Change of Plans

A Numbered New Year

2010-01-03T23:06:00.007-06:00

I love calendars. I love planners. I love calendars and planners the way other women love shoes. I don't love shoes at all. Each December for the last 20 years, I have purchased a planner and systematically transferred all birthdays and anniversaries from the old planner to the new. I mark off school holidays and breaks. I note plans by month and then by day and then by hour.

I love my calendar and when a year ends I can't bear to toss my companion so I keep it. Because you never know when you'll need to know the date of a dental appointment from 1998. Not really. I hang on to these records of my life because it reminds me of how the days go by so quickly and then the back cover is shut on another year.

My 2010 calendar already has plans on its pages. Appointments and meetings. Errands. Things to do. Calls to make. Goals to reach. All good stuff, all the fillings of a day, a week, a month, a year. I delight in plans. But I've learned something about plans. They change. And as much as I would like to think that what I have planned is exactly what will happen, that's foolish. Could I make some predictions about my 2010 and get a few right? Yes. But I'd stick to predicting the highlights, the certainties, the happy times, the love and joy I'm counting on. I'd fail to mention the disappointments, the changes, the unexpected doctor's visits, the phone calls I won't want to make, the occasions on which my heart will hurt.

So I won't be making any grand predictions or resolutions. I am jotting down some things in my planner acutely aware that there will be more to this year than I can imagine. 365 days of false security stretch before me, teasing me into thinking that they will always be here, nice and neat on my calendar. At least I know the games they play.

No resolutions but I do set a goal for each year. Just one. One big one. Last year's goal was to write a book. I started in January and finished in May. Well, kinda. I'm still working on getting every sentence just right. I had no idea that last year's goal would roll into this year. I had it planned differently. So I will finish my 2009 goal in early 2010. My 2010 goal will have to wait.

I know my days are numbered, I just don't know what the number is but I'm done assuming I've got decades to spare. Not to be morbid but I find mortality to be extremely motivating. What will I spend my limited days doing that will count in the end?

This blog which I completely enjoy will be hibernating for a while. The stories will have to wait and more will accumulate and I will write them one day. I am spending my days in other ways.

What are you doing with your numbered new year?

Mary Christmas

2009-12-25T18:01:00.023-06:00

You know who I'm thinking about this Christmas day? Mary. Mother of Jesus Mary. I'm thinking about her teen-aged, engaged-to-Joseph self getting a visit from the angel Gabriel. She's scared but the angel tells her not to fear. And then the angel tells Mary that she will give birth to a baby named Jesus.

I like how Mary handles the news. She questions it. How can this be, she wants to know. God made it happen she's told. (My paraphrases on this passage.) I can relate to questioning. I can relate to Mary's need to know the who, what, when, where and why of life.

So the virgin Mary is told she will be the mother of a child who is the Savior of the world. She questions it and gets her answer and then she says this, "Yes I see it all now: I am the Lord's maid, ready to serve. Let it be with me just as you say." Luke 1:38 The Message

This response is what sticks with me about Mary. This is the part I really want to relate to, beyond relating to her questioning. I want to relate to Mary's servant spirit, her whatever-You-say attitude. I wish I knew how such a young girl had older woman wisdom.

I'm thinking about Mary today. I'm thinking about how that baby was her child, her boy, her 33 year-old son before He was all of ours. How she cared for Him and loved Him not only as a believer but as His mother. I can't imagine an angel visiting me informing me of such a task. I can't imagine what she saw, what she felt. I can't relate to an ordinary girl being chosen for an extraordinary role and embracing that role knowing her heart would swell and break more than any other human heart. But I will continue to ponder Mary because she inspires me, she makes me think.

Mary was surprised, afraid even, and confused. She questioned. She tried in her human mind to understand God's plans. And then she trusted anyway. She didn't have all the answers but Mary said to God that whatever You've got planned is what I want.

Mary Christmas.

This is Special

2009-12-23T22:09:00.020-06:00

I bought this tiny Nativity scene from a tiny door-to-door salesman. A kid in the neighborhood, fund raiser for school. We've had it for a few years. Zach was about 4 years old the first time I set out this miniature scene. I had taken time to arrange the baby Jesus in the center, flanked by Mary and Joseph and then circled the others around them. I made sure each person was facing baby Jesus even though you wouldn't be able to see their faces. Drives me crazy to see a Nativity scene set up with the people facing out, like they are on stage or something.

But back to Zach and special. After setting it up just perfectly, I went on my way. The next time I passed by the Nativity, I gasped. Someone had flicked the family about, scattered the sheep and roughed up the others. And the angel was missing. I re-set the scene, everyone facing the baby Jesus, and recovered the angel from underneath a chair.

Next time through, same story. Frustrated I re-set the scene and found Zach. "No touching." Whatever.

Repeat this about 70 times and then feel relieved when I say January 1st rolled around and I packed up the mini nativity. Both Zach and I could relax. He could remove "wreck Nativity" from his to-do list and I could remove "fix Nativity" from mine.

Oh but the next Christmas I just had to try again. I'm sure Zach saw it all set up and thought, "Hmmm, I remember this. It's going to be a busy month for me and Mommy." We went round and round, neither of us giving in. Sometimes, if Zach were in a hurry, instead of going piece by piece on the knockdown, he'd just pull the fake snow out from under the whole scene. Done.

A third Christmas and it's deja vu for both of us. Just put it away, you say? But it's cute and I like it. Just punish Zach, you say? But he's cute and I like him.

The photo above is current. I set up the mini Nativity this year, same as the last few years. But something's different this year and I don't mean the R2-D2 beside the angel. Zach hasn't touched one single piece. Not one. The Nativity scene just sits there undisturbed with all the people facing in the right direction.

I'm sad. The routine of me setting up the scene and Zach knocking it down is no more. He's grown out of it. I should be proud of his self-control, his understanding, his development and I am but our routine was special. He is special. This memory is special.

Maybe just once for old times' sake, Zach will wheel by the Nativity and give the snow a quick yank. Just for kicks, for laughs. Just to say, "Hey Mommy, remember all those times I messed this up and you fixed it?"

Yes I remember.

Our resident Star Wars fan slipped R2-D2 into the scene (and faced him in the right direction.) Although I can't explain how I know, I know it wasn't done in sarcasm. My disclaimer. Didn't want to give the impression that we mock the Nativity around here. We don't.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia Update

2009-12-18T21:30:00.003-06:00

There you have it. Our fully grown Chia Christmas tree. Not exactly what I was expecting. But the star is really pretty, don't you think?

I'm not sure what happened. I read and re-read the instructions. I did all that I was required to do and yet the outcome was not as anticipated. There are bare spots up top and a furry trunk below. The growth is uneven and unruly.

I'm not disappointed though. It was a new experience. And if I really wanted to try this again, there are more seeds in the packet. Simply pull off the old growth and start the process again, Chia claims.

I think I'll pass. The future of our Chia tree is unknown but if it starts smelling stronger than it does now, its days are numbered. That's right, the Chia smells and I don't mean like a breath of Mother Nature.

So if you're still wondering if the Chia Christmas tree would be a great gift for someone you love, consider what I've written and take a second look at the photo above.

I said in my earlier post that the Chia is many things but it is not inspiring. Maybe that's not exactly true. Expecting one thing and getting another but being OK with the outcome is a good lesson to learn any way you can learn it.

Evidence

2009-12-17T23:14:00.008-06:00

Photo evidence to support Tuesday's tale of childhood Christmases.

Evidence of my first Christmas and my parent's first bleary-eyed Christmas.

Evidence of my chunky monkeyness. 11 months old in this photo. Does that horsey have a strained look on his face?

Evidence of the sardine sisters. Middle sister Chantel on the left. Always sweet-looking. Baby sister Amy (A.K.A. Renee') in the middle. Always looks like she's up to something. And me on the right proudly displaying the Christmas tree I made for my room from a bare branch.

Evidence that our mother really did let us sit on the counter and make a big mess of cookies. Also, evidence that I have always had a big mouth.

Evidence of the Sears store Santa to whom I am related. I believe this was the year I asked Santa for a make-over.

Evidence of a cherished memory. See those girls clutching the rails? The only people in the photo not skating? The ones all decked out in the latest fashions? My sisters and I at the Dallas Galleria mall after Christmas. Dad would put cash in our stockings and we all five would drive to the big city, stay in a deluxe hotel and shop the malls. We'd eat the fancy Sunday brunch at the Hyatt hotel near Reunion arena. Dad paid too much and we ate too little but he wanted us to know how to act at nice places. I hope we behaved.

Cannot resist pointing out Amy's two tone jeans. Dark denim coming and light denim going. When are those coming back?

True Tales of Growing Up Southern: Santa Didn't Stick

2009-12-15T23:45:00.001-06:00

Warning: spoiler alert! If you "believe", DO NOT READ!

Still with me? Ok then. I can't remember believing in Santa Claus, ever. I am certain that when I was very, very little I did believe in Santa, flying reindeer and entrances via chimneys. But at the ripe old age of 6, I had it all figured out.

I'm a first-born, smarty pants, practical, no-nonsense kind of girl. Was then and am now. I'd seen the globe and heard the stories of Santa visiting all the houses around the world in one night and it didn't make sense to me. Impossible. Magic you say? I don't believe in magic. Logically, Santa couldn't do what everyone was claiming. And the North Pole? Come on! A toy shop manned by elves? Reindeer training camp? I'm sorry, I couldn't buy it.

So I had my suspicions and then they were confirmed one Christmas Eve decades ago. My sisters and I were snuggled (cute word for packed like pajamed sardines) in one bed. This was a Christmas tradition. Sweet isn't it? I'm sure my parents had an ulterior motive when suggesting this sweetness. Easier to watch one bedroom door than three. Secrets must be kept from the children. Surprises must wait until dawn.

I couldn't sleep. My sisters could. So I stared at the ceiling and wondered what the morning would bring and that's when I heard sounds. Noises. Voices. Familiar voices. I figured out quick as a flash that my mommy and daddy were Mr. and Mrs. Claus.

It wasn't a sad revelation. It only confirmed what I had already thought. Santa isn't real. The sleigh, the sack, the wishes coming true. None of it was real. I fell asleep quickly. I could relax. No fear that Santa would pass by our house because I had been naughty, I knew my parents had pulled through.

I played along the next morning and the next year and the next. I didn't dare admit my disbelief. Although Santa wasn't real, presents were and I wanted them. No Santa, no presents. Know Santa, know presents. I remember those Christmas Eves of pretending to sleep for my sisters' sake but listening to the ruckus just outside the bedroom door. I heard the metal clanging of a new swing set being forced into the frozen ground. I knew that when the phone rang, it was an aunt or uncle coordinating pick ups of gifts hidden at our house and vice versa. For hours there would be sounds of doors closing, cars starting and cardboard ripping. Finally, silence. They were done. I waited as long as I could and then eased myself from the sardine tin, silently opened the door and crept down the hall. I always had the first peek of Christmas.

My parents knocked themselves out at Christmas. They assembled and arranged, they wrapped and displayed. My mother wrapped our Santa gifts in paper not seen on any other presents. She'd saved a roll just for Santa's presents. She wrote our names in Claus-like cursive on special tags. Mom went to great lengths to grant every wish, to wrap those wishes up beautifully and to make Christmas morning magical.

In time, my two sisters figured out that Mom and Dad were Santa. We confessed to Mom that we knew Santa wasn't real. I suppose most mothers are a bit sad when they realize their children are growing up and they are too big and too bright to believe. But my mother is not most mothers and I offer that as a compliment. I recall her saying something like, "Good, I was tired of Santa getting all the credit."

We asked if she would hold back a few special presents and put them out for us, like Santa would, and she agreed. I'm realizing now that maybe it's not that we loved Santa, it's that we loved surprises. One year, our family was up late on Christmas Eve, talking and telling stories, unaware of the midnight hour. My mom finally said, "If y'all want me to do Santa Claus then y'all need to go to bed. I'm tired." We scattered like mice to our respectable bedrooms, physically too big to squeeze into a single bed any longer.

I'm a big girl now with two boys of my own. Two boys who expect Santa Claus to visit our house in the late hours of the 24th (or the wee hours of the 25th, depends on what time those two boys go to bed.) I say two boys who expect but I really can't speak for Zach. We've not sold him on Santa. We're still trying to sell Zach on our world, why would we confuse him with make-believe. Jake, on the other hand, is either gullible enough to believe or savvy enough to pretend (like his mother did.)

I play Santa Claus like my mom did. I buy a special roll of wrapping paper and keep it back just for Santa's presents. I write names in Claus cursive and use fancy ribbon to attach the tags. Action Andy assembles and I arrange and we make it magical. But while I do this, I think back to what made my childhood Christmases so special and it was never Santa.

It was sitting on the kitchen counter with my sisters making a big batch of roll out sugar cookies and an even bigger mess. It was sitting on my older cousin's knee, er, I mean Santa's knee, at the Sears Catalog shop and trying not to laugh. It was clutching a candle at the Christmas Eve service, singing all 4 verses of Silent Night and holding back the tears. It was a huge Christmas Eve dinner at Ma and Pa's house with all the aunts, uncles and cousins. It was wondering how a bunch of grown-ups could take so long to eat a meal when my cousins and I were circling the pile of presents like sharks.

It was going home, getting pajamas on and begging to open one, just one, present before bedtime. It was Mom giving in but insisting on choosing the one gift. We opened toothbrush holders. It was Christmas morning with bleary-eyed parents feigning surprise as their children opened gifts from so called-Santa. It was smiling at the Wal-mart price tags Santa sometimes left on those presents.

It was a Christmas day nap at 9 a.m and then a big breakfast. It was loading up in the suburban and driving around town. Stopping by the homes of friends and family unannounced, barging through unlocked back doors, anxious to see what they'd found under their tree.

It was the Nativity scene we set out every year. The one with the gray moss on the top of the stable. The one with a ceramic baby Jesus. The one that reminded me of a truly magical night thousands of years ago. It was the good will toward men I saw in my parents' actions on Christmas and all the days before and after.

As I plan Christmas for my own family I wonder what my boys will remember. Will it be the Lego sets and the snow globes? Maybe the Nerf arsenal Action Andy has acquired? Could it be the cool Crocs I scored at the mall today? Will they recall the candlelight services we attended, the beautiful Nativity scene we inherited from Andy's grandmother? How we danced to O Come Let Us Adore Him on a stage that is our kitchen floor? I don't know. As parents we shop for memory-making items and we plan for magical moments but it's a gamble knowing what sticks.

I don't believe in Santa but I do believe in a baby. I believe the baby grew up and did something almost unbelievable. And I believe my dad celebrates Christmas every year with the birthday boy Himself while we celebrate here.

Thanks Mom and Dad for all those Christmases. Thanks for the memories that I recall and for all the presents I can't. And thanks for beliefs that stick.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia!

2009-12-14T09:15:00.000-06:00

Feast your eyes on nature in the making. That, dear readers, is a Chia Christmas tree in its infant stages.

Zach received this Chia tree as a birthday gift. At first glance I'd thought wow, a Chia Pet, wait it's a Christmas tree, huh? A closer look revealed that the Chia kit included a light up star for the top of the tree and the star continually changes color. Again wow, but this time it was because a little classmate had given Zach the perfect gift. Not only does he love Christmas trees, but he love loves stars and he love love loves stars that change color. I kid you not.

Zach was not interested in the "planting" of the Chia Christmas tree so Jake and I tackled it without him. Possibly easier that way. Because I am a rule-follower, I read through twice the enclosed instructions on growing the Chia. The Chia and the seeds, separately but simultaneously, were soaked in water for one hour. Then the gooey seed paste was carefully applied by hand to the tree. Jake did his best and then I had to come after him and re-smooth the seed paste. Because I am that way. And the directions clearly stated to "take care not to clump seeds."

We placed the Chia tree in the provided drip tray and filled the tree with water. Done. But then I noticed that some seeds had slipped onto the trunk area. Hmmm. What to do? I checked the directions again. No mention of wiping seeds from the trunk. Should I attempt to clean off these runaway seeds? The runaway seeds that were beginning to CLUMP. I decided to leave well enough alone. The drip tray had started living up to its name and I feared making a mess of the trunk and disturbing the other seeds.

Ok, so on to the star topper for the Chia tree! Another hmmm. If I place the star wand in the tree opening, then it will be in water. Drat. The tree is not the same without the cool star but I can't risk the wand in the water. Maybe we'll do the star when the tree is grown. That is, if we don't lose the star wand before the tree is grown.

I'm thinking that the Chia tree was the perfect gift for Zach but not for a slightly obsessive-compulsive, rule-following, recovering perfectionist like me. I'm not sure I can handle the pressure of the tree.

So now we watch and wait. Daily I am observing the Chia, looking for signs of life. Already, those signs are there. Tiny sprouts shooting from tiny seeds. Clinging to the terra cotta tree, trying to grow green and lush in 2-3 weeks' time.

I hope you haven't read this far waiting for insight or at least a clever analogy. The Chia is many things but it is not inspirational. I'm just wondering how much interest our Chia tree will generate and if you all will be checking back for growth updates. And if you will be anxiously awaiting a posted photo of the full-grown Chia tree topped with the color-changing star.

So, will you be following the Chia tree's progress? Will you be adding a Chia tree to your wish list?

True Tales of Growing Up Southern: Dialing for Dollars

2009-12-08T11:50:00.005-06:00

Chances of winning money while you are eating dinner at home are pretty slim. Still there was a chance and that's why my dad tuned to the local evening news during dinner. My teen-aged sisters and I circled round the big kitchen table. Mom had made fried chicken or spaghetti or chicken and rice casserole. Dad took his reserved seat and we said a quick prayer. If we'd timed everything just right, the local news was nearly over and Wheel of Fortune was on its heels.

Let me point out that having a TV in the dining area was against much of what our family believed in. But the lure of easy money was hard to resist. Each evening, at the end of the local news broadcast, a gifted anchorman named Darrell Rebouche reeled us in with his Dialing for Dollars segment. My dad loved watching Darrell Rebouche and he especially enjoyed the Dialing for Dollars part of the broadcast.

Here's how Dialing for Dollars worked. Earlier in the broadcast, that night's jackpot amount would be revealed. At the end of the broadcast, Darrell would flip through an actual phone book and randomly place his finger on a name. Without divulging the name or number, Darrell made a call to that home in hopes of reaching someone who knew the jackpot amount. If the correct amount was given, we'd have a winner!

We watched Darrell dial for dollars every night we ate at home. We watched as he flipped open that phone book knowing if he opened it to the back someone whose last name began with M or greater would be called. Not us. If he opened it near the front, well let's just say there was a hint of possibility in the air. Some nights we'd tuned in too late and didn't know the jackpot amount. Oh please Darrell, do not call tonight. Try tomorrow. We'll be sure to watch earlier.

Darrell would place the call and we'd listen as the phone rang, amplified for all to hear by the studio's speakers. Most of the time he got someone on the line. Some people were stunned to "be" on television and couldn't pull off an answer. Others were skeptical and didn't play along. Sometimes the phone rang and rang and then Darrell had to hang up. This was always so disappointing to see, knowing that a fellow citizen had missed an opportunity to win money. Occasionally Darrell managed to call someone who could coherently answer the question and win the jackpot. And oh was it exciting when someone won. Even though the jackpots were small (I"m recalling in the hundreds), winning anything can feel so big.

I kid you not when I say that one night during the Dialing segment, our phone rang. We 5 sat straight up in our seats, forks mid-air, big-eyed. Could it be? Is this it? Is this our big payoff for being relatively loyal viewers of this newscast?

It wasn't Darrell. How disappointing. I really think there should have been a town-wide ban against phone calls during the Dialing for Dollars segment. The nerve of someone to place a call and get hopes up. The absolute nerve.

We never received a call from Darrell Rebouche but it was good, clean fun wishing he would pick our phone number and give us a ring. We wanted to be winners. Still our family didn't wallow in self-pity for long. There was always Wheel of Fortune to lift our spirits and challenge our minds and imaginations. Calling out letters between bites, chanting "big money, big money" as the wheel spun, solving the puzzle first and showing off, admiring Vanna's dress and hair and wondering what it's like to be on TV and of course dreaming about spending that prize money or going on those exotic trips.

We never won the big money but I've got a big memory of my family around the dinner table, all five of us healthy and content, laughing, sharing and hoping. A scene I couldn't recreate today because we are no longer a party of five. But I've got the memory and that's worth more than Darrell's jackpots, more than anything.

A Google search led me to Darrell and here's how he remembered it. Darrell calls it Dialing for Thousands. I don't remember the "Thousands" part. I also don't remember needing to know the clue AND the jackpot amount. I guess Darrell would know, it was his show after all.

Targets and Bull's Eyes

2009-12-05T22:18:00.017-06:00

Saturday night the boys were occupied for a two-hour Christmas party sponsored by the YMCA so Andy and I had ourselves a date! Dinner and a movie? Not enough time. Just dinner? Nah. Get some Christmas shopping done at Target? Yes.

Over a week ago I sat down to make my gift list. I had notes to organize, ideas to jot down, shopping trips to plan. Because I am over-organized, I had 3 years of gift list history to look over. This would allow me to make my 2009 list based on who we'd bought for in past years and what we'd given.

But a few other things came up and I didn't get that fancy list made. The list and many other tasks had fallen by the wayside. Sometimes there are not enough hours in the day for all of my projects and lists.

On the way to Target, I glance over last year's list and throw together this year's. Done in 3 minutes. Andy and I enter the store and he drives the cart so I can manage the list. Thirty seconds into our limited-time shopping trip, I'm thrown off course by the dollar section (See Spot Save) and and wave at Andy to stop. But he doesn't stop. Shakes me off. We don't need dollar stuff.

Based on past history, I cannot get past the dollar section without perusing the offerings, marveling at what a dollar buys, placing items in my cart and then re-shelving them all because I really needed nothing. An excellent use of time.

He heads to the boy's clothing section to select pants and shirts for our angels, the boys we're giving gifts to through the Angel Tree program at church. I call out the sizes and Andy chooses pants and then hoodies. I suggest we get button-down shirts as well and he tosses two into the cart. Next.

Left alone, I would have systematically weaved my cart throughout this entire department checking out everything from outerwear to underwear. Do my boys need new PJ's? I could pick those up here and save a trip to the mall which will save time and I am all about saving time. Oh wait, I'm supposed to be shopping for angel clothes.

The angels requested outdoor toys and cars. Andy wheels around to the Nascar section and carefully yet quickly chooses a few race cars. He questions the outdoor toy request, wanting to know what that means. I don't know but I think maybe balls or rockets or Nerf guns. Andy disappears for 5 minutes and then adds a football and a basketball to the cart for the angel and a set of Nerf guns for our nephews. The board game I had selected for said nephews is placed back onto the shelf.

I scan the list. I call out more items. Action Andy delivers. We are tackling the toy department in record time. He sees that our work here is almost done and leaves me to search for a snack. Within seconds I slip into my lone shopper mode. Without Andy holding me accountable I find myself in the shoe department looking for rain boots then over to housewares to scope out the newest dish towels. Then I mosey through the DVD section and finally arrive at the wrapping paper area via a detour through the trim-a-tree area.

I am stumped selecting appropriate wrapping paper. I wanted a solid red roll and a solid green roll. Found one red roll but a no-can-do on that green roll. A red and white print will have to do. I search for a third roll that says classic yet childish and find it amidst the garish and plentiful rolls of bright green, hot pink and electric blue. Since when is wrapping paper so tacky?

On to the gift tag section and do I go stickers or hang tags? My cell phone rings. Action Andy is ready to go. Wants to know what is taking me so long. I grab the hang tags and then toss a hastily-chosen spool of ribbon in the cart. Picking up speed I race to the front of the store passing by a handful of departments I cannot visit this trip but will come back for soon. Oh, I did make a very brief stop for amaryllis bulbs in galvanized buckets.

Andy meets me at the check-out and begins placing items on the belt. I scan the list. We've done pretty well in 70 minutes' time and in one store. This would have taken me days to accomplish. Me, Miss Organized, Miss I-Am-So-Efficient.

Almost done and Action Andy asks the cashier to bag his beef jerky and Coke Zero separately from the other items. He wants to have his snack in the car. Worked up an appetite shopping. I walk beside him as he pushes the cart brimming with red and white bags to the car. "We got a lot done, don't you think?"

Yes we, I me you, did. I watch him as he drives away from Target, snacking on beef jerky, undoubtedly feeling a sense of accomplishment. I thought about the differences in our shopping styles and I was a bit jealous that I'm not more like him. Andy saw the target(Target) and hit a bull's eye.

Maybe I can learn a thing or two about time management from Action Andy. Maybe obsessing over my various lists is counter-productive. Maybe I am too scattered in my thinking. Maybe I try to do too much. Maybe I have some room for improvement. Is it possible that I don't know it all and my way isn't the only way? Bull's eye.

Parenting Tip: Candy for Breakfast is a No-No

2009-11-30T09:50:00.004-06:00

It is important that your child eat a healthy breakfast every morning. It is the most important meal of the day. Children should never be sent off to school without a balanced breakfast in their tummies. Teachers are well aware of the parents who fail to feed their kids a good breakfast. Sugar highs and subsequent crashes do not bode well for success in the classroom. Remember, breakfast is brain food.

Kit Kats are not acceptable breakfast foods. If you discover that your precious child has fixed himself a big bowl of bite-sized Kit Kats for breakfast, you as the responsible parent must act quickly.

Remove the bowl and seize this teachable moment. State that candy is not good for breakfast. Explain the difference between complex and simple sugars. Praise whole grains and proteins. Offer three delicious alternatives to the candy. Your child will smile and thank you.

OR

When the little sugar hog isn't looking, swipe most of the Kit Kats from the bowl and hide them in a drawer. DO NOT remove all the Kit Kats at once. This will arouse suspicion. The child must think he has eaten the Kit Kats and doesn't remember doing so. Place healthy cereal (wipout milk) in a Zip-Lock bag and give it to the child on the car ride to school. Hopefully, the whole grains will "soak up" some of that sugar before the tardy bell rings.

Back home, dispose of the offending candies so this episode is not repeated. But don't throw the Kit Kats away, eat them yourself. Feel no guilt, you are helping your child. You are a great parent.

I'm Thankful for Corrective Lenses

2009-11-26T15:41:00.025-06:00

Today is a day for giving thanks. A day to stop for a moment and count your blessings. I'm thankful for family, friends, my home and my health. All good answers. Stock replies to the question du jour. But there is one thing that trumps the list. One answer that makes the others more meaningful. What I am most thankful for are my corrective lenses, the ones that give me better vision.

Several years ago circumstances were such that my vision was clouded. Some days it was so blurry I couldn't see straight. Closing my eyes didn't help much. My mind kept playing the scenes I had tried not to see. After months of poor vision I pieced together a prayer. Something like, "God please, please give me a glimpse. Let me see some of what You see. Help me understand."

And He let me see. Just a little here and there. Just enough to know that things aren't always as they seem. Through His eyes I see the miracle of typical development and the majesty of difference. With His vision, I see how truth and reality aren't the same but they co-exist. Courtesy of God's corrective lenses I see the temporary circumstances as they weave through the permanence of a soul. And because He allowed me to peek into the future, I was privy to a vision. A vision that was as real as today, a vision I cannot be convinced of otherwise.

There are many things I didn't see coming. There are a handful I did. There are things He knows that He is not showing. I will look to Him anyway. I am more than ok with my improved vision, my new perspective, even if it's partial. If hindsight is 20/20, perfect vision, then what is the value of a tiny bit of God's foresight?

So if I put on my glasses and look back over my list of family, friends, home and health, I see a family that saves me from selfishness, friends who honor me with their time and trust, a home that goes wherever I do and health that makes my numbered days feel endless.

On this Thanksgiving Day, how is your vision?

Wasn't-My-Fault Wednesdays

2009-11-25T15:06:00.019-06:00

On Wednesdays the boys bring home folders brimming with graded papers, important notes and the dreaded behavior charts. Jake's chart is printed on yellow card stock so it's referred to as the yellow card.

Two Wednesdays ago the yellow card tattled that Ms.B discovered unfinished papers in Jake's desk. This prompted her to write "very disappointed" on the yellow card. I, too, was disappointed since that is the current method of discipline I'm using. The I'm-so-disappointed-guilt-trip method. Jake explained that it wasn't his fault that those papers were crammed into the dark corners of his desk. He didn't know Ms. B wanted those turned in. I saw his point. Really, how often do teachers assign work and expect students to complete it and turn it in?

Last Wednesday Jake slinked up to me after school and complained of a stomach ache and oh, his head too. I lovingly touched his blond locks. Could it be the start of swine flu? Regular flu? The common cold? Not enough sleep? Poor eating habits? Where had I gone wrong as his mother?

I kept him close as we walked to the car, carrying his backpack for him. In his weakened state the load of the Wednesday fol...wait a minute. Wednesday folder. Yellow card. I had a hunch about this sudden illness and proved it when I pulled the screaming yellow card from the folder.

Oh my. An S- in conduct. Can't stop talking when the teacher is talking. Disappointed the teacher and now his mother once again. Feeling the guilt in his tummy even before I had served up today's helping. I asked him about the talking.

"But I wasn't talking," he claimed.

"So Ms. B said you were talking but you weren't."

"Yeah."

"Why would she mark this on your card?"

"I don't know. I was at their table but I wasn't talking."

"Whose table. Why weren't you at your table?"

"I was just seeing if they needed any help."

"And you could do that without talking?"

"Yes, but she said I was talking and made me go back to my table."

"I think it would be best for you not to be so helpful," I suggested. "What happens if you're caught talking?"

"You get a warning."

"And what about the next time?"

"You miss 10 minutes of recess."

"Did you miss 10 minutes of recess today because of this?"

"No I did not."

Relieved, I said, "Well that's good. I'd hate to know you missed 10 minutes of play because you can't be quiet."

"Well, I didn't miss 10 minutes of recess, I missed 15."

"What? 15!"

"Yeah, the first 10 were because of talking but the extra 5 wasn't my fault. That's when I was trying to help her, you know at the other table? I was seeing if those kids needed help with their work."

"So Ms. B unfairly gave you 5 minutes."

"Yeah, really, it wasn't my fault."

Of course it wasn't sweetie. Those teachers are just so unfair that way, expecting kids to do their work, keep quiet and stay in their seats. I'll have a word with your teacher right away.

I did speak to Ms. B the following day, just to be sure there wasn't anything more to Jake's chatty behavior than chatty behavior. She confirmed that Jake is talkative and friendly and sometimes needs a reminder to listen and do his work. She told me something else too. Something mothers live to hear. She said "Jacob is very polite and he has a big heart. Many children are polite but they don't all know right from wrong or have big hearts."

Jake's off the hook for this Wednesday, no school today. He's in the front yard building a fort with his buddies, not thinking about good behavior. But one week from today will be a different story when Wednesday comes around. We'll look at the yellow chart together and I'll let him know when I'm disappointed. We'll talk about ways he can do better but we'll talk about things he does well too. And I'll be certain to remind him of his big, big heart.

The Winning Cake

2009-11-23T13:59:00.001-06:00

Zachary is 7

2009-11-21T09:26:00.005-06:00

Happy birthday Zach.
My how I've grown.

People Hear What They Want to Hear and Zach is No Exception

2009-11-20T18:43:00.005-06:00

Last night in the kitchen, "Jake, did you decide to run for secretary or class president?"

"Class president," he responded.

Zach's ears perked up. "Zach's presents?"

"No," I told him, "not Zach's presents, class president."

"Zach's presents?"

Tonight in the kitchen, "Who wants a turkey and cheese sandwich?"

Zach's ears perked up. "Chuck E. Cheese sandwich?"

"No, not Chuck E. Cheese, turkey and cheese."

"I want Chuck E. Cheese sandwich, please"

Fairs, Tails and Fairytales

2009-11-19T16:05:00.001-06:00

I read to Zach's class this week. I read Angelina and the Princess. If you are not familiar with the Angelina series, that's ok because I am. Angelina is a mouse but also a ballerina. She is English, too. I know this fact because I have heard her voice on DVD. So I read the book to the first grade kiddos but I refrained from using an English accent, although it would have added to the reading.

In Angelina and the Princess, Angelina is too excited to sleep because she and her ballet classmates have been asked to dance for the Princess of Mouseland. Angelina wants to land a lead role in the performance so instead of counting sheep, she practices "far into the night."

So of course she's spent the next morning, headache and a fever, and her mother bans her from ballet school until she is well. But Angelina squeaks, I mean sneaks, out while her mother toils in the kitchen.

At this point I turn to the first graders and raise my eyebrows, "Uh oh, looks like Angelina has made a bad choice." They are big-eyed, they are mesmerized by the thickening plot.

Angelina arrives in time for the tryout but because she is sleep deprived, she botches her routine and is awarded a "smaller part." As in back-up dancer which I'm sure is not what the English would call them but I'm not English, I'm Southern. Big difference.

Angelina drags herself home to find her worried-to-death-yet-knitting mother waiting on her. She doesn't come down too hard on Angelina since Angelina is already sick with low self-esteem. "I danced so badly...I will never be a real ballerina."

The next day Angelina feels better but she's sad. "It's not fair!"

"Maybe not," her mother said gently, "but things don't always go our way. You can still do your best with whatever part you are given, and that will help the whole performance."

It struck me that I used over a thousand words last Thursday to say something very similar. Something like, "You do your best, not because someone else can't, but because you can." Guess the knitting mouse beat me to it. I glance at the kids. Are they hearing the truth in mother mouse's words?

Angelina heard it and scampered off to ballet school. Maybe she could still be a small part of the big performance. So she learns her back-up dancer part but conveniently learns the lead role too. You know, while watching the two lead mice rehearse. Because we all know at this point where this story is going and it is crucial that Angelina just happened to know the lead part as well as her own lesser part. I check with the first graders. I'm not sure they've figured this out yet.

It's the big day and of course one of the star mice tripped and sprained her ankle. Ballerinas are known for their clumsiness. Panic breaks out backstage. Who can do the part? Why Angelina can! Angelina is promoted and the injured mouse scores a plum seat next to the princess for the show.

After the performance the princess thanks Angelina for "saving the show." I close the book and the kids smile. It had all worked out so nicely for Angelina. What a happy ending.

Oh gee. Angelina's mom was right on target with that do your best for the greater good speech but then when Angelina got to do the lead part anyway, I'm afraid the message wasn't the same. How about a version of the story that shows Angelina in the back-up role, grateful she wasn't grounded for life by her mother for sneaking out like she did? How about if Angelina finds more joy in seeing her friend dance the lead part than if she were doing it herself? How about when Angelina says, "It's not fair," her mother replies, "Darling, the fair only comes once a year." Oh wait, that's my dad's line.

Ok I'm done. It's just a book. No need to scare a bunch of unsuspecting first graders with my rants. And we like Angelina, she's cute, she's fun, she's a dancing rodent. But am I the only one who sees the problem with promising kids that if they just do their best, everything will always turn out perfectly?

The moral of the story was lost on Zach. He stopped listening after a few pages. A pop-up book had him cornered. So I won't have to explain, today, how happy endings aren't a guarantee. But if Jake reads this story, which is unlikely (hello? tutu-clad mouse, not cool) I won't stop myself from explaining that sometimes you will do your best, try your hardest, invest your time and heart into something, care more than anyone else about the outcome and yet sometimes it won't work out. It won't seem fair. And it won't be. And then I'll remind him of big, bold God who knows better than even your own mother what role you play. He knows all about the hopes, dreams, heartaches and disappointments. He straightens it all out in the end. He's your fair.

What have you told your children about fair?

Male Box

2009-11-18T20:45:00.000-06:00

This makes me smile. It makes me grin. I like this so much I tried to peel it from the back of the mailbox, violating several federal laws, but it wouldn't cooperate. Something about two boys in baseball caps that gets me.

Can't you just hear these two?
"Let's go to your house and play Wii."

"Can't. My dad's watching the game. What about your house?"

"Uh no, my mom said she's tired of looking at me."

"Hey let's climb the mailbox," Leader suggests.

"Better not, might get hurt," warns Follower.

"You're chicken."

"Am not."

"Are too."

And in a suburban Lord of the Flies moment, Leader turns his baseball cap around, the one with his name monogrammed on it, and scales the side of government property. "Hey, you gotta get up here. This is awesome!"

"OK, I'm coming up." Follower struggles with the climb, watching as Leader inches toward the edge.

"Geronimoooooooo!"

Maybe it's just me but I find boys fascinating. That fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants mentality, that renegade spirit, that act-now-think-later philosophy. So different from my planned, programmed, sensible existence as a mother. I marvel at the opposite of me.

But if I find my two hoodlums on top of the mailbox in our neighborhood, you can bet I'll march right over there and ruin their fun. "You two get down right now. Have some respect for property. This is unacceptable. You know better than this," and then I'll take their picture. But then I'll shoo them into the house and put the Nintendo DS in time out. Because boys need limits like rivers need banks. The picture, though, would make me grin. Because mothers need sons like oceans need waves.

True Tales of Growing Up Southern: The Bus Ride

2009-11-17T11:23:00.000-06:00

I was a spry five-year-old the first time I climbed those school bus steps. My mom and little sisters watched me as I bravely boarded the bus and took my seat in the front row. Waving confidently from the window, I hoped to convince them that I was big and that the 45 minute ride to my first day of school was just a means to an end. And it was. I couldn't wait to hit the classroom.

One year later, my sister Chantel would climb those steps with me. She took my place in the front row as I had been promoted back one row. Two years after that baby sister Amy joined us and we all shifted rows. We three girls rode the same school bus for over a decade. Starting with me in 1975 and ending in 1986. The same bus, the same route, quite often the same passengers and always the same driver.

Mrs. Logan was a career bus driver. She took her job of shuttling students between home and school seriously. We respected Mrs. Logan. We felt the heat from our parents if we didn't respect Mrs. Logan. If I strayed from the rules of the bus, Mrs. Logan would come to a stop in front of my house, slide that little side window open and report to my mother exactly what I'd done as I slunk down those stairs.

When I was small and sat up front I was fascinated with Mrs. Logan's skills. The way she shifted those gears, negotiated corners, curves and garbage cans, her perfect timing of rolling to a halt, pushing the red button that flipped the stop sign into position and whipping open the folding door with the silver handle. Amazing.

Soon we were rolling on the long road between small home town and small school town. We kids settled in for the ride and Mrs. Logan checked in with the truckers. "Breaker 1-9 this is Buttons and Bows, copy?" The CB radio buzzed with news of ice on the bridge or a jack-knifed truck up ahead. Mrs. Logan always knew what to expect.

We rode for miles, crossed Black Bayou and then crossed the Red River. Sometimes we'd get stuck creeping behind a cotton trailer. The bolls seeking freedom flew at the bus windshield like summer snow. Mrs. Logan had to decide between being off schedule and attempting to pass on a two lane road. Many times the trailer would pull to the side and let us pass or make the next turn and free the road. But, if she had to, Mrs. Logan could put that bus into gear and pass whatever, whenever.

As I got bigger and my assigned seat moved further from the action up front, I used my travel time to eat breakfast, catch up on homework, study for a test, chat with friends and flirt with boys. Oh and fix my hair and put on more make-up. The bus had a cutting-edge climate control system called windows. On warm mornings the boys wanted the windows down but it blew the girls' hair and we complained. On hot afternoons, we lowered all the windows. My hair would be a mess but no worries, school was over for the day and I had another chance at great hair tomorrow. On cold mornings we huddled together on those stiff bench seats and wrote our names in the frost on the windows. But we were tough, we made it.

The lengthy ride to school was almost enjoyable when Stephen Green brought his boom box along. Mrs. Logan stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. "If I have to tell you to turn that thing down, then it's going off." But she'd smile after she said it. Yes mam, Stephen would reply and strut down the aisle. We listened to cassette tapes, we sang along, we debated over bands, we made requests for the next day. The boom box transformed our bus into a party on wheels. Well, not exactly a party per se, what with the low volume and all but still. You get the picture.

We used most of our energy and words at school getting smarter which made for a calm, quiet ride home. Sure there was time to jump on homework but we could do that the next morning. Afternoons were for reflection, sight-seeing and naps. Mrs. Logan always brought us home safely and mostly on time. I was ever appreciative of days when tractor-trailer traffic had been light and we shaved a few minutes from the drive. On those days I caught all thirty minutes of the Brady Bunch and didn't have to conjure up the opening scene in my head.

When I turned sixteen my dad bought my sisters and me a car. I would now be responsible for getting us to school and back home safely and on time each day. The thought of never riding the bus again was bittersweet. Mrs. Logan had taken good care of us for a decade. But still it was a bus and we were teenagers with important after-school activities like student council, basketball team and cheerleading. It made sense to drive.

One morning we were late. Probably the result of a heavy hand on the snooze button. I tried to make up the difference by speeding over to school. I found myself behind the bus, the one with "Buttons and Bows" painted on the bumper, and I chose to pass it. When I got home late that afternoon, Dad informed me of a phone call from Mrs. Logan. "Those girls are driving too fast. They need to be safe, get to school in one piece." We weren't even on her bus but Mrs. Logan was still taking care of us.

I graduated two years later and Chantel took over the driving. The next year she graduated and for two more years Amy was the lone wolf in the car. All the while, Mrs. Logan was still driving our bus.

We invited Mrs. Logan to our graduations, our weddings, our baby showers. We welcomed her at memorial services too. She was a part of my childhood and has since shifted her way into my adulthood. I won't forget her face, her voice or her CB handle. Because in a small, Southern town your bus driver is never just your bus driver.

Mr. Monarch

2009-11-16T21:09:00.001-06:00

He swoops in close enough to catch my attention.
Beautiful, colorful, wonderful.
I reach for him but he spins and turns.
Just past my reach, just outside my range.

A second attempt to gently grasp a wing fails.
I watch, I hope.

He comes near and teases.
I coax him with kind words.
Please, please light here a while.
But he cannot be captured in a net of language.

Without warning, he brushes my cheek.
A moment of magic.
And then he is off.
My elusive creature floats away to a world only he knows.

But I still watch. I still hope.
I wait for that conversation with a butterfly.

Unarmed

2009-11-12T12:00:00.014-06:00

Over 10 years ago I was working as an interior designer in Phoenix. One afternoon I took a phone call from a potential new client. The woman was expecting her first child and needed help with a window treatment for the baby's nursery. She asked if I could come to her home later that day.

It was typical to meet new clients in their homes but my manager had recently decided our policy needed changing. Not every home visit resulted in a sale or even the possibility of a future sale and the manager decided we should screen customers before investing too much time in them. The new policy meant that potential clients needed to visit us in the store first so we could assess their design needs and get a sense of their intent to purchase. I agreed with the new policy for two reasons: first, I didn't enjoy driving all over Phoenix resulting in dead ends, especially during the scorching summertime, and secondly, my manager had a way about her that made my stomach hurt and I didn't want it to hurt worse.

"I'd love to help you with your baby's nursery. Why don't we schedule a time for you to visit me at our store? I'll show you some of our work and you can give me an idea of what you're looking for. After that, I can schedule an in-home appointment," I explained.

"I really need you to come to my house," she insisted.

I was baffled. I'd given her the I'm-not-coming speech and she was telling me she really needed me to come. "It's very helpful if we start in the store with all the fabrics and samples. We'll narrow it down and then schedule a visit to your house to firm up the details."

"Please, I really need you to come here. I know what I want. It won't take much of your time."

My stomach started to hurt. Manager would not like this at all. I asked the woman where she lived and determined it was a mile from my house. I would have to pass her neighborhood to get to mine. Something told me I needed to make an exception to the new policy. Her voice was persistent but not demanding. She needed me to come over and I felt I needed to go. "Well, you are right down the street from me. How about if I stop by on my way home from work?" I figured the manager couldn't berate me too much if the appointment was on my own time.

I gathered the necessary samples of window coverings and fabrics and hauled them to my car. This was another downside of home appointments, the carrying of multiple materials back and forth. I arrived at the woman's home, loaded my arms with the samples, walked to her door and placed all the samples at my feet so I could ring the bell and professionally greet the client with a handshake.

The door opened and I met my client. She was very pregnant and had no arms. No arms. She had shoulders but no arms. I smiled, introduced myself and collected the samples from the porch. I followed her into the home and down a hallway to the nursery. She had no arms and she was pregnant. I placed the fabrics and samples on the floor of the nursery and she and I sat down. I commented on the cute bedding she'd chosen for her child. We talked about the excitement of having one's first baby. I was still four years away from my first. I looked at the window in question and listened as she described her wants. A fabric would need to be selected and I watched as she navigated the sample books with her foot, flipping through fabrics with her toes as easily as I could with my fingers. We tossed around ideas and it was business as usual.

Except that while I'm talking design, I'm thinking arms. I was amazed at this woman, this very pregnant woman, without arms. And while we were talking about windows what I really wanted to talk about was her. I didn't want to know how she'd lost her arms, I wanted to know how she'd found her way. But I said nothing. This was 10 years ago and I was younger then in more ways than age. Would it be rude to ask questions? Was I supposed to pretend I didn't notice she had no arms? I didn't know what to say so I said nothing.

The woman made her decision and the sale was made. She disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes and then spoke of the deposit check she'd left on the counter. I took it and walked to the door. The woman opened the door for me. My arms were filled with books.

Arms.

I reached my car, put down the books, fingered for my keys in my tote bag, placed the key in the lock and opened the door. I had never been so aware of my arms in my life. They felt extravagant. They went on for miles and ended in hands with fingers. I didn't know arms could be a luxury. The woman ran through my mind. I knew my meeting with her was not by chance, I knew that, but I couldn't figure out what this meeting meant. Maybe I was supposed to be grateful because "it could be worse" as they say. But that wasn't it. Nothing about the woman warranted sympathy.

I never saw her again. An installer completed the job. I never forgot about her either. A few years later, I caught part of a talk show where she was interviewed about her disability and how she coped. Years passed, careers changed, my boys were born and I forgot her name. I remembered her though. She meant something to me although I wasn't sure what.

In March of this year, my boys participated in Little League opening day. It was a big production of teams and banners. Hundreds of boys, their siblings and parents turned out to kick off a new season of baseball. Jake's team took its turn parading around the field, carrying a banner with their team name and players' names. Action Andy walked with him as assistant coach. I waved at Jake and snapped pictures. His team took their place in the grass and sat to watch the other teams parade by.

Andy left Jake's team to join Zach and walk with him. This was Zach's first season of baseball. He was on the Challenger team, a team of kids with physical disabilities or mental disabilities or both. The Challenger teams would parade in last. Finally I spotted Andy and Zach and their beautiful motley crew of players. Zach was sticking close to his daddy. This was a big crowd of people to navigate.

They found their seats on the grass and I tried to sneak some photos. Zach was holding up pretty well and I didn't want him to see me. Zach tends to hold up well until the sight of Mommy allows him to safely fall apart. There was a ceremonial first pitch and two players were chosen to deliver a pitch each. One player represented the Little League. He walked to the mound and pitched it over the plate, just as expected. The second player represented the Challenger team. He, too, walked to the mound but with the help of arm crutches. When he reached the mound, he eased his way onto the dirt and released his crutches. On his knees, in the dirt, that boy threw a strong pitch right over the plate.

I cheered and cheered and wiped tears. Somewhere in this crowd was a proud mother, a mother who didn't expect her son would play on the Challenger team because no one expects that. But a mother who loves her child with his arm crutches like nothing else. A mother who is used to white baseball pants always being covered in red dirt. A mother who watched hundreds of players walk by on legs that work perfectly but she only had eyes for her boy.

Legs.

Later that day, Jake's team played a mini-game. Zach's games would start next week. I can't remember exactly what Jake did to get himself into trouble but when we arrived home, a lecture was in order. Andy and I sat with him at the kitchen table and the lecture focused on self-control and doing your best. To make his point Andy brought up the boy who threw the pitch for Challenger. It's natural to use comparisons to illustrate a lesson, to make a point. The it-could-be-worse theory.

In that moment I knew what I had learned from the woman without arms. It had taken over 10 years but I finally got it and not a moment too soon. I looked at Jake and said, "You do your best, not because someone else can't, but because you can."

The woman had taught me this. She had taught me that seeking value in your life by measuring it against someone else's doesn't work. Looking for your purpose in life by sizing up another's won't do it either. This woman, having had more than her share of unfair, taught me that fair doesn't exist. She taught me to do my life with what I have.

The boy who threw the pitch on his knees. The woman without arms. Why is it that the people who do this life best are the same ones who have every reason not to?

Maybe they know what I am now learning and that is God has written a unique story for each of us. Live yours out.

I wondered about the woman and wished I could remember her name for this story. An Internet search turned up her name and some video clips. I kept clicking and searching for a website. I had thought about changing the title of this post, in case it seemed offensive, then I found her website.
www.fitnessunarmed.com

If We Were Cookies

2009-11-11T14:21:00.003-06:00

"If we were cookies, what kind of cookies would we be?" Andy was caught off guard by my ridiculous question but he couldn't resist. As he thought about it I answered for him, "You would be a Nutter Butter."

"Nutter Butter, why?"

"Because you're tall and sort of the same color as a Nutter Butter and people like Nutter Butters." Also some people are highly allergic to Nutter Butters. This I kept to myself.

He thought about it, "Yeah I like Nutter Butters. What about you? Something nutty."

I was surprised Action Andy continued the silly cookie discussion with me but you try it at home, it's hard to resist comparing yourself to cookies. "Well I'm thinking I'm a Pecan Sandie because I'm Southern and pecans are Southern but the Pecan Sandie is simple too, but a little nutty."

"Yeah, nutty," Andy agreed.

"Jake is a chocolate chip cookie because he is all-American. Chocolate chip cookies are everybody's favorite," I said.

"But he's not just chocolate chip, there's something more." Andy had a point. Our Jake is best-all-around but with flair. We agreed on Rainbow Chocolate Chip for Jake.

Last but not least was Zach. This would be easy. "Teddy Graham," I announced.

"Teddy Graham," Andy repeated. Delicious, irresistible, can't-get-enough-of Teddy Graham.

Tell me about your family of cookies and dare me to send out this family portrait for our Christmas card, too.

True Tales of Growing Up Southern: Daycation at the Dump

2009-11-10T11:25:00.004-06:00

"Girls, y'all want to go to the dump?" My daddy's offer had my two sisters and me squealing with excitement.

"Really, can we go, can we go?"

"Go ask Mama."

We found Mama and begged, "Please, Daddy said we could go to the dump, please, please?"

My mother would give us her blessing but warned as we ran back to Daddy, "Don't stand too close to the edge." This was the same advice she'd given us on our family trip to the Grand Canyon.

Three little girls climbed into their daddy's old, blue pick-up truck. We sat up front on the bench seat in a tight row, sans booster seats, five-point harnesses, shoulder belts or air bags. The pick-up's bed held our ticket to the dump. Daddy backed out of the driveway and instructed, "Wave to Mama." She waved back and disappeared inside, grateful for an afternoon's peace.

It took only two minutes to drive through town and reach the road that headed out to the Texas state line. Our destination was just a few miles away but seemed like worlds apart. What a grand adventure, riding in Daddy's truck and participating in the important mission that is taking stuff to the dump. We'd talk a bit or listen to the radio but mostly we just rode and wondered and held our long, tangled hair away from our faces. Daddy rode with the windows down and the whipping air seemed appropriate on this journey. No one needed a/c on the way to the dump.

The truck turned onto the dirt road that led to the dump. Anticipation grew and my sisters and I positioned ourselves for the first view, the first glimpse of that glorious hole in the ground. Similar to how we felt approaching the Grand Canyon.
"Oh, I see it, I see it!" I shouted. The first born in me always had to be first.

Daddy scanned the perimeter, looking for the perfect place in which to unload. After he'd made his choice, he carefully backed the truck to the dump's edge, stopping after we girls became nervous but before we were frightened. My sisters and I filed out of the truck and took our places dangerously close to the edge. I surveyed the awesomeness that is a giant hole filled with junk. Imagine if a meteor composed of retired appliances, worn furniture, dirty mattresses, busted electronics, tired clothes, broken toys and just plain old trash hit the earth traveling at top speed. The result would be my hometown's dump. A crater-sized trash can loaded with must-haves that had been downgraded to don't-wants.

I peered into the vastness, looking over the contents, my young mind taking it all in. Wonder why someone would throw that away? Hey that looks like a good chair. Oh, is that one of those rocking horses you can bounce on? Maybe there were some items worth saving, I thought. You know what they say, "One man's trash is another man's future trash."

I pointed out the possibilities to Daddy. Maybe he could creep down into the dump and score us some treasures. "No, girls, this stuff is trash. There's nothing here worth anything." My dad was right, it's a dump, after all.

Daddy chunked our contribution into the hole and we watched in awe. Our daddy was big and strong and boy could he hurl trash. Soon it was time to load up and make the short drive home. Being little girls though, we drifted off to sleep, worn out from our big adventure and dreamed about our next daycation at the dump.

Action Andy has his own fond memory of the dump. He and a buddy were granted the pleasure of taking old TV sets to the dump to help someone out. They gleefully tossed those televisions into the hole and watched the screens shatter and the picture tubes explode. He told me this story with sparkle in his eyes. Is their anything cooler to a young boy than getting the green light for destruction?

AND THEN Action Andy lamented the fact that our boys have not been to a dump. We have overlooked this rite-of-passage as we raise our boys in the pretty, master- planned suburb we call home. We pay handsome association fees so that we never have to visit the dump but I get the feeling change is coming.

Speech Therapy

2009-11-10T10:03:00.006-06:00

This morning I warmed a cinnamon roll in the microwave per Zach's request.

He happily took the plate from me. "Ohh, cimininin roll! Thank you Mommy."

His sweet speech is my therapy.

Operation Cessation

2009-11-09T12:38:00.017-06:00

Because when you have a child who is special, you need special operations.

Zach started biting his nails last spring. Fine, lots of people bite their nails. But in August he moved from nails to fingertips. Not so fine. Biting fingers is icky. Biting fingers prevents writing which interferes with learning. Biting fingers makes the other kids look at you weird. Biting fingers must cease.

To change an unwanted behavior, one must ascertain the antecedent to the behavior, so the smarty pants theory goes. Control the antecedent, control the behavior. Easy enough but Zach's teachers and I can't figure out what makes Zach bite. Is he stressed, bored, nervous? Does he do it on purpose as an escape from school work? Who knows?

So without knowing exactly why he bites his fingers we're still trying to help him stop. I searched the Internet and decided on a bottle of horrifically-tasting-yet safe-for-children nail polish. The night of its arrival I coated the fingertips and nails of a sleeping and unsuspecting Zach. The next day I watched for signs of disgust, the teachers did as well. Zach knew something was different about those fingertips but it didn't stop him. Maybe he likes the taste of cayenne pepper.

Back to the Internet and this time I loaded my cart with a disgustingly-flavored cream plus a Berenstain Bears book about bad habits to drive the point home. The cream isn't much of a departure from the nail polish however, and this is important, the cream has omega 3 in it which means it heals as it deters. Sold. I was feeling pretty good about these purchases because of the one-two punch. Physically the cream would taste terrible and mentally the book would teach Zach why some habits are bad.

Zach didn't like the Berenstain Bears book. Now maybe if Thomas the Tank Engine had a problem biting his nails, uh, wheels? I guess that wouldn't work. But the cream has been somewhat successful. At bedtime Zach allows me to rub it on his fingertips which renders his hands useless. He very carefully holds his hands out as I tuck the covers around him. I think the omega 3 works too in smoothing the rough edges of skin that taunt him.

The rendered-useless-hands won't work for school so no cream in the morning. At school Zach's wonderful teachers devised a reward system. Minutes spent not biting earn a Thomas sticker. A certain number of stickers can be exchanged for extra time on the computer. This plus the cream is helping. And I say "hands down, no biting" a lot.

Last week was particularly challenging for Zach. A favorite teacher was out for a few days, the weather changed, the moon was full, etc. On Monday he spent lots of time with his fingers and then visited the nurse who bandaged three of them. It made me sad, very sad, to see those wrapped fingers when I picked him up after school. I thought we'd made progress but maybe not so much. This may take a while to conquer.

Any suggestions other than "take him to get a manicure so he can be proud of his nails and won't bite them anymore". I think I'll get the "no, no" from Zach on that one.

Book Report: Not Quite Ready

2009-11-06T14:12:00.005-06:00

In the post My Marathon, I shared how I wrote a book, my first book. It took four long months to type but I finished it. I did it. I hit spell check, made the corrections and then patted myself on the back. Way to go, you're finished!

Not so fast. Before I started writing the book I knew very little (a cousin of nothing) about the publishing world. Let me sum up what I thought I knew about publishing: write a good book, get a publisher, see your book on the shelves and take your picture beside it. Honestly, I kept myself in the dark about the facts of publishing because I didn't want to get discouraged and quit writing before I started. My goal was to write the book and figure everything else out later.

Later is now. Here is what I now know about the big, bad world of publishing and my slim chances of surviving in it. For starters, my book is not finished. It's probably better than a rough draft but not much better than a first draft. It's good, lots of friends and family said so, but they aren't in the publishing world. In that world it has to be great, well-written, relatable yet unique, fit into a genre but offer something new, have an established market yet reach a market that's untapped. Like it has to be the same as other great books but different. Good grief!

After I work my book over and make it great, perfect, best I can do, then I need a literary agent. The agent knows the road to the publishing houses. Now I could send my super-duper book to the publishing houses myself and it would sit unread in the mail rooms. Doesn't sound like a good way to get my book on the shelves for that photo op. So I need an agent and the agent needs authors who wrote incredible stories that the agent wants to represent without pay until a publishing house pays the author who then pays the agent. Easy to see why agents are a selective bunch. Who, except writers, wants to do a load of work for nothing?

The agent will shop my book to the publishers with no guarantees any of them will want to publish it. And while my agent does this, I am allegedly writing my second book. Good grief part two. If a publisher wants my book, I will likely be told it needs work. My perfectly done, best-it-can-ever-be book will need another edit to make it the best, best ever. And then there's other stuff like cover design, layout, marketing plans, etc. This process sounds overwhelming yet I day-dream about being up to my ears in edits on a book that is going to make it.

So back to today. My book needs work. What I thought was really good is really good, at times. But it can be so much better. I have enlisted the help of a friend, a writer friend, to point out the strengths and weaknesses of my book. We're doing this via email and snail mail. I haven't seen this friend for two decades. In fact, the last time we collaborated on a project, we were high school juniors and I had spilled nail polish on the floor during math class. My friend tore paper from his notebook and attempted to soak up the mess. Painting my nails during math class? Yes. Future writers don't need to know math.

I asked my writer friend if the stress I'm feeling is normal. And the doubt, the insecurity, the feeling that what I've written is boring and typical and why am I spending all this time on nothing? He assured me this is all very normal and that what I've written is something. "Why do we do this?" I asked, meaning writing and the attempt to get published. "Because it's fun," he said. Fun? Yeah, it is fun. To work, to learn, to stretch, to wonder, to try.

So when people ask, "How's the book going?" my reply is, "It's not quite ready." But it will be and it's going to be amazing because I know a little bit about same but different. Publishing world look out, here I come! Uh later, not today, just need a little more time, but soon.

Check out that clever poll I added just for this post. Do you have a book in you?

Picture Perfect

2009-11-05T10:12:00.032-06:00

You know those blogs where the writer posts beautiful photos and then offers tips on lighting, exposure, speed, etc? This is not one of those blogs.

Monday night Zach and I went to Jake's baseball game. Zach spent a few minutes here and there actually watching the game. He spent much of his time trying not to land in the mud as he repeatedly jumped over a puddle and trying not to fall off the top of the bleachers where he insisted on sitting (when he sat).

I cut him off from the concession stand after he purchased two Kit Kats and ate three. Seems the nice lady working the counter gave Zach a Kit Kat on the house for being such a good customer. There were still innings to play and time to fill so I handed Zach the camera.

He snapped this first picture and showed it to me,"See?"

"Great picture, Zach. Go take some more. Take a picture of Jake."

He went back to the fence and took these three pictures plus others like them and proudly showed them to me.

"See?" he said sweetly. "Look at the picture."

Between innings, Action Andy, who was in charge of loading the ball into the pitching machine, walked to the fence and bent down to chat with Zach. "See," as he showed his daddy the camera. Andy grinned and said "Yeah, good, I love you," then put his game face back on and headed for the dugout.

The moon was full and worth photographing. "Zach take a picture of the moon," I suggested. So he did.

"Big, giant, white, circle moon." His description, heavy on adjectives, had my heart heavy with love.

The moon was big that night but too far away for my amateur photographer to capture. But those field lights sort of look like the moon, if you squint.

Then my beautiful boy noticed how a mom placed her camera lens through the fence to take a picture. My Zach did the same and got this shot.

It's not Jake but it's not fence either. "Great picture Zach, wow!" And then he took more pictures of the fence.

I love seeing life through a unique lens. I love that my child thinks the links in the fence are more interesting than the team on the field. I love having my own personal guide on a tour of different.

When I picture perfect, I picture Zach.

True Tales of Growing Up Southern: A Lady Named LaVerne

2009-11-03T10:53:00.033-06:00

My middle name is Laverne. Save your LaVerne and Shirley jokes, I've heard them all. I wasn't named after a TV star, I was named after my mother's mother, my grandmother, my only grandmother, the one named Ma. The lady I think of when I think of ladies.

Ma was the original Southern lady. Always appropriately dressed, never flashy, just classic. A purse (or pocketbook) to match. Sensible yet attractive shoes. A little jewelry, not too much. Ma had her hair done once a week and slept on a satin pillow case to make the style last. In the mornings she would fluff it and give it a coat of hair spray. If it was windy, she would wear a scarf over her head, but a nice one. If it was rainy, she would wear a rain bonnet, a nice one.

Ma wore Estee Lauder perfume and slathered Jergen's original cherry almond scent lotion on her arms and hands. This is how she always smelled, like a woman meant for luxurious scents but practical enough to stock up on Jergen's. When I was little I liked going into her closet, putting on her shoes, adding a necklace and then I would sit at her vanity. She would allow a single spritz of Estee Lauder and then all the lotion my small hands could absorb.

Ma's car was a big Lincoln Town Car. Boat-sized in length, pale blue in color. When I got my driver's license, Ma asked me to drive her on some errands. I was nervous navigating that boat through the narrow streets of our small town but I liked being with my grandmother and was pleased she let me play chauffeur once in a while. Ma had all of her errands planned out, no gas would be wasted. We stopped in stores and she would make her selections while visiting with people she knew, always proud to introduce me as her granddaughter. At the register, Ma would have her wallet ready and would pull the necessary bills from their place. Flat, crisp bills, kept in order of value. Coins were ready in the zippered pouch. No digging for change, no attempting to smooth out crumpled bills found at the bottom of a purse. Not this lady.

Before Martha Stewart, there was Ma. I remember her in the kitchen making chocolate pies and coconut cream pies. She knew just how to beat the egg whites to make meringue that peaked. She knew just when to pull those pies from the oven, right after the meringue turned golden but before those peaks turned brown. On Halloween she'd make homemade popcorn balls using a recipe that required a candy thermometer which to me was the sign of a real cook. Those popcorn balls were a delicious mix of firm, salty, popped kernels and gooey Karo syrup. Of course they were wrapped perfectly and arranged on a tray along with other assorted treats. And then my sisters and I were encouraged to dig in.

Ma was soft-spoken and kind. I never heard her raise her voice. She cared for friends and strangers alike. Ma shared her love for God with others by her actions and words. She always looked for the good in the day, the place, the person. However I did hear Ma say one not-so-nice thing, once. She said, "My, that Ted Koppel has large ears." I couldn't believe what my small ears heard. She immediately retracted the statement saying, "I shouldn't have said that."

Twenty-two years ago today Ma died, on my sister Chantel's sixteenth birthday. Funny how life schedules happiness and crushing sadness on the same day. Ma would have come over that morning bearing a beautifully wrapped gift for my sister. There would have been a carefully chosen card and she would have written in lovely penmanship something precious.

I keep my bills flat and smooth in my wallet and it makes me think of Ma. I plan my errands so as not to waste time and gasoline. I like to be appropriately dressed and sparsely jeweled. That Jergen's cherry almond scent is the best on the market. I can make a mean chocolate pie, one that Action Andy claims is the best ever, and I use Ma's recipe. On rare occasion I whip out the candy thermometer and make some popcorn balls. I like presents to be purchased well in advance and I have a hard time simply signing my name to a card. There's always a message.

The "soft spoken and kind", well I'm working on it. And the voice level too. Still finding my way on sharing God's love like Ma did. Got some work to do, too, on saying nice things. Of course I've made strong comments about someone else and it wasn't about ear size. But when I lose my way, I think about how a lady would act, I think of Ma.

When I was much younger, I would dread answering the "middle name" question. "That's a funny name," they'd say. "Hey Laverne, where's Shirley?" So original. But now that I'm older if anyone asks my middle name, I say with pride, "It's LaVerne, I'm named after my grandmother who was a true Southern lady."

I had intended to share another Southern tale today about a trip to the dump and then realized today's date and the connection. Next Tuesday I'll tell you all about the city dump. I'm almost ashamed to mention the word "dump" after describing my lady-like Ma. I'm sure she never went to the dump.

Maybe You Can't Buy Happiness But You Can Rent It

2009-11-02T12:20:00.020-06:00

Saturday was busy. The bouncy men arrived at 6:45 a.m. I stood in the cold, damp, dark backyard as they positioned and inflated the "Balloon 3 in 1 Combo" for the party that wouldn't start until 4 in the afternoon. But Halloween is the busiest day of the year for bounce house businesses so deliveries start early. I learned this fact the hard way two years ago when I tried reserving a bounce house just a week before Halloween. Pickings were slim and I was left with only a simple, generic bounce house. Well not this time.

Two Little League baseball games later, the party was underway. Kids whipped around the bouncy in their costumes. They flung themselves down the slide. They ran into the house and stuffed their faces with Chick-Fil-A nuggets and those bakery cupcakes. Repeat for ninety minutes. Then we had a trick or treasure hunt followed by more bouncing/sliding and eating.

A good time was had by all. Happy kids, happy parents, happy me. Only a few sad moments, a clone blaster (plastic gun-like weapon that makes cool sounds) found its way into the bounce house and was snapped in two. A couple of boys bonked heads and required some hugs and a big kid fell and scraped his knee after running up the drive way during the exciting treasure hunt. Nothing some Neosporin couldn't handle.

At 6 p.m. we hit the streets in search of candy. Jake ran with his gang, Zach right there with him, and the parents trailing behind, taking pictures and making movies. Zach's bucket was overflowing in no time. Maybe because he had found our stash of candy to give out and dumped it into his own bucket before we left our house. We made our way through the neighborhood and then went home to examine the haul. Bedtime was late but we took comfort in the fact that daylight savings time would treat us to an extra hour of sleep.

Zach used his extra hour to get up early (5:30) Sunday morning and hit the Nick Jr. website hard. Jake wasn't far behind him and soon the boys were downstairs noticing that the bounce house was still in our backyard, lifeless, but there. "I want bouncy slide," said Zach. "Mommy can we, can we?" begged Jake.

But it's so early, just past 7, and it's cold and wet out there, I thought. "Ok, but put on sweats, hoodies and socks." I watched them get dressed faster than firemen and race to the scene. Jake had the honor of plugging in the blower and the boys watched together as the bouncy slide took shape.

They jumped and climbed and slid. Arm in arm my boys raced down the slide, mouths open, the joy uncontainable. I watched for a few minutes then went inside. I added sweater and socks to my pajamas and ran out to join the party. Zach couldn't believe his eyes when Mommy appeared at the top of the slide. He smiled so big his cheeks cried "Uncle". My boys and I slid together, laughing all the way down, ending in a tangled heap of arms, legs and love.

I noticed Andy standing in the doorway watching us play. "It's cold," he announced. "Yeah, but you get warmed up jumping," I offered. The boys and I hit the slide again and Andy disappeared inside. Just a few minutes later he joined us in the bouncy. Action Andy had been drawn into the cold by Zach's giggles and Jake's energy.

We all four jumped and Jake said to me, "You did a good job picking this out," which almost made me cry and I will not be able to explain why. "Yeah, this is much better than the plain old moonwalk we had last time," I agreed. Then this party of four climbed to the top of the slide and sat together, smiling, taking in the moment. Against the rules, we slid together as I held the tiny Flip video camera. The footage is rough and the audio is all laughter.

Soon it was time for breakfast and then church. We arrived home and I noticed Zach at the back door, looking over an empty backyard. "I want bouncy slide."

"The party's over, the bouncy slide is gone."

He turned and walked away, shoulders slumped. "I'm so sad," I heard as Zach walked upstairs.

I've already checked. The Balloon 3 in 1 Combo costs $1800.00 to own. Maybe we should start saving now.

The Trap

2009-10-29T21:42:00.001-05:00

I should not have been there and I knew it. But I wandered over to the magazine section just to take a peek, because I was curious. "It's a trap," I heard a voice say, "don't do it."

I ignored the voice, picked up the October special issue of Family Fun magazine, whipped it open and rapidly scanned the pages. With one look I was impressed with the clever cupcakes and the creative crafts and my mind began to race with possibilities. Ohhh, milk jug ghost luminaries. I can do that! Mummies fashioned from craft sticks, craft spoons, wire snips, muslin, glue and googly eyes. Easy! Would you like to know how to turn your entire house into a House O' Lantern with strategically cut and placed paper in the windows? Why yes, I would. And what's this? Oranges hollowed out, cut like jack o' lanterns and filled with fruit salad. Thematic AND healthy. I continued to turn pages and marveled at the enormous amount of ideas presented to me.

Jackpot. All the crafts and recipes I would need to make our Halloween party a smashing success were right here, in one nifty magazine. I placed it in my cart and headed toward the craft section to score supplies for those mummies. And then that little voice inside my head said, "Have you lost your mind? Put that magazine back right now. You know better than this." And the voice was right. Because the voice recalled the night I frosted and re-frosted a cake three times until it was "perfect". The voice also remembered the time I wasted hours trying to make my own mummy costume but abandoned the idea once I realized I looked less like a frightful mummy and more like the Michelin Man. And the voice remembered that I have painstakingly removed certain colors from a container of multi-colored sprinkles because they didn't go with my theme. The voice reminded me that when I get these grand ideas I also get grandly stressed because they don't always work out. Oh the voice knows me too well.

It's not that I'm opposed to arts and crafts and clever concoctions, it's just that I have to set limits for myself. I'm not knocking Family Fun magazine at all. With their help I made a space shuttle cake for Jake's 7th birthday that was out of this world. Pun intended. I'm simply saying that sometimes what women see in magazines can make them feel bad about themselves and that's what happens to me if I stare too long at creativity on parade. Plus all those smiling children in the photos, so happy, living it up because their mommies made cool snacks and crafty crafts. The pressure, the trap.

I put the magazine back on the shelf and held my head high on the way to check out. We are having a Halloween party and my boys are psyched for Saturday. We won't be making mummies and our house won't look like a jack o' lantern but there will be food and families and fun. And a trick or treasure hunt. And a giant moonwalk/slide for the backyard. And creepy cupcakes whipped up by the good ladies at the grocery store's bakery. Crafts scmafts.

My boys won't know all the neat things that could have been. They will only know that their mummy had snacks and treats on the table and she welcomed their friends and smiled and bounced and it was the best party ever.

Gotcha!

2009-10-28T21:52:00.006-05:00

Zach likes his cereal dry. Probably because he is not a big fan of milk but he seems to be a big fan of buoyancy. I've watched him examine Jake's bowls of cereal with milk somewhat in awe. But still he stuck with ordering his cereal dry.

A while ago he asked for "cereal whip milk" and I thought OK, here we go, cereal with milk just like the other kids. I filled a bowl with Alpha Bits, added the requested milk and served it right up. "I want more milk," he said. I poured. "I want more milk, please." Like I said, a fan of buoyancy.

Zach didn't eat the cereal whip milk. He sunk letters and watched them float back up. He did put the spoon to his lips but couldn't do it. Must have been the milk. Back to dry cereal.

Tonight I poured myself a bowl of Frosted Flakes, topped it with milk and secured the bag of cereal with a chip clip. (Just had to say that.) I sat down to enjoy my dinner and Zach took an interest. I offered a bowl but he declined. "No, no," once for cereal , once for milk.

The phone rang and I left what was left of my meal, just a few maverick flakes and a decent amount of milk. (My milk to cereal ratio was off. I hate when that happens.) Zach moved in and I watched. He picked up the spoon loaded with milk but then poured it back into the bowl and then he did it again, and again. The call ended and I joined Zach at the table. I watched as he captured a flake in a spoonful of milk. "Gotcha!" he bragged. And then he ate it. Cereal whip milk. Just like the other kids but exactly like Zach.

True Tales of Growing Up Southern: Baseball and a Mother-In-Law

2009-10-27T23:24:00.002-05:00

The November issue of Southern Living magazine arrived in the mail yesterday and I took a few minutes to flip through it. I skimmed articles I'll read later and dog-eared the pages of recipes I'll never make. Enjoyed the "Southernism of the Month" which is "dressing". I felt very southern indeed knowing there is a difference between dressing and stuffing. Admired a beautiful photo of Caddo Lake and thought of the times I fished there with my dad.

The article that really brought back some memories featured great diners in the south including Strawn's Eat Shop in Shreveport, Louisiana. I recalled the last time I dined at Strawn's, spring 1986. I was sixteen years old and dreaming about Mr. Right.

I was there with my boyfriend's mother and his sister. "Boyfriend" isn't completely accurate. The boy and I had spoken on the phone a few times and talked about going on a date. But it was baseball season and the boy played for a high school team and didn't have much free time. But the boyfriend's (let's just call him that anyway) mother invited me to go with her to watch his game. I offered all the details to my parents (as required) and asked if I could go. The answer was yes because the boyfriend came from a "good family" and this is important in the south. We knew of his parents and where they worked, we knew the family's church affiliation, we knew their exact address and more. All of this is easy to know in a town of five thousand people. If you needed a background check on anyone, just ask your neighbor about him.

His mother picked me up and I slid into the front seat of her car, a place of honor that day for the new girlfriend. The boyfriend's little sister had been relegated to the back seat and I was certain I felt her staring at the back of my head during the drive. I was very uneasy that day, imagining what his mother might be thinking about me. I wasn't completely sure how I felt about her son but I wanted to make a good impression just in case. The drive into Shreveport was long enough for more than small talk. His mother asked me questions about school and my family, cheerleading, summer camp plans, etc. She was probably sizing me up, seeing if I were worthy of her son's attention. But I was sizing her up too.

We had time before the game to grab a bite to eat. Strawn's Eat Shop was not far from the baseball field and an easy choice. His mother, his sister and I ate cheeseburgers with slender fries and drank Cokes and iced tea. Conversation continued between his mother and me and the sister just watched. We got strawberry pie slices to go. I would've eaten mine there but thought I should wait, show some restraint.

At the game, his mother introduced me to all the other players' parents, making me feel very special. As we watched the game she pointed out each player and told me all about him and what his family was like and where he might go to college. His mother had something nice to say about everyone and she cheered for those boys like they were her own. Of course when her own was up to bat or made a play she cheered even more loudly.

We passed the time driving home with more conversation. That lady could talk! The boyfriend's sister was quiet in the backseat most of the drive. I wondered what she'd tell her brother about me later. I got out of the car and thanked his mother for a nice time. And it was a nice time. I didn't know how she sized me up that day but she had fared very well with me.

The boyfriend and I did go on one official date and by the end of the night, I knew he wasn't the one. He took me home early and it was just as well, he cared more about baseball than anything else and didn't have time for a girlfriend. I wasn't too sad. He wasn't the greatest guy ever but that mother sure was nice. I would miss her.

Over a year passed and old boyfriend called. We talked and I liked him. We got together for a movie and I loved him. Turns out he is the greatest guy ever. Seems the boyfriend still liked baseball but he liked me more. His mother was happy to see me again and I felt the same way. Five years later the boyfriend became my husband, his little sister became my fabulous sister-in-law and his mother became my mother-in-law. My wonderful, caring, energetic, supportive mother-in-law.

Over two decades have passed since that lunch at Strawn's and the baseball game that followed. My mother-in-law is coming to visit on Friday. She is coming to watch her boy coach and my boys play baseball. We'll probably get some burgers and fries before the game, iced tea for her and a Coke for me. Then we will sit together in the stands, cheering loudly for all the players but especially for our boys.

One day I imagine I will sit at lunch with a young lady who has my son's attention. Maybe it will be a cozy diner like Strawn's. Maybe we'll be on our way to his game. I'll treat her kindly and make her feel welcome but size her up as well. And if I don't like what I see I'll drive her to the middle of nowhere and let her out of....no, no, no I won't really do that. Maybe she will be the one for my boy and I will love her as much as my mother-in-law loves me.

Check back for next week's installment of True Tales of Growing Up Southern: Daycation at the Dump.

The School Nurse Called...

2009-10-27T12:41:00.003-05:00

and she was able to take Zach's blood pressure today. Whoo hoo! He was very calm about it and then put the cuff on the nurse's arm and checked hers.

Mission completed.

BIG GIANT MAMA

2009-10-26T12:50:00.003-05:00

A special operations update.

We've had a breakthrough with Operation Blood Pressure Cuff Desensitivity.

"Big giant mama," he said. Zach and I were taking turns placing the cuff on each other's arm in an attempt to get comfortable with it. Big giant mama?

"What?"

"Big giant mama," he repeats.

Big giant mama? Big giant mama? Why does that sound familiar? And then it hits me. "Big giant mama" sounds almost exactly like "big giant beach ball" which is what Zach says when he wants a beach ball inflated. With the hand operated air pump we keep in the garage. With a hose attached to it. Which we operate with a repetitive motion. Which makes a whooshing sound. Which makes the beach ball grow larger and larger and get tighter and tighter. Which is very similar to the sights and sounds of the blood pressure cuff.

I heard Andy pull into the garage and I ran out to tell him what Zach said, "Big giant mama!"

"Huh?"

"Big giant mama. Sounds like when Zach says 'big giant beach ball' and then we inflate the beach ball and that's like the blood pressure cuff."

"What are you saying?"

"Zach thinks we are trying to inflate him!"

Andy agreed with me. This made perfect sense. Perfect sense if you think like Zach and not like everyone else. Now our mission includes convincing Zach that he will not get bigger when his blood pressure is taken. It's not the same as inflating a beach ball.

We're working on this but haven't made much progress. Yesterday Zach placed the cuff on brother's arm and said, "Big giant Jake."

Pick Your Battles

2009-10-26T12:39:00.002-05:00

The perfectionist in me would like to call a family meeting and demonstrate the proper operation of a chip clip.

Apparently there are people in this house who think a certain level of staleness is acceptable. Or there are people in this house who know someone else will come along and tidy this mess right up. But I am not going to call that meeting. I am a recovering perfectionist and I will let this go, after I post it on this blog with photos.

Good mother (and wife) or subconsciously filing this away and will bring it up later?

Quotes I Love

2009-10-26T12:06:00.007-05:00

"Have a little faith."

Jake's response to me when I said we probably weren't going to win the $10,000 cash prize from the Subway peel and win game.

Other Mothers

2009-10-22T11:37:00.010-05:00

I like doing things my way. I like to run a tight ship, keep everything under control and manage any situation that arises. My attitude is if you want something done right then let me do it. I understand that people are different and there are more ways than one to run a life but honestly, my way is the best way. I have it all figured out.

Good plan except that it didn't work. Sure there were moments of success but then something would happen and my plan would get tested. Still I battled through until I could get life back to neat and normal. By myself. Because when you know exactly what you're doing, you don't require any help. Then my tight ship sprung a leak.

3 1/2 years ago when Zach was diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder, I found myself in need of help, lots of help. The pediatrician, the psychologist, the therapists, the teachers, the diagnosticians all offered their type of help. And that was great and still is because Zach has made enormous gains with their help. But the help I came to depend on most came from other mothers.

Mothers whose children shared my son's diagnosis. Mothers whose children weren't like Zach but had another diagnosis. Mothers who had been where I was and were not only willing but happy to share their experiences. Other mothers. I hung on their every word. I listened as they told me what worked and what didn't. I rejoiced when their children made gains. It gave me hope that Zach could one day be where their children are now.

A couple of days ago I spent the afternoon in the home of another mother. Her name had been passed along to me by a teacher who raved about this mother's knowledge and the difference she's making in her child's life. Her daughter has the same diagnosis as Zach but is a few years older. I'll point out that although their diagnosis is the same, there are differences in behaviors and characteristics. The same diagnosis will not look the same in each child and a child's personality always plays an important role in behavior. Having said that, the other mother and I found many things in common for both our children.

We spent hours sharing the various therapies and treatments we've tried. What worked and what didn't, what we regret and what we still might do. So much in common, an instant connection. She understands. Her honesty in admitting mistakes she'd made gave me a chance to learn from someone else's experiences. Anytime she began a sentence with "If I had to do it again.." I took notes. I also wrote down the computer programs she uses, the books she's read and the websites she checks. When the other mother shared specific things to watch for at school, I wrote those down too.

Before our time ended we had connected in many ways. We wrapped up the visit discussing how blessed we are to have children who are different. What if they weren't ours? What if we had missed the chance to see life through unusual eyes? What about the parents who were expecting a typical story, like we all do, and got a mystery instead? Will they spend a lifetime trying to re-write it?

I thanked the other mother profusely for her time and we agreed that we must have lunch soon, just for fun. As I drove toward school I went over all that I had learned and my head was swimming with ideas and information. But mostly I was overwhelmed with inspiration. That mother is incredible. Her attitude, her knowledge, her heart. Her willingness to share. I am encouraged.

I'm sad to think what I would miss if I were trying to do this alone. I am grateful for the other mothers.

All (most) Aboard!

2009-10-20T17:18:00.024-05:00

Sunday we drove 5 hours round trip for the experience that is Day Out with Thomas. We had planned the trip weeks ago, bought tickets via the Internet and counted down the days on the calendar. "Ride Thomas?" Zach had asked daily.

We arrived at the station and there was Thomas in all his baby blue glory, smiling at the thought of hauling happy children up and down the track. Zach ran right over. He moved in close but not too close, examined the wheels, searched out the engineer, looked down the row of coaches. Jake was cool about the scene. He's eight (and a half) you know. Thomas once took his breath away but not so much anymore. The day was really about Zach. Andy helped me situate the boys on the plywood box placed in front of Thomas for a perfect photo. Zach was a little nervous having his back to Thomas. I think he wanted to keep an eye on him. Jake placed his arm around his Bebe's shoulder and the photo was snapped. Look closely and you can see Zach's apprehension.

The engineer blew the whistle and Zach covered his ears. We moved to the side of the track and watched as Thomas pulled away from the station. I explained to Zach it was not our turn to ride Thomas, we were on the next trip. He didn't seem bothered that Thomas had left without him. This should have been my first clue.

We made the rounds at the gift shops and then walked back to the station anticipating Thomas' return. Zach was so excited to catch sight of the engine and watch it grow bigger and bigger as it neared the station. The passengers unloaded and it was our turn to ride. Tickets in hand, we moved toward car number 42 but Zach stalled as the line formed. We tried talking to him, we tried pushing him toward the train and we tried threatening him ("Do you want a new Thomas movie? No train ride, no movie.") all to no avail.

Jake and I took our seats and Andy and Zach waved from the platform. As we pulled away I watched Andy gently wrap his arms around our boy. I could tell Andy was whispering something in Zach's ear. Something just between them. Jake and I made the most of the brief train ride designed to thrill people much younger than either of us. We bet money on how fast the train was traveling. I said, "Fifty miles per hour." He said, "Fifty-one." The conductor settled it by informing us of the train's top speed: 17 m.p.h. I looked at Jake and we busted up laughing.

Zach was waiting at the station holding his new wooden train whistle because our threats of not buying something are usually empty. He ran to greet us and skipped around the track as we left, taking one last look at the blue engine he loves best. " Zach," I said, "you didn't ride Thomas."

"Ride Thomas," he parroted. "No, that was the ride, you didn't ride Thomas," I clarified. But he was not concerned with specifics. He blew his whistle and ran toward the golf cart whose driver had offered us a ride to the parking lot. I think this ride was the highlight of his day.

Andy asked, "Can we get our money back on those two tickets?" I checked the fine print, "No refunds." Oh well, plans change. And speaking of changing plans, we'll need to re-think the 4 tickets I purchased to ride the Polar Express.

The Meaning of Meaningless Conversations

2009-10-20T14:25:00.001-05:00

"Does Ms. B still need a new pencil sharpener?" I asked Jake as we walked into school.

"No, maybe. We have two pencil sharpeners in the room," he answered. "There's one that plugs in and then there's the, you know, school one."

"I was just wondering if anybody had brought in a new pencil sharpener because I read on Ms. B's website she'd like a new one."

"Well the one is pretty good and then the other one, like with a, um, what's that thing?"

"Crank?" I offer.

"Yeah, crank, well it's good if you want to sharpen colored pencils but not good for regular pencils."

"Oh so you use the electric one for regular pencils and use the crank one, the school's, for colored pencils. Did your pencil bag come with a sharpener this year?"

"Yeah and sometimes I just use that one but not for colored pencils, just regular ones."

"Well that's handy to have one at your desk in case the line is long at the pencil sharpener."

"Oh yeah."

Meaningless conversation filled with meaning. Here's my theory on conversations with kids: keep 'em talking. If Jake wants to talk about pencil sharpeners today maybe he will want to talk about peer pressure tomorrow. I figure if he is comfortable talking and he knows I'm listening then I'll hear more and miss less.

Maybe I'm a little sensitive about conversations with my kids. Maybe it's because I have one child for whom conversation flows and another child for whom conversation drips. I don't take words lightly.

So if Jake wants to tell me scene by scene the latest episode of Star Wars The Clone Wars I'll listen. Even when there seems to be no point at all, there is.

Operation Silenced Parrot

2009-10-15T12:16:00.001-05:00

Because when you have a child who is special, you need special operations. The first of 2 briefings covering our current operations

Zach's social skills teacher is floored that he repeats things, floored! "He can't do that!" she says. Oh but he can, I think.

"How has he gotten away with this?" she wants to know. The social skills teacher continues, "I said, 'Zach what did you have for lunch today?' and he said, 'What did you have for lunch today', but didn't answer the question, he just repeated what I said."

"Well sometimes Zach repeats because he doesn't know what to say but he knows he is expected to say something," I offer.

"Well he has got to stop," she states. "He may not know all the answers but he can do more than he's doing."

And with that she demonstrates the procedure for carrying out what I'm calling Operation Silenced Parrot.

Step 1. Ask Zach a question, start with something he can actually answer. "Zach are you ready for school?"

Step 2. If Zach begins by saying "Are you rea", hold up your hand indicating he should stop. (Confession- as the social skills teacher demonstrates this with a series of spoken stops, nos, shhs plus hand motions, I can't help but think of that scene in the Austin Powers movie where Austin shushes his teen-aged son.)

Step 3. Ask again.

Step 4. If Zach repeats, nip it in the bud and remind him that you've asked a question and he needs to give an answer, no repeating.

Step 5. Ask again and praise him when that sweet voice answers the question.

At home I inform Andy of the task we've been assigned. At school I share the new information with the teachers. We're all on it.

Operation Blood Pressure Cuff De-Sensitivity Training

2009-10-15T12:15:00.002-05:00

Because when you have a child who is special, you need special operations.

Zach doesn't like having his blood pressure taken. Ok, he hates having his blood pressure taken. Maybe it's the giant cuff slapped onto a small arm, the weird tube attached to an odd-shaped bulb, the simultaneous sound of suction and tightening of the cuff, the not knowing if it will ever stop squeezing. No big deal because rarely did we need to know Zach's blood pressure. But now it's important to know and the doctor wants a record of it.

Last check up we, the doctor and I, tried unsuccessfully to takes Zach's blood pressure. There was quite a bit of resistance on Zach's part so the doctor and I said soothing, reassuring things and took turns putting the cuff on our own arms with smiles on our faces indicating it is safe AND fun to get one's blood pressure taken. Zach didn't buy it. We gave up when Zach cowered in the corner protecting his arms. As the doctor pointed out, any reading we managed to get would be higher than normal and therefore inaccurate.

I promised the doctor we would work on this at home, maybe enlist the help of the school nurse, and get Zach comfortable with the cuff. Desensitize him, make this seem so very normal. The next day I visited the school nurse's office and explained the situation and the plan. When Zach visits her office, she will attempt to take his blood pressure. Initial resistance is fine, this may take some getting used to, but consistency is key. The nurse agreed to be part of this mission. I asked where I can get an old cuff to use at home and she told me she'll send one home in his backpack. Super!

At home, Jake, Andy and I randomly pick up the cuff and place it on our arms. We squeeze the bulb and listen to the sounds. "Cool, this is fun!" we say. Jake does a great job wearing the cuff and acting as if it's the neatest thing ever. Zach warms up to the idea and we manage to get the cuff on his arm for a few seconds and I consider this a small step in the right direction. When we're done, I leave the cuff out, highly visible, in the family room, on the ottoman. See, nothing scary here. Just a blood pressure cuff lying around.

All part of the plan.

Same But Different

2009-10-13T20:05:00.015-05:00

"My son was asking if Zach can hear? Is he deaf?"

The question catches me off guard. "No, he can hear," I explain to the mother of Zach's classmate, "but he is language delayed and he is behind in social skills too."

"Oh," she says, "I was just wondering."

"Sure, no problem, I'm glad you asked." This reminds me that a visit to Zach's first grade class is overdue.

Just a few days later I visit the class to talk about Zach's differences. Having spoken to the teacher, Mrs. W, ahead of time, I have a sense of what the other children are noticing and questioning about Zach. I am prepared with an array of simple drawings to illustrate my points and I've brought along a book about bad habits.

I walk into the classroom and Zach comes over to me and says what he always says when I show up at school. "Get your backpack and go home?" Sweet boy. "3 o'clock," I remind. "Mom is here to read a story."

The first graders are sitting on the area rug and I take my place in the rocking chair. Zach tries to sit still on the back row but ends up pacing around the room. I begin my story about Zach by explaining that their school is named for a boy who was different. A boy whose body didn't work the same as theirs and he lived in a bubble. A boy who was different. "Zach is different too," I tell the attentive classmates. "But first let's talk about some of the ways he is the same."

Using the simple drawings I talk about how Zach has a family who loves him, a big brother too. Hands shoot up. "I have a big brother!" someone blurts out. "Me too," another adds. "I have a sister but she's little," another admits.

Oh good, audience participation. "Yes, lots of you have brothers or sisters and that's just like Zach. That's one way Zach is the same."

I talk about how Zach is learning so much this year and that he really likes to read. I mention his favorite books and a few kids are compelled to mention theirs. I share some photographs of Zach doing some "normal" things, things they might do too. The photos grab Zach's attention and he paces my way to take closer look. Zach riding a horse, Zach playing baseball, Zach on his scooter, Zach with his brother. Same type of pictures the other kids might take. Same.

"In lots of ways Zach is the same as you, right?" I ask. They nod yes. "But let's talk about some ways that he is different." And with this I launch into a list of differences and offer explanations without ever mentioning a diagnosis. I start with the obvious- Zach's lack of language. Simply put I tell them Zach just doesn't have as many words as they do. "He's still learning and he has more words than last year but Zach needs extra help to learn words." I look at the four classmates who were with Zach in kindergarten and they confirm that Zach does know more words than last year. "Zach sometimes leaves the room and goes to another room just so a teacher can help him learn more words." Zach comes over to me. "A present?" he asks. "No, Mom is talking to the class, it's not time for a present."

Next I bring up eye contact. "Have you noticed that sometimes when you talk to Zach he doesn't look at you, he doesn't look at your eyes?" A resounding yes from the crowd. "It's like he's not even listening isn't it?" Yeah. "Sometimes Zach isn't looking at your eyes because he is thinking and for him to understand what you're saying, he has to look away," I explain. "But sometimes he really isn't listening. He's daydreaming, thinking of something else and that can be frustrating for you. I know because it happens to me all the time!" They giggle.

"Have you ever seen Zach get really excited about something?" I ask. Lots of nodding. "What does he do when he is excited?" Many students begin whipping their arms around perfectly mimicking Zach. "That's right! When I get excited about something I clap or cheer but when Zach gets excited he whips his arms around and sometimes jumps up and down. He is so funny when he does that, isn't he?" Yes they all agree. He's funny, not weird, not strange, funny.

"And have you noticed that Zach sings songs and talks about TV shows when he should be working?" Oh yeah, they've noticed. I explain that Zach has a big imagination, same as you, but instead of keeping lots of thoughts inside, like you do, he lets them all out. Different. So when he's thinking about a birthday party, he starts singing the Happy Birthday song and when he's thinking about a favorite cartoon, he says all the words to favorite episodes. A few kids throw out characters they've heard. Thomas the Tank Engine, Barney, Handy Manny, Wow Wow Wubzy. One boy says, "Zach really likes Mickey Mouse." Someone agrees and adds that Zach sings the Hot Dog Dance song alot. I mention that Zach does a great Goofy impression and I hear it randomly at home. "Gowsh," I say in my best Goofy voice. The kids crack up.

Zach climbs on the bean bags piled behind the rocking chair and I continue. " I know that you've asked Mrs. W about Zach's fingers so let's talk about that. Do you know what a habit is?" I explain that Zach started biting his nails months ago and that led to biting his fingertips. The kids are very aware of this because the behavior is intense and the intervention has started. The kids noticed the specially designed chart encouraging Zach not to bite. If he doesn't bite his fingers for a specified time, he earns stickers which are traded in for time of the computer. "It's just a habit," I explain. "Like tapping your pencil, twirling your hard or chewing your lip but the teachers are helping Zach with his habit because it keeps him from doing his work." They nod. They get it.

I glance at the clock and begin wrapping things up. I finish by saying that Zach is so special because he is different but that they are special too. "There are lots of things I can teach Zach and there are lots of things Mrs. W can teach Zach but you are extra special because you teach Zach how to be a friend. He is watching you and learning from you everyday. He likes to come to school and he loves it when you play with him, especially chase at recess. So you all are very, very special."

A kind boy from last year's class raises his hand and I call on him. "When I see Zach on the playground, I open my arms and Zach comes up and I give him a hug and then I say 'Come on Zach!' and he chases me." I have managed not to get emotional as I talk to these children about Zach's differences but this beautiful, simple illustration of compassion and friendship nearly does me in. I take a breath and say, "You are a good friend."

Finally I read a Berenstain Bears' book about breaking a bad habit. Zach takes interest in the book for a few seconds then roams a bit more. He is anxious when I'm in the classroom but always settles down after I leave.

I thank the kids for listening and for being good friends to Zach and they are prompted to thank me for coming in to read. Zach asks once more, "Get your backpack and go home?" I kiss him and say "3 o'clock".

The day is coming when the kids won't be so kind, right? Isn't there an age when discrimination takes root and one child's differences are good enough reason for another kid's bad behavior? I've heard some heart-breaking stories from moms of children who are different. It gets harder as they get older they all say. But for now my Zach is a different dolphin swimming in a sea of goodness.

Grown Up

2009-10-13T13:21:00.013-05:00

Yesterday Jake and I went to the dentist. He was scheduled to get sealants on his four permanent molars. As we pulled into the parking lot I assured him, once again, that this would be an easy appointment. Even easier than getting your teeth cleaned. "When you're finished," I promised, "we'll go right to the store and buy candy." Jake was all for it.

Jake settled into the dentist's chair and I took my place in the corner on a small, rolling chair. The hygienist started the procedure and things were going well, for about 3 minutes. Then came the placement of a cotton roll and another type of absorbent pad and Jake started to whimper. The whimper escalated to a low intensity wail as the hygienist repositioned the cotton roll and pad and reminded Jake that she can't put the sealant on if his tooth gets wet. She worked a minute or two despite Jake's mild wailing but then stopped, looked at me and said, "I can't do this if he doesn't settle down," with frustration in her voice. I rolled forward, wiped a tear away from my boy's face, said a few encouraging things then I rolled back into my corner.

An assistant was called to the scene and they started again, positioning cotton and drying the tooth but before the tooth was properly cleaned, Jake began crying again. The hygienist and assistant assured him that nothing would hurt and he should just relax. This bit of information didn't comfort Jake and from the corner of those big, blue eyes dropped a couple of real tears. I looked at him lying stiffly in the dental chair, scrappy legs, scuffed sneakers, hands tucked nervously beneath his body and I knew he needed to be rescued.

We're outta here Jake. Those cotton rolls are the worst. I remember the way they taste from my own childhood. And that other cotton pad has those sharp edges that cut into your mouth. Ouch. They're pulling your lips and telling you to open big and commanding you to not swallow. It's all too much. I hate this place. Everything smells weird and there's too many mystery tools on that tray behind your head that you can't see. Don't look at it, just trust me, it's scary. Let's make a run for it, we'll go get that candy and pretend all this never happened. Who needs sealants anyway? I didn't have them when I was a kid and look at me now. Those fillings in my molars are holding up just fine. On my count, we bolt for the door. Are you ready?

I rolled up to my boy and asked the hygienist to please give us a moment. I pulled Jake to a sitting position and put my hands on his saying, "Take a breath, Jake, just breathe and let's talk about it." He tried to nod and breathe slowly but wasn't quite ready. "It's OK Jake, nothing they are doing hurts but I know the cotton tastes bad, doesn't it?" He managed to nod yes. "And that other cotton pad feels sharp in your mouth, right?" Again with the nods and Jake began to breathe easier. "It's very important that they keep your tooth dry because the sealant paint won't stick to a wet tooth. If you can't settle down then we need to leave. That's OK if we have to leave but then we will go to the other dentist (referring to the pediatric dentist) and you'll need to drink the special medicine (a wooze-inducing potion) for him to put the sealants on your teeth." I could tell that he was taking all this in so I kept going. "So you have to help me decide what to do. Do you want to try again here or do you want to go to the other dentist and take the medicine? It's your choice."

My big, little eight year old who wanted to be brave told me, "Try again. Stay here." "OK, let's try again." I squeezed his hands and helped him lie back down in position. I didn't roll back into the corner. I stayed really close and kept his right hand in mine. Small boy, big moment. The ladies began again and offered encouragement and left the frustration out. I gave a play-by-play for Jake and told him "Now she's got the mirror and you're feeling the metal part, now she's painting the stuff on and you're doing great keeping everything very dry, now she's getting out the special light to dry it and it kinda looks like a mini light saber." Doing great Jake, doing great.

I was overcome with pride for my boy's bravery which led me to ante up the reward from gum to something much better. "Jake I am so proud of you that I think you've earned a special prize. I'm thinking we'll finish up here and head over to Target." He squeezed my hand. Now you're talkin' Mom. "Maybe a new Lego set?" "Oh yeah," he managed to say through an open, cottoned mouth. Talk of the trip to Target got us all through the remainder of the procedure. Four teeth with sealants, done.

I gave Jake a hug and told him I was so proud that he tried again and did it. Maybe it seems like he is a wimpy kid and the tears were unjustified but it was real to him which means it was justified for me. We went to Target for that victory purchase and he cruised the Lego aisle debating over different sets. He settled on a very expensive set which I declined to purchase. "But Mom, it was FOUR teeth and it was hard," he reasoned with sincerity. Truthfully, the trip to the pediatric dentist and the magic potion would cost five times as much as that Lego set but I did have to draw the line. "Christmas wish list," I offered and then redirected him to some reasonably priced rewards.

"How did it go?" Andy asked when we got home. "A shaky start but Jake really pulled through," I said. And me too, I thought. Today was real mom moment. One of those times when I realize I am the grown up, I am the one who (supposedly) has all the answers, I am the one who (allegedly) makes everything better. I too pulled through at the dentist's office and my reward is watching my boy grow up right in front of my eyes.

My Marathon

2009-10-06T14:04:00.040-05:00

Back in the day (as my nephew says to describe events that happened a few years ago) the only people who ran marathons were marathon runners. Professional-type runners. People who are experts at running and who run all the time, not people who just up and decide "hey I'll run a marathon". But times are changing and regular people are running marathons. My neighbor ran a marathon or two and so did one of my close friends. Neither are professional runners and I've heard their stories of chiropractic visits and steroid shots but of the exhilaration that comes from trying something new, pushing themselves farther, reaching a goal.

I don't get it. Every time I see a runner on the edge of the road, sweating, looking determined yet tortured and wearing a belt of water bottles one thing comes to mind- crazy. I don't see the exhilaration. I don't see the goal. I'm not inspired to get my sneakers on, strap a water bottle to my waist and push my body to new limits. Why on earth would anybody want to run for miles and miles with no end in sight? Crazy I tell you. Crazy. I mean good for you and all if you're planning to run a marathon but crazy.

In January I announced to Andy that I was going to write a book. In fact, I had already started work on the outline, organizing notes I'd made for years, making good use of the quiet, long weekend Zach and I spent at home while Andy and Jake were enjoying the snow in Colorado. It was supposed to be a family trip but plans change and Zach and I got off the plane before it left the gate in Houston. I, wife and mother, formerly employed as an interior designer and then a teacher and having no formal writing classes or experience, began a project that was brand new and would push me far beyond my comfort zone. Really who just up and writes a book? Regular people don't, writers do and I'm not a writer, am I? I feel a case of crazy coming on.

Andy could have said, "You, write a book? Why?" But he didn't. Instead my be-the-action husband said, "Good, it's about time." He knew I'd always wanted to do this, to write a book. He knew I had this in me. For years I'd dreamed about writing an incredible story, one that captivates the reader and makes her care and feel and think between the lines. I wanted to write something that would have a reader missing the characters at the end of the story wondering what happens next, why did that story have to end? But as someone who loves to read and who has pined for characters after the story ran out, I just couldn't imagine pulling it off. And really do we need another book? One trip to Barnes and Noble proves my point. Thousands of published books, some incredibly good. What would I write to compete for a space on the shelf? So I set the dream aside because I didn't have a story to tell.

I kept thinking about it though and over time I realized I had a story. My beautiful Zach was born on a Thursday and almost slipped away on a Saturday but he didn't and every day with him is a bonus. He will be 7 years old in a month. His life, his differences, the difference he makes, that's my story. I wrote entire chapters in my head before I ever wrote anything on paper. I wrote notes and phrases and ideas on scraps of paper. I jotted down possibilities for the title and colors to be used on the cover and then finally in early February I started typing. Just to make it real I told my family about the book. I shared it with a few friends too. No one said I was crazy.

The goal was to finish the book in 40 days. I didn't meet that goal. Even with a thorough outline and many chapters completed in my mind, it still took more than 40 days to get it on the computer. The boys would be out of school the first week of June and I barely got the book finished before summer descended. The day I typed that last sentence through tears I hit save, threw my hands in the air and pumped my fists much like a runner does when he crosses the finish line. Then I put my face in my hands and prayed.

It is exhilarating to take a dream and make it into a goal and then work to achieve it. It's scary too because my little dream of writing a book was safe in my head and I could visit that dream and it always turned out the way I wanted. Who needs the struggle, the moments of insecurity and the doubt that comes from actually chasing a dream? Add in the persistent thought that time could be better spent on something real not some crazy dream and I could talk myself out of accomplishing anything. But not this time.

So that was my marathon. I started running and didn't stop until the finish line, the last page, the end. My goal was to write a book and I did. But I'm getting ready for another marathon, I'll need to find an agent who thinks my book is good and who will sell it to a publisher. The odds are against me to get the book published but I am working as hard on this goal as I did the first one. I'm moving ahead scared about what may not happen but excited about what just might. Published or not, it won't diminish the fact that my dream of writing a book became a completed goal.

What's your marathon? Tell me I'm not the only one out here with a crazy dream.

Listen

2009-10-02T18:46:00.008-05:00

I hear Zach upstairs. He is on the computer in the room right above me. I hear the Handy Manny theme song playing. He's probably going to play Watch Out Mr. Lopar on the Playhouse Disney website. Now he's saying phrases from the game. Sweet scripting. Now it's quiet, he must have logged off. Steps on the stairs and then the voice. "Mama, where are you? Mama, where are you?" I don't answer because I want to hear him say it again. I want to hear anything he has to say. What a beautiful voice my Zachary has and anytime he decides to use it
I am all ears.

Play Ball!

2009-10-01T11:45:00.006-05:00

The fall season of Little League baseball has officially started. I'm buying lots of Gatorade and washing lots of baseball pants. There's red dirt all over the floor mats in my car and a baseball mitt being "broken in" under my mattress. Most of the emails in my in box are related to practice times, practice agendas, game strategies, game re-caps and snack sign-ups.

I have a friend who is new to the Little League world as this is her son's first season playing. We met for lunch recently and talk turned to our boys and baseball. I mentioned that we should get the boys together for BP and she said, "what's BP?" "Batting practice," I explained. "Oh," she said, "I've got to learn all the baseball lingo.

Well I know a little lingo from having a baseball-playing husband but I know a lot of lingo from being a baseball fan. There are certain things a fan needs to know in order to fully support her team, especially as each player comes up to bat. In honor of my new-to-baseball friend I offer the following list.

Things to Say at a Baseball Game to Your Batters

1. As your player comes up to bat- "Be a hitter!" or "Hit it hard and run fast!" or "Bring 'em home" (only appropriate if your team has a runner on base).

2. After your batter swings and misses- "Good cut!" or "Nice cut!" and vice versa.

3. After your batter swings and misses again- "Now you're ready" and maybe add "Hit this next one" also "Shake it off" if your batter looks stressed.

4. If the batter just tips a ball you can say encouragingly- "Got a piece of it!" and if he hits the ball but it goes foul then you can say "Straighten it out!"

5. If your batter strikes out- "Get 'em next time".

6. When the next batter comes up- "Start us off".

7. Men on base preferably one in scoring position, tell your batter- "You're the man, you're the one" and add "Bring him home!"

8. When in doubt you can always say- "Swing hard!" or "Put the bat on the ball" which would seem obvious but I hear fans suggesting it anyway.

9. Always remember that a "GO fill-in-the-kid's-name-here GO" works well too.

Well that should get my friend started. What did I forget? You tell me what you've yelled at a baseball game, in support of your team of course. Maybe another day we'll share things to say if you want to get thrown out of the ballpark and/or embarrass your child. I've heard a few of those sayings, too.

Quotes I Love

2009-09-30T14:06:00.003-05:00

"Why see the action when you can be the action?"

Andy Davis questioning my suggestion that we see all the live Shamu shows first and then, maybe, go to the Sea World water park later, maybe.

We went to the water park.

Explaining Marriage and Divorce to an Eight Year-Old Boy

2009-09-29T11:58:00.009-05:00

"Why did Eric's mom and dad move to different houses?" Jake asks me. His second question was prompted by his first. He and I were in the car driving to church and Jake asked, "Will Eric be at church today?" My social Jake is thinking ahead to the buddy he can connect with and sit by at church. I answered the first question very easily. "Eric probably won't be at church because this is his weekend with his dad at his church. When you see him at our church that's his weekend with his mom," I rattled off. Jake asked the second question and the answer wasn't so easy.

I'd talked to Jake about our friends' divorce when it happened months ago but this was an opportunity to talk again. What's the simple answer to why do a mom and dad live in different houses? They can't stand each other? Seems harsh to say to an eight year old. They fell out of love? Sets my boy up for thinking love is something you randomly fall in and out of not something you decide. They aren't happy? Don't get me started on "happy".

So I begin. "When two people get married they decide to be together forever, like best friends forever, until they die. A very long time. Like when Dad and I got married we said we would be best friends and husband and wife forever, until we die and when we had you and then Bebe (Jake's name for Zach) we said we would be a family forever. Sometimes people who are married decide that forever is too long. Sometimes a mom and dad fight and they fight so much they don't want to be together anymore. When two people who are married decide they don't want to be together anymore they get a divorce and move apart. That's what a divorce is and that's why Eric's parents have two houses."

"But even though Eric's parents are divorced they still love Eric and his brother very much. They are still parents, just not husband and wife, just not a family like they were," I add. "Just so you know Daddy and I are not going to get a divorce and you will never live in two houses, ok? We will be married forever."

I take a breath and Jake asks, "Do I haft to get married?" That's not a typo, he said "haft". "No, you don't," I quickly reply, "but one day you might want to get married and that's why you have to choose very carefully who will be your wife. Very carefully because forever-until-you-die is a long time. Because even when you choose carefully things are still hard sometimes and you have to work to be best friends forever."

"So does that answer your question, Jake? Do you understand what I've said about divorce?" I probe. "Yeah, can I watch the monster trucks DVD now?" he replies. I turn on the car's DVD player and think to myself yeah you can watch monster trucks now just be aware that marriage happens and divorce happens and things are complicated and simple but you don't have to make sense of it all right now. Just be eight today watching monster trucks and knowing your mom and dad and brother live in one house and we are a family forever.

Pick Your Battles

2009-09-28T19:05:00.002-05:00

Zach put a big, new bottle of shampoo in his backpack this morning.

I let him take it to school.

But I did place it in a large Ziploc bag so it wouldn't leak inside that fancy Pottery Barn Kids monogrammed backpack. I wrote his name on the Ziploc because Zach likes to see his name on bags.

Good mother or enabler? Maybe both.

Facebook

2009-09-24T11:45:00.016-05:00

I'd heard about Facebook but I was resistant. My sisters started Facebook pages and then my mom did too. Still I resisted which caused my sister Amy to threaten, "If you don't start a Facebook page, I'm going to start one for you." Fine, whatever. A few days later I get an email from Amy letting me know my Facebook page is up and I should check it out. I click on the link and she has in fact started a Facebook page under the guise of being me.

I am anxious to read my info to see what "I" wrote. Hmmm, Amy's gotten most everything right, even my favorite foods. She's remembered my favorite song, too. My favorite song from 1982. Are there a few things I could change or add? Yes but then I would be doing my Facebook page and this is Amy's Facebook page of me. I scan down and see that I am a member of a few groups. Who knew? I click on photos and see that Amy has uploaded some random pictures from her collection to my page. She's also made an album called "My Sisters-My Best Friends" and filled it with photos of herself and Chantel. I then spend a few minutes clicking on my first, few friends, checking their "status"and perusing their photos.

Amy emails me to see if I like my page. Sure, I write back, but can you put some pictures of me and my family on my page? She tells me I can do it myself, easily. Never mind, I write back. Amy asks for my email password. "Why do you want my password?" I ask. "Are you saying you won't give me your password?" Amy questions back. "Maybe I won't. It's not safe to give out your password," I respond. "Why do you want it?" "So I can get into your address book and find more Facebook friends. It does a search and then makes requests for you!" she explains. I type my password and send it to her.

The friends start trickling in. Everyone I request to be my friend accepts me! This is all very nice. I click around and read my friends' updates and look at their photos. A few people send me messages and I respond to them. Clicking, clicking, reconnecting and remembering and then I realize I've been on the computer for 50 minutes. My how time flies when I'm doing "nothing". It surprises me how easy it is to spend nearly an hour reading that someone needs coffee, is packing, has a cold, just made cookies, ran 3 miles, can't find a decent plumber, wants his team to win, will be glad when the weather changes, etc. It takes a while to read the status updates of over 100 friends. Yeah that's right, 100 friends. I'm very popular.

So I find myself on Facebook infrequently and when I'm there it's usually a short visit. Maybe I'm not that into Facebook because I'm afraid. I admit it, I'm afraid. That blinking status cursor scares me. How do I sum up what I'm thinking, feeling or doing in just a few words? Can I be honest on Facebook or do I have to be funny and cheerful? Should I try to say something witty or clever or just keep it simple? The pressure is too much and that's why I type a status update in the box about every 2 months. There's something else I must admit and that is my inability to upload photos to the Facebook page. I know, I know it's "not that hard" but I can't/won't do it. The Facebook page is pressure for me which is why Amy had to start it in the first place.

I did check my Facebook page today and was thrilled to see a friend's status update saying her husband is still cancer-free! Recent blood tests gave a good report and she is rejoicing and thanking God for that good news. She will get lots of comments from friends congratulating her and I can imagine that will make her day even sweeter. I love this use of Facebook.

I check the request section of my page and see that I have 2 friend requests (one is from Gator Pit BarBQue), 1 page suggestion, 1 causes video invitation and 67 other requests. A quick scan of the other requests reveals someone has thrown a taco at me starting a Food Fling, I'm up for the nicest person award as well as the most lovable person award, my presence is requested for a game of Mafia Wars and if I accept some kind of flower, I can fight global warming. The list continues yet time's up for this visit to Facebook so I won't be getting to all those requests today, probably not tomorrow either.

Please don't take it personally if you tried to "request" me for something and I didn't respond. I'm not really sure how all of that works. Ditto for me sending you fun stuff too. I've heard I can send a cupcake to someone but I don't know how to do that or why I would do that. Even though I lack a passion for all those fun extras on Facebook, I do like to read your updates and see your family photos. It's nice to have a quick way to keep up with what's going on in my friends' lives.

Thanks for checking out the blog and I'll see you on Facebook, maybe.

Something's Missing

2009-09-22T11:13:00.009-05:00

I rarely have bad dreams or nightmares but when I do there is a reoccurring theme, my teeth are falling out. There are variations on the theme such as the events leading up to my teeth falling out or the setting in which my teeth fall out but the bad dream culminates with me trying desperately to catch my falling teeth and put them back into place. Go ahead and analyze this if you'd like. My bet is that the teeth are symbolic of all the many pieces of my life that need to be in order yet keep falling apart. Cramming them back into position is my attempt to establish order. Another very plausible interpretation is that the many years I spent at the orthodontist as a teenage having my teeth manipulated by ungloved hands sporting long fingernails made a lasting impression. I don't really like to think too much about teeth.

Motherhood offers up plenty of opportunities to face my fears and to think about things I don't like to think about, namely losing teeth. A year ago the dentist mentioned to me that Jake had his first loose tooth and did I want to take a good look into his mouth and see it? No, not really but I did because moms need to know this type of stuff. Yes indeed there was a wiggle in a lower tooth. Here we go, I thought. Teeth falling out.

Finally, finally, late last spring Jake lost his first tooth and not a minute too soon as Zach was showing signs of his own first loose tooth. Oh the disappointment of having little brother lose a tooth first. Jake pulled the tooth himself which wasn't too difficult considering he had worked it over for days and the tooth finally surrendered. I had to look at the tooth and the spot it occupied but I didn't enjoy it. At the same time I'm teary eyed because my first born has lost his first tooth and he is so proud. We discussed the possibility of the Tooth Fairy coming that night and I suggested he put the tooth under his pillow and see what happens. I did think to ask what Jake knew about the Tooth Fairy ("she brings money, sometimes toys") and this helped me to know what his expectations were regarding her visit.

I really don't think Jake "believes" in the Tooth Fairy. In fact, if he actually believes that a fairy enters his room at night, checks for the tooth under the pillow and then leaves money, candy, prizes or toys then I have made some terrible parenting mistakes. He's too smart to fall for the fairy story but he is also too smart to miss an opportunity for money. The next morning Jake excitedly reports that the Tooth Fairy came by, left him a favorite toy AND didn't take his tooth! Now he can start a collection! The tooth is tucked into a tiny, plastic treasure chest and placed on a high shelf.

Jake begins work on loosening a second tooth and I make it a point to show Zach Jake's new space in his mouth and his old tooth in the treasure chest. I talk to Zach about his own loose tooth and ask him to wiggle it. Zach complies and I hope he understands that teeth will come out and new ones will fill in and that's all very normal.

Jake managed to lose his second tooth at school which means he took a victory walk to the nurse's office where he was checked over and provided with a tiny, tiny treasure chest for the tooth. Hats off to the elementary school teachers around the country who daily witness teeth being wiggled, twisted and pulled while they educate and to the nurses who give a pat on the back and offer a keepsake chest. The Tooth Fairy visits again and this time she leaves money.

The teeth just keep falling out. Jake loses his third and the fairy brings money again. Cha-ching! He starts to work on the neighboring tooth. Zach checks out Jake's latest loss and then wiggles his own two very loose teeth. A wiggling obsession grows and I fear I will have to pull the tooth myself if Zach can't manage to do it. But as I try to approach his mouth with my hand, he fends me off. I back away and then eventually leave him alone.

Zach pulls the tooth or at least wiggles it until it falls out. No one saw it happen and Zach's not telling the tale, but a tiny gap in my sweet Zach's mouth shows that he has lost his first tooth! My baby has lost his first tooth and it is nowhere to be found. We all excitedly congratulate Zach on this milestone and then comb the carpet for the tooth. No luck and I must let it go. Maybe he swallowed it? Ugh, I can't think about that. Later I manage to STEP WITH MY BARE FOOT on the lost tooth. I pick it up and place it in Zach's own treasure chest. Zach doesn't know there is (is not) a tooth fairy but Jake does so he makes sure Zach's tooth is under the pillow at bedtime.

The next morning Zach finds a Kit Kat under his pillow. How on earth did the Tooth Fairy know that is his favorite treat and means more to him than money? Before I know it the Kit Kat is eaten and his second tooth is missing. After a barefooted search, I conclude he really did eat the second tooth which prompts Jake to ask if the Tooth Fairy visits you after you lose a tooth but can't find it to put under the pillow. This make-believe stuff gets so complicated.

Losing teeth and getting new ones. All part of growing up. Soon those new teeth will be in, crooked no doubt, and we'll find ourselves at the orthodontist where beautiful smiles are created and nightmares are born. All part of growing up. Braces on, braces off. High school graduation then college. My boys will grow up and go away but later, not today. Today my Jake believes in a fairy with an endless supply of cash and my Zach believes Kit Kats grow under pillows.

Book Character Parade (or a good reason to wear a costume to school)

2009-09-18T10:47:00.009-05:00

This week my boys' elementary school held its annual Book Character Parade. Students are encouraged to dress like their favorite story book characters and then file through the halls and gym carrying books to match. It is a greatly anticipated event in our house because wearing a costume to school is fun! This year's parade was held earlier than last year's which means I had to make a trip to Party City in early September versus late October. Jake had spent ample time researching Star Wars Clone Wars costumes on the Internet and decided Clone Trooper Cody was this year's choice for trick or treating. Slap a Star Wars book in his hand and presto Jake is ready for Book Character Parade. One costume, two events. Cost per wear is already down to $10.

I arrive home from Party City with the correct clone trooper costume (there is more than one clone trooper) plus an Obi Wan Kenobi costume for Zach. Party City got me on the clone trooper blaster (illegal to carry in the parade but legal in the neighborhood) and clone trooper gloves plus two new candy pails to use later next month. Jake tries on his costume and gloves and tests out the blaster. He asks me if he can sleep in the costume and I say no because "if you get a tear in it I'm not buying another one and that fabric can't be washed so I don't want it to get dirty and this costume has to last until Halloween so you have to take good care of it". Sorry he asked, I'm sure. I didn't mention that the label clearly states in four different languages to "keep away from fire". I would be a terrible mother to let my child sleep in such hazardous apparel. I do let him keep the blaster by his bed.

Zach tries on the Obi Wan costume and is very complaint as I tie the sash around his tunic. I suspect the compliance is based on Zach seeing the new candy pails and thinking we are headed out for a big night. My suspicions are confirmed when he grabs his new pail and walks to the front door. Zach points to the lock he can't reach and says, "I want trick or treat, open it." Bless his little, live-in-the-moment heart. "Oh great," Jake says, "now he wants candy and you're going to have to get us some."

I explain to Zach that this is just practice, new costumes, practice. While explaining I remove the Obi Wan costume because it is too big on my boy and resembles a dress worn over pajama pants. The superman costume from last year, and the year before that, is pulled from the closet and I hope it still fits. Zach willingly steps into the costume even as I continue to say "just practice". Superman fits! Just barely. We can make it one more season in this costume and the cost per wear is down to $4. I'm feeling very proud of my recycling efforts. The boys take off their costumes and I hang them (costumes not boys) safely in the closet.

On Book Character Parade morning Jake gets dressed in a flash and I'm wondering why we can't have that kind of enthusiasm every morning but oh yeah, he is a clone today and most other days he is just a boy. Zach seems skeptical about the costume scene this morning, probably thinking that costumes and backpack don't go together, costumes and treat pails do. Reluctantly he suits up in the Superman costume as I promise there will be treats in the pails after school. "Really?" Jake asks. Really. I place the Superman book in Zach's backpack and that makes it official.

At school the boys go into their classrooms and I walk toward the gym to secure a prime viewing position for the parade. Camera in hand, I am ready to photograph my characters as they parade behind their teachers and with their classes. I was here last year too, camera in hand waiting for my kindergartner Zach to enter the gym. His teacher came in followed by his classmates but no Zach. Maybe I missed him? How would I miss him? Minutes later Jake comes by and I get a blurry picture of him because despite my yelling "Jake, over here, over here!" he couldn't find me and didn't want to hold up the line stopping to look.

After last year's parade I found Zach and another teacher in the hallway. He looked scared and nervous, overwhelmed too. The teacher said Zach saw the children and heard the music and didn't want to go with the class so she stayed in the room with him. Too much.

Maybe Zach will go with his class this year. Maybe he will just fall in line and walk proudly holding his book just like the hundreds of other kids this morning. But even if he doesn't that's OK, I can't base the value of today on if Zach participates or not. He does lots of things well and I'm reminding myself of this as the music begins playing over the loudspeaker signaling the start of the parade.

It is fun to see the principal dressed as Cat in the Hat and the assistant principal dressed as a doctor offering flu shots. It's interesting to see the P.E. teacher dressed like an elf right down to the striped tights. But it is thrilling to see my super man walk into the gym with his first grade class and look right at me. Zach has an unsure look on his face that tells me the crowd and the costumes and the music are a little much but he's there, he is parading with his class. Zach's class leaves the gym headed for the hallways and in minutes Jake and his second grade teacher and classmates come by and I watch him scan the crowd for me. "Jake, Jake!" I call. He finds me and I snap his picture. Easy does it, easily.

Before leaving the school, I locate Zach in the hallway and hug him, telling him how proud I am. The teachers are proud too. "He did great" they say over and over, remembering that last year Zach wouldn't leave the room. It would have been OK if Zach stayed behind this year but it was a sweet moment watching him move forward.

As promised, there were treats in those pails waiting for my boys after school. I told Jake he looked very, very cool in his clone trooper costume and then Jake and I both told Zach what a good job he did. Zach didn't have any response other than the smile he wore as he checked out the contents of his pail. "Worth it" he's probably saying to himself. Worth it for sure.

Quotes I Love

2009-09-14T10:54:00.001-05:00

"It's not the load that breaks you down, it's the way you carry it."

Lou Holtz

Urban Legend: The Skill Crane Story

2009-09-11T11:45:00.013-05:00

Thanks to the miracle of DVR my boys are able to record and repeatedly watch episodes of Sponge Bob Square Pants. Every episode has its own unique story line so it's a little hard to pick a favorite but we all really enjoy the one called "Skill Crane". Zach is especially fond of this episode and is no slouch when working the DVR remote control. He is able to select a favorite part of the show and watch only that part many, many times. Irritating to anyone who actually wants to see the show in its entirety.

In "Skill Crane" Mr. Crabs has installed an arcade game in his restaurant in hopes it will bring in money. Skill crane is the name of the game and it involves a player using a joystick to position a crane above a toy prize, hit a button to release the crane's claw and then watch the claw possibly touch the prize but snap shut before it can grab the prize. Game over. No prize for the player but money in Mr. Crabs' pocket.

Ask any child about the skill crane game and he will know exactly what's you're talking about. He will probably share his own experience of the game with you. "Mom said I could play just once so then she gave me a dollar and I had a toy in the claw and I almost pulled it up but it was stuck so I didn't win anything but then I told Mom that I loosened it up and if I had one more dollar I know I could get it this time. Mom said no but my dad said to let him try and then he tried like eight times and couldn't get it and my mom said we'd wasted enough money and she could have bought a very nice toy with that money. My dad said that's not the point, the point is the skill and the challenge and the victory." Every story ends the same way. No prize.

Zach loves the part where Sponge Bob wins a toy on the first try. A stuffed bear he names Beary. Sponge Bob pulls the toy from the prize chute, holds it high in the air and says, "I'm a winner!" Sponge Bob continues to play and win, even getting two toys in the claw at once. There's no way that could happen in "real life". Squidward, an acquaintance of Sponge Bob's, tries his hand (tentacle) at skill crane but with no luck. He spends all his money, even his savings, and never wins a prize. Now that's more realistic.

Just a few days ago, Zach and I were leaving the grocery store and I notice a skill crane game near the soda machines. Zach sees it too. "Do you want to play skill crane?" I ask. "I want skill crane," he answers. Duh. Now it would seem that I am setting Zach up for disappointment except a quick glance at the machine before I offered a chance to play told me that Zach can play til he wins! As in, if the crane's claw doesn't pull up a toy, the player gets a chance at some cheap candy and the crane on that side always picks up a treat. So I figure we're good either way AND this machine is just fifty cents per game.

My small wonder, armed with two quarters and a memory of Sponge Bob winning every time, inserts the coins into the slot and the music starts. A stress-causing digital counter has started to tick off thirty seconds and I tell Zach go, go! He nimbly works the joystick, positioning it over a dog whose head just happens to be in the perfect, upright position. This compared to the other animals that are tossed about and packed down in a sure-to-lose manner. I glance at the counter. We've got enough time to really position the crane and make a play for that dog. I place my hand over Zach's thinking I'll just help a little and at that moment he hits the button that releases the claw. Gasp! We both watch as the open claw settles right on the dog's head, snaps shut and the crane begins to pull it up. Zach and I watch in silence but my mind isn't so quiet. The dog is coming! The dog is coming! Oh is his body going to be stuck? No it's coming! Oh the claw is swinging too much, it will drop the dog. Wait, wait....yes! The dog is released into the prize chute and Zach looks at me with big eyes. Fifty cents and fifteen seconds.

Zach takes the dog from the prize chute, holds it high in the air and says, "I'm a winner!" Then he hugs the dog and says, "I'll call you brown puppy." He tucks the brown puppy into a grocery bag and we go home. Nothing to it.

Later I ask Jake, "Guess what?" "What?" he replies. "Zach won a stuffed dog playing skill crane at the grocery store," I report. "No way," Jake says. I show him the brown puppy to prove it. "First try," I add. "I can't believe it," he says, believing it.

Did you hear the story about the boy who won a skill crane prize

on his first try?

The legend is true.

Binding Binders

2009-09-10T11:52:00.012-05:00

The start of a new school year brings new opportunities for organization. Backpacks and lunch boxes get labeled. Homework baskets are emptied of last year's leftovers and await new assignments. A bin overflowing with fresh socks and fancy new sneakers by the back door ready for duty. Times are good!

At the start of each school year I get a new binder for the boys' important school papers, progress reports, report cards, communication from the teachers, etc. This is not where I keep school work they bring home. That's stashed elsewhere. The binders are just for the really important papers.

So I'm hole punching papers and putting them into Zach's new first grade binder and then I do the same for Jake. Jake doesn't have a second grade binder, he just has a school binder. Jake's papers haven't filled the binder I started for him in preschool so I continue to add to it. Zach gets a new binder every year. This bit of organization leads me to pull out all the past binders and make sure I've got them labeled correctly. This leads me to pull out a big stack of papers that should be in a binder but I was overwhelmed with the pile and just stuck it under my desk. Now I've got binders and piles and stacks everywhere and I'm wondering why I just didn't slap a label on the new binder, put the papers in it and leave well enough alone.

I stack all the binders and papers related to Zach on the counter next to Jake's binder and it hits me. Hard. My beautiful first grader has accumulated a towering stack of papers and my beautiful second grader has a thin binder with room to spare. Jake's binder contains evidence of a typically developing child, doing well in school, reaching each academic milestone with ease. Not much to see here. Zach's stack contains evidence of a child who was diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder at age 3. His stack contains evaluations, tests, diagnoses, prognoses, educational goals to meet, educational goals met, classroom accommodations, behavior interventions, areas of concern, special challenges and I could keep going.

I am feeling bound by these binders. One small boy, so much information. He has come so far, according to the stack of papers, and he has so far to go, according to the same stack of papers. I glance back at Jake's binder. What if Zach's binder were the same as Jake's? What would it be like to have two boys who scamper through school days and check off the years with relative ease? What if, I wonder. But what if I didn't have these two amazing boys? No lunches to pack, no homework to do, no missing sneakers to find. No papers to file, no feelings to feel.

I place Zach's giant tower of evidence under the desk except for this year's binder. I put that one next to Jake's. We'll just take it one school year at a time, one semester at a time, one 9 weeks at a time, one week at a time, one day at a time, one morning at a time. There are some sad facts in our past and there are some scary unknowns in our future and I can't do anything to change that today.

There is no paperwork in either boy's binder that tells the truth. Sure the papers say quite a bit about reality but the truth is that I have two incredible children filled with love and curiosity and compassion and spunk. There are big plans for those little lives and I know that to be true even if I don't have a report to back it up.

I won't be bound by the binders.

New Blogger's Pledge

2009-09-08T11:04:00.007-05:00

Welcome to my blog! There is a very good reason I've started this blog but I'll save that story for another day. For now, I'll start with a preview of things not to come.

I will not be posting cute photos of my children just to show you their "cuteness". Trust me they are the most beautiful, talented, interesting people in the world, but so are yours.

I will not be posting photos of or recipes for delicious dishes I made for dinner. Also I will never recommend that your day will go smoother if you'll just start dinner in the crock pot early in the morning. Although it is a special surprise to suddenly remember, "Hey, dinner's in the crock pot!" this is the only time I will mention it.

I will never post anything about how to get into shape. No news about diets, exercising and fitness in general. I will not be training for any type of race, run or triathlon and I won't be achieving any fitness goals so this eliminates a need to tell you about them. Sure, being healthy and fit is important but the topic makes for a really boring read.

I won't be offering advice on how to be a super mom and super wife.

But I will share stories about a life that's not what I expected and exactly what I wanted.

Thanks for reading.
Christina