Easy Bake Mom

THE NEST

2011-05-10T08:07:00.002-04:00

I am fascinated by primal motherhood; fascinated by the instinctual drive in animal species. As humans, we are brought to the task of mothering with reason, common sense, compassion and with any luck, grace. No matter the species, mother animals mother with instinct and for all of the advantage we have in our superior knowledge, instinct is what often lacks in humans. That is not to say that we cannot defend our young on a level that is primal or that we do not have that built in sense of knowing; the thing that makes a mother stir when she knows something is wrong somewhere or that makes her reach for the phone just as a child is calling home with a problem. A sixth sense is woven into and wrapped around reason somehow, but instinct is quite different.

I have a pair of rather prolific love birds. Separated from one another at the pet store and reunited after 6 weeks, they paint a story of star-crossed lovers in their colorful display of affection for one another. Once a suitable nesting box is offered, Owen knows that he can begin courtship and he knows that to win Jasmine’s heart, he must begin to furnish the home and show his intentions by feeding her. He did not read this or learn it from his dad; he simply knows. Upon accepting his offerings, the two spend a day consummating the relationship, after which they work feverishly to gather appropriate nesting materials into the box. Jasmine knows that she needs moisture in the nest and takes strips of paper and dips them into her water dish, layering them between dry pieces. She knows nothing of the science involved and had no teacher to teach her the technique. She just knows.

Once she begins laying, one egg every other day, she spends all day and night incubating the clutch, coming out only occasionally for nesting supplies or water. Owen keeps watch outside and brings her meals in bed. There is no bickering about who should be doing what; they have their designated jobs and they accept them. Once the babies hatch, both parents work all day feeding and warming, bringing fresh bedding and moist strips to keep the humidity just right. The instinctual teamwork is without ego or competition; there is beauty in their partnership.

We take classes, we read endless books by renowned experts, gather in groups to share and learn and teach and for all of our knowledge gathering, we do not have the same harmonious rhythm that is wired into the simplest of species. Perhaps the greatest contrast that I have observed is that animals know when the job is finished. A mother animal will risk her life to protect and raise her young, but the moment the mission her accomplished and her young possesses the ability to thrive on their own, she boots them out without hesitation. As humans, we let out the tether, but find ourselves uncertain as to when our offspring are really ready to fly, our insecurities likely keeping them closer to the nest than necessary.

Jasmine began biting her young once they were eating on their own and my admiration for her instincts turned to scorn. She wanted them out, and yet they had barely the skills for survival. In the wild, they would have left the nest and likely not come back. Separating the babies to a new cage, I discovered her urgency. She had laid a new clutch of eggs; her instincts told her all of her time and energy was to be dedicated to hatching and raising these babies.

I am fascinated by primal motherhood; by the instinctual drive of mother animals. I am also keenly aware of my human instinctual shortcomings and the gift of human love and bonding that separates us from the animals. Fledging our young is much more complicated, but I am grateful that when they leave the nest, they are likely to return again and again.

MOTHERS WISDOM

2011-05-08T09:55:00.014-04:00

Reaching life’s milestones has a way of propelling me toward inward reflection to ponder the meaning of life and my place in it. My most recent birthday and the arrival of an AARP card bearing my name seemed to juxtapose where I have been and where I am going, leaving me sitting to marinate in where I am. We are all a work in progress being molded and shaped by events along our journey, but most of life’s lessons for me simply echo the wisdom of my first teacher; my mom.

The lessons that I have learned from my mother were specific and make up the foundation that I stand on. From the time I was very young, my mother instilled the basic lessons: say your prayers, always tell the truth, never cheat and keep your room clean to name a few. But as time goes on, I realize that what she really taught was about faith, hope and charity.

“Pray about it.” When I was younger, the words were “Ask God for help” but the message has been consistent and is in the forefront of every big problem or decision I encounter. My mom has always been a woman of faith and has taught me that we are better served when we ask for guidance.

“Praise God for answered prayer.” It has become more evident to me that prayers are answered and that sometimes we need to sit back and listen for the answers in order to hear them. It is easy to look around with envy in difficult times and to wonder why life is so hard, but an attitude of gratitude turns it all on its head and even it times of strife, blessings are there to be counted.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I can honestly say that I am still working on this one. This is the wisdom that has allowed me to accept the things I cannot change and by doing so, avoiding senseless conflict. "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference."

Lessons of faith and hope were taught with words, but one of the greatest lessons my mother taught she did so by example; Charity. Both of my parents modeled this for me growing up by reaching out to strangers and friends in need, but as my mom entered her retirement years, her outreach has become a major component of her life. She has been working with refugees families to teach them English and help them acclimate to life in the US. Mom and Bruce worked with habitat for humanity helping these people to build and establish homes. Most recently, she has taken a position as a volunteer at the hospital greeting visitors to help them navigate the visit with their love ones and also works with a satelite group making blankets and toys for children in the hospital, raising money for the hospital through bake sales and various other activities. Through her church she has worked with Soles for Souls collecting shoes to send to countries where such a basic need is a luxury. She and Bruce have dedicated themselves twice a year to our troops. In the summer (Marine Appreciation Day) and in the fall (Thanksgiving with the Marines) they have spearheaded a program in their community to bring busses of Marines who cannot go home for the holiday to join host families for the day; filling their bellies with food and their hearts with love and gratitude.

It is easy for most people to see the Golden Years as a time for rewarding oneself for a lifetime of hard work. My mother has shown me that rewards do not always come in the form of self-indulgence; but can be in the satisfaction of touching someone else’s life.

My mother’s wisdom was taught to her in much the same way; her mother (Mema) was the same kind of teacher. Mema (Mary Ellen) married an Irishman, and as devout Catholics, did not practice birth control. Her life mirrors some of the heart wrenching memoir books on my shelf; a life of great poverty and trials. She gave birth to 12 children, two of which died in childhood and raised 5 sons and 5 daughters, my mother being the baby of the clan. The stories shared by my mom and her siblings are about times of hunger and less than meager possessions. I know that things like toothpaste and shoes without holes were not elements of their existence.

In spite of this, my grandmother’s faith was profound, always finding things to bless and thank God for. Her wisdom taught her children not to squander what they had and to always have self-respect. “Squeeze your money tight and do your business tidy” and “Don’t let the neighbors know your business.” These were some of the phrases she would use to help her kids hold their heads high in times of trouble; teaching faith and hope in the same way as my mother, through her words. What astounds me most, however, is her teaching of charity. In spite of having nothing, my grandmother would never fail to find someone who had less and would share what little she had with them.

By the time I met Mema, she was in her later years and I remember her as a nutty, silly, loopy woman and I am sad that I did not have a chance to know her as I grew older. The thread of humor has passed through the women of this Irish linage as an essential ingredient for life. My daughter often calls me on my “random” behaviors and I simply blame the women before me, just as I can also credit them for the basic guidelines for living.

On this Mother’s day, I want to thank my mom and Mema before her for the lessons they passed to me and I hope that I can honor them in carrying forward the wisdom of my mothers.

MUSIC MOM

2011-01-21T09:27:00.014-05:00

I have been blessed to be the mother of musicians.

This has not come as a surprise to me as my family and Brad’s are filled with them. Brad has been immersed in music his whole life; playing the guitar and drums in bands, writing songs, working as stage crew for big bands in his younger days. It was only natural to see Tyler pick up the guitar at a young age and soon surpass his father’s abilities. He also played the drums, Trevor played the saxophone and guitar and their instrumental prowess surly comes from that side of our team. I cannot read a note of music. I nearly failed a class in college that required us as Early Childhood Education majors to take a basic music class and learn to play the recorder. The music staff may as well have been in Japanese and the recorder became an object of loathing to me on the same level as a snake! I cannot tell a C from an F by definition. I have tucked written music and instrumentals in with a group of things that I simply lack the skill, or more importantly the desire, to learn which include: threading a bobbin, knitting, changing the gears on my 10 speed bike, untangling large knots and finding my way anywhere without GPS.

I am OK with this.

I can sing, however, strictly by ear and reasonably well. Voice is what I have contributed to my musical offspring. Cadence is involved with musical theatre and works with a vocal coach; her forte being Broadway belt songs, soulful contemporary music and songwriting. This has been a breath of fresh air from the male passions in my house. I have had to learn to respect “music” in forms that are foreign to me. While Tyler can write and sing touching acoustic ballads, his passion and the music he sings with is band is appropriately called “Screamo” named for the guttural, growling, screaming language that they intersperse throughout the song that to me sounds satanic; I hear my son alternate between angel and devil and while the sound is offensive to my very fibers, I have stood in the middle of many a mosh pit, praying for my safety and cheering on my oldest. Apparently, he screams very well.

Trevor has always had an affinity for rap music. I actually find this a tiny bit more palatable if I try to override the vulgarity in most of it and simply appreciate the rhythmic flow. They don’t sing….they “spit” the lyrics. Trevor is known to “freestyle” along with any music, usually beginning with the phrase. “I’m going in…” Sometimes it is silly or funny and most times it has me yelling about the language. Trevor has shown me, however, that rapping does take some skill. I used to say it was not music at all as it was not “singing” and that anyone could “talk” their way through a song, but he protests that rapping requires good rhythm, a quick mind and a good vocabulary. I have come to see it as poetry and that tickles the writer in me. Trevor has been composing rap songs at a rapid fire pace as of late, most of it I cannot support due to content and language. Most defiantly not rated ‘E’ for Everyone and certainly not for the young or old. He recently finished a song about losing his dog Keeper. PLEASE do not listen if you are offended by the “F---“ word. I begged him not to use it but it appears in several places. If you can bleep out the offensive language, it’s actually quite good.

I probably did not ever imagine that I would be I the mother of a Screamer, a Rapper and a Broadway Belter; music has many faces and I am proud of each of them.

KEEPER

2011-01-17T15:19:00.005-05:00

I really don’t need this today...not today! I think to myself as I trudge out into the snow. “Bacon!” I yell, shaking a box of Keeper’s favorite treats. I am sure by now the neighbors think his name is Bacon. He has made it a mission as of late to escape in a number of clever ways to follow his male Terrier desires to mark what he considers his territory. I knew he would make a beeline for George’s yard; an elderly poodle who had moved in recently next door. “Keep! Bacon” I yell, knowing there must be people who wonder why anyone would wander about yelling ‘keep bacon’. I listen for any sound of him crunching along in the snow. He hates the snow. He hates being cold. He hates for his feet to touch anything but soft, dry grass.

Six years ago, we were on a quest to adopt a dog for Trevor who, in classic middle child style, felt that every other family member had a designated pet except for him. We had at that time lost a cat who was confused about his species, acting more like a dog; he was the playmate for our older dog Abby. Adoption was the only way our family had acquired pets and seemed to be the solution for both Abby and Trevor. I had researched local and not so local shelters and even brought home a couple of dogs on trial that turned out to be a poor fit. Trevor was ten years old at the time and came to me with a photo he had printed from his computer research on dog breeds. It was a Rat Terrier. I had to explain that one could not really select a specific breed when adopting from a shelter and the dogs that ended up there were seldom a specific breed and more likely a mix of many. “But if you see him, this is the one I want.” Trevor told me, somehow confident that I would.

While the kids were in school, I made my way to a shelter about 45 minutes away to see an English Spaniel with a soft coat and sweet face. “I’m sorry,” the gentleman explained, “She’s already been adopted” and I kicked myself for not calling first. He walked me through the kennel to where she sat and proceeded to show me the remaining homeless, bringing me straight to Keeper’s cage. “I’ve got this little guy.” To my dismay, it was the face on the printout that Trevor gave me.
We were allowed to take him home as a foster dog since his adoption could not be processed for two weeks to allow sufficient advertising for possible owners. After the waiting period was up, we needed to decide if he was a keeper and he obviously was.

Keeper was about two years old and proved to be rather quirky and funny and sometimes aggressive about his food. He had poor manners and was a monster when greeting people at the door. He loved to steal dirty laundry and hide it and would eat anything. He evolved, as my boys became teenagers into a teenager himself; sneaking up late at night to join them in the kitchen for late snacks, taking road trips to Vermont to visit college (where dogs were NOT permitted) and hanging with the guys when he should have been in bed. He licked everything: people, rugs, furniture and we had to learn exactly how far to keep our faces from his swift and lengthy tongue.

He was extremely verbal and played a game of charades when he wanted something…barking incessantly until his demands were acknowledged and he needed to be near me at all times, following me within a step all day long. He must have belonged in a tropical climate as he would follow the sun throughout the house, sprawling in the sunny spots, even in the summer. His funniest habit was at bedtime. He would not retire until I did, often begging me to go to bed if I stayed up too late. As soon as I announced I was going to bed, he’d scramble up the stairs and position himself on his bed on the floor beside mine, waiting. If I forgot what he was waiting for, he would whimper and moan until I did what was necessary, which was to cover him with a blanket from head to toe; two blankets in the winter as he hated to be cold.

“Did you take Keeper with you?” I ask my son who had just left, calling him from the driveway. He had not. I call my neighbor across the street that also had new male dogs within the past year; a huge Lab and a bigger Rottweiler. Keeper had headed up their long driveway on previous escapes leading me into their back yard fearing for my own safety. I call them to be sure their dogs are not out and toss the bacon onto the front seat of my car, thinking it would make it easier to bring him home instead of having to carry his squirming, snowy body. “I’ve got Bacon!!” I yell into the woods behind their house, pausing to listen for any response. Silence. Unsuccessful, I turn my car to head back to my driveway, pausing to look left and right in order to cross the street.

At first my eyes do not register the image. I stare at what my mind processes as a deer or something lying still on the snow bank. I cannot make the connection to Keeper who is never still and so full of life and as I step out of the car and walk along the snow bank, my heart slides low into my belly and an ache squeezes my throat. His eyes are open and he lies still as I approach slowly, expecting him to look at me. “Keep?” I call softly, bending down to touch him. He is warm and I hold my hand over his chest and stay very still so that I can feel him breathe, but I do not. I continue to hold my hands on him looking for his heart to beat and I realize that the sound behind me is a school bus. I stay hovered over him so that the kids on the bus might not see, until I hear the release of the brakes and the rumble as the bus pulls away. An image fills my peripheral as I continue to stand there stunned and I look left to see Trevor, his sixteen-year-old face tight with fear. “You are F----ing kidding me, right?” I stand motionless as he lunges across the street toward our house and then back again, this time, his face red with anger and stained with tears. “Are you f----ing kidding me?” He yells, sinking to a squat and heaving great sobs. He storms back across the street, kicking and punching the garage.

I drift behind him like a ghost, floating without sound or words but he flees into the house. I find a box and go back to collect Keeper, tucking him gently into a curl, the way he would lay if sleeping, adjusting his head to be comfortable and notice the blood inside his ears; the only sign of what had just taken place. I cover him with a towel and carry him to the patio. No squirming, snowy feet; just a box. It is only 28 degrees. He hates the cold. Robotically, I report the news to Tyler who is picking up his girlfriend and his response is, “You’re kidding, right?” Brad pulls in the driveway, fresh on the edges of losing his dad a week prior and the memorial service only 4 days ago. “Keeper’s dead.” Is all I can manage to say.

Tyler’s car pulls into the driveway fast. “Where is he?” he asks and goes to sit beside the box, sobbing. His shoulders ride up and down for what seems like forever and when he is finished, he trudges through the snowy yard to the shed, returning with two shovels. He hands one to Trevor and they walk in silence to the back of the yard; brothers, at odds much of the time, united in grief. Cadence’s bus arrives and I brace myself to tell her. “Wait…what?” She asks and then walks silently to her room, moments later breaking the silence with wailing.

I stand in the slider door watching my sons digging the frozen earth with pick axe and shovels, taking turns with blistered hands. Darkness is approaching. Tyler takes a regular axe and hacks away at a 2 x 4 to build a cross. Cadence will not let me in her room. Brad puts boots on to help the boys and just before dark, the hole is ready. Trevor’s hands are bleeding from his knuckles where he punched the wall and from the shovel tearing at his skin. He leaves, unable to watch his little buddy go into the ground. Darkness takes over as Tyler sits in the kitchen, filling a box with mementoes and bacon and a letter to keeper. Cadence adds some items to the box; a Mexican Worry Doll that sleeps beneath her pillow, said to take away ones worries during sleep and an arrow head from camp that she got in the woods since she knew Keeper loved to be outdoors. I add his newest toy that was a Christmas gift, a creature with its face chewed off and squeaker removed, just the way he liked it. Brad is ready to put his cardboard casket into the ground.

“Wait,” I say before we lower the box, “Cadence, run back and get his blankie?” I ask. “He hates to be cold” I say, sounding ridiculously childish. When she returns, I tuck him in for the last time under his blanket, head to toe, just the way he likes it. Tearful prayers are followed by the empty sound of shovels of dirt covering his box. It is completely dark now and while they finish, I return to the house. Sometime later, Tyler comes in to find a candle and takes a deep, jar candle out to the site. A large cross at the top and a huge stone marks the spot and upon it, Tyler places the candle. It is quite some distance from the house, but the little light shines in the black of night honoring our little friend.

Early the next morning, I look out the window to see the light of the candle still glowing just the way memories do in our hearts.

D- LIGHT-FULL ADVICE

2010-04-01T09:15:00.006-04:00

I am not twenty anymore.

If I forget this fact, my body is quick to remind me. After much resistance, I have accepted, as I near the end of my fourth decade, that changes have occurred; irrevocable changes. I admire the women I know that seem to simply go with it. I transition easily, readily, with the calendar seasons, but the seasons of life are another story. Still, I had seemed to reach a place of acceptance; summer is ending and autumn leaves are changing rapidly.

I had hoped that when this season arrived, I would be able to embrace the richness of color that came with it. Some of the flock is close to fledging the nest and I had hoped to enjoy the migration process. Reflecting on our own migration back to our respective homes, I wanted to be like Brad’s mother and mine, busy with my own life and dropping everything to embrace the visits and homecomings. More often than not, we would find Brad’s mother in the garden, happily digging and jumping up to greet us when we popped in, full of soil and hugs. She was the age then that I am now.

In January, my visions of enjoying this approaching season faded. I have always had a “bad” knee, damaged from a skiing accident in my twenties. I know that I have arthritis there, and in my lower back and in my right hand. I have had joint pain from time to time in my adult life, usually from overuse and inflammation that could be identified, isolated and rested into healing. I have had on and off experiences with joint pain that had no specific diagnosis; not Lyme disease, not arthritis. I had been to the “shoulder” doctor and to the “hand” doctor. Bursitis, tendinitis, tennis elbow, etc. I had hip pain years ago that brought me to the “hip” doctor who found nothing structurally wrong and as always, was handed anti-inflammatory medication.

This January, my joints enacted full out mutiny. Knee pain was joined by hip pain, only to be later joined by shoulder pain. I found myself in pain while driving, while sitting at my computer and while sleeping. Having joined the gym in January, I made the reasonable deduction that I simply strained muscles and therefore stopped going to the gym, which did not help my problem. I found myself taking anti-inflammatory medication every four hours, which only took the edge off slightly. I became more and more tired, presumably because I did not get a good night sleep and my disposition had become flat. Things that should have brought me joy made me feel nothing. I was easily agitated and gloomy, presumably because I was in constant pain.

I had not reached my 50th birthday and I had somehow become old. When I stepped out of the car, I needed to stand in place for my hips to acclimate; else I would waddle in my first few painful steps. Walking or changing positions was excruciating. Lying on one hip too long intensified the pain, rolling over to relieve it hurt as much. Like any desperate and neurotic person, I googled my symptoms, arriving at a myriad of possible degenerative diseases. I had a physical in September, the first in a long time and everything was normal. My blood work revealed my cholesterol to the high side of normal for the first time and a low vitamin D level for which I was to add 2,000 IUs per day. I had.

I began to lose hope of comingling with the mulch and weeds in my autumn season and dreaded that I would spend it in a chair full of medication. My hip pain by March had reached a level that had me ready for the orthopedic doctor, willing to accept any solution, even surgery.

One Saturday afternoon, my friend Renee came to retrieve her daughter from a sleep over. As always, Renee looked beautiful and I noticed that she was a bit tan. Asking her why, she told me that she had a vitamin D deficiency and was told to sit out in the sun with arms and legs exposed for short 10 minute intervals when possible. I told her that I, too, had low D and was told to take 2,000 IUs per day. She said that hers had gotten to where she was symptomatic and then she went on to describe my last several months, beginning with knee pain to hips to shoulders, fatigue etc.

She told me that they put her on 5,000 IUs for a month and then bumped her down to 2,000, but that her relief was almost immediate. This gave me some hope that perhaps I had just been delivered my solution.

I immediately doubled my dose to 2,000 at bedtime and 2,000 at noon, knowing I was getting 800 more in my multi and calcium. In three days I was pain free. Nothing hurt in my body. Anywhere! Not one bit! For the first time in months, I am able to hop up from a chair and walk. I began to run errands with pleasure, almost skipping to and from the car. I am sleeping soundly and have energy back and found joy the following weekend dragging bags of mulch to my gardens and crawling around to spread it. For me, this is a miracle. Renee was the angel that brought me back to life and I am spreading the word in case someone out there needs it.

There is much information and research and the daily amounts needed are being reevaluated. My advice is to consult a doctor and to be aware that toxicity can occur from too much D. As a culture, we are protecting ourselves from the sun and are tethered to our technology indoors more than we should be. Those of us in the north are far more at risk for deficiency than our southern friends.

I am anxiously awaiting the sunshine and D-lighted to have my life back.

MY KINDRID SPIRIT

2010-03-24T08:39:00.004-04:00

The virus creeps into my bones and I surrender to the couch; unusual for me to give in but I am not up for the battle.

“Mom, I need some help with my homework.” Cadence begins from the blue swivel chair behind me.

“Okay.” I mutter, head deeply embedded in the soft pillow that hugs my throbbing temples. She begins to read a story, not prepping me for the kind of help needed. I pull the blanket up to my chin, assuming that there will be questions to answer at the end of the story and I tune my radar to the details.

“…Deep into the realms of Platipucia, a “forest” lies. Like a Venus Fly Trap, it waits for a victim to swallow up;. A rain forest, so people think, with a hidden, evil world that contains the most horrible, dreadful fairies in the history…

I allow myself to drift into the enchanted, but dangerous forest as the suspense builds.

“…I follow the trail of black magic in the air when I stumble upon a cave. I hear echoing of shouts, almost like the screeching of nails across a chalk board. I hesitate as I take a step into the abyss-like darkness. As I keep walking, I see a light. There at the end of the cave, I see the two phoenixes being led straight toward a wall of fire, shackles around their feet. As I creep closer, I see the evil fairies…

“Um…oh, sorry, I wrote kind of sloppy there. I was in a hurry…” she continues, “My eyes widen at first glance of those evil creatures…”

I lift my throbbing head to look over my shoulder at her long skinny legs dangling over the side of the swivel bucket chair, brown Uggs bouncing up and down. She is holding a composition notebook and for the first time I am aware that the story is hers. I tell her that I honestly thought she was reading a book, not her own writing and compliment her eleven-year-old vocabulary.

“How do you know the word, abyss?” I ask.

“TV.” She answers. “I sort of took some ideas from the movie “Enchanted” and some from the book Falcon and the Carosel of Time. And people say TV doesn’t make you smart!” she challenges.

We talk about what can be drawn from TV and from listening to people and how even more can come from reading, as the examples of writing structure are modeled.

“I really don’t like reading,” she explains, “but I LOVE to write.”

“I think of it like this,” she says, enthusiasm bubbling as she swings her long legs over to the front and sits forward, hands clasped before her.

“Its like I take my brain like a sponge and squeeze it out until everything drips out, all the thoughts and words till it is bloody dry. Then I stir the words all around into ideas. I LOVE words she says,” eyes sparkling and locked on mine. “I love using every metaphor and simile and adjective I can think of taking it right to the rim, but not so it spills over the top. Not so it’s too much but just before that.”

“Someday,” she says with certain understanding, “I want to write an adult book and then, my dream is to have it made into a movie.” Her eyes lift off to one side seeing it on screen.

She is my kindred spirit with a dash of something more. She is me, cranked up with a notch of confidence and determination. I will be the first in line for the book signing and at the movie theater.

COMING HOME

2010-03-23T10:33:00.004-04:00

It’s amazing how time can create physical space that moves the familiar to the foreign; small steps become broad leaps; innocent cracks, deep chasms. Things that once extended our very selves can move so far away that we question our ability to re-connect.

Writing has always been a bodily function for me, a routine part of daily life.

Thoughts stir and swell and blend into words and phrases that land on paper; a process as regular and predictable as the ebb and flow of the tide; rolling in, easing out. Breathing in, breathing out. Thinking in, writing out.

It has been this way for as long as I can remember, but six months ago, I watched my muse wash out with the tide and drift far away. I called to her, searched for her but I could not hear her; could not see her.

A part of me was lost.

Life began erecting structures on the horizon that was once reserved for writing: continuing education classes and deadlines; teenagers and college searches; financial struggles and endless running.

The rhythm of the tide changed; demands in, solutions out.

I surrendered to the new normal, void of thought and voice; functional but empty.

Recently, I caught a glimpse of my muse in the distance. I tried frantically to get her attention. I came to the horizon of my keyboard, but she was too far out; the water cold and deep and too far to swim. I have been longing for her, missing her, but ever so fearful of the waters that churned between us.

Finally, this morning, the waves relaxed and she washed up on shore and I find myself standing with my feet wet to greet her as we tentatively reacquaint.

FROM DARK TO DAWN

2009-08-29T11:23:00.014-04:00

“This is the saddest day of my life.” He says still draped in sleep from the night before as he slumps into a chair beside me. “It’s the last day of my band.”

“No it isn’t.” I reassure him knowing how much effort went into arranging tonight’s upcoming farewell concert. “Everyone will be home for Christmas break and you’ll do a show then.” Tyler is not reassured, visible loss in his eyes.

I think back to his first public performance, terrified and frozen; barely able to swallow much less sing. His “band” has changed several times since then, different names, different members, but this group, From Dark to Dawn known locally as FDTD, has been together for a long time. They write all of their own music and it never ceases to amaze me that the crowd sings along as if the music was on the radio daily.

When my boys were young they played sports and belonging to a ‘team” provided that sort of camaraderie that seems part of healthy development; all for one and one for all. As parents we are programmed for this. Athletics are a comfortable, predicable part of parenting. I never realized how sportsmanship is in the player, not the arena.

The musicians are a unique crowd and not one that we as parents are necessarily prepared for. Their alternative hair and dress raises eyebrows and makes most parents uncomfortable. People stereotype the group making the assumption that they abuse drugs and alcohol and nothing could be further from the truth.

The band experience has been incredible.

There is no rule book, no guideline to follow and no coach calling the plays. The band is self governing, bringing everything from within. The commitment and dedication to their music and to the group is not mandated, they just bring it themselves...consistently.

There are several bands in town, our small CT town seems to be the new Seattle, and most often they will play shows that feature four or five bands playing in order of seniority. The most profound difference between athletics and music is the lack of competition. During the shows, they roadie for each other, stage hand for each other and always have each others backs. They share equipment, work the light and sound for each other and when a guitar string breaks in the middle of a song, it will be a musician from another band jumping up and handing in his guitar.

These kids, all long hair and alternative, have a deep-rooted sense of honor. They have visible, genuine love for each other and that is what makes it all work. They do not have a showcase in the foyer of the high school that features their State Championship trophies. They are not sponsored and funded through the town. They do not have their equipment provided or facilities for practice or performance. Coordinating shows means renting a building, making tickets, selling tickets, hauling equipment etc.

And yet, with a last minute, late in the summer idea for a final show, in spite of the fact that many of their peers have already left for college, they fill the house.

Tyler’s band is the featured band playing last, as they are the one dis-banding for college. The crowd is ready and the energy high. They play most of their music, brand new songs and those where the audience swells with sound as they sing along. Finally near the end, Tyler asks everyone to sit. He and Mike grab acoustic guitars and the lights dim.

The boys sit on the stage together, Tyler sweetly singing a song Mike wrote for his girl. Their fans hold up lighters and cell phones in tribute. These two have been friends since elementary school and Mike has nearly lived at my house over the last year. Tyler’s decision to attend a local art collage leaves him saying good-bye to his friends, several of whom are going to the same college four hours away.

The love in the air is tangible, palpable and my heart aches with bittersweet pride. I scramble home after the last song to heat up a mountain of food that I prepared earlier, knowing the bands will inevitably show up at our house. They do and it is just like the usual routine; no one speaking about the finality until the end.

Matt is the first to leave and he comes into the kitchen and stands before me. “Well, this is it.” He says, looking twelve-years-old, “I’m leaving tomorrow.” He will be Mike’s roommate in Vermont. He gives me a big hug and I tell him that we love him and will miss him. I offer a few motherly words of advice for good measure and ask him if he has an address yet. “I’ll probably need to send cookies.” I tell him and he quickly scribbles his dorm address on a post-it note, placing it on my fridge.

Watching these boys end this chapter to begin the next is not easy. I know they will all find their way and continue to play music in spite of their distance, but FDTD is irreplaceable.

“We booked a Christmas show.” Tyler tells me later smiling.

“I knew you would.” I tell him.

FEEDING STRAYS

2009-08-14T10:40:00.008-04:00

It is safe to say that my husband and I agree on major fundamentals in the way we see the world and it is also fair to say that we are polar opposite on others. It is also evident that this provides both balance and chaos; perhaps more truthfully a blend of both.

On the day to day front line with the kids, I am the active disciplinarian, chasing them around to pick up after themselves, do their homework, keeping track of their whereabouts and who they are hanging out with; my busy husband somewhat oblivious to this. Brad, however, is the real backbone of discipline, sticking to the rules and abiding by the consequences. The kids know that I am the soft side…the one who will cave in eventually.

Balance.

Our children are now teenagers and social and I love having them around. Summertime is made for friends and this has brought to light a new set of differences in my husband and I.

I am yes to sleepovers and groups of kids hanging out in the family room.

Brad is no to all of this and why does it always have to be our house?

I have come to realize that most this has to do with food.

Brad is gourmet.

I am meat and potatoes.

Brad is cook to order, exact portions with appropriate garnish and perfectly paired wine.

I am casserole with enough for an army; plenty of leftovers to feed the masses.

Brad is plan in advance; headcount required.

I am set one more place at the table; the more the merrier.

This has become a huge problem.

Brad enjoys creating in the kitchen and it is artistry.

I enjoy seeing the hungry eat…plain and simple.

The difference was evident from the beginning of our marriage. We hosted regular dinner parties, large and small. I made things pretty, he made them tasty and it was enjoyable for both.

One evening, a stray cat wandered to our porch; young and shy and thin. I offered her some leftovers, artistically and lovingly prepared by my gourmet husband, only to meet fierce opposition. “Do not feed it! If you do, it will never leave!”

My need to nourish won over this obvious statement and I took to sneaking her cheap hot dogs in the empty, wooded lot next door, only to find out later that Mr. Gourmet was doing the same. Over discussion and some good red wine, he softened and “Kitty” became our first married pet.

It is apparently true of teenage boys…if you feed them they will never leave and Brad would prefer not to. There is something so enjoyable to me about watching teenage boys eat and the regularity and cost of it makes my husband crazy. .

Trevor is prone to ask to have a few friends over for a couple of hours, which always means ten or twelve and the hours always come around dinner time. He falls naturally into the role of host and looks for food to offer. I cannot help myself when groups of kids spontaneously evolve at my house and I find myself in the kitchen, cooking up batches of quesadillas or baking brownies. They move as groups like locusts and we either have more of our share or none at all, creating what I see as balance

Tyler’s band will often appear late in the evening, rummaging through he freezer for the bags of homemade burritos I put there for that purpose and I count shoes in the doorway to know how many have spent the night, leading me to make big batches of waffles or pancakes.

Like stray animals, they can smell across town when I am baking and somehow appear as things come out of the oven. They know that if they come to my house with girl trouble or broken hearts, I will attempt to mend them with chocolate chip cookies.

As the summer comes to a close, some of my boys will be moving off to college and I am sad to see them leave. I know that I will continue to attract the next batch of strays as Trevor is still in high school. I know that Brad will continue to grumble about locusts and the food bill, but every so often over a bottle of red wine, I see him soften and go out to grill them hot dogs, moving them from strays to pets.

HOPE FOR THE FUTURE

2009-07-17T16:34:00.012-04:00

“I’ve been thinking about my future,” she said, chin tilted up to the left, eyes slightly narrowed. I could tell by her tone this was a serious moment. Cadence’s future is perhaps the hardest of my three children to foresee, mainly because there are so many places she could go.

“I don’t want to be the President of the United Sates,” she says, “because I think that is very complicated, but I do know that I want to be involved with public speaking.” Quick breath in and she continues, a clear monologue rolling in her mind. “But I don’t want to wait until I’m an adult and I feel very strongly about a lot of things and I would like my voice to be heard.” She says, ready to explain.

I am astounded, as always, that she is ten and that she is mine.

I grew up wishing to be invisible. I grew up always doubting my opinions and dodging the occasions where I may have to express them for fear they wouldn’t match everyone else’s. I grew up thinking of ways to never, ever have to speak in public.

“For instance,” she stands up from her place on the kitchen stool, momentum building in her like a race car engine, “Racism. People always think of racism as white people being prejudice against black people but it can be black against white or any race. I just wish we could all have green skin and people would stop seeing color as an issue.” We discuss some current events that are rumbling across the television screen in the corner of the kitchen and her conviction builds.

I think about the many gifts she possesses and the places they could take her as I wonder about her new revelation about her future.

Cadence has the gift of music. She is filled with music that permeates from her lungs and through her limbs. She has a Broadway voice and an MTV dance style that we have worked to keep a lid on. She writes beautiful music with her brothers and composes in her head, hearing the melody, the chorus and the parts of accompanying instruments. She loves theater and adores the stage and is never, ever intimidated. I thought her future was clear.

Cadence is a lover of science and her head swirls with questions and hypothesis. She has created life lessons out of baby powder and water and sees relevance in everything. She is in perfect rhythm with nature and can often be seen rescuing moths, spiders and all sorts of small creatures that get trapped in our home. She cannot tolerate irresponsible loss of life, no matter how small and won an argument with her grandmother recently about defending the most despicable of God’s creatures…mosquitoes. “Every living thing has a right to live and a purpose for being here.” She maintains.

“What purpose could a mosquito possibly serve?” Grandmother offers in defense for killing the little blood suckers.

“They are food for the bats.” Cadence answers. Case closed. Clearly her future lies here.

From the time she could talk, she has always expressed herself. Boldly. Clearly. Often.

It never matters if her point challenges the receiver or goes against the grain. I have always told her that she was given two very specific gifts from God: a big voice and a kind heart. “They must always be used together.” I tell her, “A big voice without kindness can be harmful and a kind heart that stays quiet is not helpful. You are not afraid to speak up and it is your job if someone is being left out to stand up and say that everyone should be included.” It is a job she has embraced and has a collection of friends that are the peripheral of the popular crowd.

“I need to find a way to discuss these issues with people now.” I mention student council, which Cadence points out at this age is mainly a popularity contest and we settle on exploring the internet.

“I don’t think I will start out with Racism, she strategizes, because it so… what’s that word?”

“Controversial?” I suggest.

“Yes, controversial.” She answers. “I will start with something that most everyone agrees on first, like animal cruelty.” Start on common ground, I think. Brilliant.

“Eventually I would like to be able to speak to people all over the world to help them understand that we need to get along. I like to think of the world as one big family and we can’t speak for only part of our family and ignore the rest.” She says, confident that she can make a difference.

“You know that if you become a public spokesperson, those who disagree with you will try to tear you apart.” I say, fearing for her.

“Oh that’s no problem.” She smiles, “I can handle it.”

Yes I believe she can, I think.

Undoubtedly… her future is there.

photo by profiles.tigweb.org

100

2009-07-03T09:43:00.002-04:00

The previous post 'Nothing Is Impossible' is my 100th post!

off to celebrate..... :)

NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE

2009-07-03T08:48:00.008-04:00

As a child, I loved the mystery of a gift.

Sometimes, opening the gift was a disappointment; not because the gift was unsatisfying, but because the mystery had ended. At Christmas time, the mystery was magnified by the number of packages and the length of time they laid beneath the tree, glowing in the shimmer of twinkling lights. I can remember sitting with my pile of gifts, picking them up one by one, imagining what was inside. I was never a peeker. That would ruin the joy that came with slowly opening the package when the long awaited moment arrived to reveal the truth beneath the wrapping.

I have come to realize that this process defines parenting.

Receiving the gift of a child all bundled and wrapped in sweet, soft clothing is a mystery that is revealed slowly over a long time. We pick them up and hold them, imagining what they will be, but it is time that reveals the truth of who and what is beneath. As parents, we see every little miracle and clues from the start that shows each child’s brilliance. We learn over time that the mystery we thought we figured out early on continues to have surprise twists and the unwrapping is endless.

My first born was an early-at-everything baby; walked early, talked early and excelled in all physical endeavors. I knew right away that he had the ability to be a mover and a shaker and a profound athlete. He had a vocabulary that was astounding and insight and perception beyond his years.

I am still unwrapping this one.

Over the years, difficulty with attention and anxiety moved him out of the middle and closer to the edge. Athletically capable, he lost confidence and eventually withdrew from sports. He struggled with attention and impulsivity and the scorn from teachers who assume all behavior is willful, eventually losing faith in himself. As the academic challenges grew, he tried less and less, resisted me more and more. He retreated into his music and his art. I ebbed and flowed as a parent between the shores of over involvement to the deep waters of tough love. He continued to make wrong choices and did not heed my advice. As his senior year inched along, I was uncertain that he would fulfill his graduation requirements. He had an abundance of credits, but needed one particular credit in order to graduate.

US History.

Our country’s story has only recently become interesting to me. I hated history as a teenager. I learned what I had to in order to get by and then left the learning behind on the high school floor; discarded and unwanted.

Communication with his teacher reveals that he will need to achieve an A the final exam to pull through a passing grade.

Ace the final in a class that he had invested nothing.

“You can do this.” I tell him. He looks at me with a ‘you’re out of your mind’ look and then down at the floor. His ship Is sinking and I begIn to tread water, hoping to shore up the battered vessel and plug up the holes of tough love.

“I will help you,” I tell him “IF you do exactly what I say. Bring home the study guide and we will make a plan." He sends me a text message from school after receiving the study guide. This is impossible.

“Nothing is impossible if you are willing to work hard,” I tell him “and even the impossible is worth trying for.”

He agrees to try and with him as a willing participant, I am hopeful.

With ten days to go, I designate the dining room table as study central and inform the family that all hands are on deck with the daily responsibilities. I cram all of my work into the early part of the day or late into the evening in order to clear the hours needed to tutor him. My background is in teaching and I know how he learns. I am tutoring a subject in which I know next to nothing and praying for a miracle.

We pour through the text book, beginning pre World War One and discuss and converse and take notes.

“What was the event that triggered WWI?” I ask.

“The assassination of Archduke Francis Ferdinand.” He answers.

“Right, but remember, that is just the spark that ignites the war…there are four sticks of dynamite in Europe making ready for the explosion…what are they?”

Confidence fills his eyes “Militarism, Imperialism, Nationalism and Alliances.” He answers and goes on to explain each. I begin to believe my own words that anything is possible.

We take breaks hourly to let the new information settle and clear the path for more learning. “Can you believe the Germans sent a secret note to Mexico asking them to declare war on us to keep us distracted? And promised to give them some of our land in return?” I ask him, outraged at the news.

“What was that letter called, the “The Zimmerman Note?” he asks, checking his knowledge? Relief settles in my stomach. He is getting it.

Bleary eyed, we work our way through Hoover and the Great Depression. We wade through agencies, acts and programs with FDR’s New Deal. We watch as WWII wages in Europe and Dictators ruin the lives of their country’s people…Mussolini and Stalin and Hitler; the Great Famine and the Holocaust. The week is coming to an end and we are just reaching Pearl Harbor; days to go and we have much to learn before the studying can even begin. I begin to doubt my overzealous belief that he can learn a year’s worth of information in a week’s time.

On the last day, he tackles the two possible essay questions that will count for 45 of the 150 points on the test; a five paragraph essay with a thesis statement and all supporting facts to back it. He goes back to the drawing board many times until it meets my approval and then studies and re-writes from his head.

He takes his notes and new found knowledge Sunday evening to study with a friend. They pour over the study guide and he finds himself the teacher instead of the student, a process that I know will bring it all home.

We pull up in front of the school on Monday morning. Graduation is set for Wednesday. Everything rides on the outcome of this exam.

“Trust yourself.” I tell him “You know this stuff.”

He comes home feeling good about the test, but the waiting that day is endless. I prepare a speech in my head for either outcome, knowing that the more difficult one will be convincing him that the impossible is still worth fighting for, even if you don’t reach your goal.

I stand in the doorway to the family room where he is lost in playing the guitar. He sees me and freezes in mid rift.

“You know that you learned a year’s worth of information in one week and that it would have been easier if you had done the right thing all year.” I say, preparing him for the news.

He appears to not even be breathing and he is motionless. “I got an email from your teacher with your grade.” I tell him quietly. He swallows and says nothing.

“You got a 91. You are graduating. You did it!” I tell him.

His head falls back in silence, deep slow breath falls from his chest and his eyes close. All of the lessons that I have struggled to teach him about hard work and effort have finally made their way home in the very final hour.

As we sit watching the Graduates’ parade onto the green, the drizzle becomes light rain. I listen to speeches and see proud parents glow at the mention of their children’s achievements of honors and academic excellence.

Ours is a story different than most.

It is a story of struggle and despair.
It is the story of a near miss and an impossible challenge.
It is a story of hard lessons and obstacles.
It is a story of never giving up, reaching higher and harder and believing in oneself.

There is not a prouder parent in the audience.

Wild Thing

2009-05-24T15:16:00.002-04:00

“Read it again.” He would say in a voice that blended command with hopeful wishing. Blue eyes fixed, silk strands falling around his face, he would pop his thumb back into his mouth, bunching Blankie up tight in his lap. Tyler had an insatiable love to be read to. He also could not get enough of certain stories no matter how many times we read them. No. Matter. How. Many. Times! He had a special bond with Max, a kindred spirit from Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak.

Night after night I read about Max driving his mother crazy “making mischief on one kind…or another,” Tyler taking in every detail with glee.

I would read “Max’s mother called him…”

“Wild Thing!” Tyler would yell around the thumb in his mouth.

“and she sent him to bed without his supper.” I would finish, watching a glaze of injustice ripple through Tyler’s eyes.

I never knew why this was his favorite story and wavered between the fact that he himself was a wild thing and the power Max finds over the frightening creatures by “staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once.” Probably a bit of both.

That seems a lifetime ago as Tyler just celebrated his 18^th birthday. In classic Tyler fashion, he had a list of things to accomplish on that day, his own personal right of passage for this milestone. He planned to do everything on that day that he could not do the day before as a seventeen-year-old. The list included the obvious: take passengers in his car, buy a lottery ticket, buy cigarettes (even though he does not smoke,) buy reading material reserved for 18 and up and of course, get a tattoo.

You can imagine my reaction.

Wild Thing came to mind.

I was horrified.

I was also certain he would not go through with the tattoo. Tyler is not fond of needles.

I was mistaken.

Wild Things are forever.

Happy Birthday Wild Thing.

LEVEL STRETCHES

2009-04-02T12:26:00.004-04:00

Ebb and flow.

Fits and spurts.

Ups and downs.

Life is not intended to be consistent.

I have accepted this.

For a while, the pace at which I journeyed on my path would have the sort of predictable changes one would experience on a bicycle ride in New England. Looking ahead, a looming hill would allow for the preparation that the next stretch would be difficult and that momentum gained eased the struggle. Coming down the other side would require holding steady with the wind whipping my hair and gravel kicking up behind the tires; applying just enough brake to stay safe; eyes focused on the path rather than my surroundings.

Inevitably, living in New England, level stretches connect the hard pumping struggles and wind whipping rushes, allowing for a bit of coasting and the kind of leisure that allows me to breathe in the trees and whistle with the birds; absorbing the beauty surrounding the path.

Level stretches are where relationships flourish and ideas are born. Coasting allows for conversations with God and for contemplation to run free. Level stretches are where words find their way from racing thought to fingertips, zipping across invisible netting from coast to coast, blog to blog, screen to screen.

I love the level stretches.

I seem to have lost my way.

I do not recognize my path now.

The peaks and valleys are one after another, back to back, hill upon hill and I crave a long, flat, monotonous path to coast for a while.

Perhaps this is how the middle of life is.

Leaving behind the ease of predicable little children and reliable routines, racing day after day to keep up with work and schedules and deadlines, slipping in just under the wire again and again. Handing over car keys and trust all at once to the children whose lives are pulling them to separate. Check, check, checking off days on the calendar at a pace as rapid as eyelid flutter.

Maybe over the crest of the next hill it will come again; level ground for coasting.

I am ready.

WITNESSING GRACE

2009-02-15T18:39:00.002-05:00

The children gather noisily in the parish hall, waiting to make their surprise entrance into church. It is the second to last service for Father Hank and they have collected books to donate in his name to the Read to Grow program; he is unaware. He pops out from behind the Alter during the offertory hymn to see where the children are; he wants them up on the Alter for communion and he is reassured that they are coming.

In classic Trinity fashion, they are announced and make their way to the Alter, loose ends dragging everywhere. They are holding hand made cards and books, some yelling “Hi” to family members…”I’m up here, Mom!” A little girl bellows. They are not intimidated to approach the Alter, as I was in childhood; it is familiar territory to them. Hank gathers them close on Baptisms, Christmas Eve and here and there on a random or unknowingly meaningful Sundays to serve as Assistant Ministers.

As the group, ranging in age from one to thirteen, make their way toward him, he coaxes them all up beyond the Alter rail to stand with him in this Holy, Sacred space. “Come on up everyone, there’s plenty of room.” He smiles as they gather in number.

An announcement is made that the books have been collected by the children in his honor. “We know Father Hank loves books, even though most of the adults were hoping to give him live fish.” The parish applauds and chuckles. Each and every Christmas Eve when the children retell the story of the birth of Jesus, Hank preaches to them, as they sit gathered at his feet. On his first Christmas Eve with us, he talked about Jesus and his followers and how they had a secret code to say that they were Christians; the early Christian symbol of a fish. “I was wondering…. since it is Christmas and I want to give my friends a special gift, what I could give them to help them to remember Jesus” and of course, out came large cardboard boxes that contained Beta fish, complete with bowl and food; one for each and every child present.

We had three kids at the service.

We had two Beta fish at home already.

The following year it was Hermit Crabs, each in a small plastic aquarium with crab food and we worried that he would eventually work his way up to farm animals.

The children spread around the Alter like the smile on Hank’s face, some tugging on the linen and others rubbing fingers on the candelabra. “Father Hank…Hi!” A squirmy little girl said. “Hi” he beamed back. They continued to fill the corners as Hank flashed the sign language for “I love you” to them and they signed back; a symbol he taught them and used often. When he is sure he has everyone in place, he speaks to them. Deviating slightly from the liturgy, he explains to them about the last day Jesus had supper with his friends.

“We use this host, but Jesus took a loaf of bread and he broke it and told his friends that it was his body that would be broken for them. Now they didn’t really understand what he meant and we don’t really understand fully either. And then, because they had wine with supper, he took the cup of wine and told them this was his blood and again, they didn’t really understand.”

Hank paused, his small audience captivated. I kneel at the alter rail only a few feet away and wait for him to continue. He looks as if he is elsewhere and the pause lingers. I wonder if he has forgotten his place, thrown off-course by the little heads gathered by his knees or if he is caught up in emotion. With a visible shift, he returns, face flushed and looks out at the congregation. His eyes showing straight to his soul, he smiles and he says, “I just got a message from my good friend, Jesus. He said, ‘Now you’re catching on, Hank.’”

He continues with the story about how Jesus’ friends asked him how they should pray. “So he told his friends, well this prayer would be good.” The organ plays and voices lift the Lord’s prayer, little ones included. I struggle to sing passed the lump in my throat and Hank continues…

“…In unity, that means all together, in constancy, which is like steady as she goes, and most importantly… and this is what Jesus wants you to know most of all, in peace. And on the last day, bring us to your eternal kingdom, that’s Heaven; all this and so much more we ask in Jesus name.” He tells the children.

“These are the gifts of God for the people of God…that’s you,” he continues, as he holds up the bread. He stops and looks at them.

“Jesus loves you more than anything.” He says, as they nod. “I love you the whole world but Jesus, even more than that!” He says, connecting with each of them.

He moves carefully around and between the little people “The body of your friend, Jesus.” He tells them. They depart one by one and I am in awe of lesson they are receiving. As a young child, I was taught that the Alter was taboo, forbidden, reserved for only Holy men; that the average person was not worthy to be so close to God in the sacredness of this Holy place.

I think back to a sermon long ago when Hank described Jesus’ relationship with children. Jesus asked that the children be brought to him and he welcomed them with open arms. This does not seem foreign to us, but as Hank put it, in His time ‘these were not your little Gap kids, all clean and cute.’ Children in those days were less than second class citizens and were unworthy and unimportant.

Hank has taught our children that each and every one of us is worthy in God’s eyes and Hank places himself no higher or spiritually greater than the sticky little fingers that tug on his robe.

To watch him today was to truly witness God’s Grace.

FAREWELL TO FATHER HANK

2009-02-15T09:07:00.004-05:00

Farewells are never easy and this one harder than most. As Father Hank departs from his time with us to take him into retirement and to find out "What the heck God has in store for him next," we say farewell; Godspeed.

Three Things: Angels, Cell Phones and Hard Hats

I hold Sara’s furry little body in one hand. She is alive, but life is evaporating quickly and I rub her with one finger looking for some response. I put drop of water on her lips that rolls off and drips onto my hand along with Cadence’s tears. Hamsters are supposed to live two years and Sara is just a baby. It is time to leave for church and Sara makes her final exit, eliciting quiet sobs from Cadence. We place her in a check box and tuck her in with tissues, agreeing to a funeral service after church.

At the end of the service, Father Hank zigzags his recession from the alter, stopping to greet the smallest of parishioners along his path. His stop with Cadence lingers a moment as she speaks to him quietly about Sara. He speaks back to her, pats her back and then moves along. Later that evening after the funeral, I answered the telephone. “This is Father Hank and I was wondering if I could speak to my friend Cadence.” They chatted for quite a long time about Heaven and hamsters; Hank, whose life is enmeshed with so many, is never too busy for the needs of his parish, large and little.

Hank is always walking the walk; teaching by example. He is a vessel of divine interchange between God and his people. He reminds us regularly that we never know when we are entertaining angels unaware; witnesses to God’s grace daily as he uses people to do his work. Being with Hank is like entertaining an angel, but fully aware. I have never met a more humble servant to the Lord. Hank embodies absolute devotion; loyal to God’s truth and not to the restrictions of earthy policies.

For the last ten years, Hank has stood before us, Sunday after Sunday, breaking the rules designed by the church; radical in a peaceful, loving way. He stands before us, boldly breaking tradition with regulation and says that “Everyone… without exception…is invited to our Lord’s table.”

Having been raised a Roman Catholic, but an Episcopalian of ten years; I have adjusted to the group confession just before Communion. I have adjusted to the idea that all baptized Christians are eligible for Communion, even the very young. This was the biggest adjustment; children receiving communion without a formal right of passage at a designated age. At the age of three, Tyler asked one Sunday morning “Did Jesus say ‘take this all you grown-ups and eat it, this is my body given for you…’” That Sunday he received his first communion.

Hank reminds us regularly; Jesus did not say all of you Catholics or Episcopalians or even those of you without sin. He indeed said “Take this all of you…” and Hank takes him at his Word. Jesus outstretched a hand to the unclean, the sinners the lost and the exiled and said “Come, follow me.” I believe He speaks through Hank’s mouth on Sunday and every day.

Hank practices a unique method that combines divine communication and technology known to us fondly as: “Cell Phone Theology.” When faced with situations not clearly defined in the Pastor Play Book and even when they are and the plays don’t make sense, Hank engages in a prayerful state that uses that a high tech direct line to call Jesus for the absolute Word on WWJD. More often than not, the answer was clear all along.

Hanks sermons are laced with scripture and he speaks with bible ready in hand. On occasion, he uses other props and I am sure none of us will forget Hank preaching with his hard hat and life vest on. Our experience, he explains, is not to be a passive one, but one in which the Holy Spirit shakes things up and we need to be prepared for Him to move in and through our lives.

Father Hank describes our congregation as a beautiful New England pond; picturesque and placid on the surface but with a multitude of events happening beneath the surface; good and bad. He has taught us to be aware that the person to our left might be celebrating and the person to our right grieving; it is up to us to reach out to one another.

Father Hank preaches always in threes, beginning every Sermon with three points, seemingly unrelated and speaks poignantly, fluidly, pacing and pausing and feeling every word until he wraps the three together in a tight and powerful message. I believed that I have finally, after ten years, learned the three that he came to teach me.

I have learned to be open to angels and finally understand that some days they will surround me using the people in my path, and that at other times God will use me in a small but divine intervention in someone else’s life, as long as I remain open.

I have learned that doing what is right might mean stepping over the line; outside of the easy and the obvious. God’s answers to our questions are there for us when we learn how to communicate with Him.

I have learned that it is important to shake things up and to be prepared to

endure the bumps and sharp turns that may result. We are supposed to be actively partaking in this journey; not sideline observers.

And so as Father Hank prepares to move onward in his journey, I stand ready, hard hat on and cell phone in hand to mingle with angels and to practice the lessons that he has taught me over the last ten years. I am honored, grateful and blessed to have known Father Hank.

ROMANCE

2009-02-13T13:23:00.004-05:00

He had one pink silk rose, forty dollars and a plan. Of course he doesn’t have a car and forty dollars wasn’t enough. “I want to give her roses and tell her that I will love her until all of the roses die…but see, one won’t die because it is silk.” He explains.

He wrote her a beautiful song, recorded it and put it on her iPod and waits anxiously for sixth period to end so he can leave school. I drive him to the florist to locate roses that match the silk one and yes, swipe the debit card where he comes up short.

“You can take the car.” I tell him before he asks, knowing he wants to bring them to her before the end of the school day. He scribbles on the card, dabs on some cologne and grabs the keys. I hand him the bag with the giant chocolate kiss I bought for him for Valentines Day, knowing he would rather give it to her than eat it.

“Thanks Mom.” He smiles as he departs on his mission.

“Drive carefully.” I tell him.

A+ for romance, I think to myself.

THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL

2009-02-08T10:19:00.006-05:00

“You have a Facebook? Trevor sneers in that fourteen-year-old, you’ve got to be kidding tone laced with amusement. He sits at my computer prepared to sign into to the cyber social network.

“No.” I answered. “I just made an account to I could visit Jake’s memorial page. I don’t actually have a Facebook.” I answer, leaving the room.

“You have no profile!” he yells to me in the kitchen.

“Don't want one.” I yell back.

Facebook , like IM-ing and texting, is something that clearly draws the generational line. Even email seems to be for the elders and the telephone reserved for talking to girls. They much prefer to instant message and text message and now are writing on walls.

“You’re interested in men?” He asks.

“No!” I answer zipping back to my office. “Why would I be interested in men?”

“Okaay…” he says, “but if I check women everyone will think you’re gay. You have to pick one or the other.”

“No I don’t. I’m not interested in anything! Stop messing around with that.” I demand feeling panic surging.

“But your profile is blank and you have no friends.” He snickers.

“I have friends but we don’t make advertisements about ourselves or write on walls and… just leave it blank. I don’t want a….what did you do?” I shriek, seeing my picture beneath my name.

“I added the photo from your blog. Relax Mom. Do you want your birthday on here?” He does not seem to understand that grown-ups do not Facebook.

“Why would I want people reading about me? Identity thieves and…”

“Seriously Mom, no one can read this stuff unless you add them to your friend list. Besides, you can search for old friends from high school and stuff. I’ll show you, give me a name.” he says, fingers tapping the keys. I offer up the name of a college roommate that I haven't seen in more than twenty five years and in a click, there she is! Trevor explains that I can add her as a friend and she will get a message asking her to be my friend.

“No! Sign off. This is ridiculous.” I conjure up an image of a pathetic, lonely hermit with no real life, searching cyber space for play dates.

“Fine.” He signed off, “But you have no friends.” he mumbles.

One month later, I received an email that a friend on the west coast sent a request to add me to her “friend list” on her Facebook page. Soon thereafter, one from a mom here in town, and then another.

Grown-ups Facebooking!

The subject came up at a party last night and low and behold, nearly half of the people admitted to Facebook-ing.

This morning, my Facebook suggested some “new friends” for me, no doubt taking pity on my tiny friend list and vacant profile. You have no friends it echos the page maker. Maybe I should step back into my own generation...

Then again...maybe writing on walls will be liberating.

IT'S A BOY!

2009-01-18T12:42:00.003-05:00

Mr Green Jeans is proud to announce....It's a boy! In spite of the season, in spite of my grumblings, in spite of the snow, his pumpkin plant has flowered. The first flower is a male standing tall and proud, awaiting a neighboring female bud who is taking her own time. The paint brushes are ready...stay tuned.

THE BEST GIFT

2009-01-11T09:27:00.011-05:00

A couple of days before Christmas, I went into hyper- aerobic preparation mode. Never did finish shopping, still had lingering reports to type, food to prepare and my home had taken on that college dormitory look. Family would be arriving in on Christmas Eve to stay with us and I felt tempted to put a “closed for renovation” sign on the Inn. I was nowhere close to ready and if I added back the hours that I would normally sleep, there were still not enough to accomplish everything. I had vowed earlier in the season to “let go” of the unimportant things; not to sweat the little stuff, but alas, I was gripped with the reality that too much big stuff had fallen away and that I never seem to get it all together.

The outside of my body worked swiftly and quietly but inside my head there was a raging storm of “to do” lists that kept growing. Cadence sat in the den quietly drawing. I barely recognized that she was involved in her own preparation for the season. I could hear her humming and singing in the background as I did my acrobatic multi-tasking; adding baking soda and salt here, adding to the grocery list there, counting gifts to be sure everyone was covered.

“Mom,” Cadence asked coming into the kitchen, hand held behind her back. “Where can I find a frame?”

I searched my mind to see if frame hunting would fit on my overflowing to-do list but I felt impending rupture in my brain and could not accommodate.

“Sorry honey, I just can’t.”

“Just tell me where and I will get it myself.” she persisted, not one to give up easily.

“Cadence, NO.” I heard myself say in a voice that was less than kind. “You’ll have to just make do for now. Everything is stored away and not easy to get to and I just cannot take time to do that now. I have way to much to do and no help and ….”

“Alright, never mind.” She said, in hopes if avoiding what she recognized as possible mother melt-down. “I’ll make one.”

“Don’t look.” She instructed as she stretched the cord across the counter for the hot glue gun; cardboard cuttings scattered on the counter and floor around her.

I bit my lip, moving to a different section of the to do list, wanting to shriek “Get Out of the Kitchen!” A short time later, she was gone in search of wrapping paper, leaving debris in her wake.

“There. She announced, smile of satisfaction spread smoothly on her face, “I’m putting this under the tree….it’s for you.”

Christmas morning came and Cadence was pulled by her stocking and the new gifts under the tree that Santa left. She dragged her teenage brothers from bed and they worked diligently on round one…the Santa gifts.

We reassembled after wrappings were collected, pastries served, coffee poured and bathrooms visited to the more relaxed part of the morning…family gifts. Cadence was beyond excited for me to open hers first. I removed the neatly wrapped package and I looked at the snowy drawing of the front of our home, snowman smiling and waving. My heart ached a little as I looked at the frame. It was backed with corrugated cardboard and the front mounted with thin strip of the same; four pieces cut exactly to size held together with clear glue adorned with the signature strings of hot glue gun.

I flashed back to the day she made it, feeling guiltily that I did not have a minute to hunt for a frame. I had let go of the wrong “little things” and the frame was like a reminder to me of the real priorities in life. I stared at the picture for a bit, commenting on the details and Cadence smiled the warm smile of giving.

“Wait Mom, you have to read the note.” She said, still wiggling with anticipation. The outside of the wrapping paper held a pocket made of the same paper, carefully taped to the front. I pulled out the note and received my best Christmas present ever.

Although I will never find a frame as perfect as the one she made, the gift of her words will be framed and treasured.

ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE

2009-01-09T13:36:00.007-05:00

I look at her sitting sleepy-eyed across the table, hair still messed with bedtime; it is eleven in the morning. I love the late night movies and lazy mornings of vacation. Having been awake for several hours and on my third cup of coffee, I buzz with the possibilities and requirements of the day at hand.

“Mom…” she yawns in protest to my impending monologue, “I just woke up.”

“I know and I’ll fix you some breakfast, but I want to talk to you about time. You know how during a busy week with school and homework and sports and play rehearsal we often find ourselves short on time? Sometimes we have to prioritize and look at what we have time for and what has to get done and decide to leave some things for later.” I tell her, moving myself closer so as not to lose her attention and I continue with my time management speech.

“Well, we had twelve whole days off which seemed like a huge chunk of time and we did a lot of putting off.” I tell her, looking straight into her big brown eyes. “First it was Christmas Eve, then Christmas Day, then the day after Christmas and time to relax and enjoy new things, then a play date and before you know it we were into New Year’s Eve. Well, believe it or not, we are down to an ordinary weekend left and there is a lot for both of us to do. I plan to pack up all of the Christmas stuff, but you need to work on finishing that chapter book and writing your review, so, I want you to make a plan for when exactly you are going to get things done in the next two days.”

Cadence’s hand rises like a student in school, “I know this is slightly off the point, but did Jesus have an older sister?” she asks.

I feel my hands slap against both sides of my cheeks in astonishment and close my eyes briefly. Managing this family is no easy task. I bite my lip as Cadence explains that packing up Christmas made her look at the nesting dolls in which the baby reminded her of Jesus. There are four. A mother, a father and one older sibling that is a girl. She just wondered about that....

I have been thinking a lot lately about the difference between convergent and divergent thinking patterns.

My step-father is a brilliant man and Doctor of Education. He had used terms some time ago to describe my first and last born: high creative, divergent thinkers.

I knew that they were creative and thought the term divergent simply meant different. I have learned a great deal since then.

Convergent thinking is an inward process that takes in various pieces of information, compiles and analyzes them and produces an answer or a solution.

It is the most common and natural thought process; the way that most of us learn.

It is predominantly the way schools teach.

Divergent thinking is an outward process whereby a piece of information serves as a stimulus that produces possible solutions to a problem, often stretching into the unknown or less obvious; sort of a springboard that fires ideas outward.

We teach our children in convergent patterns; doling out little bits of known fact or information that they digest and reproduce into a correct answer. Our schools try to take our convergent thinkers beyond their natural skill into a higher level of thinking, stretching their thought process by using their imagination to go outside of the box. Science is a great example with hypothesis and experiment. It is not a natural skill for most and is gently baited and enticed in order to get our children to take risks and push beyond. Programs like “Destination Imagination” use teams of students to problem solve using these types of thinking skills in competition with other schools.

It is a desired skill.

This pattern of thinking is used as enrichment to our convergent teaching.

For the child who owns this pattern, it is a deficit.

The child wired with divergent thinking as the dominant pattern of learning is known to have a “disorder” when in fact, they have a different order.

As teachers dole out pieces of information, which the majority of students collect and digest, it is inevitable that one of these pieces will serve as the stimulus that sets the divergent pattern into gear, firing off ideas or possibilities within the mind and during this array of fireworks, the teacher continues to dole out more pieces of information, missed by the divergent thinker. The result is that they lose pace with the class, often not knowing where they are supposed to be and missing important instruction.

For the adults doling out the information, this is exasperating and the child is called upon again and again to ‘pay attention’; an abstract phrase that to them means they are doing something wrong. They don’t, in fact, know how or why they aren’t “paying attention.” They don’t know what they are doing wrong and quite simply, they aren’t really ‘doing’ anything other than following their natural circuitry.

As parents and teachers, we attempt to “correct” the “problem” with typical strategies of reward and consequence, assuming that they can change this pattern. We assume this thinking pattern is willful.

Reward for success is the most basic of training techniques, successful in teaching even our pets to ‘sit.” Like other children, the DT child wants the reward, but time and time again fails to produce the required behavior. Slowly, they begin to see themselves as inadequate.

Consequences are a part of life and by middle school, not keeping pace results in many negative ones, highlighting the difference between the DT child and their peers; often publicly which over time, erodes their self esteem.

While we accept the wiring and thinking patterns of the convergent structure in our children, encouraging them to stretch beyond, the same treatment is not given to the divergent thinker, who is required, rather than encouraged daily to fight against what naturally occurs, being told they simply “must pay attention” and they must master this other pattern; a tall order for five, eight or ten-year- olds who barely understand the demand. We do not place the demand to self re-wire on the rest of the students.

Einstein knew well these struggles. He did not fit in the box. He failed at school. He failed at his ideas again and again. He persevered, much to our benefit, however not all divergent thinkers are so strong willed.

With my oldest son, striving for rewards proved pointless, mounting evidence to him that he simply was not capable of success. The hard line of consequences built resentment and he took defense in retreat. We continued to fight this battle, sanding his edges to fit this hexagon peg into a round hole. The casualty of this battle was his motivation. He simply gave up trying.

Out of desperation to see my oldest son thrive, I offered rewards, issued consequences and ultimately sought out the medical solution. I believed that if a child couldn’t focus his eyes, I would surely give him glasses and if there was a medical solution that would focus his brain, I owed him the same assistance. In fifth grade we put him on stimulant medication.

I thought at first that we had discovered magic. He was tolerable to the adults around him and the medication surly muted the firing of divergent thought. It toned him down to where he could sit through an assembly at school without bothering anyone and it made him easier to be around.

It also muted the very essence of him; of his creativity and his passion. He was able to methodically perform some rote tasks without the usual disturbance, but motivation did not recover. He did not thrive. He spent six years filling his body with a drug that disguised the wiring of his brain to others, but did not enhance his learning or change his design.

Halfway through his junior year of high school, he refused to take the medication. School for him became a place he had to show up, get by and get out. He immerses himself now in the places that he is brilliant; music and art and my prayer for him is that he finds a future path where those things can take him to success.

My youngest now faces the reality of her design. She, too, is a creative, divergent thinker. Unlike her brother, she is resilient and determined.

She is profoundly self aware.

She is aware of her strengths and weaknesses.

I now have clarity about my job as her mother.

My job is not to offer unattainable rewards or inevitable consequences, but to arm her with the knowledge that she is designed differently than most and to support her in the realization that she will have to work harder.

My job is to make her aware that only some people will get it and even fewer will accept it, but she must strive hard to achieve in spite of this adversity.

My job is to help her discover techniques that compensate for her weakness in the convergent structure of school and encourage her to hold fast to the gifts she has been given.

My job is to teach her that the wiring of her brain was designed by God with a purpose and perhaps that purpose will take some struggling to be realized.

Did Jesus have an older sister? I don’t know.

Is it possible? Certainly.

My faith teaches me that all things are possible with God and it seems He hard-wired that into some little brains. They believe in possibility and if we don’t convince them otherwise...

God only knows where they may lead us.

Thank you Bruce for you understanding and wisdom!

PLANTING THE SEED

2009-01-04T08:38:00.005-05:00

I made an arrangment with my family when I first started my blog that I would show them pieces I planned to post before I posted them...only fair as they are the main characters of my life story. I have devieated at bit from this original arrangement, often not sharing the post until it has been posted. Such was the case with Mr.GreenJeans

My husband got quite a chuckle out of the post, but even better, out of the comments. He as been called things before in comments to my stories including my favorite "a boob" but this comment section describes him as "kind-hearted, a gem, a keeper and cool" and oh is he loving it! In fact, the very words have inspired the growth of his pumpkin plant and the little fella is now loaded with flower buds and sprouting its first tendrils.

Yesterday, he moved it to a real pot in a better window. Now he has sprouted baby tomato plants from promising seeds that defied the odds and sprouted within the parent tomato. Please...don't anyone suggest corn!

DIVERGENT AT THE DMV

2009-01-03T09:51:00.005-05:00

Sitting with my seventeen-year-old at the Department of Motor Vehicles., I am amused by the thought that this is similar to watching a movie, however instead of watching on a screen, we are thrust into the middle of the scene. A young woman behind me shares loudly with her friend the ‘he said, she said’ drama of her recent break-up by reading the back and forth text messages between she and her estranged boyfriend. It is highly personal and she is highly unaware or indifferent to the fact that we can all hear her.

In front of us in the one hour line is a woman with her teenage daughter, here for the same purpose that we are; to take the written knowledge test for licensing. It is obvious that they are mother and daughter as they resemble one another and they chat quietly making sure they have brought all of the correct documents. They stand together for quite some time until the girl tires of standing and slips out of the line to find a chair to text message. She wears the usual uniform; UGGS and a North Face jacket, flashy new cell phone beneath her polished fingernails. Mom continues to stand, holding her daughter’s place in line. Her purse catches my eye; cranberry colored leather with pockets and buckles with a tear in the leather where the strap attaches to the bag. She is neatly dressed in jeans and a simple jacket, no distinct labels and tired black leather shoes. They had looked so similar these two women until this moment and now the distinction is clear between them; the giver and the taker.

After standing in line for at least one hour, we are shifted over to ‘the chairs’ where we await the calling of names in painfully slow order to step into the back to take the vision and written tests. Our conversations to this point have been few and bizarre. “Did you ever think about what it looks like inside the gas tank of a car?” Tyler asks me. “No.” I answer honestly, shaking my head. “Seriously think about it…” he continues, “Imagine if you could not see inside of a glass but simply put the liquid in and poured it back out when you drank, but could never see what it looked like inside…it would be weird, right?” He asks.

I stare at him for a moment wondering who thinks these things, but I know my answer. He does. Cadence does. Divergent thinkers. But do divergent thinkers pass driving exams? We see a girl emerging from the back with tight lips and frantic eyes that begin to leak failure down her cheeks. “I got six wrong.” she squeaks to her mom, pulling her coat from her mom’s arms and walking head-down toward the door. I think about the fact that Tyler has not once opened the manual for this test. He attended the 30 classroom hours at a driving school and said there was no need to study...he got it. We sit quietly for a while, he texting and I enjoying a baby across the room. I see another girl with the manual in her lap, flipping rapidly through the pages, taking in all that she could in her final preparations. “Did you even get one of those books?” I ask him. He nods. “Shouldn’t you review it?”

“I’m so sick of that book.” he answers without looking up. “We used it in those classes.” The gate opens from the back and a girl who looks younger than sixteen emerges, this one unable to hide her distress. Tears stream down her face and she rushes to her mother, “I failed.” She chokes out between sobs, “he said I didn’t ….” and the rest was lost as she pushed her way to the ladies room where her sobs were even louder. Ten minutes later, her mother followed her in.

“It’s not looking good.” I tell Tyler, “Are you going to cry if you fail?”

“Well yeah…” he answers as if that was a dumb question, “And then I’m heading straight for the Ladies room. Actually,” he continues in a pseudo-serious tone, “I never really pictured myself driving until I was twenty eight.”

“Twenty eight?” I ask him, my eyes wide. “Yeah. See, I don’t really need to drive. Right now I have my friends that drive and the bus and….you,” he shoots a dimpled grin, “and then I’ll go to college. I’ll live across the street from my classrooms so I won’t need to drive. Then when I graduate, I’ll get a job in the city and be able to walk to work. Besides, there are other means of transportation like bikes and skate boards and roller blades… huh…?” He nudges like he’s really onto something. “Think about how great it would be if there were no cars… it would be much better for the environment and everyone could rollerblade. We could replace all of the stop lights with disco balls and just think how much that would save in electricity. Then everyone would just dance at the intersections and there would be no accidents…”

“Tyler.” The officer in back calls. He is short and bald and looks like a Marine drill sergeant. Tyler hops up in his purple jeans, pea coat and converse sneakers; his long blond hair covering one eye and spiked earrings poking through. I have the urge to run behind him to remind him to push the hair out of his eyes on the vision test and not to answer his cell phone during the test but alas…I cannot help him. His world is filled with disco balls and roller blades and perhaps 28 is the right age for him to drive.

In about twenty minutes he emerges and sits next to me; no tears, no ladies room. He explains quietly that you need 20 out of 25 correct and once you hit 20 correct answers, the machine flashes and says “pass.” The ‘pass flash’ came after his 20^th question.

I guess the disco ball intersections will have to wait.

PRAYERS FOR A FAMILY

2008-12-31T08:53:00.004-05:00

It is three days before Christmas. I enter the doors of the church ready for the sadness, but not expecting the scene before me. The church is Catholic and large; in the shape of a cross with seating on all four sides surrounding the alter. All seats are full; not in the sort of way that people spread to claim space against strangers, but in the tight, shoulder to shoulder way that people sit to make room for family. There is no room to sit and people begin to line the walls, first single and then two and three deep. There is no sound. Not a cough or a whisper. There is no sound that would be appropriate. A fifteen-year-old in our community took his own life just days before.

I sit bookend with my husband; my middle son between us. He knew Jake. He knew him some time ago through a mutual acquaintance and knew him casually now in high school; they rode on the same bus. “He was always smiling.” My son told me. I had learned of Jake’s death the day after it happened on December 16th and joined a town in profound sadness and loss.

Fifteen.

A sophomore in high school.

A lacrosse player, a wrestler, a football player, a good student.

He did his homework that day.

He said “Good-bye” and “I love you” to his mom as she parted to pick up his twin sister.

Mom and sister were the ones who found him… still alive and struggling. As a mom, I cannot shake the image. As a sister, I cannot bear the pain.

The service is beautiful and the church is filled with teenagers; some who knew him and others who just knew his presence. A family friend gave the eulogy and spoke of a boy who would commonly be seen helping a neighbor repair a mailbox. He was a teenager who just a week prior worked with a high school outreach group at a local soup kitchen. He was a boy who reached out to younger kids as a role model. He was an athlete that gave his all for his teammates. He was a boy with an untold auditory processing problem that worked hard to keep it to himself. He was a boy who was picked on….but never told anyone, taking it all with a smile. He was a boy with darkness…that didn’t see the dawn.

I sit in that church in pain that is familiar; pain known well to my family. I sit at the threshold of a holiday filled with joy, feeling none in my heart. I think about the kids in that room who were unkind. Gone is my anger toward them. I pray for their hearts and for their own grieving. I sit in proximity to a mother, who knows the ultimate agony and try not to see her. I finally look and she is gracious. She leans on her husband and accepts the kind words of by-passers until the service is over. Her pain is ours as she wails the name of her child while they wheel the casket down the isle. She follows her child to put him to rest in the frozen ground.

I know now that the hardest part is to come.

The hardest part is when life resumes normal for the rest of the world.

I think about the Christmas tree in their home and the presents beneath it for Jake.

I wonder how these women, mother and sister, erase or blur the videos that run through their minds.

I pass by their house this evening and see a candle light in every window. I see a wreath on the front door and do not see the darkness I expected.

I pray for Jake; that he rests in God’s arms with LOVE in a place void of sadness and hurt.

I pry for Patty, his mom, for Jessica, his sister, and for Dave his father that they find the peace that passes all understanding and find light in his memory.

I pray for his teammates, those who may have not been kind, that they learn the power of reaching out.

I pray for a community that is mourning… that they find healing together.

Pray with me.

MR. GREEN JEANS

2008-11-21T11:12:00.007-05:00

My husband is green.

He doesn’t know this.

He thinks that he is black and white or perhaps shades of gray, but certainly not one of those tree-hugging-save-the-planet types. He is for progress and productivity. The black and white stuff. He talks the talk, but walking the walk is a whole different matter.

Some years ago he became an avid recycler. This was, of course, under the guise of ‘cost effectiveness’, as he hauled our trash to the dump weekly and paid by the pound to deposit our waste; no charge for cans, bottles, plastic and cardboard recycled items.

About a year ago, he decided running to the dump was time consuming and a near break-even with paying a private company to collect. He continued to sort recyclable items, even though the cost was fixed regardless, chalking it up to habit and “the right thing to do.” Recently, however, he noticed that the collecting company tosseS all of the cardboard directly in with the trash, recycling only the cans, bottles and plastic. We now have a weekly curbside collection and a trip to the dump with cardboard.

His greenest tendencies, however, are revealed in his passion for plant life. He has always been a plant guy and has carted a Corn Dracaena plant around since his teenage years, house to house, move by move. It is a monster, this plant, and quite frankly not all that lovely to look at. It dwarfs every room in our home and has never found enough sunlight in any window. Its leaves are brown and crunchy on the ends and it is a dust magnet. I have begged, pleaded and threatened to slowly poison it, but his attachment to this plant defies logic. Every seven years, the monster blooms one long shoot dotted with pink flowers that only open at night, filling the air with breathtaking perfume and he gloats with a “See, I told you” look, buying a stay of execution for the next seven years.

Shortly after we got married, we moved into a condo with lots of light but no southern exposure. I had a beautiful potted Hibiscus with glorious red flowers that found our new dwelling to be deadly. Slowly but surly, all signs of life dissipated and I was left with a pot of sticks. We did battle over tossing the plant, which I was determined to do, but Mr. Green Jeans would not hear of it. One day, while he was working, I tossed the pot of death into the dumpster, knowing that by the time he realized it was missing, it would be long gone. Problem solved. The very next morning, I found him rummaging through the dumpster until he rescued the pot of sticks, glaring at me like I was the Grim Reaper. “How could you?” he asked climbing out of the dumpster, brushing off debris and of course, he brought the sticks back to life.

He has kept this pattern of behavior through the years, watering plants belonging to neighbors that moved and left pots to die on their front porches, eventually bringing them home when abandonment was certain.

I have gotten used to his quirky green behaviors and understand that any broken shoot off of any plant must be rooted and potted; any random pine tree seedling in any garden must be delicately uprooted and potted and any perennial herb that might not stand the New England freeze must be dug out of his vegetable garden and yes…potted.

His latest rescue has me worried.

It is tradition every year after carving Halloween pumpkins that he and Cadence roast the pumpkin seeds for eating. Last week he called her into the kitchen with great excitement.

The Jack-O-Lanterns on the front porch were ready for composting over the stone wall in back and in relocating them; he found one little seed inside that had begun to sprout.

This, to my husband, is a life.

This, to my husband, is sacred.

He filled a little water bottle bottom with soil and planted the ‘little fella’ in the kitchen window. Sure enough, it began to uncurl its neck and lifted its head from the soil. Within four days, it was an inch tall. Four days later, it was two inches tall and continues to grow at a rate of ¼ inch per day.

“What do you think you are doing?” I ask, watching him water the seedling.

“Growing a pumpkin plant.” He answers matter-of-factly, “Just until spring and then I’ll move it outside.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask, knowing full well that he is not.

“It already sprouted.” He defends, “and I’ll move it outside in March. It’ll be great. We’ll probably get huge pumpkins.”

“You do know that the ground is still frozen in March and that frost kills until late April, right? And you do know that pumpkins grow as a vine and that the stalk is about an inch thick and the leaves are bigger than your head, right?” I ask.

He turns to the sink and begins to rinse dishes to put in the dishwasher. “It won’t get that big that soon.” He answers, as if the subject is closed.

“April is five months away!” I retort to deaf ears. I prepare to Google some sense into him and print out three articles on pumpkin development.

“Did you know,” I begin, armed with data “Ten weeks after planting, the first flowers suddenly appear, bringing us to right about Christmas and that at its peak, the vine can grow as much as 6" a day?” He grins sheepishly while I continue. “Tendrils are touch sensitive and will tightly curl around any waiting objects in the path of the vine. Where exactly do you want to keep the 30’ long tendril grabbing giant?” I ask, shrill tone taking my voice.

“Your office?” He answers, glancing to my little 10 x 6 sun room with wall to wall windows.

I ignore his answer and explain that it would be pointless as he would never get pumpkins from it since there are no bees in my office to carry the pollen from male to female flower. I read the fertilization passage on the page in front of me, not stopping quickly enough and spit out that “Some avid growers imitate the bees and pollinate the pumpkins manually. The process is quite simple: use a small artist's brush to gather pollen from the males; carefully carry it to a chosen female and deposit the pollen by "painting" the center of her flower.”

He chuckles.

I think I need to hide the paint brushes.

WHY DID THE TURKEY CROSS THE ROAD?

2008-09-19T17:39:00.005-04:00

The sound woke me from my deep and needed slumber and I tried to sift it into a recognizable category. It sounded like a yelp, but not. It sounded like a croak or a bark, but different. Unable to make the sound familiar from my pillow, I pushed myself to the window to find the source. As soon as I saw her, I knew the sound by name; loss.

The wooded areas around our property bring nature up-close and personal. In the spring, two of the wild turkeys from the local flock became mothers. They split off from the group and wandered solo, each followed by six or eight fuzzy little replicas. With an open field beside us, old barns and wooded land behind, there seems no logical reason for them to strut across the asphalt to wander behind the houses on the other side of the road, and yet, cross they do.

One early morning as I returned from dropping a child off at school, I stopped just before my driveway as Mama Turkey stood on the curb preparing to cross. She hesitated there, her fuzzy crew huddled behind her. I waited as she took her first step into the road and I looked ahead for oncoming cars. I was startled, as was Mama Turkey, by the sound of a horn and I saw the big black Mercedes with tinted windows behind me; short tempered man gesturing “Move already!” with his hands. I frantically pointed to the turkeys so he would understand, but he pulled out to pass me with speedy annoyance and I cringed and closed my eyes. Mama Turkey stopped; her fuzzy crew like a shadow and turned back to where she had come from.

As summer passed, the number of babies dwindled. The two mothers banned together, each with one remaining baby and the foursome spent most of their time in the field beside our home. The babies, now strong and sturdy, were almost half the size of their mothers. Through my window, I watched as Mom and baby pecked through the grass in the morning dew, the other mother walking head high, calling her grieving sound in the field.

The day before, we passed something dead on the roadside and I worried that it was our cat. I turned my car to make another pass and saw that it was a baby turkey. The two mothers and remaining baby were wandering there on the other side of the stone wall. I wondered if they knew the sad sight on the other side of the wall, or if they were simply looking for the missing baby. Hearing her calls in the still of morning was heartbreaking.

The mothers and young one have now rejoined the flock; big male standing proudly on the hill flapping his enormous wings reigns over the twelve. Each morning, my turkeys wander through the yard and into the field as if they know that they belong. I can see them from my office window and am moved from my seat every once in a while as I see them heading for the road. Walking up the curb, I head them off saying “What have I told you about the street?” shooing them back to safety.
Early this morning, Trevor walked into my office to say “Bye Mom,” and strode out to the bus stop. I told him to have a nice day and opened my office door. My flock was across the street heading towards us down a long driveway, Big Daddy nearing the curb. I stepped outside with Trevor, who looked at me in my pajamas and glanced down the road looking for the bus. “Mom, go back in.” He said, eyes wide with the horror that I may be seen by the bus.

“But the turkeys…” I began.

“I’ll cross them. Just go back in.” He said, walking slowly toward the street. Five had crossed and more about to step into the road, Trevor drives them back until the cars pass. Once the road is clear, he gives them space and four more make their way across.

The bus squeals to a stop and the remaining three hop into the brush. As the bus lumbers away, the three stick their heads out; Mama and baby are among them. Cadence and I rush out to watch for cars and Cadence skips down the curb once all are safely crossed, herding them like an old pro deep into the field.

I don’t know why the turkeys cross the road. Perhaps it really is just to get to the other side.

I don’t know why I feel responsible for them; running up the street in my PJs, risking being seen by passing cars as I stand in the road talking them back from the curb.

I do know that I will keep crossing them, silly as that may be, even if the neighbors are talking. Thinking of ordering a road sign...

BOOKS & BOYS

2008-09-05T10:36:00.002-04:00

Cadence bounces off the bus, long silky hair fluttering behind her like a flag in the wind. She looks similar to the girl I used to greet last year from the elementary school bus, but she is one hour earlier, several inches taller and sporting a purse over her shoulder. Each day she rummages through her wardrobe, layering old, outdated pieces with the few new additions; accessorizing to complete a package she feels wonderful to be wrapped in.

“Hey!” She says, sparkle in her voice. It is the third day of fifth grade and she seems to be getting the hang of things. “I had a greeaaat day! Madeline and I are great friends again and we traded shoes for almost the whole day! I remembered I had some of my own money, a five, so I bought ice cream at lunch. Oh, and I have lunch money on my debit card,” She says, throwing her backpack to the ground and making a bee line for the kitchen.

I remind her that we have not sent in money to her account and that she has no balance on her card yet. “Actually,” she says, “I had three dollars and some change after I bought the ice cream and the lady asked if I wanted money back or did I want it on my card and I thought ‘just put it on my card.” She said, sounding like an experienced shopper. “And I found out that one of the two boys I have a crush on likes me, too! “Oh, and I made a great new friend!”

“Wow.” I say. “Sounds like a great day! What’s your new friend’s name? I ask, not ready to address the ice cream and crushes. Cadence shrugs her shoulders, opening the refrigerator door.

“How were your classes? Did you learn anything new?” I ask.

“Well,” she begins, grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator and sitting down on a stool, “I learned that in middle school, you’re judged by the friends you have, what you wear and by your snacks.”

“Your snacks?” I say, as this is the one I have never heard about.

“Yeah, like you’re cool if you have cool snacks like pudding, mini coffee cakes, yodels, stuff like that. Could you buy that stuff instead of the healthy stuff? Granola and yogurt and the stuff I bring is lame.” She says, moving toward the television.

“No TV!" I tell her. "Let’s look to see what you have for homework first.” I nag, as she rolls her eyes and grabs her back pack.

Language Arts, Social Studies, Math, Science, Computer, Health, Spanish, Band and Chorus; big binder and folders organized, planner filled in. We seem off to a good start.

“I see you have spelling, reading, social studies and math homework.” I tell her, thinking she is in way over her head and trying to help her to prioritize.

“Where is your math book?”

“Uhh, it’s in my locker. I forgot it.” She says, tapping her pencil nervously.

We talk about strategies to help her remember what to pack at the fast and furious locker visit before buses.

“You’ll need to explain to your teacher tomorrow. What is your math teacher’s name?” I ask.

“Ummm… I don’t think she told us yet.” Cadence says, rolling her pencil back and forth.

Most definitely over her head.

She tackles the spelling homework and I urge her to move on to social studies.

“What are you studying in social studies?” I ask.

“Dead people.” She answers.

“Dead people?” I ask.

“Yeah. I guess they were all famous, but they’re all dead now.” She answers as I grab the syllabus, my eyes scanning the topics for the year: French and Indian War, American Civil War, Industrial Revolution…. she is right; all dead.

“What is that written on your hand?” I ask, noticing the green permanent marker.

“I ‘heart’ R.” She answers. “You know, that cute boy Riley from camp? He’s in my class. I put a note in his locker” She says, doodling on the “dead people” list. Riley is in over his head, I think.

It is the third day of school and we have nameless new friends and teachers, lame snacks, notes in Riley’s locker, but no books from Cadence’s.

At least she has all of the important things figured out!

The rest will follow...won't it?

Re-thinking home schooling.

SILENCE WAS GOLDEN...CONTINTUED

2008-08-25T16:51:00.006-04:00

continued from previous post...

A storm blows in, the afternoon regular event now and band practice comes to an abrupt halt as the power flickers on and off and sprints for car windows are made. After a brief bit of hanging around laughing, engines start in the driveway and trucks roll away...without the band equipment. I assume it is due to the weather.

"When are they coming back for their instruments?" I ask Tyler, hopeful that it will be this afternoon as couches and tables are pushed and piled into corners.

"They're not." Tyler answers calmly. "It's staying here.... for practice."

I feel my own power flicker on and off and answer, "No, not, no, not happening." Tyler looks at me not seeing any problem. "Why here? What about Mike's basement?" I say, trying not to shriek.

"There's more room here and it's nicer." he says while reading a text message on his phone.

"Sorry." I sputter. "No way. You said Monday and that is what I agreed to." I remind him standing squarely before him.

"I said Mondays." He insists. "Come on Mom. Just for the next nineteen days? We have our first gig." he says, tipping his head and flashing a crooked smile. "Please??" He asks, sounding five-years-old.

"You'll be in school on Mondays and you don't get home until 4:30!" I feel myself power surging.

"Yeah... After that." he says matter-of-factly.

Metal music for dinner.

I will not live until Christmas.

SILENCE WAS GOLDEN

2008-08-25T14:57:00.008-04:00

When we bought our house, our boys were young and we had tremendous vision. We bought an old house with only two bedrooms, knowing that it has expansion possibilities; an over sized, detached, two-car garage with large office space above set in close diagonal proximity to the house. We instantly saw the two structures connected; the garage converted to family room and the office to two more bedrooms.

Twelve years later, our home is exactly as we envisioned…almost…sort of... and then some. When we moved in, one of my few was the old, low, stone basement. Newer homes sported large neat basements that most people finished into recreations space. Ours was chiseled out of ledge and is just tall enough for me to stand, providing limited storage for some things, but would never be the finished “playroom” that so many other homes had. Looking back, that should have been the feature that sold me.

During the planning of our expansion, I was only looking ahead about five years to when my boys would be ages seven and ten and it was just about the time that our expansion was in full swing; not a moment too soon, as Cadence came to be. We nearly doubled our living space and while the footprint of our house was “unusual,” having a north and south wing suited us. The boys bedrooms moved above the new family room and Cadence remained with us above the main house. Lots of space in between buffered noisy boys from my den and my office and even the kitchen was just far enough for peace.

“They are sooo going to sneak out of here when they’re older.” My sweet sister-in-law informed me with a twinkle that indicated she knew about these things. She, of course, was right and there indeed has been sneaking out…and in.

My vision for this new space was a warm and inviting family room with big comfy furniture and a gas fireplace, looking out over our snowy woods in the winter. My husband’s vision contained a bar, a pool table, a dart board and lots of musical equipment. I won, sans fireplace, and I allowed him to put up his dartboard with restrictions.

All was well, until the day the drum set came home. Brad found it at a tag sale; a huge bargain and he and the boys were in Heaven. I considered myself fortunate that it wasn’t an electric guitar and thought I could tolerate the drums, but low and behold, when Brad’s acoustic guitars came out, we discovered that Tyler was quite talented and it wasn’t long before his first electric guitar and amplifier moved in. Trevor of course needed an amplifier for his bass guitar and by the time Tyler’s vocals were recognized and he was made singer of his band, the microphone and PA system with refrigerator-sized speakers were added. The icing on this manly cake was last year’s Christmas present; the Ping Pong/Pool Table.

Needless to say, I avoid the testosterone ridden north wing of the house entirely except to trip over gaming controller wires to count pairs of shoes before bed to see if we have visitors that should have left.

The silver lining, however, is that neither of my boys is ‘the drummer” for a band and it is a given that “band practice” is held where the drum set lives. This, combined with the fact that lower-level play rooms, which I once coveted, morph into band practice rooms, leaves me free and clear…and grateful for limited space and low, stone basements.

“Mom, can we have band practice at our house Monday around 2:00? We can’t have it at Mike’s house and we have a gig coming up and need to practice.” Tyler asks, arguments for his position ready on his lips.

I realize that I have escaped this torture for the past few years and agree, reluctantly. Cadence and I run out to do a few errands and when I return, there are pick-up trucks and jeeps filling my driveway; music equipment carried by man-sized teenagers pouring into my front door. Within minutes the curse words are flying and I remind them that they must control their language and offer to make pizza bagels when they get hungry.

The music begins and I regret having agreed to this. Tyler writes beautiful ballads that he sings with smooth melancholy. This kind of music is nothing like that. It is the kind of singing that they refer to as “screaming,” but is somehow considered a skill, and the vocals roll back and forth between screaming and growling, sounding satanic to my ears. I do believe the proper term for their music is “metal” and it sends me closing windows and running for cover into my office. I fear that our lack of space for practice has been overcome and my family room has entered a new dimension.

They finally break to devourer the pizza bagels and then, still hungry, head to McDonalds.

Perhaps practice is over?

Perhaps I could conceal my distress simply find good reasons to never agree to this again?

Perhaps we should have considered soundproofing and doors for that family room?

Love that boy.

Hate that metal.

Love that boy.

For Christmas, I will ask for noise canceling headphones.

STEPPING UP

2008-08-24T08:41:00.004-04:00

We approach the blinking light and join the stream of cars turning right and down the hill. Passed the baseball fields, passed the soccer fields, the cars slowly move forward and settle into a holding pattern; the school now visible.

This will be the first time in twelve years that I do not have a student in elementary school. The middle school is visible now and as always, parking will be difficult.. The far parking lot is under renovation and I fall inline with the cars making a circle to the front of the building, unlikely to find a parking space here. There are more than 300 in the fifth grade class, gathering for a picnic in preparation for the start of school next week; STUDENTS ONLY the orientation announcement read.

Groups of mothers cluster here and there on the sidewalks with mixed expression, most of whom I know, some I realize are stepping up to middle school for the first time with their eldest. They find reassurance in these little pockets of peers, just far enough from the face of the building, hovering with the unease of leaving their child behind. Cadence’s brothers have paved all roads ahead of her and we sail through transitions with experience. I smile with reflective humor, knowing I once stood among them, trying to appear comfortable letting go.

“Maybe I am supposed to park and walk you in.” I say to her, glancing at the calm face in the rear view mirror. “I probably should walk you in.” I repeat, with no response. “I’m sure I must have walked in with Tyler.” I think back.

“Mom, this is me, not Tyler. I’m fine and you do not need to walk me in.” She says, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror, wide and certain. “Just drop me off in front.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, an unexpected wave of melancholy beginning to fill me from the bottom up.

Cadence unhooks her seat belt and pushes open the door, standing up and then bending over to meet my gaze. “I’m fine. I love you, Mom. Have a great day!” she says, as if she is sending me off to new territory. I guess in a sense she is and I watch her walk, hair swinging back and forth, into the double doors.

EMBRACING CHANGE

2008-08-22T14:52:00.005-04:00

“You know I am going to be a pre-teen in less than two months.” She says, eyebrows arched and hand on her hip. At times, she seems well beyond her years and at other moments, fewer and farther between, I see the face of a baby.

“Exactly, so let’s focus on the ‘pre’ and not go too heavy on the ‘teen.’" I tell her in response to her latest of many recent color schemes for her bedroom makeover. “Red and black,” I continue, “seems a little drastic.”

We settle on the idea of painting some of the white furniture to create splashy pieces of art work and begin with clearing out everything she finds “babyish.” Dolls and stuffed animals are sorted into three piles; those to keep stored away for memory, bags to send off to Good Will to find new families to love and some to keep in her room. “Even teenagers like a few stuffed animal here and there.” I tell her, not mentioning, but thrilled that one baby doll has made it to the ‘keep in her room’ pile.

Prints of little girls playing dress-up are lifted down from the wall, lacey curtains adorned with butterflies slide off the curtain rod, toys and puzzles cleared from the toy shelf and soon, a new space is created. We work swiftly clearing off her desk and chair to get the project started before Dad comes home. He is resistant to the change. “Her room is beautiful, don’t change it.” He says, “I worked so hard making that room.”

I assure him his labor of love will stay intact, as we have no intention of un-doing any of the construction and vow to leave the dressing room, toy shelves etc. in place. “We’re talking paint here, Brad” I tell him.

“But it’s so beautiful.” He says, knowing he will not be able to win the argument any more than he can stop her from growing up. I am likewise saddened a bit by the evaporation of her “little girl” and startled by the energy with which she accelerates toward adolescence. With the boys, it seemed more of an evolution, slow and stumbling along; placing them on the next leg of the journey without knowing how they got there. With Cadence, it seems to be a deliberate and preplanned shift, mapped out in her head and journeyed with purpose.

Change is harder for some; near impossible even. I LOVE change and I see the gleam in Cadence’s eye as we stand before her desk. “OK, how are we going to get it downstairs?” she asks.

“Me and you.” I tell her, “We can do this.”

I tell her we need to start before her dad comes home as he is not happy that we discussed painting the desk.

“But I like that desk.” He argued.

“Just paint, Brad.” I countered.

We stand the desk up on one end and walk it out into the hallway. I brace myself under as she guides the other end, sliding it one down the stairs, one step at at time. Cadence worries that I’ll be crushed. “Watch your feet.” I tell her, “And in the future; you should never move furniture barefoot.” Midway down the stairs in our bare feet, I look at the determination on her face and see the DNA of an Irish woman; never deterred by obstacles; never saying “I can’t do it.”

After choosing from the paints we have to work with, she settles on lavender, navy blue and lime green for the base colors and we head to the paint store for the lime green. There are many lime options, but Cadence chooses the one that is most electric. “Festival Green” it is called and I lose the battle in trying to get her to tone it down a notch.

I remember choosing a similar shocking “hot pink” for the trim in my room at about the same age. My mother didn’t flinch. She believed that one’s bedroom was a personal space that should reflect the individual and allowed us to decorate as we chose. My room saw many colors and themes along the way.

When I was Cadence’s age, my room was hot pink and posters of Bobby Sherman. I had a huge crush on a boy named David and I cut every ‘David’ from the David Cassidy articles out of Teen Beat magazine and taped hundreds of little Davids to one wall.

I remember being all ‘smock top’ and ‘bell bottoms’ in my artist phase where an easel and a paint pallet were the focal points of my room. I remember having a mini office with a small desk and old typewriter where I would tap out stories on the keys in my writer phase. I once had a corner with a rug and candles and incense where I would sit by candlelight with mysterious mood music, trying hard to meditate.

As I got older, my mom helped me with the ‘black and white’ theme; white walls, black trim and furniture, a giant astrological sun on one wall and dizzying black strips on another. My mother seemed to know that change would come, with or without her and she always chose to jump right in with us. I see Cadence’s mind racing with ideas and I’m excited to be part of her experience, allowing her aura to spill out and into the very walls of her space.

The desk is detailed with abstract swirls and purple roses. I help her with the vines and leaves and soon, we are staring at a masterpiece. Finally, it is time for the chair. “Splatter.” She nods; lips spread tight and dimple flashing. As we carry the chair into the backyard and gather newspaper, I remind her of the history of the chair.

I came upon a tag sale nearly twenty years ago at an old school house and the chairs from that school were for sale, twenty-five cents a piece. They were simple, solid wood chairs with bent wood in back, most having a large crack across the seat revealing their age. They were decades old, perhaps near one hundred years and somehow, they seemed to me to have a soul. Surly hundreds of people sat in them over the years; scootchy school children in front of stern teachers. I bought eight of them and was so excited with my two dollar investment. Brad and I sanded them to bare wood, primed and painted them and they sat in our first dining room, refurbished and beautiful.

The chairs have since moved around our house, a black one in Trevor’s room, a blue one in Tyler’s. They symbolize for me the essence of change; moving; from phase to phase holding strong and sturdy.

Cadence takes a stance like a fencer on the strip and flicks her brush in the direction of the old chair; a combination of sport and art as paints fly and splatter. There is much giggling and I wonder if some isn’t coming from the chair itself as it is tickled with paint.

The finished project sits partner with the desk. They are colored the same, yet stark contrasts of deliberate detail and carefree abandon. She is thrilled with her creation and excited to see her father’s face. Brad looks at the desk and sees a reflection of Cadence.

“Awesome.” He says. “Incredible. Absolutely beautiful.”

“And it’s just paint, Dad. You can always change it back again later.” She says.

“Not a chance.” He answers.

“FREEZE! You have the right to remain children!”

2008-08-13T13:27:00.004-04:00

“Mom, do you have a minute?” Trevor asks from behind me. My mind slowly retreats from its present dimension, filled with numbers and analysis.

“Just a minute.” I tell him without turning from the screen in front of me as I type the remainder of my thought on the yellow page staring back. “OK, what is it?” I ask, still clicking at the keys, but straddling between dimensions enough to hear his question. He knows that interruptions are supposed to be of an “urgent” nature when coming into my office while I’m working.

“Mom, I don’t want to ask for money to go the carnival two nights in a row,” he begins, allowing a pause for my potential reaction, “so instead, could I have a few friends over?”

The carnival is in town and I believe it is mandatory in the teenage code of ethics that all are present on the opening and closing nights. Trevor and his boys wouldn’t dream of breaking the code and attended opening night as expected. The problem is… the carnival runs five nights, necessitating a stream of cash that he knows better than to ask for.

“What’s a few?” I ask without turning, his tall lanky fourteen-year-old presence visible in my minds eye.

“Like… six?” He says, his voice softening, indicating he is backing up a step or two.

My desk chair whips like a carnival ride from the sheer jolt of negative energy in my torso. “No!” I look him square in the eye. “Enough is enough!” His new face looks at me with earnest, sincere pleading. His beautiful blond locks that hung low on his face, gone with a recent radical haircut and the eyebrows I haven’t seen in years make an arched plea.

“Just 3 boys… not to sleep over, and a couple of girls later… just for a little while?” He says with a cross between a smile and an apology spread across his face. “Please?”

Trevor has been on a social marathon. He has always been purposeful and tenacious, finding the way to his goal no matter what the obstacle. This summer, he has been involved in a Round-Robin sleepover with his buddies that rolls between houses and I keep looking for reasons to say ‘no’ but I have not really found any. He has learned the art of timing and looks for the opportune moment to pitch his social requests.

Trevor thrives on social interaction, which over the last couple of years has begun more and more to include the ladies. This comes as no surprise as he has been a ‘ladies man’ since he could walk. When Trevor was very young, he sought out older girls wherever we went and before long, had them swooning over him; the lifeguards, the soccer coaches, the groups of teens at the fair. When he was six, he professed his love to the teenage girl who coached his soccer clinic. Tyler was nine and readily told him how ridiculous he was, to which Trevor replied, “I can’t help it. It’s how God made me…I just-love-girls!”

The house is quiet with his brother and sister gone and I am intensely focused on a difficult assignment for work. Once again, I search for a reason to say no. My mind begins to spin a list of reasons, but my guard falls away and I agree…with conditions.

His boys show up and scurry to help him ready the space. I hear the vacuum cleaner and giggle inside at how he’ll do anything for the ladies. As usual, my summer clock has lost all awareness of time and I realize that we are hovering around the dinner hour and I offer to order pizza. Trevor, not wanting to push his luck says just a large cheese pizza would do or …maybe two. I order three and Trevor smiles, “Three? Well… OK.” he says, knowing he now has my full approval.

Three girls arrive and I am shocked at how they look more like women than girls now. I have known some of them since kindergarten and they make their way to the kitchen to chat with me. I had given Trevor a current and appropriate movie, which is running in the DVD player, grabbing no one’s attention.

I bake a large batch of brownies, the aroma pulling the group from the family room to the kitchen in a hypnotic state and they swarm like seagull as the dump. I realize now that there are six girls and Trevor has transformed a “few” friends into ten and I offer to deliver the brownies to the family room.

One of the girls bursts with a brilliant idea, “Oh…can we watch the talent show? 2003? Please?” The room fills with a combination of groans and cheers and before long; all ten are piled into chairs around the television. My heart melts at the sight of them. I ran that talent show for the last eight years and fought hard to keep the program in place. I was committed for so many reasons. It fostered team work and camaraderie. It gave kids a connection with one another and a chance to shine that some couldn’t find anywhere else. But mostly it knocked down barriers between groups and opened doors. It taught them courage, risk-taking and to how to trust in themselves. Watching them flash back five years with such delight confirmed that all of my efforts were worthwhile.

They laugh and share stories of “Remember when…” and “I can’t believe that is you.” They look and sound so grown up, but a childlike energy fills the room. They rewind and replay and revel in yesterday.

They will begin high school this fall and are hopping the fence to adulthood. They are in a place they will never be again, close enough to reach back and touch childhood, holding it arms length as they get ready to let go. They are balancing on one foot, ready to step over the fence and lingering for that one last look.

I take in the image of them; bittersweet and fleeting. I would like to freeze them right there and stretch fourteen out as long as possible.

CHASING THE SUN, PART TWO

2008-08-11T11:39:00.009-04:00

My senses awake one at a time, first to the sound of birds chirping. The breeze blew into the window; the air smells fresh and dry. Finally, my eyes cracked opened to reveal the answer to the promise made yesterday. It was indeed a perfect day; blue sky and sunshine. I promise myself to make every minute of this summer perfection count; my number one priority being the beach.

Of course, the family had other plans. I had forgotten a birthday party that Cadence had scheduled and Brad had to get the grass replanted over the septic tank. Reluctantly, I pry open the lid to the paint can and busy myself while waiting. It is, after all, a great day for painting.

By 2:00, the moment of triumph is upon us as we pulled into the parking lot at the beach. “Wow, it’s really hot.” Brad remarks as the wind has stilled and the sun is blazing. He spreads our blanket and I sit myself quickly, forgoing the book and enjoying the rays. “There’s no breeze at all.” He remarks.

We lay for about ten minutes when Brad pushes up to his elbows. “Whew, it’s hot.” He says again. “Not for long,” I tell him, gazing to the northwest. My cloud is moving closer. This time, I am more amused than bothered. It is smaller today; less angry. Slowly, a second black cloud pushes in from the southeast over the water. The two move closer and I giggle to myself. His and hers clouds; perfect.

I lie back down and watch them feeling very silly, like a five-year-old with magical powers. I am satisfied, as I watch them begin to touch, that I could bring such needed relief to the sun baked beachgoers; a comfortable cool settling in.

I think back a couple of weeks to the carpentry my husband toiled over, finishing the trim from the addition put on several years ago. I have hated the unfinished-ness of our house; raw plaster and sheet rock, two by fours for doorways. As fast as he trimmed each section, I scrambled behind him with a paint brush, blended everything together as is should be.

One evening, I came upon him staring at his completed project looking perplexed. “I worked so hard at this all week and it doesn’t look like I did anything. It looks like it was here all along.” He said, somewhat disappointed. I had thought the very same thing. It occurred to me then that I did not see the finished work, as my eyes fixated on what remained undone. It was as if we could only see what was missing, not what was there, forgetting to appreciate what we did have.

I smile up at my black cloud and I understand now; my great teacher from above. It came to teach me about gratitude. It is not wrong to look for sunshine, but it is wrong to chase perfection; seeing only what is lacking and missing everything beautiful along the way. I had been running from my cloud, instead of looking for its silver lining.

It was there all along.

It always is.

CHASING THE SUN

2008-08-09T09:27:00.009-04:00

I grab my travel cup, scooping up Cadence’s backpack and load the strap over my shoulder. We are, as always, late for camp. “Let’s go NOW or you’ll miss role call!” I spout my daily mantra as she fusses with her hair. The stones in the driveway are still wet from the night’s rain and the damp earth smells of summer. The sky glooms with the remnants of last night’s storm but the day is predicted to be a nice one.

After depositing Cadence beach side with her counselor and friends, I drive home contemplating the day. It seems I have had no summer at all with far too much work and no play that I can recall. The sun peeks through and driveways steam off the dampness; it looks like it will be beautiful as predicted. I am practically giddy with the unscheduled day before me. All work wrapped up and no new assignments, I decide that I will clean the kitchen, wash some clothes, prime the new wood trim that Brad has finally put up and then slip away alone to the beach; just me, a towel and a book.

Last summer, work was scarce and I made great use of our beach, going daily in the afternoons with Cadence and lingering well into the dinner hour. I have now been blessed with full time work; much needed indeed, but cannot seem to squeeze in even a little bit of summer, finding myself working well into the dinner hour instead.

July brought with it one calamity after another: a leaking furnace, the death of my car, a blown out electrical circuit in an important part of the house and August has followed suit. We began last week with the septic tank alarm waking us at 4:00 am and went without showers or toilets until the repair man arrived at 7:00 pm. He set us up temporarily, but would need to bring an electrician back in a few days.

“You really do have a black cloud over you.” A friend told me. Yesterday, the men returned with the electrician and spent most of the day working on restoring and improving the system. There is nothing more depressing than throwing money into a hole in the ground; wasting money on crap…literally, but I wrote him the check for $1,300 and closed another crisis.

When it was time to pick up Cadence, I grabbed a book and a towel and decided to stretch the afternoon into something pleasant. I pulled my car beach side and felt instant relief as my feet sunk into the warm sand. I noticed a man sitting close to the parking lot in a beach chair with ear buds implanted. He opened one eye as I passed and drifted back into somewhere else. It astounded me that on such a beautiful day, the beach was empty, but for Mr. Ear Buds and the lifeguard. As I spread my towel to sit, I heard a low rumble and I turned slowly around to face the northwest. “Are you kidding me?” I said aloud to the dark sky moving in my direction. I held still long enough to determine the direction of the wind and indeed, my black cloud was following me; my attempt at summer foiled.

Today, on the other hand is perfect and I refuse to miss out. Kitchen cleaned, laundry done, trim primed, I take one last look at my email and do a little happy dance to see no new assignments. Steps from my escape, the phone rings and it is my boss. I assume she wants to go over the assignment I sent her yesterday and inwardly grown knowing that this could take up an hour. Instead, she says her internet is down and she likely won’t get to this until late afternoon or tomorrow. The beach seems meant to be.

I skip down the steps under perfect blue sky and scurry to run a couple of errands on my route to the beach. I pull my car beach side at about 1:30, noticing Mr. Ear Buds in the same spot as yesterday. He once again opens one eye as my feet hit the sand and once again, the beach is near empty. I stroll toward the water; warm sand massaging my feet and seagulls calling greetings. Midway to the water, a low rumble behind me stops my feet and I turn to the northwest. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I say loud enough to elicit the attention of the few lone sun-worshipers.

My black cloud, larger than yesterday moves in my direction. I am determined this time to hold my ground. Maybe it will stay to the north and I nestle into the sand, opening my book. The rumbles get louder and the camp kids are hustled onto school buses to relocate to a town building. I am not deterred. My cloud continues to approach, but my side of the beach still sunny. Finally, white streaks slice through the black and I retreat to my car, walking by Mr. Ear Buds as he does the same. I am tempted to apologize for bringing my cloud as I settle into my book inside the car. I’ll simply wait until it passes. In short order I am sitting under a torrential downpour and there is no hopeful light spot in the sky.

Back at home, I whip out the paintbrush and tackle some trim paint. The storm passes and blue sky abounds. I log onto local radar to find that more is coming from the northwest; warnings of hail and wind and I head into town to pick up my daughter. Cadence packs her things and stands in line at the ice-cream truck. My friend talks of heading down to the beach and I feel like Eeyore explaining in a defeated voice, “More’s on the way… won’t be long… this one with hail…” Cadence, always full of sunshine and adventure says “So what? It’s not here now! Let’s go to the beach!”

Re-energized, I pull up beach side and see Mr. Ear Buds just settling into his chair. He has both eyes open this time and looks at me like I am the Grim Reaper. I shrug and smile as I step onto the sand with a thunder rumble in the distant northwest. I push a mental button like the one on the retractable dog leash and let the tether to my cloud out at far as it will reach. Our friends join us and we squeeze every last drop out of the sunny spot on the beach, lingering just to the edge of safety before making our retreat.

Tomorrow is supposed to be one of the top ten perfect days. Maybe my cloud will sleep in late.

MICHAEL'S TREE

2008-07-22T08:31:00.003-04:00

My first sip of coffee catches in my throat when my eyes see the date in the corner of my computer screen. July 22^nd. I feel a tight pull in my stomach and I try to keep the rewind button of my mind from pressing, but I am zooming backward to that surreal moment. I can see and hear and smell that moment, when everything went still. “Michael’s dead.” It was as if a huge pause button had been pressed and my mind could not allow the words in.

I remember as child losing a tooth; in spite of the bitter sting of the empty hole in my gums, I could not keep from sticking my tongue into the void. There was nothing to gain from this but pain, but somehow I could not hold back from confirming the empty space over and over. July 22^nd always finds me poking around in the bitter sting of the empty void.

Stepping outside into the morning, the heat of the day already blazing, I look at Michael’s tree. We planted this beautiful Weeping Cherry in my brother’s memory that summer in 1997. It was a trunk with a few wispy twigs adorning the top, planted with laughter and tears. It blooms in April, right around Michael’s birthday every spring and now holds the memory of beloved family pets in its roots.

I stand beneath its canopy, looking up through its tangle of strong branches, now towering above the roof top, sheltering me in the shade. Peeks of sun shimmer through the heavy foliage. The remnants of last spring’s Robins nest are wedged tightly between a cradle of branches. The breeze sweeps the weeping branches out and back like breath. There is peace here.

Michael would have loved this tree.

IMPRINTING

2008-07-06T11:17:00.005-04:00

I turn to look over my right shoulder, wanting to absorb every bit of the moment without making myself obvious. Cadence sits with her feet barely reaching the bubbles, holding the arms of a chair that was meant for a much larger body. I see her suppressing a ticklish giggle and I am careful to be sure she doesn’t notice me; her image wavers in my eyes between little girl and young lady.

She has an astounding appreciation for all things and recently, we watched a movie called "Fly Away Home" that she described as the most beautiful movie she had ever seen. It is a story of heroism and love in which a young girl rescues a clutch of abandoned goose eggs and with the help of her father, sees them through to adulthood. The girl needed to teach them to groom and to fly and to migrate by modeling these behaviors, as geese learn through imprinting.

im·print·ing

rapid learning that occurs during a brief receptive period, typically soon after birth or hatching, and establishes a long-lasting behavioral response to a specific individual or object, as attachment to parent, offspring, or site.

I think about my role as human mother and know that the process is really not so different and wonder how long this brief receptive period lasts. As parents, we imprint so much of ourselves onto our children; the good and the bad. As humans, many of us fight the imprints, struggling to shed them or to pattern something different. Some of us slowly become our parents as time moves us forward to raising our own flock.

The imprints of my parents are clear markings of my life pattern. My father taught me to be efficient and strong-willed. There is a part of me that is methodical and strives to maximize production of each moment. He taught me to plan and to be on time and never to rely on anyone but myself. My dad was a hard-working man who never relaxed or did anything just for sheer enjoyment. I know as I bounce from project to project and from job to chores that the need I have to not be wasteful with my time is branded deep into my being.

My mother was likewise hard-working. She taught me that women are strong and capable and can do anything. She taught me about faith in God and how to pray. She taught me about sacrifice and about going without so that someone else might have what they need. My mother grew up the youngest of ten in a home of profound poverty. She learned from her own mother how to be strong and proud and to make things work no matter what the circumstances. Her mother taught her to be private about her troubles; ‘no one else needs to know’ and the imprint of my grandmother finds its way to me through a deep marking; no weakness and no asking for help. We are strong Irish women who do not need to be coddled.

I steal another glance at Cadence who is trying to appear casual, as if being in the nail salon is a typical experience. She had accompanied me for hours on a rare and wonderful shopping spree into the finest boutiques in town. It is not the standard trip to a department store, where the first thing I look at is the price tag. I am on a quest for the perfect outfit for a special night and Cadence partners me with her eye for fashion and brutal honesty. Our last stop on this long and hot summer day is the nail spa for a manicure and pedicure, another atypical indulgence for me. “I don’t have an appointment,” I tell the woman, “Do you have time for a manicure and pedicure….” I pause, “for two?” I wink at Cadence as we are directed to take a seat.

I had my first pedicure when I was well into my thirties and the mother of two. This type of pampering is not found anywhere in my deep Irish imprint. It would be years between that first and second time for me and some time after that, I brought my mother for her first pedicure. We learned together about being kind to ourselves and it was a ritual that we would treat ourselves to once a year or so.

Several years ago, Cadence wrote on Mother’s Day tribute at school that her mother was ‘magical and got things done really, really fast.’ I think about what I am modeling for the youngest in my flock about efficiency, strength and sacrifice. These are important to her future, however I must change the imprint to add relaxation and stillness and self respect. I need her to know that guilt does not need to hold hands with self caring.

Cadence climbs into the black swivel chair next to me, toes shining and adorned with tiny flowers and fully extends her arms to reach the manicure table. “How was it?” I ask, as if I am speaking to a contemporary.

“Amaaazing!” She says, turning to the woman who is filing her fingertips. “My mom says I shouldn’t get used to it.” She adds.

“Not until you’re older,” I tell her, “and then you can get used to it.” Cadence nods and shoots a dimpled smile to me and I have no doubt that she will. It isn’t that my imprint or that of her grandmothers will elude her, it will just be altered to include a new dimension and perhaps, I will be learning through my own teaching.

THE PUPA YEARS

2008-03-09T09:42:00.007-04:00

There is nothing more exasperating and endearing than the thirteen-year-old boy, although to be honest, I think this human version of the pupa stage might have been an oversight on God’s part. The butterfly, a perfectly magical creature, is equipped to go through its awkward and delicate change from its childish caterpillar self, under cover and protected. Caterpillars shed their final layer of skin to reveal a pupa. The outer skin of the pupa hardens to form a chrysalis, which shields the amazing transformation that is taking place inside. The same is not true of the thirteen-year-old male human. He sheds his final little boy layer slowly, exposed and vulnerable.

This human pupa resorts to creating an invisible shell, a fierce and arrogant demeanor intended to ward off attention to its delicate transformation. He is often guarded, pushing away affection and kind words, ready to battle on any front. Like the caterpillar, he eats tremendous quantities of food in order to fuel his massive growth, shedding layers of his younger self in the process.

As I pull my car in to the middle school driveway on Friday afternoon to pick up my pupa, he is surrounded by a pack of similar creatures; all trying to act nonchalant as he “Oh-so-subtlety” asks to bring them home. He is five foot eight with size thirteen shoes, baby-faced with braces and teenage complexion. I watch, as they attempt to appear unaware of the request being made.

“Hmmm,” I pause, silently counting heads. Trevor looks all ‘sad puppy’ at me and raises his eyebrows. “Boys, do your moms know that you’re coming to my house?” I ask.

They all validate that this has been run by all five other mothers and affirmed as they duck, one by one, under the slider door and into the van. The van rocks back and forth as they push and shove each other, laughing with pupa jokes. I shoot Trevor a sideways glance over the top of my eyes, letting him know that his attempt at subtly gaining clearance from me was a transparent plan since they had already cleared it with their mothers.

“Thanks Mom!” He barrels in next to me.

“Put your seatbelt on.” I tell him, trying to look stern, but he knows me too well.

“Oh, beep at those girls!” They beg as we pass a pack of female pupa. I toot the horn and all six boys wave wildly, chortling amongst themselves. Pulling into the driveway, they tumble out as gracefully as they barreled in; twelve giant skateboard shoes are kicked into a pile inside the front door, six back packs beside. They swarm to the kitchen, looking for fuel and I let them know that I will bake chocolate chip cookie bars in a few minutes. “Awww, your mom is awesome.” One says as they retreat, “My mom would never bake us something.”

They move from the house to the yard in a noisy cluster, pushing and shoving with playful affection. “Mom, I think some of us stepped in dog poop.” Trevor announces, handing over several giant skateboard shoes. “I tell him to leave them outside and shoo the pack into the family room, later investigating to find only muddy sneakers.

The chocolate chip cookie bars vanish before they can cool and slowly, one by one, the pupas yell “Good-bye Mrs. R, Thanks for having me!” as their families arrive to retrieve them. Finally, only two remain and they are calmer now playing video games.

“Are you guys going to spend the night?” I ask, before Trevor has a chance to ask.

“Sure, if that’s OK.” They answer.

“Is it OK with your moms?” I inquire.

“Yeah, they said it was fine.” They answer, falling into the trap again. I look over my eyes once again at Trevor to let him know he has been caught.

“Thanks Mom!” He says in his baby man voice, looking much more like a caterpillar than a butterfly.

*photo by bsi.montant.edu

HEART & SOUL

2008-03-07T10:07:00.003-05:00

We have a long standing family addiction to American Idol. Perhaps it is to do with the lack of programming that will not only entertain, but be appropriate for all ages. Animal Planet, the Discovery Channel and American Idol pretty much exhaust our repertoire of family viewing. Perhaps it is fueled by the fact that we have talented musicians in our family; Cadence, with amazing nine –year-old vocals and love for the stage has definite plans of going toe to toe with Simon Cowell when she reaches the minimum age requirement. The rules for watching Idol are strict, however. First of all, there is no talking permitted during the singing, or during the commentary from the judges. Secondly, commercials are muted in order to discuss our own opinions; a difficult task for the remote hogging husband who happens to love commercials.

“Daddy, turn this up!” Cadence urges as a Geico commercial fills the screen. The Gecko chatters on about auto insurance, Cadence listening attentively.

“He’s cute, isn’t he Cadence?” Brad asks her, “Don’t you wish you could have one of those for a pet?”

“Actually,” she answers, “I’d marry him. I can’t explain it, but I am strangely attracted to him.” She says in a voice much older than nine.

Brad breaks into a fit of laughter, telling her how funny she is, while her brother tells her she’s a freak and leaves the room. But with remarkable clarity, I know what she is saying and share a story to let her know that I can relate. The gecko is smart, witty and full of exuberance and, on a strictly superficial level, has that hot Australian accent.

The next morning, in keeping with my commitment to my family, I beckon Cadence’s permission to blog about her strange attraction to the Gecko.

“NO.” She answers, slightly embarrassed. Brad once again is consumed by laughter and tells her it was one of the funniest things she ever said.

“That’s not what I want to write about it for…not to make fun of you; just the opposite, actually.” I explain.

“Mom, it’s not that I’m attracted to a reptile. It’s the man playing the gecko!” She clarifies.

“But you’ve never even seen him.” I remind her.

“I mean his voice, what he says, his sense of humor, who he is.” She explains further. “I’m attracted to what’s inside the gecko.”

“My point exactly.” I tell her. “You see straight through the package to the heart and soul. That’s a good thing. So….can I write about it?”

“Fine, but only if you include that you admitted you were also strangely attracted to the Cave Man.”

As promised, I hereby admit that I do find one of the Cave Men attractive; in an adorable hairy sort of way.

PS: It is important to note that as of this post date, Cadence is NO LONGER ATTRACTED TO THE GECKO!

*Photo by www.thefriendlygecko.com

MUDDY WATERS

2008-03-05T15:01:00.004-05:00

Riding in the car alone, I vacillate between silence and music and news on the radio, depending on my mood. Last week I was scanning through the channels when two buzz words stopped my hasty fingers. “Balanced Life” caused my sensors to zero quickly in on the words vibrating through the speakers, as this is a subject that I struggle with more and more.

The radio announcer did not offer a magic solution. In fact, he was advertising for a service that allows a person to view their PCs desktop from another computer. I reached to scan some more, when he stopped me again by suggesting there is no such thing as a balanced life anymore, but that we can live an integrated life. No need to sit late in the office finishing work; go home, be with your family, snuggle with your kids beside you doing their homework while you work from your laptop with access to your office computer. The idea stirred strong negative emotions and left me with a vision of parenting half way; of being home but not present; of faking it.

I shut the radio off and drove with the idea swirling irritably in my head for a while. Must we be always working? Does sitting shoulder to shoulder with our children while our heads are elsewhere count as quality time? Does 'no excuse not to work' technology give us an excuse not to parent?The more I thought about it, the more I realized that our lives have become overly integrated. Nothing is compartmentalized anymore.

“I think God creates the spirit and gives it a body, and then He picks the parents that sort of look similar, makes sure they would be good parents of course, and sends them that spirit as a baby.” Cadence tells me, while drizzling too much syrup over her pancakes the next morning.

“Hmmm, could be.” I tell her as I stuff her lunch money into her backpack. I sign her “pick up note” and slip it into her backpack as well. “I always thought He created the baby spirit, then chose the right parents and made the baby to look similar to those parents.” I tell her, reaching for the bird seed to silence the noisy, feathered ones calling for breakfast. “But what’s really cool is how I got picked to be your mother. I mean, of all of the jobs on the planet, how the heck did I get the best one?” I ask, opening the cage door to fill the seed bowl.

“Well, I could have gotten any mom and He gave me the best one, that’s for sure.” She counters. “He must have known you’d be the best mom for me and I am sure lucky. Of course I did get those brothers though.” She laments, guzzling a glass of milk.

“Well, it is sometimes hard to live with boys but God must have planned to teach me something by being their mother, too.” I tell her.

“Guys are just so different from us. They don’t think the same. What was God thinking?” She asks through pancakes.

“I think He did have a plan.” I tell her and proceeded to explain. “In very early times, there were no grocery stores or places to go to get what was needed to live. God equipped us with what we needed and gave men and women different natural gifts. Men were made a little bigger and stronger to hunt for food. He made them with minds that stayed in a straight line so they could stay focused on that one thing; feeding their family. I think, maybe, he also made their hearts a little harder because they needed to be able to go out to kill that animal for food. Looking at that animal’s face and then killing it wouldn’t be easy with a very soft heart.” The vegetarian in Cadence was about to interrupt, but she pushed back in her chair, seeing that I was on a roll.

“Women in early times had a very different job. He made them soft and gentle so that they could care for babies and gave them minds that could whiz back and forth between caring for the children and making them clothes and growing their vegetables. The woman was known as the Gatherer and the man as the Hunter and their jobs were very clearly different.”

“But now we have stores and cars so men don’t have to hunt and women don’t have to stay home to grow vegetables and sew clothes,” Cadence points out, the wheels of her mind turning behind her eyes.

“Actually,” I continue, hardly aware that this is a conversation anymore, “we’ve really muddied the waters.”

“The waters?” Cadence asks, seeing I have gone off track.

“Well, over time and with the invention of things like stores and cars and technology, we realized that the jobs can be done by both men and women. Women do not have to stay home and sew and are smart enough to do the jobs men do; Smarter even,” I wink at her. “And men, while they still like to make a way to feed their family with their jobs, are capable of doing the home things that women do. We have crossed over into what was the other’s territory and it is no longer clear. While women are still expected to be the gatherers and juggle a million things, they are also expected to harden their hearts sometimes to compete in the work world. And men, who are still expected to hunt for the family with their jobs, are expected to take their straight thinking brains and bounce them around being gatherers.”

I pause for a moment, coming to a very clear place in the muddy water. “That’s it! That’s the problem!” I look directly at her. “You helped me solve what I have been struggling with. The problem is that we are expecting each other to be able to cross over and to do it well. We are expecting each other to be capable of everything. We are expecting there to be no difference in how men and women do the same thing, but there is a huge difference and we need to accept that! It is expecting clear sailing in muddy water that leads to frustration. Thank you, Cadence; you have just helped me sort out a big life problem!”

“Okaaay,” Cadence looks at me like I’ve gone completely mad, “I don’t know what I did, but you’re welcome.” She answers and reminds me that the bus will be coming any minute.

I send her off feeling a sense of accomplishment. I know that I would not be happy to go back in time. I know I would never trade places with my grandmother, and I am sure today won’t be any more balanced than yesterday. Tossing the last of the laundry into the washer and pushing start, I grab my briefcase and coffee to head off for the hunt.

For now, some integration will have to do. It’s OK with me that I do not have any solutions to the problem. Sometimes, the answer comes in just being able to identify the problem; to accept that the water is muddy, and to navigate with compassion.