Holding Hands in Public

Today I dropped my 9 –year-old daughter off at the Jr. high bus stop.

Our school district offers violin lessons for 4^th graders at the local Jr. high before school. 4^th graders are to ride the bus with the Jr. High kids, take their lesson, and re-board the bus, which drops them off at their proper elementary school. Because I’m really very afraid of Junior High kids (I spent a year teaching 7^th grade Spanish), I debated whether or not to just drive her to the school myself, sparing her the bus experience. She’s so tiny and sweet, I rationalized. Those kids will eat her alive. Plus, how will she be able to find the music room when she gets there? I mentioned this plan to Alex and, horrified, she replied, “Mom. There. Is. No. Way. You can’t drop me off.” She wanted to do this herself. She assured me that she’d sit near the bus driver and that if she couldn’t find the music room, she’d find a teacher and ask for help.

Plus, she didn’t want to be seen with her mother holding her hand at the Jr. High. I can be overbearing that way. You know, trying to hold her hand in public.

I reluctantly agreed to let her ride the bus.

Alex has been looking forward to the start of violin lessons for weeks. She’s been “practicing” with her half size violin and bow and trying to figure out how to properly tune it. Mike and I have politely listened to the squawks and squeaks of the tiny instrument, playing the part of the rapturous audience because of the delighted face Alex wears when she plays it. Well, I played the part. I think Mike really was rapturous. His love of our kids is big and unabashed. He loves them like crazy and is their chief cheerleader. He’s permanently proud of them.

I have learned to take ibuprofen before the concert of scratchy strings and loud whistling begins.

I woke Alex up early this morning and she stumbled out of bed with unusual compliance. She usually loathes the morning time. Today, however, she was excited. She carefully chose her outfit, took a shower, and asked me to blow dry her hair. She fussed over which shoes to wear and insisted her glasses were crooked. I fixed the apparently crooked glasses and watched Alex continue to bustle around the house as if she’d had one too many cups of coffee.

“She’s nervous,” I pointed out the obvious to my husband.

“Yeah, “ he replied, “Don’t worry. I’ll walk her to the bus.”

Alex must have overheard this exchange because when I went upstairs to check on her progress, she whispered,

“Mom, I don’t want Daddy to walk me to the bus.”

“Why not, honey?” I asked, surprised.

“I don’t know,” she fumbled and then looked at the floor.

Remembering her desire to not be seen holding my hand at the Jr. High, I could see her imagining Mike bestowing his big, unabashed love on her at the bus stop in front of the older kids.

“Oh, I said. “OK. How about if I drive you down and you can get out of the car when the bus comes?”

“OK, thanks Mom,” she answered with a sigh of relief.

I broke the news to Mike that his little baby girl didn’t want him to walk her down. It hurt his feelings. When I gently told him that she wanted me to take her, his shoulders fell and his face took on a pained expression.

Alex and I rushed out the door and drove to the bus stop. When the bus came, she flew out of the car and called out “Hi!” to the Jr. High kids in the most innocent voice I’ve ever heard. She threw me a grin and waved wildly as she boldly boarded the yellow school bus.

I came home and sat down on the couch next to Mike, remembering the days when I didn’t want my own parents to hold my hand in public. I tried to comfort him. I tried to explain that, in a way, Alex’s desire to go it alone on the bus is proof that we’re raising her well. The love we provide, the boisterous, full, crazy love Mike provides on a regular basis has helped create a strong foundation of self-confidence. She wasn’t rejecting us or being rude, she was testing out her independence. She wanted to see if she could get on that bus without her cheerleaders and their boisterous hugs.

He understood but, I think he still felt sad.

Tonight, when there are no Jr. Highers looking, I’m going to hold her hand tight. And Mike’s going to make a big fuss over her violin playing. Then, we’re going to hug her repeatedly.

She might be a little embarrassed but, that’s just the kind of parents we are.

Supersonic

(Another re-write of an old post... :) )

Last night, my 5 –year old son Caleb and I found our selves alone. My oldest, Alexandra, was at a sleepover and my husband was at a class reunion in California. We had scads of uncalendared time before us, which is a rare occurrence in our house. We are usually overscheduled: piano, Taekwondo, soccer, school, doctor appointments. Free time is like a clear diamond, precious and rare.

As I pulled away from dropping Alex at her friend’s house, I had an idea.

“Hey, buddy,” I pitched excitedly to the back seat, “Wanna go on a date with me?”

“Sure, mama!” Caleb accepted with a small shy smile.

“OK, Buddy, pick anywhere you want! Wait…but just not Chuck E. Cheese, Ok?"
 I loved supporting the idea of kids being kids but didn’t love the migraine I knew I’d take home with me.

He thought for a minute, knitting his eyebrows together and concentrating very hard. I began trying to silently guess what his choice would be. I was banking on ice cream, fast food, or the Lego store. His face suddenly lit up and he said confidently,

"Mama, I want to eat at your restaurant. I want to stay home with you and play."



Shocked, I replied, “Are you sure buddy? No Cold Stone, no McDonald’s? No Lego store?”

“Nope. I want to go home with you.”

“OK,” I fumbled, “It’s a date!”

How could I say no? Even with the tantalizing promise of mint chip ice cream and chicken nuggets, he opted for solo time with me. He wanted to eat food that I made. Not excited about the prospect of dragging out ingredients and deciding how to assemble them into something edible, I said,

“Bud, I think mommy’s restaurant is kind of, well… closed. What if we go through a drive through and eat the food at home on the front lawn? How about a picnic?”

“Yeah!” he shouted enthusiastically! I was grateful for the compromise. Now he had the best of both worlds. Fast food and hang time with mom.

When we got home, I laid out a thick blanket on the green grass and we had our picnic underneath a bright blue cloudless sky. We played "superheroes" while we ate. This game consisted of my son inventing 2 Superhero good guys and one Superhero bad guy. He and I played the good guys and we pretended there was an evil villain lurking in the shadows, ready to take over the world. And, of course, between bites of greasy French fries and chicken nuggets, we just had to stop him.

My superhero’s name was Supersonic. Ironically, the name Caleb chose for me had nothing to with anything “sonic” or remotely related to sound. It just sounded cool. My powers consisted of Laser Vision, Super Strength and Nostril Power. Oh, and I could fly. 
Caleb had his own host of powers I can't fully recall, mostly because he kept adding new ones every fifteen seconds. But I do remember the bad guy had Super Ultra Vomit Power. 


We sat in the sunshine, Caleb talking and imagining at a dizzying rate. Not a surprise if you know my son. He has never been short on words or creativity. He narrated a complex story line as I patiently nodded and listened, throwing in a "Wow!" or "Cool!" or "No way!" at appropriate moments. I also threw in "One more bite," and "Watch your drink!" a few times. 



At first I thought I was giving Caleb the gift of my time, that he was the one benefiting from our game. Then, I realized, sometime after Vomit Power Man tried to douse us in puke and I warded him off by blowing with my Nostril Power, that I was the one who needed the playtime. The reality that he's growing up hit me like a ton of bricks. I greedily soaked up the time with my son, trying hard to memorize every detail, every nuance of the experience. His small white teeth, his thick dark hair, his little dimple, his wide smile, his pudgy fingers, the sparkle of adventure in his eyes.

I know there will be a day when he doesn't want to play superheroes with me on our front lawn, when eating at “my restaurant” will not be his first choice. The value of these moments, these stolen seconds of unscheduled time with my son, is incalculable. Someday, when he drives off to college, waits for his bride at the end of the aisle, or becomes a daddy himself, I will pull out this memory, dust it off, and remember the little boy who wanted to eat at my restaurant and play superheroes.

Tricking the Tooth Fairy

My baby...

I'm proud to announce the arrival of the newest member of our family....

Loopholes

Human beings are hard wired to search for loopholes. It’s in our nature to painstakingly seek out shortcuts. Webster defines a loophole as “an ambiguity or inadequacy in the law or set of rules.” My children are forever testing the household rules, searching for the perfect ambiguity to exploit.

For example, we have a rule that the kids may only play video games if they have done their homework and then their daily reading. They are awarded video game and computer time based on how long they have spent reading. It’s a minute for minute exchange. Twenty minutes of reading can be redeemed for 20 minutes of Wii or DS time. Simple enough, right? As I crafted this rule, I was proud of its straightforwardness and confident in its clarity.

I had no idea just how complicated this system could become. My kids, who love to read, immediately started trying to poke holes in my rule. They peppered me with questions. Can you read in front of the Wii while someone else is playing? Do you get reading time if you read signs while riding in the car? Does it count if someone reads to you? Do you get extra Wii time on birthdays and holidays? Can you borrow your brother’s reading minutes if you promise to lend him some next time? Does daddy have the power to override this rule when mom’s gone? What happens if you “accidentally” play for too long on the Wii? Are there any times where your reading can count for double?

We have had long discussions about the Reading/ Gaming exchange rule. So much, that

I am considering hiring an attorney to draft a legal contract so that all parties are clear on the terms of the agreement. My children have no idea how much Wii time they’ve missed because of time spent discussing procedures and parameters.

I find myself searching for loopholes as well. My kids learned from the best. Just how important is it for me to meet that deadline? Do I technically have to pay that bill on that date, or is it just a suggestion? Do I have to do that tempo run, or can I just run easy? I find myself wondering if the time I spend searching for shortcuts ends up being more time consuming that just getting the job done.

I have often used my own fears and insecurities as a loophole.

“I feel called to go to Africa, but I can’t afford it.”

“I really want to be a writer, but I’m too afraid of rejection.”

“I want to work out but, I’ll never stick with it.”

“I’d like to start my own business, but it’s just too risky.”

My fears let me off the hook but, they prevent me from really living. I wonder what a life without loopholes, without fear and excuses, would look like. I'm willing to give it a try.

Somehow, though, I don't think my children will quit searching for ambiguities or inadequacies in the laws of this house anytime soon.

Humility

I pulled up this photo of Sheri, Lori, and I tonight. This is a pic from before a swim in the 55 degree lake a few weeks ago. Absent from the photo is Liz...she's taking the photo.

I showed my daughter, Alex, the photo. Here's what she had to say.

"Mom, you look like a geek. You all have really weird swim caps on. Your eyes are all wrinkly and weird looking. And, why do you match Lori? Are you trying to be twins or something?"

Here's what she didn't say, "Wow, mom, I can 't believe you braved the frigid temperatures in the name of conquering a goal." or "Sheesh, mom, good job not wearing ANY makeup in this photo. You look so young." or "You guys are totally strong and kick butt."

I believe the good Lord gave me children for the express purpose of keeping me very, very humble.

Stress Dreams

Sometimes, when a big, meaningful event is on the horizon, I internalize all the stress and anxiety about it. I go about my business, crossing all the regular t's and dotting all the normal i's. I may slam the door a little harder, communicate in a slightly sharper tone to the husband, or re-organize a closet but, I basically stuff the stress down.

That means, as soon as I am deep in REM sleep, my mind has a field day with all the stress hormones I've been ignoring. Last night, I had a full blown stress dream about my upcoming race. It started with me losing my bike shoes. I ended up finding only one of them. I had a cramp during the swim and realized when I took my wet suit off that I had forgotten to wear anything underneath. I vomited, ran out of water, and got a flat tire. Then, somehow, there were people dressed up as various mascots (a chicken, a bear, and a Seahawk) cheering for me as I, crawling, dragged my body across the finish line.

I'm hoping the race goes just a little differently next week.

In the hope of repressing any more triathlon stress dreams, I'm telling you now. I'M NERVOUS. I'M ANXIOUS. I'M a little AFRAID. Ahhhh.... I can feel the stress hormones neutralizing.... It also helped that I bought a new pair of bike shoes today. You know, just in case I lose one of the other ones.

T minus 10 days until the big 70.3.

Gulp.

A Series of Unfortunate Events....

Today was a gorgeous day in Seattle. There were no sun breaks because there were no clouds. The sun was high in the sky, raining down vitamin D and happiness, trying to cure all Seattleites suffering from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) in one apologetic, shiny day.

Sheri and I headed out for a brick workout today. We would have done it even if it was cold and soggy, because the Training Schedule rules our world. The Training Schedule called for a 1 hr and 45 minute ride immediately followed by a 45 minute run. They call it a brick because when you get off the bike, your legs feel like a million tons of heavy red bricks. OK, maybe not a million. But, it's hard to run after you get off the bike. Really, really hard. However, one must obey the all powerful Training Schedule at all costs, so you suck it up, put one foot in front of the other and try to practice the face you'll make when you cross the finish line.

Birds were singing, drivers were smiling, and even though my legs already felt like bricks when the ride started, I was optimistic. I had sunshine, a PB&J sandwich, Gatorade, and a view of Mt. Rainier. Miles 1-7 passed without incident.

Then, I ran over a staple. A. Tiny. Little. Staple. In the middle of a bike trail.

Air violently hissed out of my back tire and I suddenly had my first flat of the season. I have no clue how to fix a flat. None whatsoever. I instantly began wondering which friend I was going to call to come pick me up. I yelled up to Sheri and, totally unfazed, she whipped out her flat repair kit and got to work. Having no idea how to help, I could only offer little spurts of encouragement. "Good job, Sheri!" "Wow, I'm impressed!" "Um...... let me know if you need anything..."

A fellow cyclist, by the name of Jason, towing his 1 1/2 yr old son named Luke in a bike trailer, stopped to see if we needed help. We accepted his gracious offer and Jason and Sheri got to work fixing the flat. Not knowing what to do, and feeling very useless, I proceeded to play with the baby. When in doubt, flirt with babies. It's a motto I live by.

Sheri and Jason almost successfully installed a new tube in the tire. As they were finishing up, Sheri discovered a hole in the new tube. I will not repeat what she said and what I thought simultaneously. Sometimes there are no other words.

Back to square one.

Jason attempted to patch the first tube with the staple punctures and was really, ever so very nearly successful. He patched it, they got the tube in the tire, and we started pumping it up. A soft hissing sound came from the tire and we realized THERE WAS ANOTHER HOLE. By this point, Good Samaritan Jason and his adorable son, Luke, needed to get going. We thanked them for their help, gave Luke a few raspberries on his tummy, and proceeded to install a THIRD tube in the tire.

And, by we, I mean Sheri.

But, Ladies and Gentleman, SHE DID IT. Sheri was a rock star. A Super Hero. She saved my day. She was a TOTAL STUD. My thanks also go out to her husband, Jack, for teaching her to fix a flat.

We proceeded with our ride. Delayed but not deterred, we tackled the ride with renewed enthusiasm.

Until, a small bee decided to dive into my shirt. And sting me. Twice. I screamed and furiously shook the little bastard out of my jersey. No problem, it only half stung each time, so finishing the ride was no problem. It still hurt like the dickens, though.

Tonight, I'm laughing about these experiences, adding them to the "survival stories" archive that every athlete keeps in their brain and brags about to other athletes.

Today, Sheri teased me that by blog time, I'd have come up with some lesson I'd learned from the flat and the sting. And, she was right. So, here goes.

Obstacles happen. Prepare the best you can (I'm going to learn to change a flat ASAP) and then roll with the punches.

You never know when a staple or bee will derail your plans.

Breathe deeply and survive.

Life is unpredictable.

And, it's OK.

(PS, I was also very humbled and impressed with how many fellow cyclists offered to stop and help us....I felt cared for by strangers today)

THANK YOU, JASON!

Lessons from a Rancid Water Bottle

In order to be ready for this Half Iron Person triathlon in June, I need to fit in 9 workouts a week: three swims, three rides, and three runs. T minus 6 weeks until race day. My stomach, and my bowels, do a shaky little jig every time I think about race day. More on this exciting dance later.

Last Friday, my parents (AKA, all star, award winning grandparents) were in town, and I had my long run to do. Ten miles, give or take. The cool part was that my parents are training for a half marathon at the moment, so they agreed to do the run with me. Six years ago, I never imagined I'd run ten miles by myself, let alone with my parents.

While I was proud of them and their new found love of running, I quite frankly expected to leave them in my dust and meet them at the car afterward. As we were driving to the trail, I felt a little cocky about it, actually. There's not many people I can beat, I thought, but surely, surely, I can beat them. My mom just took up running a year ago and, after all, is more advanced in years than I. I had it in the bag, right?

WRONG. I tried to lose her, I really really did. But, the old girl hung on and hung on. Every time I glanced behind me, there she was in her pink running shirt, keeping the gap between us short and tight. I kept running, downing my water and gatorade intermittently, beaming at the tenacity and strength my mom was exhibiting. I guess I shouldn't have been that surprised. She did raise 6 kids, all of us girls, after all.

The only problem with my hydration efforts was that one bottle of water had a wee bit of bacteria in it. The dirty bottle had been sitting in my athletic gear drawer for months. I had apparently neglected to wash it after I last used it. Before the run with my parents, I hastily rinsed it out, swished a little soap around, and re-filled it with new water. I thought it tasted funny, but by mile 4, was thirsty enough not to care.

Around mile 7, I decided to run it in with my mom and slowed down to let her catch up. It only took about 20 seconds for her to reach my side. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, my bowels began to do different versions of the mamba and traditional Zulu dance. The nervous little jig that they usually perform was swallowed up by louder jungle drums beating insistently in my intestines. I had a major emergency on my hands. I darted behind a thick patch of blackberry bushes, shouting to my mom, Go on ahead, I'll catch up, and did what I had to do.

Well, to make a long story short, my mom was waiting for me by the car. I ended the run with a less than calm digestive system and some wounded pride.

So, BE YE WARNED.....If a dirty water bottle is permitted to grow bacteria for several months and you do not clean it with bleach, IT WILL GIVE YOU DIARRHEA. There, I have done my public duty.

In spite of the negative gastrointestinal experience on this run, I learned something huge. My mom's exemplary 10 mile run taught me, quite simply, that my best years are ahead. That one can age with strength, endurance, and excitement to conquer new challenges. That grandmothers really do rule the world.

My mom and I are going to run a half marathon together this month. And, I will show up to the race with clean water bottles.

I have two words for you, mom. GAME. ON.

The Quintessential Documentary

My son, Caleb, has figured out how to use the video camera.

Tonight he decided to document the habits of our shelter mutt, Scout. You see, Scout enjoys an occasional cocktail from the latrine. And, by occasional, I mean multiple times daily. I flavor my water with Crystal Lite, lemon, lime, or Zip Fizz but, Scout prefers the taste of lingering feces and/or urine.

This video could be considered entrapment. Poor Scout. Caleb locked him in the bathroom in order to memorialize his toilet drinking habits.

I was on Facebook at the time.

Enjoy.

Curse Words and Kids

Tonight, over leftovers, my kids had some serious questions. For the record, the questions weren't about the leftovers. Caleb wanted to know just what the "f word" was and Alex decided to help her brother in his quest for the truth. They can form an unbeatable team in a matter of moments when they are united behind a common cause such as deciphering what a cuss word really means. It's Sunday night, so Mike was at church. I was left alone to answer these hard core facts of life questions.

They wanted to know what made a word "bad." I laughed inside at the question because the only answer I could immediately come up with was that "society has deemed this word inappropriate." I'm not entirely sure I understand the term "society," so I came up with another fumbling response. After articulating that some words are just meant to hurt people in a very mean way, I stopped myself dead in my own tracks. Honestly, I don't know the origin of curse words. I don't know why certain letters have been assembled to form offensive expressions of crudeness.

So, instead of concentrating on what the bad words were and just how they were spelled, I talked to my kids about kindness. Their focus was diverted when I talked about the motivation behind using offensive language. The motivation being causing pain, causing hurt. They understood that immediately and vowed to try and use words to uplift and encourage.

But, at bedtime, the little rascals still wanted me to review a litany of bad words in English and Spanish, just they could "be prepared."

I didn't introduce them to any new terms of profanity. But, I did laugh really, really hard when they asked.

A Whole New Pair of Eyes

Mike and I and the kids are in Hawaii taking a much needed vacation and collective deep breath. Mike's parents were kind enough to gift us their timeshare and Alaska Airlines' frequent flyer miles came through with the travel expense. We have no agenda here. Nothing major to accomplish. Nowhere we have to be. We're on day two of this vacation to paradise and I'm already settling in. It usually takes me at least three days to relax into vacation mode, three days to get over my addiction to checking e-mail, calendars and school newsletters.

Last night, our first night here, my family and I took a sunset walk through the golf course to the cliffs overlooking the glittering, aquamarine Pacific Ocean. We marveled at the sea, at how each wave had its own unique personality, its own way of slamming into the black lava rocks on the shore. We talked excitedly about the volcano on the island, how it's lava was forming new land everyday. We climbed on the lava rocks and explored as much of the terrain as we could without the clarity of daylight. As it grew darker, an incredible desire to run around the golf course took us over. We began sprinting and doing cartwheels all over the green. Somewhere, the groundskeeper was shuddering as my not so perfect round offs imprinted the shape of my bare feet and buttocks into the grass.

As we walked back to our condo, my son grabbed my hand excitedly and in an awed voice, said,

"Mama, I have a whole new pair of eyes."
"What do you mean, buddy?"
"It's like when I see the lava rocks and the ocean and the palm trees, my eyes change."
"Do you mean they really like what they're seeing?"
"OH, yeah. But, they don't feel like my old eyes. I have SO much to write for my weekend report at school. I might need some extra days to work on it."

Caleb glimpsed beauty and felt his perspective change. Saying the sunset was pretty or that he merely liked the sea wasn't a clear enough description for what he felt. He had a new kind of sight, a new way of seeing the world. Like the marks my attempts at gymnastics had left on the golf course, beauty had made a lasting impression on his soul.

As we walked, his small hand grasping mine tightly, I prayed silently for my own set of a whole new pair of eyes.

Confession of Serial Lost and Found Swiper

This has been bothering me for a while now. But, I can't seem to stop. Thank you for the opportunity to purge my conscience.

Every time the kids and I go to the pool, I check through the lost and found stash of scores of goggles and "borrow" them. Only, sometimes I "forget" to put them back. In fact, I'm still "borrowing" a pair for my own lap swimming.

Today at the pool, my son said, "Mom, do you ALWAYS take stuff from the lost and found?"

Not having any clue how to answer, I distracted him by throwing him in the water.

There, I have now confessed it to the internet and will hopefully sleep better tonight.

Not so Silent Night

My kids have been on Christmas break for 2 1/2 weeks. We're all starting to go a little nuts. School starts Monday. School starts Monday. School starts Monday.

Dead Fish

Tonight, I was alone. I played Santa, wrapping presents and dividing stocking booty, while Mike took the kids to their Christmas Eve service rehearsal at church. After completing said wrapping duty, I began making stock for the Christmas Day gravy. I've never before been so prepared for gravy making. Thank you, Martha Stewart, for the inferiority complex.

While chopping the appropriate herbs and veggies for the stock, I noticed that the the Beta fish I won at a country fair for my son last summer was looking particularly groggy in it's 16 oz bowl. Being the compassionate woman that I am, I attempted to clean the fish's bowl so he could absorb oxygen from the water in a more efficient manner.

As I poured the dirty water into the garbage disposal, said purple Beta Fish somehow leaped from his bowl into the kitchen sink, down the drain, and into the the dark abyss of our septic tank. And, I might add, the garbage disposal was ON.

My son, the registered owner of the belated Beta fish is on his way home as I type. I think I'll tell him over breakfast, leaving out the detail of grinding garbage disposal. Someday, when HE has kids, I'll fess up and ask for forgiveness.

Until then, I'm too chicken.

A Healthy Fear of Elephants

Yesterday, to wind up our trip to South Africa, the team and I took a rest day and headed to the authentic African bush where we hoped to have our own personal Lion King experience.

When we entered the game reserve (called Hluhluwe) we immediately spotted a cobra crossing the road. I have an irrational and quite serious fear of snakes, so I did not join in the delight of the rest of the team. Still, I was excited about seeing elephants, lions, giraffes, zebra, leopards, baboons, monkeys, buffalo, warthogs, etc. We hired a guide to drive us around the park for 3 hours in an open air safari vehicle. We quickly saw all the above animals except for the elephants. The herd was elusive. That is, until we reached the very end of the tour. 10 minutes from our camp, cloaked in the pitch black darkness of night, we happened upon another safari vehicle driving in reverse with frightening speed. As it approached our vehicle, we could hear very clear, high pitched South African voices screaming,

"Go! Go Back! THERE'S AN ELEPHANT CHARGING AT US!!!"

We didn't see any elephants at first. Then, suddenly, the largest elephant I have EVER seen appeared in the darkness and was, indeed, charging straight for us. Our driver put it in reverse and we stepped on the gas. We had to navigate the windy, narrow, dirt road in the darkness at a speed that topped that of said ginormous elephant.

I cannot explain the terror one feels when being chased by an elephant. I could not say anything but, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus (not uttered in a swear word kind of way - rather, the desperate prayer kind of way).......and Dear God, Dear God, Dear God...."

Long story short, our vehicle and the unfortunate one in front of us (the elephant had tried to lift up their car with his tusks) out ran the elephant. We booked it for home as fast as we could until we came upon TWO RHINOS FIGHTING in the MIDDLE of the road. I AM NOT KIDDING. Now, angry rhinos are also known to charge poor, unsuspecting vehicles. At this point, I expanded my prayer vocabulary and said, "God, Seriously?" Our driver was able to scare them enough to get them out of the road. We kept on driving. Then, we happened upon MORE elephants. We blew by them without even pausing and made it home safely to our camp.

In 20 years of guiding people through the game park, our driver has had "elephant experiences" just 4 times.

It was an adventure, to say the very least. We head home tomorrow to the land where elephants are only in zoos and the HIV/ AIDS infection rate is extremely low. My prayer is that the comfort of home does not dilute the potency of our experiences and that the freshness of the memories will birth new action in us.

Legos

If you have a son or daughter under the age of 12 with an active, awesome imagination, you probably find legos in every single room, surface, coat pocket, drawer, nook and cranny of your home. Today, no joke, I found legos in the car, in the MAILBOX, on the trampoline and in the wood pile in the backyard. My first reaction was to complain, FIERCELY. I mean, seriously, I spend 90% of my life cleaning up toys, changing sheets, doing laundry, calendaring the family events (read husband's ministry schedule) , cooking, doing dishes, and trying to get the kids to read as much as possible. I do a lot. A damn lot. So much that it's easy to feel self-righteous. And, it's easy to dream about the career I all but sacrificed to stay home and raise my kids.

Until I imagine the day the legos are gone.

The day the legos are gone is the day my baby has grown up and left, moved on to those Responsible Things beyond childhood that wait for all our kids. Suddenly, I understand that the temporary sacrifice of career, prestige, and easy accolades is nothing compared to the benefits I reap from interaction with my kids on a daily basis.

Hopefully, my kids can still play with Legos when their grown.

Actually, I think I need to. Tonight......

Mexican Food

I grew up in Southern California, in Orange County. While I love the tall evergreens, mountain vistas, and clean air of the Northwest, I do miss the sunshine and the beach. And, I really, really miss the Mexican Food. Mexican restaurants in California are like Starbucks in Seattle. They’re on every corner. Making this Southern California girl eat bad Mexican food is like forcing a Seattleite to drink Folgers.

The other day I was describing good Mexican food to my South African friend, Glenda.
She asked, “What’s a quesadilla?”
“Well, it’s a tortilla folded over, with some cheese and meat inside. Sometimes beans. You dip it in salsa and guacamole.”
“Oh, well, what’s a taco?”
“Well, it’s a tortilla folded in half with meat and cheese and beans and salsa. Also guacamole.
“What’s a burrito?”
“Well, it’s a tortilla with meat, cheese beans, salsa, guacamole, but kind of all wrapped up.
“Hm. What’s an enchilada?”
“Well, it’s a tortilla with cheese, meat…well, kind of the same. But an enchilada has sauce on top.”
“A tostada? Wait. Let me guess. A tortilla. Cheese. Meat. Salsa. Beans.”
“Um, well, yeah. Pretty much. Delicious.”

Captain

I am a soccer coach.

I got a phone call one fateful evening two years ago that went like this,

"Mrs. Howerton?"

"Yes"

"Um, I'm calling from the Northshore Soccer League. Your daughter's team currently has no coach. Would you be interested in coaching? You put down on the form that you'd be interested in volunteering. If you say no, we'll probably have to disband the team."

"Oh. Well. OK, I guess."

My first game as coach, we lost to the Blasters, 11-1. Ouch. But, that was last year. We're worlds ahead this year. The girls have all grown like 2 inches. I can't wait to PULVERIZE those Blasters this year!!!! I mean, it's all about the fun of the game, not the score.........

Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, I do my best to teach 10 nine year old girls how to play the game. I bring cones and balls and drills and, on good days, lots of patience. There are good practices and bad ones. Uplifting moments, and moments where I want to make the team run forever, just to get back at them for their inability to process directions.

Every kid on the team is unique. Every girl brings her own set of baggage or developmental stage to the field. Every week I choose a new team captain, based on which player has shown improvement or heart, not necessarily on which is the most skilled. They get to wear an arm band for the week, lead team cheers, and help me with the lineup on game day.

The first week, I chose "M." Purely because she never complains. Never ever. She runs, she tries her best and she's always joyful about the process. Absolutely captain-worthy qualities.

The second week, I chose "O." This is her first year of soccer. She's never kicked a ball before 4 weeks ago. She was initially a bit complainy about the heat, or about the warm-up lap. But, our first game brought out the fierce animal that had been lurking inside. She SCORED a GOAL in her first game and grew fangs.

This week, I chose "G." In practice she was terrified of chest traps. I'd toss a ball for her to trap and she's shirk away in terror, guarding her face. At our game last week, she flew through the air, trapping any old ball that came her way. She showed that ball just WHO was BOSS.

I love the look on the girls' faces when they receive the Team Captain award. They feel prized, honored, PROUD. And, they rise to the occasion. They lead, they don't complain, and they try even harder.

Stay tuned for more tales of the FIREDOGS!!!!!!! We'd be happy to star in a motion picture or documentary....

Go, Granny, Go!!!

My 78 year old, churchgoing "don't smoke, drink, or chew and or go with guys who do" Grandma Betty went and got herself a tattoo over the weekend.

Yep. A real tattoo. On her shoulder. At a tattoo parlor. She was wearing her "God Bless America" t-shirt.

Huge bald men with pierced noses and eyebrows and tattoos covering 80% of their bodies got my little old grandma all tatted up.

Like a teenager, she waited until my parents went away for the weekend to call my sister with her crazy plan. Delighted to be part of the mischief , my sister Andi (she's the baby of the six sisters) picked her up, drove her to the tattoo parlor and PAID for it HERSELF. Apparently Grandma Betty was quite the celebrity. She got hoots and hollers from passersby and talked the artists ear off the WHOLE TIME. Not a surprise if you know my Grandma. She's even gonna be on the tattoo parlor website.

Oh, and the tattoo was of Betty Boop. Betty. Boop.

Grandma Betty Lou was born in August of 1930, the same month and year that the little black and white cartoon made her debut.