary students--their youngest fans--and through that, the boys have learned that facing something new, anything new, can be equally intimidating as facing a defensive line. Coach told them back in those weight room days not to give up in the third quarter, and the boys discovered that they could outplay their opponents by tiring them out. Coach asked that we feed the team a "nice, sit-down meal" before the home games. As the season has progressed, I've come to realize that the intent has been to feed their souls and psyches as much as their bodies, and the result is that they have become family. As for those brains, Coach has guided them to a point of understanding the game; these boys out-think many of their opponents, adapting their game to counter the other teams'.

In an interview, Coach cited a pivotal 4th quarter win mid-season as the point at which "they" started to trust him. Ostensibly, he was referring to the boys on the team. In reality, I suspect he was including the parents and other fans, as well. Prior to that game, there was some appreciation for his methods, but I think there was still a feeling that not much had changed with this new coach. I recall being asked more than once if I thought this new guy would stay if the season continued as it was. I did think so, but I also found myself wondering if he was more disappointed than he was admitting to.

Heading into playoffs....In a later text today, I added that "I've never felt so wrapped up in anything that I can remember. just might explode!" It's true. I've watched. I've learned. I've even become a fan--something I never imagined. Just like playoffs. I told another friend today that I am impressed with how the boys are handling this success, too. They are being "real:" far from modest--they know they have done something amazing--they are, however, being a team. They give credit where it's due, they admit to their own shortcomings on the field (if not necessarily other places--they are just kids, after all!), and they are getting excited about the game. Even I am getting excited about the game. I might manage not to cry, but I doubt it. I really have never been so excited about a football game. Thanks, Coach. Good luck, boys!

precious and few

My two favorite pictures of the entire season. That joy, pride, admiration, and, yes, relief, that we all felt after the last regular season win, is more than just evident in these pictures. It's palpable. The game ended, and Jon walked toward us with tears in his eyes and his face all screwed up with the effort of not crying out loud, and hugged me, holding me tight and swaying while my heart exploded with a mixture of pride for him, his teammates, and his coaches, and relief that he made it through the regular season injury-free, though he played hard. As he hugged me, I had so many thoughts going through my head, but there were no words for the moment. There really aren't in moments like this. He released me and turned to Guy. Like all the post-game pictures I take, I snapped the picture without even looking at the viewfinder, hoping against hope that I would even capture them in the frame. I'm not one for taking posed pictures; my preference is taking pictures that capture something. When I opened this picture of Guy and Jon, my heart skipped a beat. What I saw was my husband and our firstborn son in a moment that said everything (I thought) that could ever be said about the final steps in a journey from a 1-9 season to a 6-4 season. Everything that could possibly be said about looking forward to playoffs, while keeping in mind the first steps our son ever took. What else could express the joy and awe at turning, now, toward the post-season, and a first playoff game on the team's home field? Then I opened this other picture...

 

As brothers, Henry and Jon have had their inseparable moments. Football, however, has been Jon's thing. Henry went to most of the games, and cheered on his brother and, of course, his other friends on the team. But after that win--the one that so many said wouldn't happen--the first thing Henry wanted to do was hug his brother. This is one of those moments I feel blessed to have captured!! Happy, proud, joyful, excited--any emotion possible is displayed in Henry's face, and I'm left with the memory of how long they stood that way--long enough for me to get two shots, and to stand in awe of that mystery to me of Brother Love.

And after my heart started beating normally, and I could settle in and focus on downloading the photos into the appropriate file folders on the computer, it hit me. I'm not in any such pictures. And I doubt that I ever will be. I know there is a chance, because I do have one picture of Dad giving me one of my favorite one-armed hugs, from my high school graduation. He loved those unposed, unplanned, one-of-a-kind snapshots, too, so I have lots and lots of them--without him.

When Jon's kids look back at these pictures, how will they see the absence of my face, my emotions? How will he? Will he remember the hug that I gave him, too, or will it be lost without 'proof'? As I got older, I began taking pictures of Dad when he wasn't looking, but those moments didn't include me. When I think about them, or see pictures of amazing moments, I do still feel that arm of his over my shoulder. Will Jon? Will any of my boys? I hope so.

In the meantime, I will gaze at these two pictures and be warmed by the tide of memories from the whole season that wash over me. From a whole lifetime.

your turn--yes, you

by special request....

Dear Me (because I don't want to forget),

What you do today will be emulated. Don't think that no one is paying attention. While you sit here typing this blog, someone is thinking they should be like you. They don't always even know that's what they are thinking--or, quite possibly, they are looking at you and telling themselves that they never want to do what you do. They will. They may beat themselves up about it afterwards, or they may praise you for showing you the way--but that is up to you. Now. And always.

You've been telling your kids how you expect them to behave since they were small babies. Making sure they say "Please" and "Thank you" to everyone, and encouraging them to hold doors open for others. Are you sure that's all you've been showing them?

I remember how amazed and touched I was when my eldest son and my niece both said that going back to college to finish my degree was "so cool!" There was a part of me that worked even harder because I knew they were now depending on me to show them how important college is, and how they would want to know how I was going to prioritize school and life, and if anything would change in regard to how I felt about them. Through some classes, that is what sustained me and kept me from giving up. I need to remember to thank them for that.

I remember, too, the day that my son said to me, "I'm glad you've made some new friends. I've noticed you drink more now, and have fun." That was a blow. Actually, more than that--it made me wonder which made more of an impression on him: my earning a college degree, or the fact that I was consuming more wine than he had ever seen me drink. It wasn't terribly excessive--just a glass or two a couple of times a week, but considering that he had only ever seen me drink wine on holidays, the change was huge. I was shocked. More that it was noticeable enough for him to notice and comment on than because of anything else.

Honestly, I've made changes since that day not long ago. I'd like you to help me make good choices. Just like you expect from the kids. And since you are me, we can work together. There is medical evidence that some alcohol consumption may be beneficial, but that doesn't mean finishing up a bottle of wine just so it "won't go to waste" or because "there's only a little bit left." You know full well that if the wine "skunks" from sitting in the fridge too long, or doesn't taste as good the next day, it will be a perfect flavoring for that stew, risotto, or other fabulous dinner you like to make. We can let it go, and even plan the dinner to put it in.

That glass of wine, or even two, if you're not going anywhere, is something altogether different from a bottle or two. Very different. Keep that in mind. Anything beyond the first few sips, and your kids are watching to see how you are behaving. I've seen it. Shoot, we've even joked about it! So far, I've stopped long before I got stupid, but they are looking for any change in behavior, reaction time, anything. One of the teens, I fear, is watching so he can figure out how to hide it when/if he drinks; the other is just willing to use it as fodder if he ever needs it. The others are not as sure about what they are watching for, but they are training hawk eyes on us just the same.

And for God's sake--every one of those things you have told those kids to do or not do--FOLLOW YOUR OWN ADVICE!! If you ever expect your kid to actually call you when someone has had too much to drink, or is high, or is even just too tired to drive, you had better call them if you find yourself in the same situation. Or call a cab. Or stay put. Or walk home, if there is no body of water or highway along the way. They will do what you do, no matter what you say. No matter what you say.

Remember that time you lost your temper about something really nonsensical, and hoped it would be forgotten (even though you couldn't forget it)? Yeah, that's what showed up in that argument between two of your kids the other day. Did you hear yourself? Thought so. How'd that make you feel? Much different than how they felt when you blew up? It hurt again when you told them to knock it off, too, didn't it? No? That's right, it made you feel guilty.....

And that was not the worst thing you've shown them, was it? But now, do you see what I mean? What you do, how you behave, how you live, that's what makes an impression. Every day. Yeah, it's hard work, and sometimes it's not fun, but they are your kids, your friends' kids, your kids' friends, and they are all watching.

I've always believed that I have as much to learn from my kids as I have to teach them. Why else would God have sent us four boys?? I'm a tough case, and have a heck of a lot to learn!! (I'm only half serious there. I am completely aware that our activities had at least as to do with them being here--and there being four of them!--as any grand plan!)  One of the most important things we need to remember at this point is that decisions need to be made with a clear mind, and a clear conscience. We've spent years and so much energy trying to make sure our kids understand that impairment begins with the first drink. Do we? Because we are going to ask our teens if drinking together is really necessary to socialize, we need to ask ourselves the same question. Perhaps there is a problem in the presentation.....

For me, a glass of wine now, as a 42-year-old, self-confident woman, means something very different than the glass I had as a 21-year-old newlywed with my in-laws. Then, admittedly, I had a glass of wine for reasons in addition to liking the wine. I wanted to fit in, and I still felt uncomfortable in this family that I was only beginning to blend into. When I hear kids say they drink to fit in, to be like "everyone else," I honestly do understand. I also know that it didn't work. Instead, I still felt not quite comfortable, and worried that I might have a little too much and do or say something I would regret. Or worse, would embarrass my new husband. I was lucky. None of those things happened. I was LUCKY: any of those things could have happened, or worse. Part of that luck came from the fact that my husband just plain didn't drink. And, although I was a bit insecure then, I was still willing to hold myself accountable. Now when I have a glass of wine or two, the flavor and the experience associated with it are thought out. I am aware of, and take notice of, the taste (a minor thing, really) as well as the physical effects. I am aware. And I purposely stop while I am still aware.

They are watching. Be someone you want them to see.
Sincerely,
Me.

quit kidding yourself

an open letter to.....

Dear Parent of "Not My Kid,"
I would say that it's nice to meet you, but, honestly, you just make me shake my head after we part company. There are too many of you out there for me to truly believe that your kid exists. If every single one of you has that kid, why are there so many teenagers who die in alcohol-related accidents each year? According to the MADD website, one in five teens binge drinks. That's 1 in 5. In my son's graduating class of 112 students, about 22 kids; and in my sophomore son's class of 123, about 25. In the entire high school, 85 kids, statistically speaking, are binge drinking. From the numbers, you can see that is almost an entire grade level at our little school in our small, "close-knit" community. MADD also points out that only one in 100 parents believes that their child binge drinks. From my experience with you and your adamant "Not MY Kid" attitude, I would have to say that sounds about right. Is there anyone in our town who thinks their kid might be drinking at all, let alone excessively? I suspect my kid, and after the stories I've heard lately, you can bet your bottom dollar I'll be making some changes.

Recently, I heard a mom talking about how she checked up on her kid. He had a cell phone, but she always instructed him to call her the old fashioned way, from a land line, when he got where he was going, and when he protested that some of his friends didn't have a land line at their house, she told him to call from the parent's cell phone. Ingenious! Foolproof? No. When, for whatever reason, it wasn't feasible, she would stop by on her way somewhere else, just to say she was passing by--but not every time. And, on occasion, she would call a parent out of the blue to thank them for their hospitality, generosity, etc. There were times when backpedalling was necessary for any of the parties involved. Not every friend, obviously, lives on the way to somewhere reasonable, but just how much arguing can a kid do? Did her kid stay out of trouble? Not completely, but she sure did reduce the amount. She parented.

Ah, but you say your son or daughter will not trust you if you don't let them go and do whatever it is that teens do?? Do you really not remember what it was like to be a teen? Do you not remember at all that feeling that you were invincible; that you were young and alive, and always would be? I do. I remember the risky behavior I participated in, and that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realized--not once, but twice--that I may have totally screwed up the rest of my life this time. Not my reputation, or my college opportunities, but seriously my entire future. All for a little bit of fun. Maybe 3 or 4 hours at a time.

Teenagers are stupid and reckless. They are designed that way. They are also designed, in theory, with a fail safe switch called "parents." Not friends. Friends are the people who encourage teens to do things that may or may not be good choices. Friends are there for fun, for listening when teens complain about their parents, teachers and grades, for reflecting, or rather, mirroring. Teenage years are the second set of Monkey See, Monkey Do years. Parenting requires that you guide your children to adulthood, not to mostly adulthood. Teenagers are not adults. I really don't care how "intelligent" they are, or how "responsible" and "trustworthy," there are times when they will falter. Remember those binge drinkers? They started somewhere, sometime. Where were you?

Sure, it's easy to look at your kids' friends and pick out the ones you think are the troublemakers, the partiers, the ringleaders, but who are those kids' parents picking out for each category? Are you being realistic? Objective? Do you want to be? Heck, no, I don't! I want to believe that my kid will always stick to his guns, always do what I expect from him, and will always make me proud. Unfortunately for me (and for my kids) I'm a bit more of a realist than that. So, I'm following another route. Beginning today, I'm checking on my kids more. Yes, that's right, I may show up at your house if any of my kids told me he would be there, or I might call your land line and expect to speak to him. They already know that they're supposed to call me when they goes somewhere, change locations or plans, or if they need assistance of any kind. Unfortunately, when push comes to shove, my kid is not likely to call unless he's alone.

It seems you, in your delusion of your kid being so trustworthy and responsible, do not require these calls from your kid. You believe, or kid yourself, that because your kid has a cell phone, you know where he or she is at all times. That a text is just as good as a phone call--or even better, because then friends don't know it's you! Did you never lie to your parents? Ever?? Don't you think, isn't it possible, that a cell phone might just make it a little bit easier to lie, or at the very least, hide the truth a little? Especially through text.

Don't get me wrong: a cell phone is a great tool in the fight against teenage stupidity, but it is an extra-sharp double-edged sword. And can only be used properly with training and practice. And I also know from my own experience that there is a delicate balance between too much and too little. But I also know that in the end, a little more is appreciated far more than a little less. One of my friends recently told me about taking her son's car. He was out an hour past curfew, with no call (from his cell phone or any other phone), so she and her husband went and got his car. Not him, just his car. Half an hour later, he called, frantic at first, and later angry, and didn't speak to them for two whole days, but he has since told them that "nothing good happens after 11." Pure genius.

I know what you are thinking now, "You don't trust your own kids!" Damn straight. I'm working on giving them opportunities to earn trust. I'm not just giving it away. Are you kidding? It's worth too much! Until it actually happens that my kid calls me from a party and says, "Come get me" instead of telling me afterward that he probably should have, or thought about it, there's no reason to give him a blank check of trust. I love them all too much for that. And I respect them all too much for that, too. Bottom line, I'm not here to befriend them. I enjoy their company, their stories, their friends (even the ones I really think are not the best ones to be hanging around with), and I like them at least as much as I love them, but I have a job to do.

Realizing that my kids will make stupid decisions does not mean that they are excused when they do--or when I find out because they've been caught. It just keeps me from being blindsided. It's much easier to come out standing that way. Take your head out of the sand, stop being so naive, and get on top of your kid so I can stay on mine. That whole "takes a village" concept goes way beyond pre-school carpools.
Sincerely,
Maybe My Kid

what you've heard really is true

I have very few regrets in my life, and, fortunately, the ones I do have are more related to opportunities I've passed up rather than things I have done that I shouldn't have. Still, there are lessons I've learned, and truths that have been revealed along the way. Nobody wants to hear anyone say, "some day you'll understand," but if I could write a letter to my younger self....

Dear Teenage Me,
 There are so many things you need to know about yourself--far more than you think you already know. You will change. Your life will change, and life will change you, and there is no way to know which is affecting which more, or what the end result will be. That much you know, although the extent is unknown to all but the Spirit you most believe in.

For now, be true to yourself. I know you think "fitting in" is all-important, but I've come to realize that everyone else in the room has the same goal. None of your friends has cornered the market on what is "cool" or "fresh" or "legit" or whatever it is you and your friends call it. Neither has the media. Your parents may seem old-fashioned--and in some ways they are, to be sure!--but they did live through the same pressures that you did. Really, they did. Absolutely, "things were different then," but that doesn't change the fact that every adolescent has had to deal with severe and difficult peer pressure. Not many people make it through High School without some kind of story to tell, and even fewer would say that they would do it all exactly the same way, given the choice. Or that they would want the same experience for the children in their lives. Unfortunately, in an effort to forget the pain and difficulties of being a teenager, far too many adults say, "You don't know how easy you have it." But instead of tuning them out, or getting annoyed with them, ask questions. And drop the attitude when you ask; listen for a real answer, and if you don't get one, ask again.

As adults, we don't really like to be questioned. We'll try to brush off the questions; to give you easy answers that don't really tell you anything. Ask anyway.
Don't ask questions that you don't really want the answers to. Ask what will help you. Ask how we dealt with peer pressure, with bullying, with breakups and first love. Ask if the risks were worth it; how they might have changed our lives, our ideas about ourselves, our parenting now. And listen carefully to how we feel about reputations back then--whether it still matters what those friends thought of us at the time.

Be true to yourself. You may think that you are, because you are doing what you want to do instead of what your parents want you to do, but are you really? How important is it, really, to do what someone else is doing? To wear what someone else is, to act like someone else? Does it really make that person your friend? As a little kid, the game of Follow the Leader is fun and silly, but as a teenager, it can become confusing, frightening, and downright dangerous. Don't always follow. I've learned that wearing and doing what I like has led to people saying that I have "a great sense of style," even on the days when I am just wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Dressing like the fashion magazines, pop stars, or the popular kids at school just adds up to a uniform. Trust me on that.Yes, it's fun to have new clothes and to be fashionable, but only if it is both flattering and comfortable to do so, otherwise, you might as well be a lemming.


And don't risk your own self for the sake of what someone will think of you. If he breaks up with you because you won't have sex, he'd just have broken your heart some other way, but at least he won't have taken a piece of your being with you. If she teases you for being a sentimental boy, she may not be comfortable enough with her own feelings to allow you yours. Is that worth your heart? If others' behavior is risky, obscene, or just plain idiotic, they are not strong enough themselves to be someone to emulate. Those who respect themselves are the ones who people remember and respect the most in the long run.
You will be told, "Everyone is...." You will tell your parents, "Everyone is....." When you say it to your parents, you know it's a lie; therefore, you should probably consider that when you hear it, too. That's the hard part. I mean it, that is the hardest part.

The things you do to try to fit in, and that can only be explained with that reason, are usually the things that will get you into trouble. End of story. Those who are at the top of that food chain don't even really want to get to know the real you. Spend more time worrying about how you want to be remembered later than about what will be said tonight. Remember that no matter how big or small your school/neighborhood/town might be, it really is tiny, and news about regrettable acts travels far faster than that of strength and character.

Strive to be YOU. And remember that your kids will ask you questions, too. Live the way you want to answer them. Yes, you will make mistakes, and you will do things that don't fit your own view of yourself. Best to admit them, face them, and allow the people who truly have your best interests at heart to help you sort through them. That's not likely to be anyone in that crowd who was with you at the time. No, it's more likely to be your parents, a teacher, an adult you trust--someone who's been there and has had time to reflect.

You probably stopped reading a long time ago. I remember feeling preached to, and zoning out and ignoring any advice from adults. I hope, if that's the case, with all my heart, that you make better choices than your peers. That you become a leader, or even a lone wolf, because you believe in yourself.

Because I believe in you.
I really do.
And I'm here for you.
Warmly,
Me

reading, writing and running around

Sometimes we know the impact we have on another person, and sometimes we don't. Frequently, we hope that we might have an impact, or that we might even be remembered.

I am blessed to be able to facilitate a reading program at school wherein the Junior and Senior football players visit elementary classrooms to read, answer questions, and generally visit with the younger students. There are many intentions of the program, ranging from public speaking experience and team building, to mentoring and volunteerism. As I watch these huge guys sit in rocking chairs and on stools to read rhyming stories and other picture books, I am impressed and amazed at their natural air with the kids. Some reluctant readers have been the best presenters--they practice reading their stories, and even practice their reactions to the pictures or the words. All the players remember the basics of making eye contact and projecting, some of which they learned from the very teachers whose classrooms they are now visiting.

But what I didn't quite expect is the wondrous reaction of the youngsters. Their eyes get wide when they see the size of the boys walking in the door, and their excitement sometimes keeps them from sitting still and waiting their turn to ask questions. At first, the players and I were amused by the questions, ranging from "What's your favorite color?" to "How heavy are the pads you have to wear?" Now, we know what to expect, to a certain extent--first and second graders will probably ask about colors, food, and "Do you know my brother/sister/neighbor/babysitter?" while third through fifth graders start to ask about scoring, positions, and "Do you know my brother/sister/neighbor/babysitter?" What I really didn't expect is how dramatically the kids have all changed.

The big kids are clearly more sure of themselves with kids than they were at the beginning, or at least more comfortable in a classroom setting. They are leading more, anticipating some of the questions and answering in a way that makes the younger kids feel important in asking, and even analyzing the experience afterwards--though I'm not positive they realize that's what they are doing. The little kids are, interestingly, becoming more awestruck each week. I had thought that by the end of the season, they would feel like the visits would be old hat, just one more thing to expect each week, like art, library and gym; but the opposite has happened.

Usually, we head out during study halls and lunch on Friday afternoon; the players in their jerseys, and thinking about the game that night. This week, however, there is no school on game day, so the boys have been reading all week. In and out of the schools, I've heard many comments about the program, mostly involving an excited kid talking about the football player who visited his or her classroom. Today, though, I had to work, and two other football moms accompanied our two readers to their classrooms. And that's how I came to realize just how deep this whole thing goes.

In one classroom, the book was about a little old lady who decides she is not too old to play in the football game, so she gets herself to the field, gets suited up, and plays. After the story was over, as is typical, the players ask the class if they have any questions, about the story or anything else. A little girl, an immigrant from Egypt, asked what a football is. After some difficulty in understanding the question, and some assistance in answering in terms she could understand, he managed to help her learn not only what a football is, but what a "granny" is, too. The little girl proceeded to ask the reader to sign her bookmark. I was moved to tears when I heard.

And that's not all: the school nurse had to send a boy home sick yesterday. As he left, she told us he said, "I have to go home sick, and we're having a famous football player come read to us." A high school teacher emailed me one day to relate what she saw after a reading day: a little girl being picked up from school saw her reader walking down the sidewalk and ran up to him to give him a hug and meet her mommy--three huge grins! And impromptu autograph session after reading one day--kids asking their teacher if they can get their shirts signed, and having to be required to stick to paper products! At the Homecoming pep rally at the elementary school, nearly all the kids calling players by name to come sit by them. The Superintendent stopping in and saying that he thinks the team's good season could really be attributed in part to the boys' reading: "focusing on what's important before every game." Teachers telling me that the kids have been asking for an autograph session with the team, and asking first thing Monday morning to see the pictures they know I have sent over the weekend. The class that wrote thank you notes to their reader, bringing the lesson full circle.

When I first heard Coach talk about this reading program, it brought tears to my eyes and tugged at my heart. Everything he said about it was something I could get behind, something I truly believed in. I volunteered to help with it since he works in another District, and, being new to the team, didn't have the contacts to make it fly. I struggled with it a bit at the beginning, but now I know for sure that I will miss it terribly when the games, and therefore the reading days, are over. The teachers and the winter sports teams are interested in keeping it going, and I'll be happy to pass the torch, although I do plan on working with the football team again next year.

Because I once was taller than all the team, I will always see them as the boys they were in addition to the men they are becoming, but I see something else now, too. There is, in the physical act of looking up to see someone, a natural admiration when there is an age difference. Now, when I look up into the faces of these players, these gentle giants, these tough guys, I see the heroes they are to a few hundred kids who want to follow in their footsteps--in the classroom, on the field, and in life.

ouch

My son's shoulder hurts. Hurts as in, has a feeling that can only be described by words that are supposed to be attributed to sounds. Words like "grind," "crackle" and the like. Because he is a swimmer, this is a bad thing. Because he is a very good swimmer, this is a BAD THING. And at the moment, I'm taking it rather personally. I know this is silly, but I'm his mom. I'm supposed to keep him safe, or at the very least, be able to make it all better. Instead, I all I can do is check with our insurance to see what, if any, physical therapy might be available. He went for PT last spring.

Being his mom means that I probably should have nagged him more about wearing his backpack the right way; high on his shoulders and tight to his back. Not that there is much in his backpack, or rather, was much in there in the past. This year, he has more work to do. He's being more conscientious about his schoolwork. I'm proud of him for realizing how important his education is, and I'm thrilled that I don't have to get on him to get his work done. Yet I still feel guilty for 'choosing my battles' and deciding that the whole backpack thing would make sense to him before college, when he really will have loads of books to cart around. (Who am I kidding--college when he gets there will probably mean just a computer, and one that is far lighter than my laptop!)

Being his mom means that I probably should have been more involved in his swim program. There is no real, comprehensive dryland program with it. They run some, but no stretching, no strength training, nothing that I, as a dancer, consider to be important in balancing the muscles he uses to swim. And when he went to PT, I should probably have insisted that the therapist give him a comprehensive progression of exercises to go beyond what they had worked on to keep him interested in the program. When he does the exercises they gave him for "homework" and ongoing therapy, I get bored, so I can understand why he rushes through them with little to no regard for form. And, because I am his mom and he is 15, he doesn't really want to hear from me about how to properly do them.

Being his mom means that I probably should be more forceful in limiting his computer time, mostly because he sits with his computer on his lap, his arms completely unsupported. At least he puts pillows under his knees like I told him he should when he started to complain about his knees hurting. Because I am his mom, I am hurting, too. I wish I knew how to make it all better; how to not only make the pain go away, but also how to make it stay better.

Tomorrow, I'll call the insurance company and ask if he can go back to PT. Then I suppose I'll have to call the doctor to get a referral. I wish there was a better way. I believe in PT, but I know full well from my own experience that sticking with the exercises just doesn't happen. PT does not lead to the lifestyle change that he'll need to continue swimming at the level he wants to swim.

Until then, I'll wonder how else I could have done things. What else I could have done or said. Why? Because I am his mom. It's what I do. And we'll see what we can do for Henry's shoulder.