Because it's Father's Day

                                                   My dad cuddling with me at 3 weeks of age

I have to do a written tribute for Father's Day this year, for many reasons - two of them being the best, most loving dads a girl could ask for.  One I was born to and one I married.  And I thank God for them every day.  Because they really are incredible men.  And supportive husbands.  And fantastic fathers.  And really good sports - I mean, really.  It can't be easy playing the steady to the comedic drama fest that is our life.

While my life has always had a substantial, overt female influence, I've got to give kudos to the man who had to live in Estrogen World with three very strong personalities and their hormones, two of whom were relatively loud and outspoken, one of whom has a more sensitive heart => thus has always been prone to bursting into tears with somewhat alarming regularity.....especially when she's losing at family game night (sorry, Mom. You know I'm speaking truth in love).  Hats off to the man who handled an existence of accents and music, dancing and fighting, exotic foods and foreign concepts with aplomb.  It couldn't have been easy, especially since his upbringing was so devoid of all those things.
And he only has one brother.
So, you know, no concept of girl stuff.
Yet, he found a way to navigate the murky waters of parenthood - and parenthood of a firstborn girl, no less.  He learned to coach girls' soccer, despite never having played the sport himself.  He found the creativity and energy for stories and giggles, cuddles and tears, family vacations, sporting events and dance recitals galore.  He learned to use every conceivable piece of recording equipment developed in the 80's and 90's, and woe be to him if a battery didn't have enough charge to make it through an entire performance.  He survived slumber parties full of screaming, giggling girls who stayed up well past reasonable hours.  I'll never forget my 13th birthday party.....We were wired, of course, and rolling with laughter as one of my friends performed midnight cheer routines while wearing Medzma's balloon-stuffed bra.  Unbeknownst to us at the time, there were two different boy sleepovers happening in our neighborhood that night as well.  At separate times, each party snuck over and wrapped our house.  The second group was so bold as to ring the doorbell upon completion of the task.  Naturally, my dad came barrelling out of his room to the sounds of our fading shrieks as we oh-so-wisely unlocked the front door, threw it open, and ran screaming into the front yard and street - clad only in our tiny pj's.  In December.  At three o'clock in the morning.
I actually thought he might stroke out that night.

He survived, as dads do.
He also managed to survive:

• teaching me to drive a five-speed standard car
• multiple proms and homecomings
• letting me out of the house in a bikini
• the highs and lows of a teenage girl's dating life
• cheerleader tryouts (only once - I didn't make it. It may have scarred him for life)
• volleyball and track injuries and triumphs
• the world of dance 
• graduations - high school, college, grad school
• my first out-of-town vacation with a boyfriend
• my wedding - and all that entailed

Each step of the way, he had to redefine himself as Father, growing or shrinking the role as the occasion demanded.  And while I can't say I always agreed with the way he did so, I can say I'm so incredibly grateful that he did.  It made all the difference.  It colored all my memories.  It shaped my life and expectations and sense of self.

I married a guy who, at first glance, is almost polar opposite of my dad.  Gregg is outdoorsy and active, playful and competitive, all about practical application and the bottom line.  My dad is introverted, a little anti-social at times, academic, kind of sedentary and full of esoteric facts and information that is often completely weird and not something we can relate to (love you, Daddy).

And yet.....

My husband, love of my life and father to my three beautiful children, grew up in a country setting with one brother, mostly male cousins and a hard-working single mom.  He'd never even set foot in a dance recital before he met me, yet managed to brave The Nutcracker twice (because I was in it) the year we started dating.  He has endured performances, drama, accents, foreign foods and traditions, hormones and spontaneous recreations of iconic musical numbers without batting an eye (or at least without developing a twitch).  He embraced Fatherhood head on (luckily, with a two son warm-up before Hurricane Emry arrived) and rises to its challenges with regularity, strength and patience that sometimes astounds me.

When Luke began to play soccer, he stepped in to coach, in spite of never having played the sport himself.  He's helped coach Drew's team every season save one.  When Luke decided he wanted to take hip hop lessons, he showed up to every recital or competition, video camera in hand, ready to record the three minutes our son was in after sitting through four hours of all the girls - and he did this for four years.  When Emry was born he learned to love pink and to change diapers even when intimidated by the parts he was cleaning.  He's even found the courage to mangle his way through a curly ponytail or two.

He coaches our sons in football and basketball.

He teaches our daughter to swim.

He drives kids to school every morning he's in town.

He fishes with them, and tickles them, and doles out hugs and high fives.

He prays with them every night at bedtime.

He can dunk a basketball or pretend cookie in imaginary tea with equal skill.

Gregg holding three-week-old Emry

I watch my daughter blossom every time he tells her she's pretty, or smart, or strong.

I watch my sons stand taller when he takes them to shoot hoops, and then comes in bragging to me about what each of them did well.

He naturally reinforces their sense of self, even as he watches them grow and develop.  I watch the subtle shifts in his relationship with each one as they mature.

He'll redefine himself as Father, growing or shrinking the role as occasions demand.

He'll continue to be an integral part of their core, their memories and their expectations.

And it will make all the difference.

Because we are genetically encoded for this.

We are, at our very core, created to crave this concept of Father.  To look up to, seek assurance from and find approval in Him.

To know that we are loved, and protected, and special.

To feel the strength and security that comes from a daddy who blesses us with his presence and his unconditional love.

I applaud the men out there who are doing this to the best of their ability, who are successful in imparting any measure of this to their wives and children, and who continually strive and sacrifice to this end.  You are appreciated, and you are bestowing a gift that cannot be overstated onto the generations to come.  Thank you. We love you, even when the noise and chaos and drama overwhelm our ability to say so.

Remember that......

Solidarity, sisters.  You are beloved by your Father.

When It's Not About You At All...

The Friday before last was the Annual 5th Grade Talent Show at the boys' school.  There is a lot of hype surrounding this event - over the years, school tradition has elevated talent show time to one of the Premier end-of-year events.  Since we are currently experiencing 5th grade with our oldest child, I have never actually attended this phenomenon, and am therefore a rookie.

At least, I was until that Friday.

The initiation into the world of 5th Grade's Got Talent began a few weeks ago.  Luke came home, informed me of his burning desire to participate (thus making me smile and experience a happy dance of the heart), then announced our need to get to work on his act immediately, as try-outs were the next day (which dimmed my smile somewhat and slowed the dance considerably).  Seriously?

Why?  Why?  Why are my children incapable of timely notice for any event in which they are involved?  Why does no one listen or communicate until the last minute?  Why, just once, can't we pretend to be organized instead of acting like headless chickens?  When I expressed my annoyance with this to Luke, his reaction was to fling his arms wide, exclaiming, "What can I say, Mom?  I'm a procrastinator!"

I blame his father.

Before you judge me for my irritation, let me explain to you the scope of his idea.  His vision stemmed from a funny conversation we had the week before at dinner.  And from the fact that I am his mother and view life through the lens of a musical (reference Life's A Dance).  It was "so simple".  All we had to do was create a parody of Jason Derulo's song, "Talk Dirty to Me" - reworking the lyrics, choreographing a dance and putting together a costume; all culminating in a clever and funny rendition of a new song, "Talk Nerdy to Me".
Starting at 4pm.
To be done, polished and audition-ready for school the next day.
In spite of dinner, homework and soccer practice.
While waiting on Gregg to get home with a second load of dirt to haul in and dump in our newly-constructed raised garden.....and then put the remaining plants in it....before dark.

No problem.
Because that saying.....you know, the one people hang on clever little signs in their office cubicle to tell everyone that "Lack of prior planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part", thus letting the world know they require notice for any project or situation.....yeah, that rule in no way applies to parenthood.  Everything involving children constitutes an urgent situation on Mom's part.  Every.  Single. Thing.

Thank goodness for YouTube and iTunes - it had the karaoke version of the song,  Score!

So, with dinner cooking, a carpool going and a daddy not quite home for gardening, we pulled out math, science and social studies notebooks and Luke started making lists of every 5th grade fact he's learned this year.  Brainstorming at it's finest, folks.

I booted up the laptop and got to Googling.  I'm going to do you a solid, here.  Because I love you all, I'm taking one for the team and saving you some pain.  Do not, under any circumstances, look up the lyrics to this song.  Or watch the video.  It's time and brain space I can't get back.  And the lyrics (especially the uncensored version) defy description.

This from a Beastie Boys fan.

Even so, and in spite of my constant stopping to pause or slap my hands over young ears making their way into the kitchen as I tried to get the song's flow in my head, Luke and I managed to bang out some pretty clever lyrics.  Here they are:

Talk Nerdy to Me

Luke Greebon

I’m that guy that you question

About lab safety

Wear your goggles, roll your sleeves up

And wait for Mrs. Wing

‘Cause I know how to change that mass

Solid, liquid, gas

I got beakers filled with solution

The solvent’s disappearing!

Been around the world and I know my capitals

‘Cause geography’s a non-negotiable

Word to Bismarck up in North Dakota

Come here and talk nerdy to me

Talk nerdy to me

Talk nerdy to me

Talk nerdy to me

Don’t pants me, got it?

You know I’m such a smarty

I passed my STAAR test

And now it’s time to party

Please make mine wheat-less

I know all that fancy math

Hands on equations

I got lots of facts in my brain, yo

Valedictorian bound!

Been around the world and I know my capitals

‘Cause geography’s a non-negotiable

Word to Harrisburg in Pennsylvania

Come here and talk nerdy to me

Talk nerdy to me

Talk nerdy to me

Talk nerdy to me

He figured out a basic costume and some dance moves, made it into the show, and spent the next week or two practicing and polishing his act.

When the actual date and time for performance came, I was a total basket case.  Seeing how nervous he was at lunch (he didn't eat all his food - I cannot think of the last time that happened) sent me into the nausea level of anxiety.  How did my mom handle all my years of shows and performances?  It's insane how nervous you can get for your kid!!

Finally, it was show time.  Our whole family came.  The cafeteria filled with students, staff and family members => an audience of close to 800.  Yeah....try that on for size as 11 year old kids who have to stand in front of a crowd that size and find the guts to strut their stuff.  Luke's turn was at about the halfway point of the show.  And strut his stuff he did.  He killed it!  I mean, totally killed it.  From the moment he walked out onto the stage, in full nerd character, he owned that room and everyone in it.  He remembered all the lyrics, he projected and he danced his adorable little rear end off in the funniest "nerd" hip hop moves I have ever seen.  Adults and children alike were screaming with laughter, cheering him on and clapping wildly throughout and at the conclusion of the performance.  My face about split in two with the size of my smile. Gregg was in total awe, unable to believe the courage and swagger of his son.  His grandparents and aunts were ecstatic. Drew was hopping in his seat, calling "That's my brother!".  And Emry......well, our little bug was having a bit of an identity crisis.  She clapped for her brother, maybe not with full enthusiasm, but she did applaud him. Then, she sank into a pouty melancholy for the remainder of the show, her expression darkening with every act that followed (especially the girls).

Trying to leave the school afterwards was like trying to exit an arena with a rock star.  Luke was surrounded by kids asking him to show them the "nerdy dance" or breaking into their own rendition of it. His buddies were clapping him on the back and teachers doled out high fives.  We took pictures and gave hugs.  And a certain curly-haired little cutie did cartwheels until she could hardly stand upright.....to no avail.  The star of the hour remained her oldest brother.  Hmm.....

We (finally) made it to the car, loaded up and headed home.  The boys and I were rehashing the various feats as Emry perused a catalogue with studied indifference (I am not even kidding - it was an Oscar-worthy affectation.  She was fully peeved).  Every once in a while, when we spoke of one of the girls' song or dance numbers, she would pause and toss out, "I'm prettier than her", then go back to casually flipping magazine pages.  We chose not to react.  Finally, when Luke was talking to me about one of the emcee's, he described her as "the one in the blue dress with the pretty hair".  That was the proverbial last straw for our little prima donna.  Her head snapped up, she slammed her reading material closed, and with eyes flashing she announced, "Let me just say that I am cuter than all of them!"

The hair compliment not aimed at her just pushed her right over the edge.  She could take no more.

I bit my lip, torn between wanting to laugh and wondering whether to chastise her.  Luke looked at me, eyebrows raised.  Drew stared at her in shock, unable to process this level of sassiness (even though he tells everyone he knows that his sister is the sassiest girl ever born).

I gazed at her in the rear view mirror, seeing the hurt and confusion in her little face, the tender heart hidden under the cheeky words.  I thought about the fact that while, yes, we are learning and working on humility and an ability to let others shine....she is only four years old.  And much of her identity is wrapped up in how others speak to and about her - often this is in the form of applause and attention to her dancing/singing/cartwheeling self, her big brown eyes and long lashes, her amazing long and curly hair.  She is still small enough to garner lots of words of affirmation and praise for simple things.  And she adores her brothers, who constantly tell her what a cutie she is....especially Luke.  She just couldn't handle any more of his (and all of our) attention to be elsewhere.

She'll have to learn how to do so.  Lest you think we let her ego run unchecked, know that we rein her in with regularity, and will continue to do so as she grows.  This will be a lot less cute at fourteen, we know.

But it's a lifelong lesson.  I can openly admit to you, I still have days where I battle this.  If you're honest, as you roll your eyes at my admission, you probably need to acknowledge a bit of the same.

It's hard, sometimes, to sit back and watch as what feels like the rest of the world gets their turn, reaps their reward, has their 15 minutes of fame....all while we trudge along, feeling unrecognized or unsatisfied or unfulfilled.  Our inner child waves her arms and stomps her feet, crying out, "What about me?"

We know, just know, that we could do as well or better, if only given the spotlight and a chance to shine.

Waiting is never the fun part.

The phrase "do your time" is never one we want to hear.  Nor is "it's not your turn this time".

Yet, like it or not, want to or not....it's part of life.  Our experiences, our disappointments, our challenges and moments out of the sun prepare us just as much as the accolades, attention and limelight for what it is we are meant to accomplish in this lifetime.  Our destiny rarely looks like we think it should or imagined it would.  Yet, if we are patient and open-minded, listening to the still small voice and answered prayers (as well as the unanswered ones), we may just find a mind-blowing life path and storybook ending that surpasses all we could have ever hoped for or envisioned for ourselves.

What a magnificent day it is, when we finally get that picture.  What an even better day it is when we successfully pass it on.

Solidarity sisters.  Eventually, we all get our turn.

Motherhood

It's Mother's Day!  It's Mother's Day! And I would be remiss in not posting about this topic, given how much I write about being a mom on other days.  I was fortunate enough to have the privilege of speaking about Mother's Day this morning to a gracious and amazing audience who honored and humored me.  So, I thought I'd share some of the highlights....and maybe add a little bit or two.

It’s a difficult thing to sum up motherhood.  There are so many components and emotions and moving pieces at any and every given time.  I sent out a request to mothers for their descriptors and got lots of responses – most were along similar themes. 

Some sent single words.

Some sent phrases.

Some sent explanations.

Some asked me to get their answers later because this is a bad week and they couldn’t think of anything nice to say or why they had kids in the first place.

I asked my children to help me out and provide their opinion on what I should talk about, given that they are on the receiving end of my mothering skills (or lack thereof).  Their responses were pretty much what you would expect from each personality.

Luke:  You should talk about how blessed you are to have a good mother.  You know, who loved you and took care of you and taught you how to make good choices  (shout out to my mom here).  Then go on to say how incredibly blessed you are to have married a good man and had three wonderful and beautiful kids, the oldest being especially amazing.

Drew: Do that verse.  You know, the one about how kids need to listen to their parents and they will be rewarded (Ephesians 6:1-3 – Children obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.  “Honor your father and mother” – which is the first commandment with a promise – “that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth.”).  Then talk about all the things mothers do for their kids and how they love their kids.  And you know all this because you are a mother.  Then, when it’s time to wrap it up, finish with how the only reason anyone is alive is because of their mother (pat tummy).  And the kids at this church are here today thanks to all the mothers here.

Emry: You should tell them about God and stuff.  And about mothers.  (When questioned further): Well, I don’t know.  I’m not a mother. (Asked again): You know….moms get mad and sad and happy.  Yep, tell them about all those things.

                Then sing “Let it Go” from Frozen.

I didn't, you'll be happy to know.  I thought about it.....but didn't (though we did show a short clip) 

I thought so much about all of the ways that mothers affect their children.  We touch every aspect of their lives, often without gratitude or credit, existing as the unsung heroes (or villains) - until they win an Oscar or Olympic medal, and then the shout outs come a rollin'.

E.W. Caswell: The mother, more than any other, affects the moral and spiritual part of the children’s character.

                Fabulous.  Great.  Who set that up?  Because I know I don’t stand alone here when I say that’s a huge responsibility.  And no one gave me an instruction manual.  Or unlimited stores of energy.  And some days, the thought of repeating myself one more time, or picking up one more piece of clothing off the floor, or explaining why you have to brush your teeth every day (again), or running yet another forgotten lunch to school, or trying to remember algebra, or being the brunt of a bad mood/pouting/crying/ingratitude, or the inability to get anything done on time makes me want to strangle people and scream until I’m hoarse.  Anyone else able to admit they are not the picture of serenity and love all the time?

It just gets to be too much.  I mean, it’s like I’m Charlie Brown’s teacher. 

I say “Go brush your teeth” – they hear “tackle your brother”

I say “Bring me your backpack” – they hear “sit on the couch and look for the remote”

I say “It’s time for bed” – they hear “it’s time for your best impression of a filibuster”.  Like a debate is going to change bedtime.  It never works.  Why do they keep trying?  And why is it always a surprise?

I often find myself thinking, “It shouldn’t be this hard.  Surely it was never meant to be this hard.”  Except….it was.  Think back to the beginning, and how motherhood came about.

It all started with our friend, Eve, didn't it?  She had it pretty good - only woman on Earth; no need for competition; no worries about fashion, trends, modesty or body image; no juggling of career and house work.....you get the picture.  Then, bam!  She listened to a snake and all hell broke loose.  Sound familiar?More than one sister has sung that song.

I've wished, on more than one occasion, that I could help her out, thus helping all of us out.  I have a very clear answer to the whole "If you could go back in time and talk to anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?'.  Anyone ever answer that one in an ice breaker or new job situation?  Or perhaps one of those Zimbio quizzes - you know the ones I mean.  They're all over Facebook, telling us who we really are, or what color our hair should be, or where we were meant to live..... I mock myself in this, as well.  I'm just as obsessed with them as the next girl.  You'll be happy to know that I am a true brunette, if I were a drink I'd be a glass of Merlot, if I were a Disney princess I'd be Anna (from Frozen), if I were a Barbie I'd be Rapper Barbie (I kid you not, I can't make this stuff up), my Disney prince soul mate is Prince Eric, my 80's cartoon identity is She-Ra, in the Wizard if Oz I'm Glenda the Good Witch and if they made a movie of my life the actress who should play me is Emma Watson.  Let's take a minute with that one, shall we?  Really, quiz people?  Tiny, diminuitive, English, sleek-haired Emma Watson?  Ok, I can get past the size - who doesn't want to be portrayed by a petite?  And she's a good little actress, so could probably pull off the Texas accent with some practice.  But, the hair.....I can't accept that part.  I know she's got the power of Hollywood hair and make-up people behind her.......but this hair doesn't just happen overnight.  It's a life long, genetic phenomenon. Plus, she's twelve.  Why the heck couldn't they give me Sandra Bullock? 

Sorry.  Back to the time machine.  So, I'd hop on in that puppy and head right back to the beginning - no other destination will do.  My plan is simple, yet brilliant - jump out at the opportune moment in time, have me a little intervention and make my way home with a new pair of boots, maybe a matching belt.  Yep.  Eve and I, we'd have our little chat, but I don't believe in leaving loose ends.  

I wonder if she'd get it....I wonder if she'd listen, as I explain to her that her gravy train is worth so much more than a simple piece of fruit.  Fruit!  Not worth it, sister - it's not even fermented or dipped in chocolate. The change that simple bite is going to bring about is beyond what I could explain to her in mere words.  I would try, though.  And truly, if she wants to get into clothing that badly, I'd offer to leave her the belt.  All the fun is in accessorizing, anyway.

I doubt it would change anything, this fool proof plan of mine.  Destiny is what it is, and human nature is a stubborn phenomenon.  So, the path was inevitable, and the bargain was struck.

Eve’s bargain: eat the fruit, gain the knowledge of God.  Know what He knows.  Experience what He experiences.  And she did.  She experienced:

·         The growing and bringing forth of life from herself

·         Exhaustion of raising children (even God rested on Day 7, after Adam and Eve)

·         Joy and stress of watching her children grow

·         Need for discernment, boundary setting, protection of her children

·         Sadness at watching a child become unsatisfied, jealous, ungrateful, displeased, covetous

·         Devastation of one son harming and ultimately killing the other; loss of one child at the hand of      another

·         Frustration of children’s disobedience, sin => consequences, pain, suffering, death

·         Ability to see what’s best for children who strain against authority, wisdom, big picture

Talk about a case of be careful what you ask for, because what you think you want isn’t at all what you need.  Grass - not greener.

Yet, I have to admit that I have a lot of grace for my many times great big sister, Eve.  As much as I may fantasize about five minutes in a locked room with her, I can't be too angry.  After all, if we're being honest, had it not been her it would have been one of us.  We're always looking for the next better thing.  I whine and moan as much as anyone.  And even more than that.....thanks to her, I get to be a mom.  Motherhood came about, a blessing with the curse, and I can't imagine life without it.  The love and joy and gift being a mother brings keeps us going through the work and exhaustion and busyness with a beautiful craziness we get nowhere else.  It drops us to our knees and lifts us above anything we could imagine.  It drives us - sometimes crazy, other times to acts of love and service and courage that we never thought possible.  It shows us how boundless we can love another and gives us overwhelming joy.  We dream big dreams, pray bigger prayers and view our children through a lens of hope, pride and love that no one else can fathom.

I have so many hopes for my kids - most involving their ability to embrace every moment of love and laughter and learning, then get out there and live.  I mean, really live.  I want them to have vibrant, full, amazing lives.  I want them to walk with their heads held high, confident in the fact that they are loved and cherished and special; that they are strong and saved and valuable; that their presence in this world is intentional and has purpose and meaning.  I want them to seek out experiences and follow their dreams, looking for the path that leads to the life they are meant to live.  I want them to define what that is with precision, and boldness in pursuing the life they want, in whatever form that takes.  Yet, not to formulate an image that the end goal is a life of comfort.  Difference makers don’t aim for comfort.  And, oh please God, let them be difference makers.  I want so much to model that for them, so they know it’s possible during this lifetime and in this broken world to shine with an un-dimmable light.  To walk without fear, never doubting the One who saves, watches and loves without end. 

My prayer is for them to be so much more than I am – to be smarter, funnier, stronger, more beautiful, more confident – overall, just better.  To set a foundation that roots them in the true rock, and helps avoid my fallacies bringing them down.

I want them to:

Love fiercely

Laugh without fear of the future

Learn until the day they die

Live like they are already on their journey to eternity.

My children are the very height of my earthly achievements.  They are the best thing I could ever hope to accomplish.  All three – regardless of where they go, who or what they become – whether they attain fame or quiet success, live flamboyantly or in obscurity, stay the righteous course or fall off the wagon a time or six…..will always be the very pinnacle of my existence and legacy.

I have always been a believer.  But no other experience in my life drives home the message of Limitless/Eternal Love and Salvation like Motherhood.

I would die for my kids.  Given the chance, given the choice to spare them, I would endure beatings and chains, ridicule and ruin.  If the situation demanded it, if it were in my power to save them, even offer the slightest hope of saving them from pain, sin, or condemnation – I would experience any humiliation, pay any price, die any death…..and I would do it without an ounce of hesitation.

They don’t have to earn this.

They don’t have to ask for this.

They don’t even have to accept or believe this.

They are my children.

That’s enough.

And if I – flawed, weak, impatient, selfish, sinful Rebecca; merely a human mother given the chance to hold them for a blink of eternity…..if even I know how to do this for my children, how much more is the God of all Creation, my Father in heaven, the One with limitless time, energy, patience, love, knowledge and power ready to do for me, and for you, and for every one of His children?  How much has He already done, even though we don't always see or acknowledge it? (Matthew 7:11)

I know that tomorrow, the hype and helpfulness of today will be long forgotten.  It will be just another ordinary day in which I have to do laundry and pick up toys/clothes/dishes/etc.  I'll repeat myself 20 times to get everyone out the door in the morning and into bed in the evening.  I'll go back to juggling work and kids and schedules and dinner and school projects and honey-do lists.  I'll get my normal quota of kisses and hugs, along with the normal lack of thank you's and listening.  Life will go back to routine.  And you know what?  It'll be just fine.  Because they'll love me as much as they always do.  I'll love them even more.  We'll keep moving forward and growing and being a family....unique in our stories and memories and style.  I'll look at my foam journal (that says "Mom you rock" in sparkly stickers)...and my handprint-stamped hot pad......and my beautiful new necklace and bracelet set.  And I'll say yet another prayer of thanksgiving for this life I live, with the roles I've been handed and the gorgeous family I've been given.

I'll keep doing my best to raise a generation of difference makers.  I'll screw up....but hopefully not too badly.  Most of the time, the don't even notice my mistakes.  And when they do, and they love me anyway, my heart will overflow, yet again.  Because that's a lesson as well - in unconditional love and grace and forgiveness....for themselves as well as others.  And after all, that's what it's all about.

Solidarity, sisters.  God bless all the mothers.

Life's a Dance

Wouldn't it be great if life were a musical?  Pause here.  Read that line again.  Let it sink in.  Humor me on this one - just for a few moments.  Hear me out.  And admit that somewhere inside you a song has started.

The impact of a good musical cannot be overstated.  And life lends itself to this tendency.  We constantly refer to it in artistic terms - the rhythm of life, the timing of a situation, wait a beat, the flow of a conversation, the staccato of heels on pavement, a clap of thunder, rain song, all the world is a stage...... You get the picture.  We are such auditory and visual creatures that we use those kind of descriptors in our written and oral language.  We respond emotionally to sound, rhythm and movement.  It's why music is such a huge part of our movie and television experience.  We run (ok, that's a generalized "we") or exercise to it.  We hum or play it to soothe our infants.  We turn to it when we are happy, sad, or overwhelmed.  We clamor for the artists who create it, travelling far and wide to see them.

It touches us on a visceral level, evoking tears or laughter, and many times vivid memories of where we were when we first or last heard a song.  I still catch my breath every time I hear Guns N Roses' "Sweet Child O Mine".....and not for the reasons you would initially think.  It was playing on the radio when I received the news that my mother had been diagnosed with cancer, and would undergo emergency surgery two days later.  I still can't listen to the whole thing.  And I love me some 80's hair bands.......

But I digress.  Back to the Musical of Life.

Can you imagine?  How great would it be to randomly (or with beautifully timed intentionality) burst into song and movement in moments of heightened tension or joy?  To be fair, I generally burst into song at random moments throughout my day on a regular basis, but seldom does anyone join me, so it doesn't count as a musical, per se.

If you've never been in a musical production (or moment of any kind), I don't know that you can fully appreciate the stress relief that occurs from a rousing dance and song number that releases energy and emotion with total abandon.  Seriously!  Think back to the last tense or angry interaction you experienced and imagine how much more quickly and effectively you could have let it all go and reset yourself by participating in a Broadway-esque jazz routine (think "Cool" from West Side Story) or perhaps an aggressive tango (since I mentioned WSS, I now have "A Boy Like That" in a constant mental loop. Crap).

We've had a really rough week around here, trying to get through our first broken arm (Drew, who else?).  After the scare, first ER, x-ray, ambulance ride to the second ER, more x-rays, multiple doctors and news of pending surgery (three pins through the humerus, thank you very much), both Gregg and I were totally past our limit by the time we were admitted for our overnight stay in the frozen meat locker hospital room to wait on the early morning procedure.  I am sitting here actually laughing out loud at the mental picture of one or both of us jumping up from our chairs in Trauma Waiting and exploding down the hallway in a rendition of Ren's frustrated dance number from "Footloose".  Can you even imagine?  I can picture the mad rush of nurses, med students and residents scrambling to get out of our way!  If only I could still do a back handspring.....or convince Gregg to do a dive roll...

And reflect back on your last argument.  I mean, could you really stay truly mad at someone after a full out sing-off/dance-off?  You're winded, you've gotten to fling your arms around, you've done phenomenal harmonies together..... What's left to hang on to?  Issue solved, or at least decompressed a few levels.
Ta-da!  And if that doesn't do the trick, you just say, "And...scene" and walk off.

Then there's the mental flash-forward, backward or to an alternate present.  I want one of those!  You know, where you jump into an entirely different scenario, complete with costume and hair change, band, back-up dancers, situation of your dreams and to-die-for vocals and choreography.  Fantastic!  Some days, all I really want is a five to seven minute escape from reality.  In a designer dress.  And fabulous shoes.

Group numbers would be the ultimate.  Don't roll your eyes!  If you've ever You-tubed a flash mob you have no room to mock me.  Picture your co-workers or Bunko group snapping, clapping and hopping their way through a situation together.  Bet it made you smile.

And we could totally spice up boring circumstances.  Board meeting?  Alternate tropical universe!  Never-ending homework?  Fact-filled song!  Tedious yard work?  A hip hop extravaganza!  I was especially struck this past weekend as Gregg was engrossed in the Masters tournament.  I cannot even handle that much golf. Or any golf....no disrespect - shout out to Bubba Watson.  But it must be noted that I spent the last half hour of the event choreographing the players and their caddies in my head.  Think "Fame" with nine irons.

As if I weren't going overboard enough (and possibly frightening some of you with my ludicrous incidentals), Luke just walked by wearing a robe and declared, "I'm going to read like an Englishman, Mom.  Where's a pipe?"  I have no words.  That apple plopped right at the base of its tree.  And now I find myself propelled into scenes from "My Fair Lady".  I wonder what he would do if I threw his slippers at him.....

So, I challenge you all this week.  Sing a little song, do a little dance, find a bit of music in an unexpected place.  You might surprise yourself with what it does for your heart.  At the very least, you'll get a good laugh (or someone around you might).

Solidarity, sisters.  All the world's a stage.

I'll Be Second

March 21st is World Down Syndrome Day (you know, because of 3/21), so there is no way I could pass up the chance to weigh in on this.  Outside of the fact that I've treated kids with this diagnosis over the past fourteen or so years, one of my all-time favorite people on Earth is a part of the DS family.  His name is Aaron, and he was born to one of my very best friends (a Saucy Six member, actually) four months before Emry, so he has literally been one of our crew since his initial little fluttery heartbeats.
Did we see him coming?
No.
Could we imagine life without him?
Absolutely not.

He is funny and smart, destructive and tireless, stubborn and loving all bundled into a fiery, adorable package of four-year-old boy.  And every time he points, exclaiming, "Gecka!" while lunging towards my hug, he melts my heart......which he totally knows and uses to his advantage when needed.

Aaron, like all children, loves to play and run and get his way.  His laugh is infectious, his smile is beautiful, and his frown a sad little sight.
He dances to any music, any time, any place.
He sings his favorite songs.
He loves Mickey Mouse.
He adores his sisters, his friends and his family.
He is impatient with difficult tasks, situations or people.
He gets cranky when he is tired or hungry.
He doesn't like vegetables.
He thinks his mommy is funny.
He throws toys or sand or food or tantrums, when we wish he wouldn't.
He knows his alphabet and his numbers to 25.
He distributes hugs or hits, depending on his mood.

So far, he sounds just like my three kids.  How about yours?

In the future, as he gets older, he will:

• continue growing
• go to school
• learn to read
• develop new skills
• get a job
• move out of his parents' house
• make new friends
• date

Again, sound familiar?  I did all those things....so did my friends......so will my kids.

Aaron, and the other people around us with DS, have an extra 21st chromosome.  If anything, they've got us all beat in the genetic information realm, as opposed to lacking anything.  This addition results in DS and the complications associated with it.  They may face health issues.  They may have to undergo surgeries.  They develop at a slower pace than their peers, and require a little more help to achieve their goals and learn new skills.

Ok.

So.....some of us need a little help from our friends.  The Beatles did.  No one had a problem with that.

And, interestingly, we learn a lot from those who are different than us.  We learn to slow down, and truly look at the world around us, often through a different lens than the one we normally wear.  We learn to have patience for our fellow humans, and maybe a little for ourselves.  We learn that love is unconditional, and flexible, and immeasurable.  We learn that beauty comes in unlimited forms, and is found in places we never thought to look.  We learn that things we thought we were scary aren't so bad once we become informed, because fear is in the unknown.

We learn that young children are often our best teachers when it comes to embracing their friends, and we should encourage that trait as they grow.

The other day, we were driving (as usual, because all I do when I'm not working is chauffeur people around) and my kids began a conversation about birthdays and friends, etc.  Emry, who is always looking for ways not to be the baby in the group, began listing her friends and asking about their birthdays.  Naturally, Aaron was at the top of the list.  Our conversation went something like this:

Em: "Mommy, Aaron is four, like me."

Me:: "Yes, he is."

Em: "When I turn five, he'll still be four.  He's the baby."

Me: "Well, no, he won't be.  Aaron's birthday is before yours, so he'll already be five when you turn five."

Em: "But, I'll be five first, right?"
Me: "No.  He'll be five first.  You'll still be four."

Em: "I'll still be four?" (I could see the wheels turning - foiled in her quest for non-baby of the group)

Me: "Yes."

Em: "Aaron's first?"

Me: "Yes, ma'am."

(silent pause - during which I am frantically trying to come up with an age appropriate explanation as to why Aaron doesn't have to be the baby and she does, in case she starts arguing her case with examples of why she must be the older one, given that she speaks more clearly or runs faster or jumps higher or......)

Em: "Okay, Mommy.  Then I'll be second!"

And just like that, she flashed me the hugest grin, and we were on to the next topic.  It was that simple. Because Aaron is her friend, and this time, he gets to be first.  

Because when she sees him, she sees her buddy, her lifelong pal, who generally is a pretty good sport about letting her boss him around.

Because friends take turns, and celebrate each other's accomplishments.

Because different is just fine.  Period.

When I look at these two together, I'm reminded of the childhood song, Jesus Loves the Little Children.  And I think we can change the lyrics just a tad for today.

Jesus loves the little children

All the children of the world

Extra chromosomes or not

We praise Him with all we've got

Jesus loves the little children of the world.

Solidarity, sisters.  Happy World Down Syndrome Day!

Cowboys and Parking Lots

One of my major goals in life is to never go grocery shopping with all three of my children.  I know....many of you may be thinking I should aim a little higher with my accomplishment expectations.  Those of you with multiple young children feel my pain though.  I mean, it's not that I don't love my kids or want to spend time with them.  And it's not that I am so overwhelmed by grocery shopping that I can't handle the thought of taking my kids....even though it takes three times as long....and involves pinching and shoving and threats (from a veritable treasure trove of combinations - we're like a math word problem. "If a mommy and her three kids all go to the store, and each person threatens bodily harm to the other in every possible variation of combinations, how many threats can you calculate?').  And, while we're at it, it costs more.  Because at some point, even the most strict and determined of mothers runs out of steam in the "no, we are not buying that" argument.  Plus, they tag team.  They alternate between acting like if we don't buy everything in sight the world will end, to getting incredibly excited over basic foods (like it's shocking I am providing sustenance for them), to distracting me with someone's meltdown or crazy social interactions so that the others can sneak goods into the basket.  I feel kind of bad, like I am painting a picture of crazy hooligans at the store.  Well, if the shoe fits....

By the time we get to checkout on these days, I am beyond frazzled and ready to trade them in for extra organic anything.  Our latest experience was no exception.  At some point, you just get past your capacity to handle to amount of sensory overload this adventure involves.  Drew thinks he can bag groceries.....and while it is precious that he wants to help, eggs cost too much to get smushed before you even leave the store.  Luke loves to pull Emry out of the cart, despite my (semi) strict she-rides-in-the-cart rule, and then after about ten seconds he forgets he promised to carry her around or be in charge of her in any capacity, so she runs wild throughout the front of the store...and she's small for her age.  Which means a) no one can see her before they trip over her or run her down with a cart and b) people without children or who have forgotten what it's like to have them glare at me as I try to pay for groceries/catch her/stop the smushing/shout for Luke to get back here/make it out alive.

This particular trip, we finally made our way out of the store into the light (I actually thought it might be dark outside, even though we arrived during the day....that's how eternal the session inside felt) and started across the parking lot.  It was one of those days that no one offered to help us with carry out, whether because they were too busy or the staff decided they don't make enough to put up with any more of our crazy.  As I pushed the cart (so full of groceries I couldn't see over the top....or steer....or fit Emry in the front, so she was hanging half on the cart and half on my leg), we made our way across the parking lot.  We walked all the way down the row.  All the way....as in, no more cars were parked there.  I stopped, looked around, shrugged, and started back the opposite way.  Calling out to the boys who were pummeling each other, I laboriously turned the Titanic of our cart and made my way up the next aisle, having overshot our suburban. We walked to the front of that row and then stopped.  Hmm....Weird.  No sight of our car here, either.  I shouted at the boys again, clutched Emry to my side, and repeated this pattern two or three more times.

Crap.  Either our car had been stolen, or I had totally lost my bearings and forgotten where I parked it. Which never happens.  Ever.  Unless, apparently, my mental capacity is completely over its limit by the multi-tasking it takes to shop with three children.  The boys began to grumble about walking in circles, and right as I opened my mouth with a less-than-motherly comeback, I heard a voice booming across the parking lot.

"Ma'am?  Ma'am!"

The retort died on my lips as I froze.  I really hate being called ma'am, for one.  And second, there is nothing quite like the humiliation of having a stranger witness your inability to find your vehicle in a parking lot.  I turned to locate the source of the voice, cringing.  Then I stood, mouth hanging open, as I found him.

Across the way and halfway down the lot, standing on top of his truck was a tried and true cowboy.  I kid you not.  He had it all - jeans with a giant belt buckle, handle bar mustache and enormous white hat.  Holy cow.  He was waving his arm above his head while shouting out to us, "It seems you're having some trouble finding your vehicle!"

Does it?  Does it seem so?  What was your first clue, my friend?  And how can you be sure I'm not just pushing this giant cart up and down every row out here as a new form of exercise?  It's all the rage in mommy resistance training.

Of course, I said none of those things, just nodded and smiled as my boys yelled out that we drive a tan suburban and couldn't find it anywhere, even though we'd been walking forever.  Do you know how many tan suburbans are in an HEB parking lot at any given time?  A lot.  We walked up to at least four of them.  Each time, my western friend would call out, "No?  Not that one?  Ok, well, I see another on over there!" and my boys would swear up and down that now they remembered!  It was that way!

Seriously...how big can one parking lot be???  This is not a large city we live in!  Finally, tired and cranky and frustrated, I turned on my heel, ignored the cowboy, left my sons arguing, headed in the opposite direction.....and found my car in about five seconds.  Emry, whom I had plopped on top of the mountain of goods, stayed wisely quite, slapping me a silent high five.  My sons came pounding up to the car as I finished loading the back with our wares.  We all piled in, and I took a deep breath, made myself eat humble pie, and drove over to the cowboy to thank him for his help (his trailer had four-wheelers, not horses, but still....hat + mustache = cowboy)

As we pulled out of the parking lot, Luke turned to me and said, "Mom, you have got to blog this.  I'm not even kidding."  You got it, kiddo.....

Reflecting on it later, and finally able to laugh about it, I was as surprised as I was amused at what a general life lesson this is.  Some days, some seasons, in life get so confusing and bogged down and turned around, that we lose our way and find ourselves confounded in situations that shouldn't be overwhelming or difficult.....but they are.  We get lost, unable to see where we want to go and/or how to get there.  These are times when we need someone with a different view, a perspective that is outside the immediate problem, to step in and offer a helping hand or opinion or angle to help us find our way.  We need to reach out to the ones who love us and are eager to forge ahead onto the right path with us.....or at least help us find it.  They are a blessing, these helping hands and eyes.  We should embrace their assistance and aspects.

And we should know as well, that there are times when they can't do it for us.  When all the well-meaning advice and vision and outlook and support in the world aren't going to do the trick.  Those times, and we all have them, we need to have the strength and wisdom and fortitude to smile and say thank you, then turn on our heel and head towards the destination meant for us....and us alone.  Because in the end, no one can do it for us.  No one can bring us to our destination, our destiny.  That leg of the journey is personal.

We did make one more stop, the kids and I, and went out to eat at a little cafe in celebration of surviving our shopping soiree (and because it took so long we were all starving).  Luke is in a phase in which he insists on only speaking in a British accent when we go places, so he ordered his food and interacted with the girl at the counter in this manner.....to be honest, his accent is amazing and totally believable....until you hear his mother speak.  My accent is not remotely related to anything British.  Which would be confusing enough in and of itself, but Drew (who is in a Spanish immersion program) decided he was in the mood to interact in Spanish, so my conversations with him took place totally in Spanish.  He even spoke to his siblings and the server this way.  And Emry.....well, what can I say?  Half the time she sounded like a valley girl (this is her new thing) and the other half she used made up words in what she feels is her own version of Spanish.

I've decided to view us as international....or cosmopolitan....as opposed to just really strange.  If nothing else, we amused the staff there to no end.  And perhaps contributed to the message of birth control.

Solidarity, sisters.  Sometimes you need a guy in a white hat....or with an accent.

The Thing About Grief

It's been eight months.
There are days, moments, milestones in our lives that brand us or change us or impact us in a permanent way.  Whether happy or sad, they are the times that leave their permanent mark upon us, and propel us into a new chapter in our life's story.  And as with all chapters, they deserve to be written.

So, here goes......

It's been eight months - time enough to avoid, deny, or hide.  That season is over.  Now it's time to share.

My Medzma, my grandmother, was one of the absolute most important, influential, amazing, beautiful, strong, incredible influences on my life.  She was, literally, a force of nature and explosion of life, love and energy.  No one who met her could ever forget her.  Anyone who spoke with her was instantly mesmerized.  Everyone who knew her was completely in love with her, none more than I, her first grandchild and namesake.
She was unafraid.
She was unconventional.
She was uncontrollable.
And she was unapologetic.

It's taken me this long to write about her, not only because my heart was completely broken by her death, but because she was such a funny, interesting, charming individual that I wanted to be able to communicate that in writing and to do her vivacity and sense of humor justice.

I'm not sure that is possible.

How do you explain such a colorful character?  How do you adequately paint a picture of an indomitable spirit?  Someone who lived a fascinating and tragic history - born in Jerusalem, child of Armenian immigrants, survivors of genocide; raised by a widow as the middle of six siblings (one who died in infancy); married at age 17 by arranged marriage; bore her daughter a year later only to be widowed a year afterward; survivor of the Israeli Wars; who moved across the globe to Uruguay and found a way to start a new way of life and bring her family over.  She worked and fought and saved, making sure her daughter had the best possible education - so much so, that the child in question went on to become a Fullbright scholar and was sent to the U.S. on an exchange program upon completion of her time at University.

She had big plans for her child, my Medzma did, and those plans did not include an American upstart with a Texas address.  So, when my mother began to write home about a guy, Medzma hopped on a plane, flew to Texas, and made her presence known.  When the young man in question invariably asked for his love's hand in marriage, her answer was, "No", followed by a promise to live with him permanently should he dare to persist and marry her daughter.
He thought she was kidding, tossing out empty threats.
She wasn't.
She moved in after the honeymoon, and remained a member of their household for the next forty years.
A lady always keeps her word.....

My entire life, I was blessed to have her near.  She was my third parent, the one who often advocated, begged and cajoled on my behalf when I really needed extra fire power for that fabulous outfit or concert tickets or special treat.  She interceded to decrease sentencing for grounding or punishment.  She was a fabulous negotiator, and lived for fun, laughter and adventure.  No wonder I was so in love with her.
She was tireless in her work ethic and drive to improve, both herself and those around her.
She had a sharp tongue and soft hugs.
She had a wicked sense of humor and quick wit.
She had a temper (oh, did she...), yet she forgave and forgot with enviable ease.

The stunts and stories of her youth were the stuff of legends.  One in particular resurfaces often in our family.  I won't share too many details here, since I am unsure of the statute of limitations on international incidents.  Let me just say it involved matches, a Jewish national monument, and a headline in the then-Palenstinian papers.
Her poor mother.
And my poor mother, sandwiched between us.  Bless her heart, truly.  We must have totally exhausted her with our drama and clashes and shenanigans.
Boy, did we have fun.

I wish she was still here.  The fact that she lived a full, beautiful, long life is wonderful and I celebrate that.  It doesn't make me miss her any less, though.  I'd give anything to hear her laugh one more time.  Her laugh was one of my favorite sounds on this earth.  Life isn't the same without it.

And that's the thing....the thing about grief.
The thing about grief, I have discovered, is that it always involves a one-two punch.  First, there's a loss.  It can be anything, really, anything dear to your heart - a person, a relationship, your health, a dream, an expectation, a job, a house, a vision of what should have been....the list goes on.  Regardless, it's someone (all too often) or something that is taken from us in some manner.  And from that point on, our life is changed forever.  The second punch comes in the form of change, because nothing is ever the same and our path veers away from what it was, whether we want it to or not.  We don't get to choose the what, when, where, or how.  And somehow, we are expected to move forward,  because life stands still for no one.

Sometimes, the changes brought about by a loss are good ones.  Sometimes, we see the big picture, grow from the circumstance, and get our "a-ha" moment in this lifetime.  We can embrace our new path with gratitude and forge ahead into the new opportunity afforded us.

Sometimes, but not always.
The loss of a loved one rarely leads us to react with gratitude.  Because that loss, that grief, just plain hurts.

The thing about this grief is, it's part of the human experience.  There are no exceptions.  We all live through it.  We all take part in it.  No one gets a free pass.  Jesus himself grieved during His time on Earth.  We know that when his friend, Lazarus, died Jesus wept (John 11:35, the shortest verse in the Bible).  He knew, knew without a shadow of a doubt what was waiting for Lazarus in Heaven, and how much better off he would be.  Yet, He still grieved.  Because loss hurts, and change is hard on our hearts.  It makes us uncomfortable, and resets our definition of "life as we know it".

We adjust and we grow because we don't have a choice.  There is an ebb and flow, and no matter how slowly or quickly we make our way through the stages, eventually finding our way to acceptance, our hearts beat a little differently going forward.

We spread Medzma's ashes on what would have been her 86th birthday, releasing them into the river we all love as our final overt act of closure.  As we sat on the banks together, a family bonded by love and grief, we sang one of her favorite hymns.
   When peace like a river attendeth my way,
   When sorrows like sea billows roll.
   Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
   It is well
   It is well with my soul.

She lived that, had that ability to find peace and joy and unassailable faith in all of the circumstances and seasons of her incredible and eventful life.  For us to do any less would be an insult to her legacy, a stubborn refusal to learn from her.....and would infuriate her beyond the telling.

Because the thing about grief is, it teaches us.  It molds us and grows us.  It pulls us along, and once we step out from under its crushing weight, it reminds us step into the sunlight where we belong.  After all, this is also a part of the human experience, isn't it?  The tentative beginnings of hope and healing that bloom when we least expect them to.  The reminders that we are loved and a part of something bigger than ourselves.  The ability to smile through our tears, and find joy through our pain.  Our hearts demand it, with their resiliency and need to laugh and love again.  Our memories pave the way, easing us back on course.

I sat that day, on the banks of the river, and I saw my Medzma there.  Not in the dust that floated away, returning her earthly body to the physical cycle of our planet, but in my mind, surfacing as one of my favorite mental and literal pictures of her.

She had come to visit, shortly after my wedding, and somehow convinced Gregg that she absolutely needed to sit out in the middle of the river.  Bless his athletic and insanely coordinated heart, my eager new husband carried her across the rapids on his back (how they made it without incident is amazing, and was a sight to behold, especially given how hard she was laughing the whole time) to set her up for sun a water fun.  There she lounged, happy and carefree, as tubers floated by, toasting her at the top of their lungs with various beverages held high.

That woman knew how to have fun.
She created it everywhere she went.

And that is how I see her.
I see her dancing and singing in a multitude of settings.
I see her holding each of my babies, tirelessly rocking them as infants.
I see her, head flung back, hands wildly gesticulating as she tells a story with dramatic flair.
I see her laughing until her tears run when something struck her as truly funny.
I see her hugging, kissing, loving and living, fiercely and fully focused on every moment under the sun.

She lived.  In her 85 years on this planet, she lived at a higher capacity then most of us could in two lifetimes.  Her life was a gift and a blessing, and she knew it with every fiber of her being.  She never lost sight of her self as a child of God, and she never lost clarity of her faith.

I miss her.....some days to the point of physical pain.  That's the thing about grief.  I celebrate her every time I talk about her, or write about her, or laugh or cry at her memory.  That's the thing about the gift.  May I always know the importance of both.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2, 4
There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven:
   a time to be born and a time to die
   a time to weep and a time to laugh
   a time to mourn and a time to dance.

Solidarity, sisters.  May God bless you in each of your seasons.