What I Actually Meant to Say

Who's Moving the Goal Posts?

2024-06-20T11:58:00.000-07:00

Your dad raised you to be Denver Broncos fans so we don't cheer very often for anyone wearing the KC Chiefs red and gold. But we've always liked Harrison Butker for his calm, measured persona - a nice contrast to the stereotype of a lot of NFL superstars. We also live just down the road from Benedictine College and know plenty of really lovely students, graduates, and professors there. So when Mr. Butker gave the commencement speech last month, we were definitely interested.

Boy, did he give a speech. I doubt anyone expected the level of nationwide attention it received and it certainly sparked some good conversation around our table.

I'm all for differing opinions - Lord knows having a Sunday dinner with you lot generates at least six different takes on any topic. And normally I like to just sit back and listen to you all work your way through any given issue to arrive at the points you actually agree upon. I'd like to think we helped train you to do that. Most of the time we (as in the societal we) agree much more than we disagree. It's just not as exciting to talk about our similarities as it is to thrash wildly about the ways in which we are different.

Having said that, I feel uniquely qualified to speak up on Mr. Butker's speech about what Catholic family life should look like simply because over the years I have been almost all of the types of women he mentioned:

√ College graduate with a double major

√ Young bride married just months after I earned those degrees

√ Young mother having our first baby two years after we married

√ Stay-at-home mother with six children born within 18 years - literally barefoot and pregnant for months and months of my life

√ Catholic Christian

AND also -

√ A writer who valued my education - and the investment my parents made - by "working" even when I was not being paid much (if at all). Over the years I published freelance articles for newspapers, magazines, books of essay collections, and (once the internet showed up) websites. I also co-wrote a book with my father and volunteered as the editor of dozens of newsletters for local community groups.

√ A mother who planned to begin working full-time to help with family finances the year the oldest went to college and the youngest started first grade. And who then found out about #6 due to arrive that summer...

√ A parent who sat with a child who was looking seriously at Benedictine and had the tough conversation about finances. Either we would be saddled with unreasonable debt, or our child would. That seemed irresponsible to us at the time when other education options were available for far less of a financial burden.

AND now -

√ A professional working mother who figured out how to balance taking care of our household with your remarkable father while first working part-time at the church, then earning a real estate broker license, co-founding two small businesses, and landing a work-from-home job in communications that has turned into a full-time, very fulfilling career.

√ With the help of your father who supports us in so many ways beyond just financial, we've created a family life that ensures we can be present for you all, fulfill our own ambitions with the gifts we were given, and pay our bills.

Because let's be honest. Mr. Butker and his wife are terribly privileged thanks to the paycheck the Chiefs give him to use his God-given gift. They don't have to fret about private school tuition, medical bills, car insurance for teenagers, or a college bill from a place like Benedictine.

That's why I wish I'd been his editor. Instead of emphasizing that the ladies in the audience have been told a lie, I would have red-inked the speech to say, "Congratulations on completing a hard-earned degree from a wonderful institution. Your investment (or your parents') has paid off today and we are celebrating all that you have accomplished and all that is to come!

"Keep in mind, graduates, that your career success will not carry you into eternity. Your commitment to your family, open hearts to God in growing that family, and constant vigilance not to let the world's priorities override what you know is true... that is where success lies."

I would have told him to speak to both the future mothers AND fathers. Our fathers are short-changed by the church, in my opinion. We should not underestimate their importance on a daily basis in the home and their ability to support their families 24 hours each day - not just while they are working.

We've been around for a few decades and we've seen some wonderful mothers, to be sure. But we've also seen stay-at-home dads who are absolutely amazing. We have seen dads with demanding jobs who still get up in the middle of the night to change diapers and choose to be home early sometimes instead of attending every networking event. We have seen dads who lost their wives and stepped up triumphantly to serve both roles for their children at great personal sacrifice. Just as we have seen moms coach Little League, lead Scout troops, and work into the wee hours of the night to make some money for their families. We've seen many of them also be thrust into the position of serving both roles for their children at great personal sacrifice.

Every single one of us lives a life that demands an effort at balancing the important things ...and we have to commit to it again each morning we awaken. I hope that one day when I meet God face-to-face that I can say sincerely that I did my best to put my family's wellbeing before my own, worked really hard to use the gifts he gave me, and committed to learning from each mistake so that I could try to be better each day at all of it.

I hope the exact same things for you six as well.

It's that first conversation of eternity that is really going to matter. What friends and neighbors and parents and pastors and pro football players think won't matter that day. I don't think God is expecting perfection, certainly not anyone else's definition of it. He's expecting dedication.

Lastly, and don't take this the wrong way, I don't think anyone should be giving a commencement speech at the tender age of 28.

Just saying...

But he did get some things right on and that bear repeating. Here's one of the best:

"What you must remember is that life is about doing the small things well, setting yourself up for success, and surrounding yourself with people who continually push you to be the best version of you. I say this all the time, that iron sharpens iron."

-Harrison Butker, May 15, 2024

The Dress

2023-11-06T14:06:00.002-08:00

A piece of your mother’s wedding dress

To remember the beginning of our story

Which is your story

I wish could show you our innocence

And the hope that filled the room

The love that had not yet built anything

But was still in the early stages of gathering

We could not be trusted with the whole story yet

But we did not need to know all of it

Just the beginning

And the end

With you

What is built

Together

Dodgeball

2023-01-01T09:06:00.002-08:00

The lively conversation around our table the other night led to choosing a word or phrase to sum up what each of us wants for the new year. I've never been a big New Year's Resolution person, but I do love a fresh start. The wide-open spaces of a new calendar somehow make substantial changes seem a little more possible than the thick-with-life days of an April or September. January is perennially promising.

There were a few different words thrown into the ring... including triumph, wellness, reframe... and a great phrase - "do today what is good for the me of tomorrow". I love how you guys make me think. And how you often put into words something that I've felt but never articulated. I'll be thinking about what is good for the "me of tomorrow" all year long.

Simplify was my word. This life your dad and I have created is full - a really small word to describe a life that is simultaneously chaotic joy and staggering responsibility. We could not have known how life would continue to get bigger and busier over the last decade or so as you've grown and we've sunk roots here in this community. We used to manage diaper bags, bedtimes, and elementary schedules thinking life would simplify when you were all teenagers. Then we managed games, clubs, lessons, appointments, and college applications and figured it would simplify when you were adults. Turns out you still need us to help navigate some of the important decisions of life (not sure why this is surprising since we've called on our parents hundreds of times over the years to help us think through big choices). It's as harrowing to watch you navigate job changes and moves and investment strategies as it was watching you learn to ride a bike, fail a test, or drive away the first day you had your license.

So - spoiler alert - the life of a parent does not get simpler. Jobs don't get simpler. Relationships don't get simpler. Which means if I'm going to simplify it's going to be an active effort.

I've been thinking a lot about that since I pulled a calf muscle yesterday and have been stuck on the couch (maybe God's way of nudging me to simplify by sitting still?). What I've learned over the years is that the key to contentment and wellbeing is not attempting to get rid of what is difficult. The tough things come at us like dodgeballs in middle school PE, surprisingly hard and with near perfect aim at where it will hurt most. There's no predicting those things and, therefore, no avoiding them. But I can get better at being ready for them with a little more attention to strength, agility, and resilience on an emotional and spiritual level. And the benefit of being this age is having figured out what actually serves to increase my strength, agility, and resilience.

For what it's worth on this first day of wide-open spaces, here's my checklist for simplifying:

1. Be okay with saying no. I used to feel compelled to explain why I was turning down some requests for my time. Then I realized it doesn't matter if the one asking doesn't understand. I can never do enough to meet all the needs around me so it's okay to decline the opportunity when it is going to cost too much.

2. But say yes to more things outside of my comfort zone. One of my flaws has always been avoiding things I'm not good at doing. That's a lousy way to grow, and turns out that the opposite of growing is dying. Make room for the opportunity to do things that don't come easily. Simplifying is not synonymous with sitting still.

3. However, be okay with being still. Psalm 46 is one of those verses that comes to me over and over - "Be still and know that I am God." I'll never unpack the full meaning of those first two words. Calm down? Shut up? Sit alone for a while? Seek the quiet so you can really hear? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

4. Find the balance. Why? Because I can't say no, say yes, get moving, and be still all at the same time. I have to decide in any given moment what will best help me get ready to bounce back after an unexpected dodgeball.

Maybe I'll have 2,023 chances this year to say no, or say yes. Maybe I'll carve out at least 2,023 moments to get better at being still so I can really hear. Maybe I'll find 2,023 different words to explain it all. And maybe there will be 2,023 dodgeballs launched my way. All I know for sure is that - much like middle school PE - no one gets a choice about participation. Might as well choose a word and get in the game.

We'll Manage

2022-05-06T07:33:00.009-07:00

"You really have your hands full."

I've been hearing that since I had baby #2 on the hip and baby #1 by the hand. By the time #s 3, 4, 5 and 6 came along I had learned to laugh along and say, "I sure do!"

Juggling balls.

Spinning plates.

Chasing squirrels.

Whack-a-mole.

All apt analogies that capture the essence of exhaustion when it is suddenly, abruptly your turn to balance what feels like the whole universe in your two hands. If you're lucky, someone is standing beside you so there are four hands.

I'm lucky.

We've been managing our full hands (and, oh yes, our full hearts) for going on 30 years. It's been equal parts hilarious, frustrating, happy, sad, draining, and fulfilling. Well, not quite equal. If you're lucky, fulfilling always wins out even if just by a smidge.

We're lucky.

When the babies were babies, the really old people (pretty sure they were in their 50s) told us to enjoy the small-people years because they are the easy years.

"Silly old people," we grumbled to each other. "They forgot what it's like to be buried beneath babies and all their demands. They don't remember how very, very, very tiring it is to be held captive by such needy, greedy dependents who seem to never sleep."

We managed to survive those years.

We grew older (yes...50s). We looked at each other and said, "Oh. Wow. They were right."

And with age and wisdom came a new analogy. Kites.

We spend the years running hard and fast, praying for the right wind, trying over and over for the just-right amount of slack in the line. We watch as some kites easily soar into place on a high breeze, others bounce along the ground for a while before the wind picks up, and still others seem to end up tangled in every tree they can find.

On bright, calm days we stand with our necks craned admiring the artistry of their flight at the end of such a very thin string.

On dark and blustery days we hold our breath and do what we can to remain steady, confident that sunny, gentle breezes will appear again if we can just hold on long enough.

They don't tell us we'll have to hold the strings and crane our necks and untangle and run and hope and pray for the rest of our lives.

Or maybe they tell us but we just don't understand.

Until we do. We get it.

And when we get it, we realize that it's our own parents who have been gripping the strings for us all these years, untangling and running and praying without us really understanding that so often the reason we flew was because of their hands.

Until they must let go.

And we feel the swift downward tug of gravity that is the shared grief of saying good-bye.

If we're lucky, they've helped us fly long enough and strong enough to find an upward draft of breeze that will continue to carry us after the string drifts untethered.

No one tells us.

Or maybe they tell us but we just don't understand.

Until we do.

Fragile Little Christmas

2022-01-05T09:17:00.010-08:00

We cracked a lot of jokes when we gathered around the screen this Christmas to watch the admittedly corny "Rebuilding a Dream Christmas". We were so excited to see the movie filmed in our hometown! There was a lot of pausing and rewinding and happy shouting each time we spotted ourselves and friends we know appearing in the familiar background.

It's so common these days to enjoy (or tease those who do) these sticky-sweet holiday movies with their completely predictable plots, scenery, wardrobe, and actors. I think we're drawn in precisely because they are so predictable. There's something endearing about the gentle story lines that arc along a simple path: money vs. love builds to a tolerable tension dissolved by a reasonable solution that ends in a happy family. Add snow, a baking scene, and a cute kid...magic every time.

Even the deeply committed fans watching their full DVR in their Hallmark movie pajamas know it's over-simplified make-believe. Real life almost never works out so neatly and sweetly. So it's nice to take an hour or two and pretend that it always does...especially during the most wonderful time of the year.

I realized there is a deeper reason why I find comfort in the happily-ever-afters of holiday fairy tales and Hallmark movies where everything turns out better than okay. It's because families - no matter their circumstances - are fragile. They are so easily blown about and bruised and splintered and sometimes even torn apart in ways that feel hopeless. Hopeless because while sometimes the damaging storms are caused by choices and actions that can be reversed, just as often things happen that no one can control.

"It's not fair," you protest when you are little and bad things happen to people who didn't ask for it.

"You are right," is all we adults can offer as we gather you close, knowing you have so much more unfairness ahead of you.

Consider the injustice and anxiety that faced the little family who gave us Christmas (it's all in the second chapter of Luke):

unplanned pregnancy
near divorce
increased taxes and government mandates
difficult travel with no place to stay
such poverty that a stable was the only choice for lodging
government-sponsored mass infanticide
frantic escape to a different country as refugees

That was just the first two years of Jesus' life.

I often comfort myself that, holy as the Holy Family was, Mary and Joseph lost 12-year-old Jesus on a trip to the big city and didn't even realize it until later (story found if you keep reading Luke Chapter 2).

We don't know much else about the day-to-day of Jesus' childhood, but I think God offered that peek into his early years so that all parents from that time forward might feel a little better about the unanswered questions we have and the Hail Marys (holiday pun intended) we throw as we do our best to raise children in a very broken world.

Of course the end of Jesus' life brought his parents the greatest injustice of all...watching a child suffer and die. And even though he came back, I imagine the scars from the damages caused by that particular storm surely remained tender for a lifetime.

So I dust off the nativity scene in these early days of 2022 to put it back on the high shelf until next December, and I realize that each time I take the time to really ponder the story, a little bit more of what I need to learn is illuminated.

The movies offer easy, delightful comfort (and I'll keep watching - don't make fun). But the original Christmas family's story offers more than that. Pay attention and see that though damage will blow through and scars will form, for there is no family able to escape the fragility of this life, it doesn't end there.

"Be not afraid," the angels said over and over. God holds us in his hand and we can trust him as he writes the ultimate story of what is to come for each of us.

Piano Lessons

2022-01-05T07:27:00.002-08:00

We finally had our old piano professionally tuned (poor thing has been moved more than a dozen times - twice overseas and back - with just a few good tweakings during all those years). Considering it's been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, I'd say it sounds pretty good for such an old soul.

Aunt Betty playing the piano long before it was mine.

I learned to play on this piano. My teacher was Aunt Betty, a most forgiving instructor who didn't fuss much when I skipped on theory and asked to play my favorite songs again and again. We kept up our Sunday afternoon lessons for years and had some fun at recitals and success at competitions. She told me I had some talent. I certainly had enthusiasm. Probably because she didn't push too hard. It was just fun learning to play in her living room, taught by someone who adored me.

There were times later in my life when I wondered if I might have gone somewhere special with music if only I'd been pushed a little harder. I wondered the same about ballet and some of my other childhood pursuits. Perhaps I might have been really good if I'd been pushed.

I taught some of you to play on this piano. A few of you went on to serious, professional lessons and became quite good at it. I do love to hear you play. All of you are musical - Lord, the concerts you have produced over the years adding a violin, a clarinet, a trumpet, a ukulele and a couple of guitars, and more seasons of harmonicas and plastic 5th grade recorders than I can count.

There are times I wonder if you might go somewhere special with music if we push a little harder. We wonder that about all of the talents you have. Flexible? You should be in gymnastics. Speedy during footraces? We're signing you up for Cross Country. Have a way with words? Writer's workshop!

It's no secret to even the littlest of you that we're just figuring out this parent thing as we go. I remember so well when a pastor prayed over our tiny firstborn that she would learn the lessons she needed to learn from us, but that God would also protect her from our mistakes. It's not hyperbole when I tell you I've prayed that sentiment daily since then for each of you. God has his hands full.

So when it comes to your talents, we'll just push and pull as it seems right to do. It's likely you'll complain one day that you didn't fulfill your potential in whatever realm you think you might have. It's equally as likely that you'll work through some resentment when you think about the things we forced you to do. It's a given that we'll look back in six different ways and wish we'd pushed or pulled a little more. Or a little less.

What I really wish for each of you is that you always find joy in the talents God has given you, for I believe he chooses them for a reason. It's certainly for what you can offer to the world, but I think it's equally for what it brings to your own spirit in the quiet moments you find to simply relax and enjoy the way your mind, your fingers, your feet, and your soul move in this world.

And I do hope you'll continue until our dying days to make music for us. For whether it is through instruments, voice, art, design, or any other form of creating, your six distinct melodies create a perfect harmony for us. And we will always be the first to stand and start the ovation.

Play for yourself, even if others are listening.

Seeking Answers, Holding Hands

2020-06-04T06:35:00.002-07:00

How long was it before you learned that your parents don't know everything? That our opinions are sometimes, frankly, just hopeful guesses. There are universal and fundamental truths, yes, without a doubt. And after that there are a million questions. With considerably less than a million answers.

When you're young we can answer the simple questions and occasionally make up something that sounds good to placate you - while we lock eyes and shrug shoulders when you're not looking.

Then suddenly you are older and you call us on our uncertainty and we have to level with you. We don't have it all figured out. What we have is just our own experience, our own history, our own point of view, and - in the end - our own opinion.

Which is all any of us have.

Which is why it is so important to listen to others. Not just sit by and let them talk while we wait for our turn. Not just nod and automatically say, "I understand." Not just make ourselves feel better by making sure the world knows, "Hey, I listened!"

We're currently watching our country melting and morphing under an enormous load of stress. It's a messy, complicated, multi-layered tangle of experiences and opinions. It's a loud, ever-present, oppressing fight. It's heart-rending and overwhelming and if you're not moved to tears by some of the stories then your heart is surely made of stone.

We have raised you on purpose with a worldwide point of view. We adore America, but we've actively introduced you to many different places and cultures and the irreplaceable value each brings to the world's feast table. We've taught you from infancy that all people, in all of their beauty, come from the same Creator who knew their name from the moment of their conception. We're very grateful - at least for you older kids - for a military childhood full of so many different colors and backgrounds and accents and cultures that the invaluable humanity of each individual was planted in your growing souls and took root there as a given. No one is more special than any other. No discussion even needed when you know it in your bones.

If we're honest, it's much more difficult for the younger ones. Simply because talking and reading and "educating" doesn't replace experiencing. It's a good place, a mandatory place, to start. But how do you really absorb into your bones the equal-ness of each human being unless you get to hold hands and sit side-by-side and do the silly, mundane, connecting things that human beings who are really and truly friends just....do?

We don't have answers. How much protesting is too much? When does protesting end and rioting begin? How can any of it possibly result in legitimate change that will keep us from ending up right back here again when a hopelessly tragic death happens? Who is actually distraught over unjust violence and abuse of power? And who is just taking advantage of the chaos? Why do those in power so often slide into corruption?

We don't have answers. And it's especially painful not to have an answer as to why some dear friends, who happen not to be white, get pulled over and placed under suspicion of wrong-doing far more often than our dear friends who happen not to be of color. That's not an anecdote. It's a truth. And if we don't talk about the truth plainly then we surely will not get anywhere other than where we are.

We don't have answers. But we have a few ideas.

A lifetime of seeing things happen differently for others, which is what we all want, starts with doing things differently today and again tomorrow, until it's a permanent way and nothing all that unique. So what we can do is think about what is right in front of us today. Decide to affect the people nearby. All people. Every day. No exceptions.

Grab the hand next to you. It doesn't matter if it's black or white or any other color of the rainbow. Every human hand is the same as every human heart - one-of-a-kind and equal to all others. And of course, think of all the other differences in hands and hearts that go beyond a simple skin color. All hands, all hearts, equal value. No exceptions.

Maybe that is an answer after all. Look up to the Creator, nod your head, grab the hand beside you, and really listen. Every single hand is worth holding, every single story is worth hearing. And maybe, once you've let that story seep into your soul, you can both hold hands and turn to the next person. And grab their hand and ask to hear their story. On and on until we find answers. At least we'll be holding hands while we try.

A COVID Discussion: Coffee with Granny in Heaven

2020-05-19T13:44:00.001-07:00

I'm hopeful that heaven will include a coffee bar/tea room kind of place where we will be able to hang out with people we've always dreamed of meeting. Could be a celebrity or favorite author/artist, but I'm especially interested in chatting with our ancestors. Imagine what it would be like to sip a latte with your great-grandparents and give it a go trying to explain the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic.

My actual great-grandparents,
Charley and Mary Ida Arnold

"So there was a scary virus that came from a bat, or a lab, or somewhere in China. No one was really sure, except the people who were REALLY SURE they were really sure...and they spent a lot of time arguing about it."

"How did so many people argue together when you were under quarantine and asked to stay home?"

"We had these small, portable machines that connected everyone, everywhere, all the time. We could talk through them and even see each other face-to-face on the machines, but mostly we just typed messages to each other directly or, even more popular, we wrote out our feelings and put them on a sort of virtual stage for the world to read, Then people could choose a smiley face, a frowny face, a huggy face, or something else so we could know how they felt about what we said. Or some people would type their own comment below ours and explain why they thought we were right or wrong."

"That's amazing. It must have been so exciting."

"Well not really. It's what we did when we got bored so, kind of during the quarantine, it was what most of us did all day every day."

"Everyone shared what they thought about everything to everyone all the time?"

"You make it sound like it wasn't important. It was totally important. We had to share links to stories and news articles and scientific papers and blogs our cousins wrote. Otherwise we might be uninformed. And kind of the worst thing you could be in 2020 was uninformed."

"Okay, but when did you get chores done? Who tended the gardens and chopped firewood and plucked the chickens for dinner?"

--We'll take a minute here and explain central heat and air, grocery delivery, and Amazon.--

"Whoa. Okay, so you didn't have to work for meals or shelter?"

"Oh, we worked. And it was pretty hard to do it all with glitchy wi-fi and those annoying online chatroom meetings. We didn't get to go out for lunch, or celebrate office birthdays, or anything fun like that."

"So everyone just stayed at home?"

"Except the essential workers."

"Who were they?"

"Healthcare people, public safety people, cleaning people, grocery store people, hardware store people, farmworker people, truck driver people, construction people, government people, pizza delivery people, and I think lawyers."

"When those folks went out, how did they protect themselves?"

"We all wore masks. Well, not everyone, because they confused us by saying first that masks would just give us a false sense of security. Then they insisted we all needed to wear them if we really cared at all about anyone else. Then we weren't sure if we needed them just inside, or if we got close to someone else, or if just a bandana was okay. We weren't exactly sure how we were supposed to do it. However, we definitely knew that letting your nose hang out over the mask was disgusting because everyone shared a very educational picture about how it was the same as letting your *ahem* hang out of your underwear."

"You talked about your underwear on the little machines with everyone?!?"

"No ma'am...I mean, yes ma'am...I mean, times had changed. Nothing was off limits. We were pretty committed to being true to ourselves."

"And where did that get you? Nevermind. Let's go back to the masks. You know, we also wore masks back during the Spanish Flu."

"I saw some pictures. I'm just curious, why didn't anyone think to make your masks out of something more fun than white muslin? Most of my friends ended up with a wardrobe of masks to go with their outfits. It made the whole thing seem a little less oppressive and a little more whimsical."

"Are you joking? We lived through the Spanish Flu Pandemic, the two big World Wars and multiple other small wars, the Great Depression, the fall of Communism, the advent of mass media, and most of the greatest inventions in the world. We knew how to chop wood and pluck a chicken. We wore plain white masks, and we never talked about our underwear. We were just trying to survive!"

"I hear you. Those were some pretty serious hardships for you. But we carried some burdens too. We haven't even gotten to the part about the children being home from school all day and wanting to be entertained."

"Maybe that part would have been easier if you'd kept the need to chop wood and pluck chickens."

"Good one, Granny. That would have made a pretty awesome meme."

"A what? Oh, nevermind. I don't want to know."

Covid Chronicle

2020-05-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

Let's state the obvious. We're ridiculously fortunate that this hit at a time in our lives when there is nothing placing us in the high risk category for health or wealth. Not that we couldn't tomorrow get really, really sick or really, really broke, but the odds are in our favor and you will never know how grateful we are until you have to weather a pandemic with your own children one day.

Has there ever been
a better invention than
Facetime?

We're also ridiculously fortunate that this hit when 5/6 of you are living either under our roof or nearby. We can see you, feed you, hug you, and worry a lot less about you than we would have at other times in our lives when you were spread out over several states and a continent or two. Lucky for the oldest - our noble, level-headed, thoroughly practical hospital nurse - we can concentrate our concern almost exclusively on her sweet head (usually via Facetime) and the rest of you just get to share whatever is left over. ----------------------------->

So now the less-than-obvious: the truth is that I secretly love this.

Not the disease or the economic horror or the interruption of important events. I just love being stuck here. With you. For an undetermined period of time.

It's the Great Pause. The Great Do-Over.

[I should probably apologize right here for the multiple times I whined in recent years, "If we could just pause the world for a few days, I could catch up." I was wrong. I'll never catch up. I don't think I caused the pandemic by those melodramatic-pleas-at-the-end-of-very-long-days, but I can promise that's a phrase I will never utter - even think - again.]

But it's true that the reason I love this Great Pause it that it has given me the luxury of time. Time to think about all of the things I should have been saying and doing all along while the rush of the minutes and the years kept getting in the way. Now that we don't have to ask, "What are you doing this weekend?" or "What time will you be home?" or "How are we going to split up the conflicting sports and activities schedules this particular week?" we're left with... "How are you today?"

Really. How's your heart? Your spirit? Your motivation and your perspective?

There's no way around the fact that I know each one of you so much better than I did seven weeks ago. I can tell more than ever before when you're lonely and need to talk. Bored and need to brainstorm. Overwhelmed and need reassurance. Revved up with creativity and need an audience. And certainly when you've had enough and need to disappear for a few hours.

I'm not sure there's any other way to do this except to spread out and make room for each other. Which is oxymoronic given our close proximity day after day after day. But I'm watching you do it emotionally for each other. And it makes a parent's heart glad that we're getting this extra bit of time to really know each other. Soon enough the gates will open wide again and you'll be off and running. But for now we're sitting still. And we're listening to each other because there is so little else competing for attention.

Of course there is tension and exhaustion and the done-ness that comes after weeks and weeks of the same old, same old. But we're all learning to cut more slack than we probably thought possible. We're tuning into the moods of each other more than was ever before necessary.

Gone, for this brief little respite, is the pressure from the outside. The voices of teachers and coaches and directors and bosses and clients and peers - strong and virtuous though they may be - are muted for a minute. And it turns out there are some quiet murmurs from each other, perhaps even stronger and more virtuous, that are just as important to hear.

The time will come when we'll have illness and despair and heartbreak to shoulder. No family escapes trouble. But for today we will be grateful that our only real burden is who will do the dishes, who will walk the dog, and who keeps eating all the Oreos.

Quarantine is a great time to compile all of my favorite pictures.
Dad took this one on our trip last summer when I was doing my level best to get all six of you
to quit being silly, look in my direction, and smile. Which is pretty much what I do all the time,
no matter how big you get!

Birthday Presents, Pasts, and Futures

2018-04-23T20:24:00.000-07:00

April 24, 2018

Happy birthday to the one who made me a wife and the one who made me a mother.

1994

We are celebrating bigtime today with silver and gold. The baby turns 25 on her daddy's 50th birthday. Oh, how clearly I remember his 25th when he held our tiny newborn and I blithely declared, "Whoa, when she turns 25, you'll be 50!". We laughed the laugh of youth because it seemed a million years away. And yet here we are. Just like that.

Time, please stand still!

Wasn't she just 5 years old yesterday?

Don't blink.

I know why practically every parent posts exactly those captions with photos of their child's milestones - it's a kick in the gut to have our children grow up so quickly. It's a sobering reality check to see our spouse go gray in front of our eyes. It seems impossible that we feel exactly the same on the inside, yet the evidence undeniably shows exactly how time is marching on steadily.

Why?

Because time is not linear when you're in love.

I can't understand how you are suddenly a 25-year-old woman with great things already accomplished and a bright future straight ahead.

I can't understand it because the reality of today hasn't replaced yesterday. It is only stacked on top of the 9,215 days I have known you and loved you. My brain knows what my eyes see on this day. But my heart, all the time, feels all the things I have felt since the first moment I knew you were on your way.

2002

I still feel the weight of your 8 pounds, 2 ounces in my arms. I still smell the baby shampoo in your wispy 2-year-old pigtails. I still have the same butterflies in my stomach as the day we dropped you off at kindergarten. Here is the frustration when you refused any help at all learning to ride your bike. And the pride when you stood up for yourself and your classmates against an unfair teacher in high school. The terror when you pulled out of the garage for your first solo drive still exists. The ache when we put you on a plane for a year away and the relief when we welcomed you home - it's all here. Etc. Etc. Etc.

You are all of those moments in my heart. Simultaneously every minute.

As for the golden birthday boy, you too are the sum of the over-10,000 days that I have known you and loved you. My brain knows what my eyes see on this day. But my heart feels, all the time, all the things I have felt since the first moment we were introduced. I still feel the crush on that earnest, handsome 20-year-old boy. I still feel the stark fear of realizing you were about to propose. Here is the overwhelming joy and contentment that nestled in my heart when I said yes. The frustration of learning to compromise and grow into a marriage. The pride when you stood up for what was right and good no matter the price. The cold when you left for a warzone. The giddy weariness as we welcomed baby after baby into our crowded hearts. The camaraderie as we stumble through parenting and careers and aging. Etc. Etc. Etc.

2011

You are all of those moments in my heart. Simultaneously every minute.

That's why time doesn't make sense.

Yes, it goes too fast. Yes, I wish I could pause it all so I'd have time to soak it up, wrap my arms around it, and really appreciate all of the moments for their true and profound worth.

Yet pausing time would mean pausing you. And as much as I want to hold on to all of the minutes of the past, I cannot wait to see what the minutes of your future will bring.

2016

Those moments, the ones that bring more of you both to enjoy and embrace and love, are the best moments of my life.

Simultaneously. All the time.

Happy birthday.

April 24, 1998

Reading Lesson

2017-08-05T18:10:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure when I began to think of reading as a luxury. It used to be as familiar a part of my routine as eating and bathing and brushing my hair.

At the moment I have more urgent and important things to do than I could ever get done. So I feel simultaneously paralyzed and frantically full of adrenaline.

Paralyzed + frantic = trapped.

Trapped is a tough way to live. And an impossible way to thrive.

How to escape?

Prayer. Certainly. As much a part of my day as breathing.

Exercise. Important. Squeeze it in when possible and ask myself why I don't do it more often.

Eating and sleeping well. Ugh...trying...good days and bad days.

Reading. Ah, my goodness, a way to escape and learn and think and grow and shift and concentrate and all the good things I should be doing with my mind and my soul.

Why, then, move it from the column of necessity to luxury?

We all know why. We fight the same battles.

Not all reading is equal. There is so much - the classic, proven literature; the shocking, combative opinion; the soothing, poetic lyric; the instructional, mind-changing challenge.

I think I need it all. Permission to myself granted.

Fewer memes and headlines and gossip. More truth and fiction and art. Flaws and half-truths and upside-down viewpoints are welcome. It's important, self, to immerse in someone else's thoughts and words for a while. Wade through and come out the other side either changed or more sure than ever of long-held belief and standard. Both. Either. Escape from myself for a minute. Or an hour.

But start the process by reading. Whatever it takes, whatever I have to give.

No more luxury.

Call it what it is.

Necessary.

Pick up the book.

Move With a Purpose

2017-01-30T18:28:00.001-08:00

The primary reason I started writing this blog was to give my children a simple record of the things I want them to know and remember long after I'm gone. The days are typically full of petty reminders (pick up your socks, brush your teeth, quit pestering your brother...) and I fear the big messages may be lost. So I write them down.

When they look back on my blog one day, they are probably going to ask, "What happened to 2016?"

The older kids may recall the Year of the Frantic New Careers and Other Changes. The younger ones may recall the Year We Rarely Saw Mom and Dad and Ate a Lot of Pizza.

Short story - We looked ahead at the rest of our 40s and realized two things:
1. We've always wanted to work together.
2. College is expensive (multiply X 6).

And so last year we took a significant leap of faith.

We went from a few part-time jobs (me) and a corporate job (him) in 2015 to a full-time work-from-home communications job (me), a Main Street solo law practice (him), and 24/7 real estate sales jobs (both) in 2016.

In spite of all the challenges of starting over on brand new ventures at this stage of life, everything is going fine and college bills are getting paid. Which is not the important part.

The important part is that sometimes life gets really, really busy and that's okay. As long as your own particular busy is pure and worthwhile.

We were so busy that we spent
our anniversary shopping for toilets.
Hilariously mundane, but at least it
was a date night - with a purpose.

One of my mom catchphrases is, "Come on, people, move with a purpose." Mostly this is just a nice way of saying, "HURRY UP!" But back when we moved (11 times) with the military, I realized one day while ~~shouting~~ saying that phrase that we all could literally move with a purpose. It made me think a lot about how life changes and how we can reinvent or reintroduce ourselves as we arrive at new places. Moving. With a purpose.

At this point in our parenting lives, we are straddling the fence with three adult children and three youngsters. The grown kids have quickly figured out that adulting means not really knowing what you're doing. Welcome to reality, kids! Should you pick up that second major? Should you pursue the out-of-town job or the hard-to-get crush? Should you invest in an unpaid internship or find a paying job? Do you want to live near home or strike out on an adventure?

Big reveal -- there are rarely good and bad answers. Most of the time you'll be faced with good and, well, also good. But you still have to decide.

Which brings me back to all the frozen pizza.

There's a purpose here. Your parents are doing the best we can to do the most we can for as many of you as we can. Just like pretty much all the other parents out there. Pursuing one good thing almost always means another good thing is going to have to give for at least a while.

That's a pretty good secret to successful adulting. Give up the idea that you'll ever have it all at the same time and you'll find some contentment and peace.

But whatever it is that you are having right now, make sure it has purpose. And when you move on to the next thing, move on out with a purpose.

Always with a purpose.

Who Cares?

2015-11-14T11:39:00.000-08:00

I am the mother of a Mizzou freshman.

He texted me a few weeks into his semester to say, "I don't think I could be happier. I love it here so much."

This week that changed.

Drop off day

Now he feels judged based solely on what he looks like. He thinks people - people nationwide thanks to the coverage of #ConcernedStudent1950 protests - see his skin and assume they know exactly what he thinks. What he does. What he believes.

He's white.

[A little background: He was raised as an Army kid. We enjoyed neighbors, bosses, schoolmates, teachers, and friends who were black, Korean, German, Japanese, Swedish, Argentinian...you get the idea. I myself was raised in a neighborhood that was considered "the wrong side of the tracks" and knew as many minority friends as white kids growing up. Race was a non-issue in our house because diversity was always a part of our lives.]

This is a kid who cares about people. All of them.

The very first thing we told him when the protests erupted was absolutely not to post anything on social media. Tough medicine for an extra-outgoing, people-loving, Twitter-a-holic journalism student. But he did a good job staying out the way for the most part.

The next thing we told him was simply this:

"Be kind."

Be kind to everyone like you always have been. Be especially kind to those who are the most upset by everything happening. Be kind when you are frustrated. When you are misunderstood. When you are hurt.

It's true that kindness doesn't always get you what you want. The protesters did not get the president and chancellor of Mizzou to step down because of kindness. Angry media personalities are not getting increased viewers and listeners and readers because of kindness. Social media dustups do not generate avid commenters with kindness.

But none of those results are the sort that matter when it comes to legitimately puncturing the heart of hatred.

And I'm not saying that kindness will end racism. Because for certain there are students...people...who feel hurt on a daily basis simply because of their race. Or gender. Or background. Or religion. Or any of those things that we just are and by which others judge us.

So kindness can really only make a difference to the person right in front of you.

That's okay. Make that difference.

We all know that no one person can make racism, or any form of hateful judgment, go away on a college campus or anywhere. Just be the person who says, "I would if I could."

Do that by making it go away for the person right in front of you right now. Kindness is powerful that way.

To the students of Mizzou, I hope in the end you get administrators, professors, coaches, and other staff who will be honest about the fact that they cannot find a way to eradicate all hatred.

But who will live in such a way that says, "I would if I could."

Who will be kind.

Weird Places I Find My Children's Socks

2015-05-07T12:30:00.002-07:00

Sometimes I'm not sure what to think about my children.
The following are pictures I have snapped over the last 12 days.
None of them are staged.
None of the socks are clean.

The trampoline

The couch

My car cupholders?!?

A branch (propped in my laundry room
for a later project)

The dining room. At least they are
on the floor and not the table...this time.

This is my bed. And those are
TOUCHING MY PILLOW!

Just to shake things up someone left a
pair of kneepads.
Can you tell they are balanced on the
heirloom family Bible?

I think they're messing with me.

How do you Spell Appreciation?

2015-05-04T10:50:00.000-07:00

Things I have learned from good teachers:

1. Teachers are often the first to see the worst in a child.
But the good ones are often the first to see the best. Sometimes on the very same day.

2. Teachers see the best and worst in parents.
But the good ones can take one sincere compliment from an earnest parent and live on that for days or months at a time.

3. Teachers never know what may blindside them when they open that note or email from home.
But the good ones respond professionally even when they have to take a walk or count to 100 before they are calm enough to reply.

4. Teachers have 15, 20, 25 (or more!) "bosses" who judge them daily and do not hesitate to offer feedback thoroughly and often.
But the good ones don't pick favorites so that every student feels valued in the classroom.

5. Pre-K to 12th grade, teachers work in classrooms that are smelly by the end of the day.
But the good ones carry on with open windows, or Febreze, or whatever it takes. Some who have been around a while don't even notice it anymore.

6. Field trips are organizational and stressful nightmares for teachers.
But the good ones plan them anyway (even though it's a good bet that at least one child is going to throw up on the bus) so that students get an important glimpse of life outside the classroom.

7. There are some students teachers know they may never reach.
But the good ones never give up trying.

8. Teachers work a lot of extra hours on planning, grading, classroom preparation and extra duties.
But the good ones do whatever it takes to have a successful classroom.

9. Teachers realize their students' needs often go way beyond the academic lessons of the day.
But the good ones stand ready to offer what a child needs to hang on just one more day. It may be a coat, a lunch bag, or a hug. They often see it before anyone else does.

10. Good teachers don't have just a job. They have a calling.
And those who answer the call will never be paid what they're worth. At least in dollars.

Wasting Away in Frantic Parentville

2015-03-03T15:34:00.000-08:00

There is an enormous difference between the way we parented #1 in the early 1990s and what #6 is getting in the early 2010s. Two decades, six siblings, and thousands of sleep-deprived hours can take a person a long way down the road to Mellow Town. Having resided in both places, I can assure you that Mellow Town is a lot happier place to hang out than Frantic Parentville.

A side-by-side comparison is useful:

Frantic Parentville (FP, circa 1993) - Babies must sleep on their backs. Do not overwrap the baby as to keep from over-heating.
Mellow Town (MT, circa 2013) - Swaddling is genius. So is letting a baby sleep on his stomach if he refuses to sleep well in any other position. I had major mother-guilt about the times I flipped a wailing infant onto his or her stomach in the middle of the night until my favorite pediatrician assured me that a non-smoking home with a modern baby mattress has a much lower risk of SIDS than simply back-sleeping.

FP- Use copious amounts of anti-bacterial gel, soap, wipes, surfaces, etc. as to keep your baby germ-free.
MT - Lay off the anti-bacterial everything. You are making yourself and the rest of us less healthy.

FP - Schedule feedings, changings, and sleeping as to keep your baby from becoming a tantrum-throwing, parent-controlling tyrant (Growing Kids God's Way, anyone?).
MT - Balance, balance, balance. Enjoy your kid, pay attention to his/her cues, follow your instincts, and don't let anyone make you feel like God does not approve of your child's eating/sleeping/potty training lifestyle.

FP- Start saving for college the very day you learn you are pregnant so as to ward off financial ruin for yourself and all potential offspring.
MT - Save if you can. Spend if you must. Junior college never hurt anybody and if your plan is to make certain your kid can support you in your old age, turns out plumbing is a pretty stable and lucrative career.

FP - Begin an allowance for your little darling around the 2nd birthday so as to guarantee financial responsibility. Use the three bank system (giving, saving, spending) or else.
MT - Nothing wrong with allowances, but watch how easy it is for kids to slip into the selfishness of doing a job for pay instead of simply for the good of the family. (Two dollars per week for six kids equals $11,232. Might as well save that and make sure someone gets a year of college. Or that mom gets a good car down payment.)

FP - Avoid baby talk so as to keep both you and your child from sounding silly.
MT - Baby, that lisp is the cutest thing I've ever heard. Don't you dare let your third grade teacher shame it out of you.

FP - Have multiple thermometers handy throughout the home and check fevers of all children often and well.
MT - Thermometer hasn't worked in years. Rule of thumb is: 1. You're warm, take it easy. 2. You're hot, have some ibuprofen and an ice pack. 3. You're burning my hand with your forehead. Get in the car, we're headed to the ER.

FP - How can we possibly raise well-adjusted American children without at least one magical trip to the Magic Kingdom? We can give up Starbucks for five years or so in order to save up.
MT - Summer vacation time again? Call up the grandparents to book a long weekend and frappuccinos for everyone at Starbucks on the way. Cooking s'mores and chasing fireflies in the backyard is all we really need to secure fantastic childhood memories.

Less is more here in Mellow Town.

Hanging out with #1 and #6 on the first day of college.

Can't even imagine how mellow we'll be the day we drop off #6 at college.

The B Word

2015-02-04T04:32:00.000-08:00

Tacking up a fresh new calendar always improves my mood after the craziness of the holidays and those fresh pages seem to invite reinvention. Now is as good a time as any to make some changes that might make my life easier, better, or more productive.

One year, more than a decade ago, I decided to quit apologizing for the state of my house. You know how it sounds. “Oh, do come in and just ignore this huge mess. I’m so sorry I haven’t had time to clean up.” In a home as jam-packed with kids and animals as ours has always been, no one ever comes through my front door to a shining, organized living space.

It used to bother me a lot, but I realized two things. One is that it bothers me far more than anyone else. The other is that apologizing for the mess that is life around here just draws attention to it and puts the listener in the awkward spot of reassuring me that my mess isn’t really important. Which, of course, I should already know and therefore quit talking about.

It truly freed me when I broke that habit. Now I’m tackling a new one.

When asked, “How are you?” my standard answer is, “Busy.” I’m not unlike zillions of other people on that. Much has been said about our busy culture and how we should all simplify and relax and breathe. I don’t know about you, but simplifying sometimes seems like just another thing to put on my to-do list.

Is laundry on your to-do list too?

We are all busy. No need to compare our rosters of paying jobs, volunteer positions, kid activities, social plans, hobbies, etc. Comparing my busy to yours just leads us down a spiral of exhaustion. And, because we are so busy, we don’t need anything else to exhaust us.

The problem for me is that the “so busy” refrain sounds like a lament. As in, “I wish I weren’t so busy. One day I hope to be less busy. I only hope I can survive being so busy.” I’m seeing that focusing on my own busy pace, much like focusing on my messy living room, puts the listener in an awkward spot.

We are all busy. That’s worth repeating. But when I take a step back and look at my long to-do list I see clearly. That list is the result of decisions I’ve made that have led to a happy life full of things that bless me far more than they exhaust me. Though relaxing is important, busy is good.

Which, of course, I should already know and therefore quit talking about.

I’m going to give it a shot.

On the Day You Were Born

2015-01-19T17:46:00.000-08:00

Happy 10th birthday, Samuel Hutchens!

We will celebrate this year on a sunny, mild day in Missouri. Your dad will be the one to wake you up with a tickle and a birthday song. He'll be here soon after you get home from school too and will be the one to light the candles and help you set up your new Lego sets and listen to you explain for the 1000th time who's who in your Minecraft world.

No big deal. He's just a dad being a dad.

But being around on your birthday IS a big deal to your dad. He missed your actual first day, you know. He wasn't late, but you were early. He was just steps from getting on a military airplane, headed home from months in Iraq, when he got the call that you weren't waiting.

On the day you were born, I awoke in labor and thought, "Oh no. No way. Not today, baby boy." Your dad was due to fly home on January 22. You were due to be born January 26. That was a pretty good plan. But the thing about babies is that they aren't all that good at following plans.

Your Grandmama was with me and your big sisters and brother at our home in Germany. Maybe she had an intuition that you might come early, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. Always trust your Grandmama's intuition. It's a good thing she was there on that very cold, very dark, very early morning.

Now that you know us both so well you might think it's a little bit funny that your Grandmama and I got lost in the icy, windy weather. We wandered the roads for a while before we found the right turn for the Krankenhaus (which is a great German word... isn't everyone cranky when they have to go to the hospital?). Thank goodness you weren't in TOO much of a hurry. Just enough to make sure we would all have a really good story to tell.

I called Dad's sergeant and he called Dad. I think he said something like, "I've got bad news, Sir." That scared Dad half to death so when the sergeant told him you were going to arrive before his plane made it back, Dad wasn't as upset as he might have been. Maybe that sergeant knew what he was doing.

You'll have a hard time imagining this, but you were born before cell phones were easy to use internationally. That means your dad and I had no way of talking to each other until he found a land line that would connect to the hospital. You hadn't quite arrived and we discussed for a minute or two what we should name you (I know...we should have had that figured out already). I told your dad that I didn't really care (having a baby isn't easy and I was so tired at that point that he could have named you Big Duke for all I cared). We'd narrowed it down to Samuel or Benjamin. Your middle name was definitely going to be Hutchens, the maiden name of your other grandmother.

The line was bad so we had to hang up. You were born pretty quickly after that. You were so pink and round and adorable. I think you had a smile on your face from the very beginning. It's like you knew you'd pulled a joke on all of us by choosing your own birth date. Your sisters and brother showed up pretty quickly. They took one look at you and said, "He looks like a Sam." And, well, you did. So I signed the birth certificate that made you officially Samuel Hutchens Bartee.

Then Dad called again. As soon as I told him that you were healthy and happy and perfect, he said, "I decided we should definitely name him Benjamin." Umm... I had to tell him that you already had a name. Poor Dad had a rough day. It wasn't until he actually saw you that he agreed you really did look like a Sam.

And, oh, when he actually saw you. Would you believe I remembered to grab the camera and snap this picture?

Look at your dad. He's still in his uniform. He still has sand in his boots and the sweat of two days traveling on a cargo plane. And the exhausted face of someone who has not slept in about 36 hours. And you can't see it in this photo, but he has the proud tears that every daddy has on the day he finally holds his baby.

He got to you as fast as he could. He's a dad you can count on.

Happy birthday, kid. You still keep us guessing. And you still give us great stories to tell. We should have known from that very first day that you'd be one of a kind. Kind a chip off the old block.

One Less

2014-12-22T04:18:00.000-08:00

This year we will celebrate Christmas for the first time without my mother-in-law. We lost her after a swift battle with lung cancer this past summer and are still getting used to speaking about her in the past tense. She was a quirky and boisterous part of so many of our holidays that it seems incomprehensible to plan gift lists and menus and phone calls home without including her.

She was the first grandparent our children have lost. Lucky kids to have held on to so many of the grands for so long. Our oldest kids have never had a Christmas without shopping for Memaw (an avid collector of all things Elvis, she was usually the easiest to please). Our youngest, who will likely not remember her at all as he was barely three when she died, is already being coached by his older siblings about their grandmother’s famous cinnamon rolls and her borderline-obsessive devotion to the Denver Broncos.

Grief seems at its most heart breaking in December. I suppose it’s because we are knee-deep in family traditions more than at any other time of the year. The hole left behind by someone missing looms larger and deeper when we unwrap special ornaments or bake a traditional recipe or take the year’s photos knowing that there is one less than the year before.

Even if you have your own quirky relative still with you, or you’ve welcomed your Soldier home for the holidays, or you have your home so stuffed with family that there’s hardly room for one more, you are still likely missing someone. And whether it is death or deployment or disagreement or the details of a busy life that is keeping you apart, it stings.

I imagine Mary and Joseph could fully relate to missing the ones they loved. After all, the very first Christmas found them far from home, misunderstood, alone but for each other, and no doubt longing for the peace and tradition and warm embraces of home. Yet they received a gift unsurpassed that night and, because of that gift, they heard the angels sing.

I could not compose a more touching prayer for all of us than Edmund Sears when he wrote “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” in 1850. No matter who or what you are missing this year, may you “rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.”

Merry Christmas.

If Only In My Dreams

2014-12-05T17:17:00.000-08:00

A friend recently returned home from a 10-month deployment in Afghanistan, just in time for Christmas. Is there a more joyful time of year for a reunion than the freezing days of December? He pulled off surprising his youngest at her elementary school and was featured on the local news, which was nice because we are all desperate for some happy news these days.

The whole thing made me think about our own reunion-after-deployment and it seems impossible that it was almost a decade ago.

Christmas 2004 found us celebrating on three different continents. The kids and I remained at our home in Germany while Dad deployed to Iraq in September. I wasn't sure I could pull off Christmas (alone and eight-months pregnant with #5) so I decided to fly us home to Texas for the holidays. My husband was less than enthusiastic. As in he stated, "No way. You're not doing it."

Christmas 2004 in Tikrit.

Thing is he was more than 2,000 miles away and couldn't do much about it. I don't usually just defy my partner in life without some profitable discussion. But I did in December 2004.

Among the long list of crazy stupid things I've done, this is right up there.

Flying to the States out of Germany is no small thing. But when you live two hours from the airport, have four children (one still in diapers), more luggage than can fit in one car, and a seriously-pregnant figure...it's nuts.

I honestly thought the folks at the airline would take pity on me. Poor dear. This brave military wife is battling her way back home to provide a magical holiday for her many, many children. We oughta upgrade her to first class just to show our appreciation.

That's not exactly how it turned out.

Christmas 2004 in Marktbergl
(before the insane flight).

Instead I had to bustle us all in, lugging luggage, and stand in a long line. I didn't even get a smile from the grumpy agent. In fact, I'm pretty sure she rolled her eyes as she clicked through five tickets. I swear she looked at me like I was crazy. As did the security guards. And the gate agents. And the flight attendants who directed our circus to the very last row of the plane.

By the time I got everyone seated and all carryons stowed away, I popped into the airplane bathroom for a quick visit before takeoff. As I washed my hands I caught my reflection in the mirror and looked at MYSELF like I was crazy. But there was no backing out at that point.

I don't remember much about the eight-hour flight except that the toddler spilled a full cup of dietCoke all over her older sister, causing both of them to burst into tears. And the various crayons, pretzels and toys that were dropped onto the floor could not be retrieved because have I mentioned I was eight-months pregnant? And no one slept until the last 30 minutes. Which means everyone was disheveled and sour as we disembarked and stood in line at customs for another 35 minutes. I think I hated the airline, my husband, the Army, and pretty much everyone I could think of at that moment. Not my finest hour.

But God bless my family. The moment we were through customs, I collapsed into my mother's waiting hug and turned over all planning, discipline, effort and thought to them. For two weeks I did nothing but just show up.

At several points during that rough trip I doubted it was worth it. I'd have been better off in Germany with just the kids, I thought. It wouldn't have been that bad to have Daddy gone for Christmas.

But when the phone rang on December 25th at my sister's house because, by some miracle, he'd been able to find a phone line and call to wish everyone Merry Christmas...it was awful. The kids cried. I cried. He cried. I knew I didn't have it in me to pick up the pieces all by myself. Again, it was grandparents and cousins to the rescue. A whole lot of Christmas silliness (that's the year our 6-year-old led the family Christmas dinner prayer wearing his Darth Vader voice-changing helmet) helped redeem the day. No doubt we made memories that year. It's certainly one I will never forget.

And forever after I will deeply appreciate every Christmas spent with my sweetie, a house full of kids, my wonderful family, and airline personnel who find it within themselves to offer even the tiniest of smiles to the craziest of travelers.

A Fairy Tale 60 Years in the Making

2014-09-06T06:25:00.000-07:00

They say, “If it seems too good to be true then it probably is.” Probably. But not always. This is the story of a happily ever after that is as true as true can be.

At age 17, Betty King enrolled at Southern Methodist University as a music major. In the first months on campus, she met a fellow music major named Bob Skinner. They had several mutual friends and spent lots of time together. Bob liked Betty an awful lot, but since she was dating his best friend, he contented himself with just being pals.

After graduation, Betty married her beau and Bob found a pretty wife. Life unfolded for both of them as life often does…with love, regret, happiness, heartache, victory and defeat. They kept in touch over the years, attending New Year’s Eve parties as young couples and, later, meeting up occasionally to enjoy a symphony concert and reconnecting each year through Christmas cards.

The years passed as Betty enjoyed a long and happy career as a beloved music teacher in the city’s school district. Bob put aside his music career to pursue pharmacy and established a successful business. Each of the families grew and splintered as time went by due to divorce, death and growing children. The Christmas cards and occasional visits continued, honoring what remained a deep and lasting friendship.

As each reached retirement age, life toughened. Betty left her teaching position to be the primary caretaker for her aging parents. Her daily activities shrank to what was necessary within the household and telephone calls became her main source of a social life. Bob was dealing with the cancer deaths of both his first wife and then his second. Talking to Betty was a comfort.

Shortly after the death of Betty’s mother and Bob’s second wife, the college buddies planned a face-to-face meeting to catch up in person, reconnect as old friends, and offer the kind of solace that can only come from an old and trusted companion.

And sparks flew.

Sixty years after the fresh, young students first met, they met again as weathered, wisened old people. And they fell in love in a way that only the deeply experienced can appreciate.

On August 9, 2014, in a church decorated with SMU’s red and blue, Betty and Bob stood before 100 guests and pledged to be true for the rest of their lives. Afterward they posed for photos, cut a beautiful white wedding cake, accepted hugs and congratulations, spent the night in a downtown Dallas bridal suite, and then drove away for a two-week honeymoon in the Tennessee hills.

The most unlikely of fairy tales sometimes does come true. My Aunt Betty and Uncle Bob are proof. May their happy ending last forever after.

A Chilly Phenomenon

2014-08-25T08:17:00.000-07:00

The ALS ice bucket challenge has been an amazing social media phenomenon to observe. To say it's swept the nation is an understatement as everyone from my next-door neighbor to former President George W. Bush has taken to video with some ice water, some words, and some money for research.

It's the stuff marketing and fundraising people dream about. Who can predict what will capture the public's attention and motivate them to give?

And people really are giving. That's the more amazing part of it, I think. People can star in their own "watch me dump water on my head" show for whatever reason. But to actually write the check or click and donate is a much bigger deal. Media accounts say the donations are about $40 million more than the average August. $40 million.

The most interesting part of the movement, at least on my newsfeed, has been the varying reactions from participants and non-participants. On the one hand, it's fun and it's for a great cause and who are you to throw cold water (pun intended) on a good deed by questioning the filmer/donor's motivation. Does she truly care about ALS? Is he really going to donate? Don't they know about embyonic stem cell research?

I get it.

I did not want to do the challenge. Mostly because I try to avoid silly things in public. Also because we already donate just about all we can afford on a monthly basis to very worthy causes. Also because I do have very strong feelings about embryonic stem cell research. (Why? Read this.) Or here's the synopsis -

Embryonic stem cells are “starter cells” that can be coaxed into becoming any of the specialized cells of the body, meaning they are “pluripotent.” Embryonic stem cells are derived from eggs fertilized in the laboratory, not in a woman’s body.

If you believe, as do I, that human life begins at fertilization, then you believe that lives are being created and then disposed of for the sole purpose of medical research. If you don't believe that life begins at fertilization then you probably don't see what the big deal is. But of course you'll respect the belief of others and why it motivates them to find another adult stem cell-only research project.

Side note: from what I've read, the ALS Association allows you to state your preference for your donation to avoid their embryonic stem cell research project and go solely to the others. It's hard to find that option on its donation page however. So most of the anti-embryonic stem cell crowd has chosen to donate to other places that also support ALS research.

So I had my reasons to be glad that I'd flown under the radar and not been challenged. But then I was. So was my husband. Same day. We thought we'd ignore it. But that seemed, well, rude and snobbish. Also our children were ecstatic about the idea of dumping water on both of us.

Since I was in a dress (and I just hate to change clothes more than once per day), my always-funny husband declared he'd put on a coat and tie and we'd do a classy version. So we did. The kids howled. We wrote our check to the John Paul II Research Institute.

And then my husband said, "Let's upload it to Facebook."

Wait. What? Whoa!

Because, like I said, I don't like looking silly. Especially on a public forum. And this video is silly. Not so much because of the water (and the ensuing hair don't), but mostly because I have my hand on my hip!

I don't know why I have my hand on my hip. I was just striking a comfortable pose. But I kind of find the hand-on-the-hip-to-make-my-arm-look-smaller-in-this-photo fad just, well, silly. So I never do it. Except on this ice bucket video. Argh. So silly.

And then it hit me.

Many of the nay-sayers of the whole ice bucket challenge are poking fun (if that's what you want to call it) at the motivation of people doing it. It's all just so self-centered, they proclaim -- "Look at me! Look at what I did! I did something silly and now I'm giving money!"

I get it.

But if, in the end, one minute or one dollar is focused on helping someone else, that someone else couldn't care less what the motivation was, just that help is coming.

So I stepped away from my own self-centeredness and posted our own silly video.

"I did something silly and now I'm giving money!"

That's about right.

Reading Her Story

2014-08-13T17:46:00.000-07:00

We all write a story with the way we live, what we choose to do and say, sometimes what we choose not to do and say. And we never know who is paying attention or how they might be affected by what they see.

There is a woman I knew in Georgia. We picked up our children from school at the same time each day and always visited in a group on the parking lot. Her two older children shared classrooms with two of my kids and she had a curly-topped toddler in tow each day too. I never got to know her beyond the parking lot and a few field trips and birthday parties. But she was one of those people who caught my attention because of her story.

She had a radiant smile and great laugh and wasn’t afraid to show up in her workout clothes and no make up if that’s the kind of day she’d had. She was a constant volunteer and good listener and the kind of mom who seemed to never tire of swinging her toddler around and around just to hear her giggle. She was the kind of mom, the kind of person, I wanted to be.

Then life brought us back to Missouri and we stayed Facebook friends and I watched as she trained to run a marathon and I continued to be impressed with how she was living her life. I was reading her story and she probably never knew.

Then one day she posted about having some annoying health issues. Then about having tests run and her optimism that everything would be great and she’d run another race soon. Then the diagnosis came and it was colon cancer at age 40. She wrote about how she told her children, about how her relationship with her husband went to a new level, about how she hated relying on others to do the things she had always done for her family and community. About how she hated her body. And then loved it. About how her faith was challenged, then strengthened, then challenged - an ongoing cycle.

It’s impossible not to put ourselves in the shoes of others when we read their stories. I think my friend knew that. So she began to write beautiful journal pieces about living with disease and treatment and hope and disappointment and frustration and gratitude and anger and wisdom and all the things that people with terminal illnesses face. They were tough chapters she would never have chosen to write, but she wrote them with dignity and an openness that was riveting.

She died last month. The end came swiftly, at least it seemed to those of us on the fringe of her life, but she had gained almost two full years with those she loved by fighting hard to do whatever it took to get through just one more day. In the end her closest friends and her husband took over her journal page and shared her last thoughts.

Among those was the poem by Emily Dickinson her husband read at her funeral:

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all.

I am very grateful that I got to read her story. She lived, and died, in hope and beauty and remains the kind of mom, the kind of person, I want to be.

Right on, Target

2014-07-18T05:43:00.001-07:00

I don't like whiny bloggers so I try to steer clear of being one myself. Which means I typically stuff my negative feelings down down down. Where they pile up until I can't take it and then I explode all over my sweet family on what we might call "one of Mom's bad days". Not all that good or healthy or worth reading about.

However, I hereby suspend my self-imposed ban on whining in writing to bring up something that I really think should be a national topic of conversation: re-stocking the big box stores.

I have noticed over the last several years that both Target (my big box store of choice) and my weekly grocery store have taken to re-stocking the shelves at all hours and with extreme enthusiasm. This means I often come around a corner with my over-stuffed buggy (here we could talk about the different regions of the country and how they refer to the shopping cart/basket/buggy, but Texans call it a buggy, ya'll) and I find myself stuck between the shelves, an employee, and a huge cart piled with cardboard boxes.

I am overall congenial and long-suffering (unless it is "one of Mom's bad days") so the first few dozen times I experienced this inconvenience I smiled at the shelf stockers and apologized for intruding. Until one day. When I wondered why the heck I was apologizing for being in THEIR way while I was trying to spend MY money in THEIR store.

Nevertheless I continued to shop early mornings (right after school drop off is my preferred time) because, really, who can fight the need for Target? I tried fueling myself for the restocking obstacle course by stopping at the in-store Starbucks first. That kind of backfired as my intake of coffee directly influenced my need to get done shopping so I could visit the bathroom.

A hyped-up mom with a full bladder and a busy schedule is not the relaxed shopper who smiles and apologizes to the employees in her way.

Which is why the other morning, with three children in tow and trying to navigate five separate aisles that were partially blocked, all while juggling my hot latte, I snapped.

A red-shirted employee innocently asked, "Are you finding everything okay?"

I snipped, "Not really since it's so hard to reach around you."

Poor guy quickly looked away and I'm pretty sure he used his handy walkie-talkie to alert the other re-stockers with the "watch out for the Code Crazy [otherwise known as "Mom's Bad Day"] on aisle 11" button.

I passed three more re-stockers on my way to the cashier and not a single one made eye contact.

Finally ready to check out and go, after negotiating with my 3-year-old over the need for multiple Chapsticks, the manager of the store approached me. To tell me that my cart was too full for the return/exchange lane (which, by the way, reads "return/exchange and check out").

Rules follower that I am, I kindly moved my full cart and three children to another lane. I almost apologized for the incident until I remembered just how much of MY money I was about to spend in THEIR store.

So I turned around and told the manager the following: "It is all but impossible to shop with so many re-stockers on your floor. I think you should know how frustrating it is."

His reply, "You should come later in the day because we start re-stocking at 6 a.m. and often don't get done until noon."

Really? My fault for shopping early. When it's most convenient for me and their doors are open for customers.

He continued, "We've had to cut back on hours so it takes a little longer."

Really really? I spend so much money in your store (as do most of my friends) that it's hard to stomach that we must pay further by stepping around those huge re-stocking carts in order to help your bottom line.

I just smiled at him. I really am a nice person and get a pit in my stomach whenever I do officially complain.

We headed out to the car after paying. He offered to help me unload my cart at the curb. I declined.

Almost to my car, I turned to see him running up to me. On his lips was an apology for my inconvenience. In his hand was a coupon to reward me, I guess, for speaking up.

It's for $3.

Really really really?

I'll be back to Target before the week is over, because I know it's the same at other big-box stores. And I need stuff. A lot. But I'll go later on a Tuesday (best time according to Mr. Manager) and enjoy the quiet, open aisles.

I'll have my $3 coupon and, just to be on the safe side, I'll spend it on a coffee at the in-store Starbucks. I'm sure that will make everything all better.

Really.

The Snakes of June

2014-06-26T05:03:00.001-07:00

Ah, June. The season when the flowers bloom, the sun shines long, the birds chirp more than ever, and I don’t notice any of it because I am too busy looking around for snakes. Why? Because years ago, the first June we lived in this home, I was practically murdered on my own front porch by a deadly black snake poised to reach out, wrap itself around my innocent neck, and squeeze the life out of me before calmly slithering on to find its next victim.

Sure, common knowledge states that black snakes are “good” snakes, that they will not attack a human and certainly could not kill one even if they tried, that they are completely harmless at worst and helpful at best, willing to stalk and devour all those pesky mice and bugs but leave us people alone.

Whatever.

I’m telling you that black snake laid in wait for me. On my front porch. Hanging right at eye level, where it had wrapped itself securely in my pretty flowered wreath.

You shuddered, didn’t you? It was HANGING IN MY WREATH!

In hindsight, we suspect that the snake was climbing its way up to the swallow’s nest in the rafters of our front porch. I should point out that I was not in favor of letting the swallows build their nest there. (And this was before I knew they would attract the deadly devil snake.) My soft-hearted husband did not want to knock the nest down and risk killing any innocent, pre-born birdies. So he left the nest, which enticed the snake, which climbed my door, and attempted to attack me.

It is clear who is to blame for the entire traumatic incident.

Lucky for me a brave neighbor was home (because the spouse sworn to love and protect me was not of course) and came to my rescue. The snake was apprehended and given the death penalty. Once bludgeoned and sent on to snake heaven (just kidding…no such thing), my neighbor offered to dispose of the body. But I stopped him because I knew my family would never believe me when I told them the story. I asked him to coil up the dead snake right by the door. I’m a little bit sadistic when it comes to soft-hearted husbands and big-mouthed kids.

There were varying reactions to the snake. After the initial surprise, my husband was shocked that it really was more than five feet long. My littlest ones were both intrigued and horrified to have such an up-close viewing. The eldest was distraught that the snake had to die (even when I told her it was convicted of trespassing and attempted murder).

In the end I think the experience served as some good exposure therapy for me. I had to throw away the wreath (and to this day my door is bare), I avoided using the front entry for several weeks, and I had goose bumps every time I thought about it that entire summer. But eventually the horror lessened and by the next year, I was not nearly as upset when another black snake came to visit.

Possibly because I’d become less afraid. Possibly because that time the snake decided to crawl out from under the front stoop at exactly the moment my husband, who had found my front-porch experience so hilarious, bent down to tie his shoe. Both man and serpent were surprised enough by each other that I’m fairly sure I heard two shrieks, and I learned it’s much more difficult to be terrified when you’re laughing so hard.

I've worked up to hanging a wreath on the INSIDE
of my front door. If I ever find a snake there,
I'll just have to move. To Ireland.