Leaving Oz

A Thanksgiving Story

2008-12-01T00:02:00-08:00

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. It has all the best parts of a holiday—family, good food, cozy togetherness—without the stressful parts like gifts or costumes or bouncehouses. Thanksgiving is, I know, stressful for many moms because of all the cooking. Lucky for me, I don’t cook much. Actually hardly at all. When I do contribute food to a holiday, I usually bake.

For me baking is pleasurable not only because it results in my favorite foods, but because it represents to me happy family time. My mom baked a lot when I was growing up, usually with me at her side. So although I have no idea how to cook a turkey, I do know how to whip up a cake or cookies.

This Thanksgiving my contribution was pumpkin cheesecake. I had my recipe all picked out from Real Simple magazine. But my husband, the head chef, nixed it for fear it was too simple. Instead he turned to the Internet, one of his favorite cookbooks, and chose what he thought was a more gourmet recipe. I was game; like I said, I KNOW how to bake.

I enlisted the help of my kids, since I am determined to continue the baking tradition started by my mom. As my son merrily crushed gingersnaps and mushed them together with butter using his hands, I encountered my first problem. The springform pan I was using was about an inch and a half wider than what the recipe called for. No problem, we crushed and mushed some additional ingredients. Along the way, we encountered a few other bumps. In an attempt to increase the recipe to fit the pan, I ended up falling short of cream cheese. Another trip to the store. After separating the eggs I accidentally threw away the yolks without realizing they were called for in the recipe as well as the whites. More eggs to separate. When I got to the mixing stage where the batter was supposed to be light and fluffy, it remained thick and liquidy. I reviewed the recipe again and again and confirmed I hadn’t missed anything. With each disappointment I felt myself getting more and more frustrated.

Fast forward to the cheesecake course of the meal. I didn’t hold out much hope for success, and my expectations were met. The cheesecake was a soft, mushy mess, not even close to the consistency it should have been. Everyone politely had a bite then wolfed down my mother-in-law’s famous flan—myself included.

My frustration grew, a feeling I couldn’t shake even an hour later after guests had left and I was washing dishes. “What a waste of time!” I thought. But as I wallowed in my self-deprecation a new thought occurred to me. Days later, no one will even remember what they ate at my house for Thanksgiving dessert. But years later, my children will remember Thanksgiving day in the kitchen with their mom, the smell of turkey roasting, Christmas carols playing in the background, working side-by-side to create something delicious—even if that something delicious is simply a happy family memory.

Wildfire on campus

2008-11-17T07:47:59-08:00

The phone call from my son, Hethaestus, came early Thursday evening. "Mom, I thought you should know. A wildfire started in the hill just above Westmont College. It's reached campus, so everyone has been evacuated into the gymnasium. The gym is built of cinder-block; it's fire-safe. I'm at the apartment, so I'm ten miles away, but I can see the glow from here. Two of my roommates are still on campus, and lots of my friends. I've been texting them--everybody seems safe."

"I'll start praying," I said, "and let my Moms In Touch college group know so they can pray."

"Good," he said. "Thanks. And could you see if you can find a website that gives current information, and let me know what you find?"

"Of course."

I didn't stop to be fearful, I had tasks to complete. I sent an email, said a prayer, and found the website for the Montecito fire department. It listed a mandatory evacuation for the area around Westmont campus, and nothing more. It was 7:50pm. The fire had started two hours earlier. I found a website for Channel 3 news in Santa Barbara, which had a little more information. The Westmont website had an emergency information number, which said that all students were safe and accounted for in the gym, and firefighters were battling spot fires on campus.

When I relayed this information to my son, he said that his friends in the gym said it was getting smoky and it was surrounded by fire. That raised my alarm level. Had the college miscalculated, thinking the fire would not get that far? Would the students be incinerated even though they thought they were safe?

I found the disaster preparation plan on the college website. It indicated that the gym was able to withstand fire all around it. "The college has in place a cache of supplies intended to enable us to safely hunker down in the gym for up to several hours--ample time for the fire front to consume combustible nearby vegetation and move on." So they knew fire might get that far. And they believed it to be safe. I felt a little better.

At 9:30pm, I got an email from Westmont, sent to all parents. It assured us of the safety of the students, and provided a link to The Independent, Santa Barbara's newspaper. I clicked the link, and read the account of a reporter on the scene. He said "the chapel and several residences are on fire at Westmont, it is very windy, and embers are flying around everywhere." The article concluded "Westmont is ablaze."

Alarmed, I called my son. He asked for prayer for Reynolds Hall, the beautiful old wooden English classroom building. "You mean the one that had C.S. Lewis's wardrobe in it?" I asked, remembering the tour he had given me.

"That's the one. Fortunately the wardrobe is on tour right now."

"I'll pass on the prayer request. And then I'm going to bed."

"Good night, Momma. Sleep well."

I checked The Independent's web site first, and saw their newly posted pictures of exploding palm trees and burned out cars. I read about the "sundowners", hot dry Santa Ana winds that were gusting up to 70 miles an hour.

I went to bed, and lay there with images of gutted cars and flaming trees slamming through my brain. Sleep was impossible. I wrestled with God. Why would he burn down a Christian college? That beautiful little white chapel in the center of campus, where both children had spent precious time with God, why would he let that go up in flames? Then, I prayed. I prayed that the winds would die down and give the firefighters a chance. Finally I got up, and checked the Westmont website again. It said that conditions had improved, that the fire had moved through and they were able to bring food from the dining commons into the gym. It listed buildings that were known to be lost. The list was short, and Reynolds Hall was not on it. I checked The Independence. It said the winds had dramatically reduced.

I slept.

In the morning came the pictures of daybreak on Westmont College. And even though they lost eight structures, fourteen professor's homes, and an enormous amount of vegetation, the major buildings all survived. The ancient oaks still towered over the charred grounds. Reynolds Hall, the formal gardens, and the little wooden chapel looked untouched. And everyone was safe.

I felt limp, as though I had been fighting the fire all night. I felt numb. My son's freshman dorm had burned, and his beloved resident director's house, and all that landscaping that made the campus feel like an oasis. I felt violated, that this place of safety to which we had entrusted our son had been subject to forces it could not control. But then, I thought, isn't control always an illusion? Our possessions, our very life can be taken from us at an instant. A fire just strips away the veneer, the perception of control.

Then I joined the Facebook group Westmont College Prayer & Support for Tea Fire and wept as I read the comments of love and support from around the world. And I knew with certainty that some good would come of this. I don't know what, but I'll be waiting expectantly.

Halloween Aftermath

2008-11-17T06:00:00-08:00

The week after we went trick or treating, I noticed Rex was a bit off. He was more fragile, whinier, touchier, and hadn't eaten more than two bites of any meal. Yes, he went trick or treating. Yes, we allow the kids to take one or two candies from the bag during the day. No, we don't lock the bags up or store them in high places where they can't be reached. The cute felt bags which their grandmother had given them this year were in full view and very accessible in our kitchen.

I felt the honor code was working well. They asked me if they could have a treat, and I would either say yes or no. Accordingly, they would eat or not eat. At least, that is what I thought...

Last weekend, a week after Halloween, my husband caught Rex earnestly chewing on something. He asked him if he was eating candy. Rex shook his head no, but would not allow his father to see what was in his mouth. Even though he was caught "red-tongued," if you will, Rex continued to lie about eating the candy. This was turning into a serious offense as the boy's stubbornness refused to relent.

My husband took Rex to his room to talk to him about lying when he spotted a candy wrapper sticking out of the heating vent. He picked it up and held it before Rex, daring him to continue to deny eating the candy. After much howling and wailing, I believe Rex yielded, admitted his guilt, and promised not to lie again.

Case closed. Right? Well...

My husband decided on a whim to check out the heating vent. He peered through the spaces of the register and saw some more paper down in the vent. He lifted up the register out of the floor, and saw to his horror piles of candy wrappers stashed in the hole in the floor. He called me into the room. I gasped. When I stuck my hand down into the heating tube, my long fingers were able to pull out even more wrappers! The boy had been eating probably ten pieces of candy on average a day and stuffing the evidence down the heating register!

Suddenly my perspective on the week came into sharp focus. Of course, he wasn't eating. Obviously, he was whiny and strung out on sugar all week. And maybe he was feeling bad about hiding it all from us? Is his young 4-year old conscience a little bit at work?

Most concerning for us was the doing the whole thing in secret. We are grateful that we had the opportunity to bring it into the light and to teach him that all the stuff we do behind doors eventually gets found out. It's better to confess and have it out in the open. And we pray that we will be parenting with enough wisdom and grace, so that that doesn't seem like an impossible option as the kids get older. I remember vividly all the high school shenanigans I pulled behind my parents' back, and I desperately want something different for our family dynamics.

Maybe it starts with dealing with candy wrappers in your heating ducts at four years of age.

Sound Sampler Strife

2008-11-13T10:03:45-08:00

Earlier this summer, I took my younger son Nick to a music class to settle an ongoing argument we’ve been having over what instrument he might want to learn.

When they were young, I coerced both my boys into taking piano lessons. Erik stuck with it for 5 years, even though the last 3 years were sheer torture with daily tantrums and tears during practice time. Once Erik took up a band instrument (clarinet in 5th grade, then switching to alto saxophone in 6th grade), I released us both from the Piano Wars. But we both still have battle scars from them.

Nick has taken 2 ½ years of piano and I’ve already incurred more casualties with him than with the first son. I’m ready to transition him onto another instrument NOW. I found a great book from the library about how to pick the right instrument based on your child’s natural temperament, titled Musical Instruments for Children: Choosing What's Right for Your Child by Richard Crozier. I found it highly insightful and much of the author’s assessments, while generalizations, do have some basis in truth from my own musical experience. So, from studying this book cover to cover, I am thinking that either 1) flute or 2) drums would be a good fit for Nick.

Of course, Nick always has to find his own way and solution to things. He is extremely different from me and our ongoing struggle is always about me learning to just let him be who he is, not who I think he should be. He told me he might like to try violin. The blood froze in my veins. Just a personal bias, but I cannot stand the sound of string instruments unless they are very low (cello or bass) or they are played extremely well.

I tried to dissuade him. “You’ll have to practice violin TWICE as much as another instrument – I heard the orchestra teacher tell her kids that at Erik’s concert last year. You already hate practicing piano for 20 minutes a day. Are you prepared to practice violin for 40-60 minutes a day?”

The truth was that I knew *I* wasn’t ready and it would lead to my certain death.

Several months later, Nick told me he might want to try the trumpet. I didn’t have any personal problem with that, but I didn’t think he had the physical stature and lung capacity to be successful with it. He is the skinniest kid you’ve ever seen and I wasn’t sure he’d be able to get a good sound out of a trumpet, much less hold it up with his hands for any length of time. This time, I tried to let it go and just let him exercise his free will.

BUT, since I couldn’t really let it go completely, I signed us both up for the Sound Sampler class at the CSMA. It was a 2-hour class that would give him a chance to sample (really touch and play) several different instruments – it sounded like a great idea! He reluctantly agreed. When the class rolled around 3 months later, he claimed he never agreed to this and did not want to go. But I was on a Mommy Mission to settle this issue once and for all.

There were about 24 kids and as many parents who showed up for the Sound Sampler class on a Sunday afternoon. We were split into smaller groups that would rotate through the different rooms where they’d have a chance to try the instruments. Nick was placed in a group with two other 9-year old boys. We went to drums first. Of course, they all enjoyed the drums – it was loud, and they got to pound different things with sticks. What was not to like?

I whispered encouragingly to Johnny’s mother, “Wow, Johnny seems to have a knack for the drums!”

She whispered back to me, “We’ve already talked about this—NO drums.”

On to the next room. There were clarinets and flutes to try. The boys started with the clarinets – and blew so hard that nothing but high pitched squawks and squeals came out. As a former clarinet player, it was almost too much for me to bear – I’m sure I had an awful look of pain on my face the entire time. I think the teacher, a young woman, was too conflict avoidant to actually tell the boys to stop doing it. They switched to flute. Nick was able to get a sound out on the first try – not an easy task. He looked really pleased with his achievement.

After the guitar room, we had a short break and I could see the other moms talking with their sons about what instrument they might like to play. My conversation with Nick went like this:

“So, Nick, what do you think? What instrument do you like so far?”

“I’m not going to tell you. Don’t even ask me until the END of this thing. And don’t ask me then either. I’ll tell you when I decide to tell you.”

Our battle raged on.

Things degenerated after the break. We went to the trumpet room next, and waited as the teacher strolled in 5 minutes late. He had a thick accent and told the kids to breathe and to press on his stomach and chest (harder, HARDER!) to understand how to breathe properly. Then he told them to spit (not THAT way, THIS way!). It was unbelievably comical. Johnny’s mother leaned over to us and said, “Oh my gosh, this is like a bad Saturday Night Live skit, isn’t it?” And it was.

Off to the string room – for violin and cello. The string teacher had clearly had enough and asked us what time it was – I’m sure she was counting the seconds until it was over and she could go home. She also used mostly hand signals and touch to tell the kids what she wanted them to do. She went around silently and robotically moving fingers, arms, and hands to where she wanted them to be.

We all skipped the last room – keyboards – since all of our boys were already taking piano lessons. It had been a long afternoon – and we were relieved to be able to leave early.

On the way home, Nick finally leaked out some information. “I think I might want to try the flute. Or the drums. Either one of those. Or maybe guitar too.” We have no room in our house for drums, and with a mere 10 feet between our house and our next door neighbors, there was no way we could manage drums. But I knew if I, like Johnny’s mother, said “NO drums”, then that is exactly what Nick would fixate on and the battle would continue.

I’m realizing though that Nick may just not really be into music. And I’m coming to peace with that. Music was such a big part of my childhood experience (piano, clarinet, flute and sax) and I enjoyed it so much and was able to continue playing in college. But Nick isn’t me – he is very different from me, and he is much more interested in taking digital photos, making movies, and learning to program in visual basic on the computer. So, I’m preparing myself for the day he quits, probably as part of the mass exodus of other instrument-quitters after 6th grade when the instrument requirement is fulfilled. And I will be ready to give it up completely this time. I hope.

Stepping Up to an Unpopular Position

2008-11-04T08:18:17-08:00

I read a quote over the summer that keeps rolling around in my head. It was from actress Diane Keaton, talking about how nothing challenges your values like having children. It's easy enough to say what you believe--and even say it with conviction. But until you're called to live out those values in front of your children, or enforce them on behalf of your children, they're just empty words.

For me the rubber met the road this past weekend when my 10-year old daughter was at a sleepover birthday party with four other girls her age--girls who, for the most part, have different rules in their homes than we do. Girls whose families are all apparently okay with letting them watch PG-13 movies.

The movie in question was "Step Up 2," a romance about two teenage dance students from different backgrounds. A movie that includes not only "realistic threats and dangers, violence or threat of violence and/or stories in which children are hurt or threatened" but also "provocative dancing and kissing" (information taken from youngmedia.org).

Knowing our views on PG-13 movies, my daughter called home when she and her friends were on their way to the video store, being driven by the mom of the birthday girl. (She called using her 10-year old friend's cell phone--see what I'm up against?). Giggling, and with an audience, she asked if it would be okay if they rented Step Up 2. Well aware of the social pressure she was under, I asked her to please let the mother know that we are not comfortable with that and would really prefer that they choose a PG movie. They went home with Step Up 2. A few hours later, my daughter called and asked to be picked up from the sleepover.

Did her declaration that the movie violated her family values lead to the next few hours of group dynamics so uncomfortable that she felt painfully left out? It's worth noting that at no time did she get mad at me about this; I think she knew full well the movie was inappropriate. In fact, she later said to me "I'm okay with not watching PG-13 movies until I'm 13."

The bigger question is, should I have spared her the embarrassment and said it was fine for her to watch a PG-13 movie?

Some people I've discussed this with said yes, I shouldn't have made an issue of it for her sake. But I know what I believe, and that's that I want to protect my children from media that exposes them to frightening or provocative images. I also know that I want to be the kind of parent who lives out what I claim as my values, regardless of whether that's popular or not.

I'm just saying, it's not easy, and it's not fun.

My Son Broke My Mom's Nose

2008-10-23T12:52:22-07:00

Our much anticipated visit to my parents' home at the end of September was fraught with one challenge after another. About ten days before I was to leave for Ohio, I had arguably the biggest fight with my mom that I've had since living outside of her house. Raised voices, locked doors, hanging up on one another... it was bad. I almost cancelled the trip, but I knew that would be a mistake made in the heat of my emotion.

Then, after my mother and I reconciled which was a small miracle (thank you, Lord!), the power went out in my parents' home for seven days. Every day, I would call, as the date for our departure drew nearer, and ask, "Is it on yet?"

And she would reply, "Not yet. Maybe tomorrow."

And I called back the next day, "Is it on yet?"

"No, not yet."

My mom was pretty calm the first four days, but by the fifth day, she was losing sleep, wondering if the power outage would ruin her week with the grandchildren. Thankfully, it came back on three days before we left California. (Thanks again, Lord!)

The first several days of our visit were spent celebrating my mom's birthday, reveling in doing nothing all day long, and watching Korean dramas, cartoons and all the other gifts of cable tv. One definite highlight for me was presenting my mom with a scrapbook of memories from my two sisters and me. We had each written her a letter as well as four or five of our most outstanding memories and had compiled them all in a little 8x8 scrapbook, complete with pictures from the past sixty years. She adored it. She laughed over the memories and exclaimed over each photo. My sister thinks she probably shed a few tears in private over the letters. The book was a labor of love, and it was extremely gratifying to see her enjoy it.

Everything seemed to be going well until the last day when my mom took my husband and eldest son out onto the golf course. They don't call her "Tiger's Mom" for nothing. She is an avid golfer and an exceptional athlete. My son, who received his first set of golf clubs from my parents last Christmas, was itching to get out onto a real, bona-fide course. They settled on doing nine holes at a local community golf club.

Apparently, my husband tells me, the first five holes were a dream. They were enjoying themselves immensely, and my son was holding his own. Both father and grandmother were extremely proud. Then, at the sixth hole, my mom came up behind my son to help him with his swing, when the driver came ripping backwards and clipped my mom right on the nose.

My husband drove her to my father's medical office, where he stitched her up before my eyes. I almost fainted watching him tug away at her skin with the curved needle, blood pouring from the cut and internally from her nose. Her face was swollen and purple, and she clenched her eyes shut, blocking out the pain. I squeezed her hand. It's awful to see your mom wounded like this.

When my son came out of the car, he ran to me, buried his head into my waist, and sobbed. Overwhelmed by terror and remorse, he felt so completely awful. My heart went out to him. My husband in his wisdom was able to calm him and also to warn him to be careful about thinking thoughts that weren't true of the situation. "It's not your fault. It was an accident. It's...not...your...fault."

My dad, after stitching my mom up, drove her to the nearest emergency room, where the cat scans showed she had suffered two fractures. Since they were due to leave on a cruise in three days, they were relieved to hear that even though her nose was broken, they could still travel. As we waited at home, packing up our suitcases to prepare for our journey home the following day, my son wrote his grandmother a get well card. It read:

Dear Halmoni (Grandma),

I hope you get better soon. I love you.
I am sorry that this happened.
I really wish it hadn't happened.

Hope we can play golf again soon!

Love,
Charlie

I loved that he could be so optimistic in the midst of a painful situation. He can be very hard on himself, but his spirit is still full of hope. For me, this visit with my parents was bookended by some hard and difficult situations. Emotional and physical hurt intertwined with expressions of enduring love. At the end of the day, we're still on each other's side. It's complicated. It's messy. It's family.

Love What You Do

2008-10-17T06:00:00-07:00

What’s your calling? I’m not sure many of us have even given it much thought—at least not since our years of mothering started. In college, it seemed like few things were more important than finding a career path. In recent years, it’s the farthest things from our minds.

Motherhood, surely, is the highest calling. No job in the world is more important than raising our kids right. But some of us are called to do other work in addition to parenting—sometimes for personal fulfillment, sometimes for financial gain, usually for both. Many of my stay-at-home mom friends whose kids are now in full-day school are thinking about working again, some with more excitement than others. All with some degree of trepidation. Moms, I have one piece of advice for you—those of you re-entering the workforce and those who are called to stay at home: love what you do.

For some reason, few things bring joy to my heart like a person who loves what they do. When our microwave broke a couple of months ago I called for service. Pete showed up on my doorstep, all six and half feet of him, a hulking, tattooed presence reeking to high heavens of cigarettes. My daughter took one look at him at high-tailed it to her room; I kind of felt like doing the same. But my most important appliance was broken and Pete was here to help.

To my surprise, he ended up being not only one of the most polite and articulate repairman I’ve ever entertained, he took the time to explain in detail what was wrong with my microwave, what it would cost to fix, and why I was better off just buying a new microwave—oh, and what I should look for to get the most value for my money. The guy clearly loved his job. It was the best $85 I ever spent on a repair call—especially considering nothing got fixed. As I watched his hulking form retreat down the driveway I felt like shouting “you’re a great guy Pete! Don’t let anyone get you down!”

During the first decade of my career, when I didn’t have children to give me perspective on what really matters, I felt every challenge and disappointment deeply. Some days I would sit in my car reading my Bible before walking into the building. One of the verses that sustained me was Colossians 3:23:

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as your reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.”

At that time the evil megalomaniacs running our company lacked any similarity to our Lord Christ, so keeping my eyes on Jesus, instead of them, helped me get through.

But it’s a great reminder for how we should live each day. Who am I serving? Am I embracing my work—whether it’s a pile of laundry or a technical white paper—with the joy of one who is working for a reward in heaven?

We all know what it feels like to love what we do. When I’m energized and excited about my work, it bubbles my mood up to a higher plane. It casts a glowing halo around everyone I come in contact with. It makes it much easier to meet challenges with grace and courage. Why then do some people choose work they do not love?

A stay-at-home mom I know has all the resources a mother could want—a wonderful husband, darling, healthy child, gorgeous home, tons of friends. Incredibly, she complains about how hard her life is, despite the fact that her husband has encouraged her to hire help—any kind for any number of hours. But she refuses; she feels it’s her job to care for her child and home. Yet she’s miserable.

I just want to say to her: love what you do. If you don’t love it, change something.

Then again, there are stay-at-home moms who seem to do it all, not just going through the motions, but mothering with true joy. They are gifted, and they are blessed.

Take our friends Dave and Krista as great examples of loving what you do. They are smart, wonderful people—especially smart in that they’ve built a life for themselves based on what they love. Dave is the son of a doctor, a college graduate, and Krista has even completed law school. But their calling was unconventional: Dave teaches surfing and rents out bikes for riding on the beach. Krista trains, boards and cares for animals. Dave is passionate about surfing. Krista is passionate about animals. They are happy and I admire them tremendously.

One of my favorite sayings is “if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t no one happy.” Nothing could be more true, especially if your children are as perceptive as mine, tuning into every nuance of my non-verbal behavior to sense my mood. Motherhood is my calling, and the most important thing I do. But so is working for pay. Because that’s my calling, I need to love what I do. Anything less would be irresponsible to my family. It’s about my attitude, to be sure, but it’s also about making sure I spend my days in a way that energizes me.

A few years ago my business partners and I hired an executive coach. Our goal was to take a hard look at how far we’d come, more than five years into our business, and to figure out how we wanted to move it forward. One of the many great exercises he did with us was to have us list what energizes us about our work—what specific tasks or activities got us really excited? Then he had us list what drained our energy, and challenged us to think about how to outsource or minimize those tasks. A simple enough thing to do, but it yielded a ton of insight that has helped guide our decisions ever since. Try it and you’ll see.

No one loved their job as much as John Keating, the English teacher portrayed so brilliantly by Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society. When Mr. Keating first meets his students he teaches them the meaning of carpe diem: seize the day. He has one of the students read from Robert Herrick’s 17th century poem “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time:”

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.

The best scene of the movie comes at the end, after Keating is fired, when the students literally take a stand on his behalf, shouting “oh Captain my Captain” and climbing on top of their desks.

Guess what. Time is still a-flying. Now is the time to gather rosebuds. Do you love what you do—how you spend each day? Are you living your calling? All I can say is: carpe diem.

My Speechless Ultrasound

2008-10-08T09:55:13-07:00

I wanted to send an update about my latest prayer request. For months, I've been dreading what I had to go through being over 35 years old and pregnant. I've been asking for peace of mind to get through the genetic ultrasound done that is done at 18 weeks.

When the test was done for my first pregnancy, there were multiple "markers" that indicated brain damage, down syndrome, and trisonomy 18 defects. We forewent doing the amnio, since we were committed to have the baby, defect or no defect. We had to undergo regular testing to monitor the status. Needless to say, we endured months of tears, agony for months, waiting to see something change. It wasn't until testing was done later in the pregnancy showed that everything was fine. The results had been false negative.

So going into the test this second time, Hubby and I were very stressed. We braced ourselves for a set of "markers" and a pregnancy frought with worry once again.

I was lying there on the table, telling myself "God knows best, God knows best, God knows best....", as the doctor rattled through a litany of numbers, measurements, and data, as he rolled the ultrasound wand over my belly. "Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.." was the partnering mantra going through my mind, as I waited for his diagnosis.

After what seemed a lifetime, the doctor left the room. Oh, great. The doctor came back with the senior physician, who then began to perform more measurements. The skull, the abdomen, the lungs, the heart,... down he went from head, down to the baby's toe, measuring this and that, all the while poker face. The doctors exchange medical talk, all Greek to me.

When he was done scribbling on his chart, my heart stood still. This is it, Bonnie. Be strong. I expected him to turn to Hubby and me and say what was said last time, "Okay, you can get dressed now. I will meet you to in my office, where we'll go over the results of the ultrasound." Tremble.

Instead, he looked at us and reported, "Well, the baby looks healthy. Everything looks good." What?! Really?! Nothing else? Nada. And with that, the senior doctor exited the door. We finished the ultrasound with the younger doctor, asking him to take some "pictures", just for us.

As the take-home pictures were being snapped and the doctor was counting the fingers and toes of our baby, my heavy heart was broken. Not with sadness or worry like last time. This time, my heart broke out in song, pouring out with joy and shouts of praise in disbelief. With tears streaming down my face, I just laughed lying there, like a madwoman on the table, savoring every little grainy pixel of my new baby.

Now, the fun stuff! With abated breath, we eagerly searched the ultrasound monitor for hints of "boy" or "girl". Hubby couldn't contain himself and let out a loud "YYEEAAHHH!!", as we welcomed the news that we will have a new baby join us next March, a sweet baby boy -- just what we wished for!

Our excitement must've rubbed off on the young doctor, because he turned to me and said, "But now you'll be outnumbered!"

"No, not at all! It's what I've always wanted. Now, with my three boys, I'll always be the one and only Princess of the family!" Giggling, I just closed my eyes and said, "Thank you, thank you, thank you.." to God.

As I was drying my tears, getting dressed, a verse flashed through my mind:

      "Naked I came from my mother's womb,
      And naked I shall return there
      The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away.
      Blessed be the name of the LORD." Job 1:21

Given I have had a miscarriage with this twin pregnancy, a very, very difficult 18 weeks of bed-ridden nauseusness, and a very negative ultrasound first time around, I have been focusing on preparing for "the Lord has taken away".

Praying only for peace, I didn't even dare pray for an ultrasound free of defects, lest I get crushed with disappointment.

But, in this case, on this occasion, the LORD has given. And I am speechless.

Sickness and the Empty Nest

2008-10-08T09:29:19-07:00

Okay, I thought I was dealing with the empty nest pretty well. I survived those 17 days of my daughter’s pre-college wilderness experience. That was challenging. Sequoia didn’t get to bring her computer into the wilderness. Or her cell phone. So I had a hard stop in communications. Seventeen days of silence.

I flew to Chicago the day she returned from the wilderness, and helped her move into the dorm. We caught up, shopped for necessities, hugged, cried. Okay, I cried—she was fine. We passed notes when the orientation sessions got boring. I flew home three days later and started a new job.

Sequoia emailed every day. We talked twice on the phone. All seemed well. But then, after mailing the second package in two weeks, she fell silent. No response to my Thursday email. None Friday. Nothing Saturday. Nothing Sunday. Monday I decided to send an “R U alive?” text. But first I checked her Facebook page.

Yup, she was alive. She’d changed her status at 6:08 that morning. Okay, maybe in the Midwest it was 8:08am. Her status read: Sequoia “is finally willing to admit that she's sick. But she's really not happy about it.”

Sick?! That felt completely different in my mother-gut. How sick? I’d always taken care of her when she was sick. Did she know when she needed to go to the doctor? Had I taught her what she’d need to know in times of sickness as well as health?

I sent the text. “What do you mean, you’re sick? Are you alive? Love, Mom”. Two hours later I heard back: “Barely. I miss your honey and lemon tea.”

That did nothing to calm my fears. I always made honey and lemon tea when she had a sore throat. I texted back: “Is it your throat? Surely your ace food service could make you some honey and lemon tea.” Her food service was rated among the best at any campus in the country. Couldn’t they make my sick little girl some tea?

The response came more quickly this time: “Yeah they can. But yours is better. And it’s my everything. Nose throat and head especially.”

I wasn’t ready to let go of the throat issues. “Are your lymph nodes enlarged?” The response was almost instantaneous. “Yup.”

My mind flew to how sick her brother had been when he got mono. And how sick his fiancée had been with mono her freshman year. I texted back: “You know you're in prime mono territory. Have you gone to health services?”

I didn’t like her response. “No. They jump to mad conclusions. They sent my roommate to the hospital because she was dizzy once six months ago.”

Grateful for v-text, and the ability to text from my keyboard, I fired back: “Can we talk? Swollen lymph nodes mean the presence of infection, which only something like penicillin can counteract.”

Her return text let me know I had overstepped my boundaries and was trying to control from afar. “Ok then they aren’t swollen. I made it up.” I should have stopped there. But I didn’t. I asked more questions. “Can you swallow food? Did you go to class today?”

“Yes" and "yes.” Now I didn’t know if she was just trying to get me to let it rest. “Do you have a fever?”

But then she sent her final text. “I’m fine, mom –it’s just a cold that’s going around our floor.” And she turned off her cell phone. And I’m back to silence.

Ah, the fine line of mothering long distance. She thinks she's fine. Or at least she wants me to think she's fine. And there's not much I can do if she's not fine. She's surrounded by people who, even though she only met them a few weeks ago, already care about her. If she had a serious fever or seriously swollen glands, she couldn't have gone to class or eaten at the food service. And I planted the seed about mono, so she'll be on the lookout for symptoms. So she's fine. She's in good hands. I'll pray that she is fine. And let it go. I can do that. I think I can.

It Definitely Takes a Village

2008-09-23T06:00:00-07:00

One of my favorite novels is I Don’t Know How She Does It, about a woman who wants to be the best mom possible and also have a fulfilling career. Her stories about her crazy life are hilarious and hit close to home.

Some of my friends have said to me “I don’t know how you do it.” Well I’ll tell you how. It’s not a secret. I need a village, both to help me raise my children and to keep me sane. I could not survive without them. In addition to an unshakeable faith in my Creator, there are three key things that keep me afloat, and all of them are people: my family, my friends, and my service providers. My service providers. Does that make you laugh? Read on.

First, my family. Because my husband and I both grew up in this area, we are incredibly blessed to have both sets of parents very close by—two couples, married to their original spouses, who love each other and us very deeply. They are all amazing individuals, and not just because they're our parents. Any one of them will be there for us in any way, shape or form at any hour of the day or night. I never underestimate or underappreciate that.

Second, there are my friends. We moved to this town about three years ago, this town that I grew up in. We moved less than a mile down the road, from the next town over, but for some reason we landed a world apart from where we had been. Here in my suburban Silicon Valley Haven, I met the women of my tribe. Sure, there are many women in my tribe (and I love you all, I do), but until we moved here most of them lived too far away to pick up my kids from soccer practice.

Here’s an example. I am in a book club of about 10 women who all live in this town. One day I shot off a brief email to the group about how I was having a tough week and probably wouldn’t make it to book club. Within minutes I had four phone calls or emails. By the end of the day I had heard from most of them. How could they help? What did I need?

When my friend Kristin’s father had a heart attack, she rushed to jump on a plane and be at his side. Word spread like wildfire at school drop-off, and within an hour, more than a dozen of us moms had called to offer our help to the family.

That’s the kind of community I live in.

Third, there are my service providers. I tallied them recently and pictured what my life would be like without them, and it became clear I simply wouldn’t be able to function.

There’s Erika, our awesome college-aged nanny who takes her job more seriously than most people I’ve worked with in major corporations. Not only does she make our children’s needs and safety her highest priority when she’s working, she also does their laundry, washes our dishes, walks our dog, and generally helps keep our domestic life running.

There’s Patricia, who works her fingers to the bone cleaning our house every week. There’s Paige, our son’s tutor, who was our daughter’s kindergarten teacher and is passionate about kids and education. Ashley, my trainer, who has literally turned me into a new woman. Roni, our gardener, who loves her work and loves it that I talk to her about our yard—and her life--every time she’s here. Stephanie, who takes our young, high-energy Labrador Retriever to the beach on the days he otherwise wouldn’t have exercise. I could keep going, and talk about Nancy and Nathalie and Cindy and so on but would embarrass myself with my long list.

Here's the deal. God designed us with holes in our hearts and souls. A few big holes only he can fill. And lots of smaller holes that can only be filled by meaningful connections with other people. Many of those connections come through serving and being served.

Moms, did you hear that? I said being served. Allowing ourselves to be served by others--even if we have to pay them--is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves. You've heard the saying "if Mama ain't happy, ain't no one happy." 'Nuff said.

When people wonder how I “do it all,” the honest truth is I most definitely don’t do it all. I have a huge village helping me, and helping my family. Some are paid, some are not, but all are people who care very much about serving other people. And when it comes down it, that’s the most important thing any of us can do.

I am very blessed.