all for him

Sew It Seams by Stephanie was born out of an idea and a desire. It was intended as a way to help offset my car payment, but really for some extra dollars once in a while. This morning I realized it should be for another purpose......

My son, Drew, is going off to seminary in the fall, to be educated and trained as a priest of the Diocese of Harrisburg. Nothing about this next chapter of the story of him surprises me. Since the moment of his birth he has been teaching me about life, coping, love, faith, admiration - everything that is truly important. As a third child, he was trundled off in many directions, often exactly at nap time. He had no trouble adapting these constant changes to his routine, more than any of his brothers ever did. As a toddler, he would occupy himself playing with Lego's and building the most interesting sculptures that were as delicate and fragile as they were intricate. He was the only one who could move or handle them; at anyone else's touch they would crumble. In preschool he developed an amazing eye and ability for drawing and painting, taking classes and winning awards through all his school years. In high school, he made the very difficult decision to drop art as a class to make room for some other subjects, but never gave up his sketchbook or pencils, winning an award at the Classics Festival with a painting he did for Latin. He prays. I never prayed in high school. (I spent my time at mass looking for boys my age because there weren't many!) His sense of humor and quirky taste shines through all he does, including his discussions and questions about bible stories, homilies, Life Nights, Edge lessons. His strength of character has helped me through the past year as much as the support from my therapist, spiritual director, friends in the know. I'm proud to know him, and humbled beyond words that God entrusted him to me, of all people. He wanted to be a farmer growing up, and at the beginning of this discernment would occasionally talk about living on a farm with an art studio school and a chapel. My mother sent Drew a card recently reminding him of this dream, saying that he will now be a farmer helping to raise animals with much less fur. [she put it differently, but I'm working from memory, and emotion.]

Last week, when Drew got his letter of acceptance from St Charles, a friend asked if I would now begin hosting spaghetti dinners to help fund his education. That's the moment it all became more real. Child support for Drew ends next week when he graduates from high school. Since February when I filled out the paperwork to terminate it, I've wondered what I might do to make up that difference, especially when he goes off to Philadelphia. This morning as I weeded, I discovered I'd been praying without realizing it when it occurred to me that Sew It Seams is really for Drew.

So many people have encouraged this endeavor in small to big ways. Shawna agreed to work on my marketing and has taken beautiful pictures of the items, even coming up with the name of the page. Ed encouraged my creative side by consistently telling me I have talent, and that I should capitalize on it. Jonathan, Henry, and Ellie shared the page almost the moment it went live. Heather keeps visiting and liking items. Elise tells me I can do anything - and that she loves that if I don't know how, I'm still willing to give it a go. And I remember the times my Dad complimented things I'd made, and especially the time he saw a monogram - SDT - and said, "Who is that?" When I made a set of bags for Ellie's graduation, Drew and Henry were my sounding board, and the first to really encourage the idea that finally came to be: showing my stuff to strangers.

And then today's prayer. Everything that is sold through Sew It Seams will go to Drew. Everything that hits the PayPal account (stephsewstoo@gmail.com) will be used for his time at seminary, from extra daily expenses to his suit and tie, cassock, surplice, transportation and tolls. In addition to the items in the album and on the page, I can do custom work, although prices may vary a bit. All the current items were made from savaged, extra, or otherwise 'found' textiles. Everything is one of a kind. And I do other stuff, too, not just sewing. In short, I sew, paint, create, and want to do it all to help my son.

If you would rather make a tax-deductible donation to help the Diocese of Harrisburg defray the cost of supporting all clergy in the diocese, you can donate here. While this will not go to Drew exclusively, it will help him directly in conjunction with his classmates and others. Questions about priestly formation and other vocations can be directed to the Office of Vocations.

Please pass this on and forward. This is a huge leap of faith for me. [more on that in another post] I have never been one to ask for help, and neither is Drew. His willingness to give of himself to the world is again humbling me, impressing me, an example to me. And, yes, there will undoubtedly be some spaghetti dinners and other events in the coming years. Along with lots of requests for prayer!

fare thee well

He hugged me, saying "thank you for letting me go. Even though I know you don't want me to." I do, though. I want him to go and see where this dreams lead him. I will miss him -- I do already -- but that doesn't mean I want him to stay. To be tied to me, to this edition of home, to my life and dreams (and, let's face it: issues). 

Our goal has always been for our boys to grow into fine young men. (A refrain that has at times made them crazy when it meant that the answer was no, that they were grounded, their wings clipped in any way.) as I've watched him this summer, anticipating this morning's departure, I've been so inspired by the man he is becoming. Having always felt blessed by his presence in my life, I can honestly say that he has enabled helped me to grow, in many ways. I've learned from him just about every day since he was born. 

Almost a year ago, I was speaking with some parents at church and mentioned that in working with the high school kids, we would be teaching them, yes, but we'd also be learning with and from them. One of the fathers found that to be wholly unsatisfactory. He told me there was nothing we should be learning from them; they are just kids. I politely and quietly disagreed with him, and we've never seen his kids on Sunday nights. I'm saddened every time I think of that interaction. Am I not just a child myself, with so much to learn? 

My son, my child, my baby boy, please go with my love and blessing! Continue to grow, to learn, to teach, and to be. Be yourself -- the you that God intends you to be. Remember what we've taught you. Remember you have a home with us always. Remember that with The Lord beside you, you are never, ever alone. Follow your dream. Give glory. Learn much -- especially about yourself. You are always in my heart. 

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!

changes in attitudes

Every year, at the end of the summer, I'm grateful for the return to routine that school brings. The carefree laziness of summertime--even though I've worked more in the summer for the past three years than I do during the school year--is fantasticly relaxing, and I do wish that summer break would last long past the school years. After a while, though, it gets old for me. I find myself beginning to long for the regularity of a Monday through Friday routine, homework, and, especially, the cooler weather and fall colors.

My kids have been in school for two weeks now, but my summer job only just ended yesterday, so I haven't had time yet to revel in the routine. Instead, I've been in the midst of a crazy schedule; half the time not much caring if I'm coming or going. Down to one job now, you'd think I'm ready for some rhythm and reason.

Yet I find myself on the edge of my seat for the new routines this year will bring. And bracing myself for the brakedown so many of my friends have already experienced. When the new team schedules start next week, along with a new work schedule to fit in, and band, and everything else, I'm pretty sure I'm going to realize just how much I depended on my college freshman for a slice of sanity.

In the past, I've been prone to meltdowns. Actual, embarrassing minutes of literally puddling the floor with tears, snot and a curled up ball of me. Turns out, there was quite a bit of pent up emotion completely unrelated to transporting my kids behind those outburst (yeah, really, I did not realize that! ha!), and recent lifestyle changes have eliminated the band of tightness that always seemed to constrict my heart.

I do wonder, though, if that first time I have to drop everything and go, because I pushed ever-so-slightly past where I should have, if I will revert to my old self. The self I unloaded in Florida, intending never to look back. Give me two weeks, and I should be fine. Once I get past the settling in.

Until now, I've kept so busy I've been able to avoid thinking about missing him, but I do. I miss him shaking his head at his brothers, and the way he understands just what one of them is doing to make me widen my eyes--the silent exchanges we would often have while making dinner. He would make me nuts sometimes, too, but then he'd make me laugh. I'm glad he's doing his thing--and that he's quite willing to 'chat' with us through texts. He's enjoying himself, making friends, making memories, making his life. I'm proud of him!

For now, I'll keep my trepidation on the table. I've learned that keeping it inside only makes for personal pain. Over the next few weeks, the "getting used to the routine" weeks, I'll share each of my frustrations with each of my family members, and, hopefully, the outcomes will continue to be more positive than before.

No, not hopefully--they will be, because I have determined the direction of this story. Bring it on.

fears and foibles

As the sky darkens ahead of the storm in the forecast, I happen to see an ad for umbrellas. This always makes me snicker, the way the computer people "know" when something is going to happen, and advertise accordingly. This particular ad, however, will not work on me. Why? Because I have some kind of irrational fear of umbrellas.

I don't know how long I've had this fear, or what brought it on, exactly, but I do distinctly remember looking out a window in Xavier Hall one rainy day in college, and thinking, "I can't go out there--look at all those umbrellas!" I don't remember if I had to go out to the street for my next class or not, but I do remember the fear, the panic, very well. The most interesting part is that I have a very, very specific reason for wanting to -- NEEDING to -- stay away from the umbrellas on the street.

Perhaps my perceptions of the people who worked in that fair city would present some background....

My grandmother, during one of my holiday breaks, asked how I liked it there--not just school, but the place, too. After all, when my siblings left for college, they stayed in the college towns afterward, so it was natural to wonder if I would do the same. (Actually, in the end, I did, but that's another story for another time.) I told her it was pretty, for a city, and a nice size, but the people were not terribly friendly, and everyone seemed in a great hurry all the time, driving, walking, biking. I told her that as far as cities go, I'd prefer New York. (Yes, even with its umbrellas!)

Fast forward to my umbrella panic. The very specific reason I took issue with the umbrellas people walking on the street were using is that I saw each and every one of those umbrellas poking me in the eye. And sooner or later, I figured, one of them would walk off with my eye attached to it, never to be found again. It's been over twenty years, and I've only recently started using an umbrella, and only when I know I will be the only one in the parking lot after work.

I know the fear is irrational for a few reasons: no one else I know is afraid of getting their eyes poked out by umbrellas; I've never known or even heard of anyone getting their eye poked out by an umbrella (but I'm certain at some point it will happen in a CSI episode!); and I've only been able to share my fear with a select number of people. I don't even think I told my college roommate, and I told her just about everything!! It's odd, too, because of how much I absolutely love rainy days! I loved playing in puddles all the way through college. Walking in the rain was something to look forward to until I stopped wearing contacts. And rain always reminds me of the really cool umbrellas my sister and I had when we were kids: they were shaped like bells and every other panel was clear, so it was like being in a rain tent when we waited for the bus. There's also the more reasonable understanding that if I were under an umbrella myself, the little pointy parts from someone else's umbrella would have to stay further away from my eyes.....

Maybe it was the fact that I was on my own for the first time, and if something happened to me, I'd have to depend on strangers to take care of me. Maybe it was the realization that I was 6 hours away from home. Maybe it was something someone said. I know it was not because of a love of horror movies -- I'd never liked them, and the scariest ones I ever watched were old King Kong movies on TV. (The way I devour CSI and Criminal Minds now, though, you'd never realize I thought movies like Cujo too gory!)

So, I politely decline when anyone offers me an umbrella, or even the opportunity to share one with them. I'd rather get wet, thank you very much, and keep both my eyeballs intact.

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.

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.

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

heartaches

Friday nights, I go to the field to watch our football team. Every week, I arrive with great anticipation for a joyous victory. The boys have been playing hard, and have tremendous spunk; yet points have been elusive. It's been rough, and each game ends with waves of emotion flowing from the team to the fans and back again. The ripples of emotion last all week; I feel them at home and in the hallways at school.

On Friday afternoons, I take some of the football players to read at our elementary schools. My heart swells with pride as I watch these soon-to-be men of the world sitting in rocking chairs, on stools, in easy chairs or on the floor with 20 or so awestruck children. The introductions are simple--"My name is so-and-so, and I play fullback." Or cornerback. Center. Wide receiver. Quarterback. Tackle. No matter what position they mention, I know they have others they play as well on our small team. The children ooh and aah, and then listen intently to the story. Afterwards, I am always impressed at how well the players answer questions from their little fans. What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite team? Do you like hockey? Do you know my neighbor? Each question is answered honestly, and without batting an eye--even when the question is silly. "Isn't the quarterback the guy who runs backwards and then throws the ball to the 'retreiver'?" My heart and my spirit soar at the simplicity, the easy manner in which these two age groups are able to banter. We leave with a heartfelt "Thank you" in both directions, and instructions to "Cheer for me when you go to the game!" or "Look for my number on the field!" The teachers tell me that on Mondays, the kids come in talking about the game, seeing their reader play, hearing his name and number announced, or seeing his stats in the paper. The connection to the community makes my heart sing.

As a result, I now know more of the players on the field. I used to know their names; maybe recognize their faces. But now, I've heard a little about their hopes, their wishes, their views on football, school, classes. I've spoken with them about colleges, majors, what they like for lunch. When I see them on the field, my heart opens up; flowering at the joy I know they feel because they play, because they are a team.

As a result of knowing more of the players, my heart jumps at the start of every play, every whistle, every huddle and time out. I understand a little more of the game than I did, and I still have so many questions, but I know enough to have my heart break a little each time a pass is incomplete, or deflected. My heart stops with each tackle, particularly when we can't clearly see who has possession of the ball. Cramps, calls for water, and injuries cause my heart to squeeze tightly into a little ball, so tight I can hardly breathe; and when I saw two players from the sideline go to an injured player on the field to help him off, half my heart cried with concern for the injured, while the other half cried with joy at the tenderness of his friends and teammates.

Every game is a roller coaster of emotion, not just for me, but for all the parents, the families, the fans. I know the players feel it, too, but I also know that they are so keenly focused on the action, and executing as they've been taught, that their energy plays with their emotion as well. I hope, with all my heart, that the players know just how emotionally invested we, as parents and fans, truly are. I hope they can understand that we want to share in their feelings, we want to hear their feedback about the game, too. More than anything, I know that my perspective is going to be different than my player/son's, and I just want to share in his joys, his pains and sorrows, his laughter and his stories from the game, and from his life.

With each goal the opposing team scores, my heart sinks to depths I didn't even know I had within me. Likewise, with each point our team scores, my heart soars to the top of the goalposts, and I feel as though I could fly. At the end of every game, I feel as though I've been wrung out, twisted, shaken, torn apart and put back together again. All that's missing from the workout I've had is the sweat. After each game, the parents go to the edge of the track to wait for the team to come back from their post-game huddle. There is a silence borne, I'm sure, of that mutual emotional exhaustion we all feel, but are loathe to talk about for fear of seeming too sentimental, invested, dramatic, or being judged as one who is living vicariously through our sons.

As they walk towards us on the sidelines, there is always applause, cheering, and, most importantly, a mass of open arms. The first time, my son told me he was too sweaty to hug me. My heart broke clean in half--and fell right out of my chest when I saw another player's mom walk right up to my son and hug him. A former me would have kept this inside, and gone home with half her heart lying in pieces on the field. This incarnation of me turned him right around and hugged him, hard. He smelled terrible, and really was far sweatier even than he looked, but nothing else on God's green earth could possibly have repaired my heart.

I hope, with all my heart, that those boys, those soon-to-be men of the world, my own son especially, understand how much they touch my heart. I hope they understand that when I say they will be forever in my heart, I mean it. Truly I do.

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.