Poor Sportsmanship: The Elizabeth Lambert Story

Until this week, no one in the media knew who Elizabeth Lambert was. Women's college soccer rarely makes the front page of the sports section in the United States. However, through a series of brutal fouls committed by Lambert in a televised match, she is now extraordinarily famous. Elizabeth Lambert is now a household name. Her conduct gives the term "sore loser" a whole new meaning. She was suspended for her conduct, which you can view below.

I grew up playing soccer and now coach my ten year old daughter's soccer team. Good sportsmanship is a HUGE priority for me. I try to lead by example and make my expectations of positive conduct known at the beginning of each season. And, my girls are great. I mean, really great. My parents are great, too.

A few weeks ago we played a team that did not demonstrate good sportsmanship. Playing this team was like playing a bunch of biker chicks with serious criminal records. They consistently fouled my girls and even drew blood from two of them. That day, we had a parent referee, so most of the dirty offenses went uncalled and unpunished. And, don't get me started on the cheating. Or the other coach's do-whatever-it-takes-to-win attitude. She was like the evil sensei from Karate Kid.

The worst part was, they won the game.

After all of it, the blood, the elbows, the high kicks, the uncalled offsides, my girls marched right up to them and shook their hands. They were frustrated and felt bullied, but they shook their hands. I was tempted to stay on the sidelines, hands firmly in my pockets. But, I too shook their hands and managed to get the words, "good game," out of my clenched teeth.

I was feeling pretty ticked off about the game. Apparently, I kept talking about it all night. As Mike and I were walking into a party later that evening, he said,

"Babe, promise me you are not going to tell every single person at the party about the game."
"OK, sorry. I promise."

I only told 3 people. OK, maybe 4 but, it helped me feel better.

The video below makes me wish our game had been televised.




It goes without saying that this behavior is inexcusable.
I have a few questions, though.

Why was she permitted to stay in the game? It appears she received one yellow card for kicking another player in the head. The other offenses went unpunished. Why did the referees allow her to keep playing? More importantly, WHY DID HER COACHES keep her in the game? Lambert is culpable here, but so are her coaches for allowing her to finish the game. If one of my players demonstrated behavior like that, they would be off the field immediately....

OK, rant over. I'll post something happier tomorrow. :)

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.

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.

She-Ra, Princess of Power

There are some mothers I know who love to clean. They love the smell of cleaning products and, like the commercials for said products, actually dance around the house while dusting. They maintain a pristine house with floors you could safely lick. Toys are put away immediately after they're played with and sanitized frequently. The laundry, pre-sorted by color, is rarely backed up. Many of these mothers also garden in their spare time and could win awards for their beautiful roses. Photographs of family bliss are routinely scrapbooked and even the birds in their backyards are fed and cared for. In fact, when they head outside to their backyards, forest animals flock to them to hear them sing for hours, in perfect falsetto.

These mothers (who really don't exist...this list is a June Cleaver meets Snow White model) also DO NOTHING ELSE. How could they?

I, however, do lots of other things. So many things, that I am at least 6 months behind on household projects. As a card carrying member of the Real World, I am not what one would call "caught up."

Lately, I have been doing laundry only when we're all out of underwear.

Truth is, I am not genetically wired to love the mechanics of managing a household. In order to be motivated to clean and organize extensively, I have to feel a little pissed off. The mess and disorganization have to get under my skin enough for me to have finally HAD ENOUGH. Then, I rise up like She-Ra, Princess of Power (younger readers - this was an 80's cartoon of a girl who kicked some serious evil butt) in an imagined battle for justice and redemption, to face the devastation. A few times a year I break down and combat the forces of evil in a week long effort to beat back the chaos.

I don't know why, but this is my week.

I have spent the past two days cleaning out the crap lurking within the deep bowels of my garage and my kids' rooms. Let me just say that I hate small toys. I hate toys with small plastic parts. I hate any toy that comes from a fast food restaurant. Also, I'm not a fan of petrified oranges. Or petrified peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I know, I know. Disgusting. Let's just say I should check the bottom of the toy box and underneath the beds more often.

But, I will rest tonight with great satisfaction and peace. I've pressed the reset button in my house and we're starting from scratch. Well, almost. Tomorrow I tackle the game closet, the front hall closet, the pantry, and the storage shed.

Wish me luck.

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.

Superstars

Last night my children performed in the much anticipated school talent show.
I've placed the raw footage on the blog for your entertainment.

We're getting them an agent.

Alex and her fellow "Puppy Cheerleaders"


Caleb (lead singer) and his band, "The Jedi Masters," lip synching to Weird Al Yankovich's "Yoda."

Hungry

Since I officially began triathlon training, I have been hungrier than I ever remember being when I was pregnant. Which is saying something because I gained 55 pounds with my 1st pregnancy and 48 with my second. I wish I could claim with any integrity that it was mere water weight. Truth is, it was girl scout cookie weight and scrambled eggs with cheese and avocado weight.

Obviously, I need to honor my body's new demands for nutrition and fuel. However, I'm not so sure that ingesting half a loaf of garlic bread or a bag of sour cream and onion chips after a long run is helping my body in any way whatsoever. Not so sure ice cream or massive amounts of Costco trail mix fit the bill either. I should be eating salmon, edamame and non fat yogurt. Chicken breast, black beans, brown rice. Things with fiber and vitamin C and potassium.

Instead, I grab whatever I see that's easy and eat it on the fly. Today, I actually stuffed trail mix in my pockets and ate it ravenously as I sped to pick up the kids from school. I spend time cooking the right meals for my family, packing healthy school lunches, and restricting the junk food intake of my kids. But, lately, in terms of nutrition, I'm skipping right over caring for myself. My needs, because I'm a mom and am always so busy taking care of everyone around me, get put on the shelf. Then, I hit a wall in a training session, or feel totally depleted of energy in our family time at night because one just cannot expect results when eating whole bags of sour cream and onion chips.

I'm ready to feed myself, to really nourish myself. The extra 10 minutes it takes to really eat something worthwhile are worth it. And, I'm important enough to spend those 10 minutes on. Chances are, I'll be a better mom, wife and friend for counting my needs worthwhile enough to be met. Maybe the laundry can wait another 10 minutes. Maybe the dishes don't need to be done right away. Maybe, just maybe, it's OK to occasionally rest.

Am I alone here, people? Do you ever find it hard to care for yourself? I'd love your feedback.......

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And, I now have compassion for my parents, who sat through millions of talent shows

Friday, Caleb and his fellow young padawan (I have no clue if that's spelled correctly) learners will make their debut at the school talent show. Lip synching to Wierd Al Yankovich's classic "YODA," they will wield light sabers and dance around like the mad rock and roll stars that they are.

Then, we get to watch 33 more acts.

Including Alex's cheerleading exhibition where she and two girlfriends cheer for the fictitious team the, "Puppies."

Of course, I'll scream and cheer my heart out.

So, I'm bringing some Ibuprofen.

Pajama Party

Friday nights in the Howerton house are special. With all the chaos, activities and church stuff that fill our week nights and weekends, we have officially reserved Friday nights for family togetherness. We intentionally try to protect this night, carefully shielding it from any other meetings or demands that threaten to bump it from the calendar.

Dubbed "Family Fun Fridays," these nights remind us to slow down and enjoy each other. Nothing else competes with our time. We don't answer our cell phones and we try to not check our e-mail, blogs, twitter, or facebook accounts. Well, we at least wait until after the kids are in bed. We play games, go to the movies or rent one, wrestle until the walls shake, and generally eat lots and lots of junk food.

FFF begins when we pick the kids up from school on Friday afternoons and we all decide together what to do. Last Friday, Alex decided to go to the movies and Caleb decided on a family pajama party. They argued back and forth, declaring the various merits and drawbacks of each idea. Then, I, in my Solomon like wisdom, not thinking they would take me seriously, said

"How about if we do both? We can wear our jammies to the movies..."

Silence at first. Then, in unison, with uncontainable excitement, they responded,

"Yeah! Great idea, mom!"

Oops. What had I just committed to? Suffice it to say that all four of us went home, put on our pajamas, robes, and slippers and headed to our local movie theater at 7pm. People stared, teenagers guffawed, and lots of other parents smiled. We were even greeted with a few, "Hi, Pastor Mike's!" from people in our congregation that recognized us and had also decided to go to the movies that night.

These family nights are about creating memories, about strengthening the foundation of love and trust in our family. They are like beacons of safety, like lighthouses in a raging storm. We plant these beacons and erect these lighthouses so that when the rough seas come (and they inevitably do), we have something tangible to hold on to, something to show us the way home and what matters.



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Speed Walker

I am a fast walker. When I putter through the house, I'm always on a mission of some kind. I'm not programmed to aimlessly wander. Cars that drive too slowly or are obviously lost drive me nuts. Meetings that drag on without producing a specific to do list are the bane of my existence.

I am not what one would call a "patient person." Because of this tendency to speed walk my way through life, I tend to miss the scenery. My husband and daughter, however, are all about the scenery. Mike is forever pointing out various wildlife while we're driving, "Look, guys, an eagle!" or "Check out that full moon!" We're not house hunting or looking to move but Mike always wants to drive in a desultory fashion through neighborhoods to see what houses are for sale. When we traveled through Italy together, I relied on the map, and Mike preferred wandering the streets.

My daughter, Alex, frequently loses focus. If we're rushing to get to school on time, she'll pause in the driveway to gaze at the rainbow produced by an oil spill in the driveway. She takes forever to eat her meals in spite of my constant reminders to "take another bite" because she's so engrossed by the conversation or by the comic genius of her brother.

I'm always insisting that we go, that we hurry, that we speed up. The problem is, I'm missing out on the moments, on the small things that make life living in the first place. Mike and Alex remind me to slow down, to pause, to take in the scenery.

So, I'm working on being still. Being still is officially on my task list for this week.

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A Lofty Goal

Caleb recently checked out a copy of the Guinness Book of World Records from the school library. Ever since, he has been racking his brain for a way to get his photo in the book. After many discussions about how growing out his finger nails or nose hair is just not a good idea, the light bulb of inspiration appeared over his small head.

He is now determined to make the world's largest duct tape ball.

He's got a pretty good start. Infamy and glory await....

Inauguration Day at my House

The other day, while shopping at PCC, our neighborhood health food hippie overpriced grocery store, I happened upon some organic Seattle cookies emblazoned with photos of the first family on them. I instantly thought of my kids and how much they would enjoy dessert coupled with a history lesson. Actually, I hoped that bribing them with dessert would be a good way to get them to watch the inauguration with me. So, I paid the ridiculous price and came home with our own private inauguration day celebratory food.

So, tonight, the kids and I sat down on the couch with our cookies and watched the historical inauguration ceremony that I recorded earlier in the day. Caleb immediately chose the Barrack cookie. Alex settled on the cookie with a little dog wearing a question mark (the Obama girls haven't decided on a pet yet), and I chose Michelle. Sasha and Malia are still on the kitchen counter waiting to be eaten tomorrow in the kids' packed lunches.

I was amazed by some of the insights of my children. When Aretha Franklin belted out "My Country Tis of Thee," Alex casually commented, "Well, she sounds good but, she's really hard to sing with." When Caleb caught a glimpse of the huge Bible Joe Biden was sworn in with, he proclaimed, "Wow, whoever made that Bible must really like God a lot."

When Barack stumbled over a few words in his oath, Alex looked at me and said, "I bet this is the most nervous he has ever been." When I cried during the poem at the end and told my kids how the White House was actually built using slave labor, Caleb said, "Well, mama, I don't think that will happen anymore."

I agree, Caleb. I agree.

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Broken

I'm having a hard time.

Today, I cannot stop thinking about the elementary school kids and babies I met in South Africa. I'm exhausted. Every face I encountered has been playing through the video tape in my head. The 4th grader who lost both his parents to AIDS. The 5th grader who cares for her 3 younger siblings because her mother is ill. The boy who wept uncontrollably when we left because his parents had perished the summer before and he couldn't bear the thought of Jonathan, one of our team members, leaving him.

Whenever I close my eyes, I can imagine the kids from Durban playing with Alex and Caleb. I've been imagining scenarios like registering my newly adopted daughter for school and cheering for my newly adopted son's t-ball game.

My son. My daughter.

I've spent the day doing research about the possibility of international adoption from South Africa. The prospects are grim. Even though South Africa has one of the highest rates of HIV/AIDS and consequentially, one of the highest rates of orphans, the country is largely closed to international adoption. I want these kids. I want them in my home, in my family, in my community. Yet, there's not a lot I can do. While millions of children in South Africa are orphaned each year, only 2,000 or so are adopted into families. There are huge roadblocks. Huge obstacles. Seemingly insurmountable challenges.

I'm pretty sure, though, that God is famous for making the unthinkable happen, for transforming impossibility into the miraculous.

So, tonight, I pray. I'm hitting my knees, petitioning the Creator, in fact, begging that doors will open, that I and my church will be permitted to parent these children, to love them and give them new life.

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.

Mommy, what are those for?

Today, we braved the slushy, slippery roads and headed out into the world to accomplish errands. Grocery store, Christmas present returns, fuel in case another freak storm leaves us stranded, dry cleaning. All very brave and courageous endeavors in this weather that the greater Seattle transportation authorities were TOTALLY unprepared for (I'm not holding a grudge, I swear).

In the mall restroom, my eight year old daughter pointed at the tampon machine and asked, loudly,

 "Mommy, what are those things with an upside down cross on them for? What are they doing in the candy machine?" 

I heard some woman outright guffaw in her stall.

"Um, well.... you know......Well, I guess you don't really know....Ah, let's have a talk when we get home." 

She shrugged her shoulders, raised her eyebrows and said,

"OK, mom." 

When we arrived home, we found that we could not, in fact, make it up the final steep hill leading to our home. Stuck in the snow, with a set of broken chains, we had no choice but to hoof it up with all our groceries. The exhaustion of the ordeal and a last minute sleep over led to Alex and I not having our much anticipated discussion about the female reproductive cycle.

Tomorrow's the day. So, I'm up for some advice from the blog world. I have no problem discussing periods. It's the part that leads in to discussing the purpose behind the menstrual cycle. Fertilization. Sex. She's been asking some other interesting questions lately about the birth of humans and hamsters. She's wondering if hamsters have babies out of their necks.

She's not going to settle for vague answers this time. She's smart like that. And, I really want to make the discussion meaningful. I'd like to bond with her and avoid having her be like totally grossed out...

Thoughts?

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.