Games Played

We went to a $2 Tuesday home game at the Sky Sox park.  This team is the AAA club for the Colorado Rockies and the field is beautiful.  I didn't expect my kids to be into watching 9 innings, which is why we went on a night when each seat was only 2 bucks.

We sat down in those seats, and Gemma and Joshua surveyed the teams warming up.  Then they both said, "How do you win this game?" 

Did you know that such people exist?  Americans who do not know how baseball is played??  I don't care that they are 6 and 4.  This is baseball!  They're just supposed to know.

Most surprising for them, when I explained, was that there was a man who got to decide which pitches were balls and which were strikes.  "Why does he get to decide?  What if he's wrong?. . ."

Part of the ballpark fun was the organ music between pitches, leading the crowd in all the standard cheers and clapping rhythms.  Gemma asked how everyone knew when to clap. 

A common one was the cavalry-ish "Ba-da-da-DA-da-DAA! CHARGE!!!"  And everyone except our two children yelled out together with a fist forward, "CHARGE!"

After the 4th time this one was played, Josh turned to me with great triumph because he'd remembered how this one went and he remembered to stick his fist out and yet along with us. 

"Mommy!" he announced, "I said, 'GEORGE'!"

***

We had some super-soft mangoes to use up, so I announced that we'd make smoothies.  Joshua said, "Can I help you with the ingredients?"

Sure!  He pulled up a chair to stand on.  Gemma hovered behind us, which I found unusual. . .

I pulled out the mangoes, and pomegranate 7-Up.  Josh dispensed cups of ice for us and put them into the blender. 

I asked him to get a plastic grocery bag for me to hold the mango rinds.  He said, "No thank you."

I said, "I thought you wanted to help me."

Josh: "I said I wanted to help with ingredients."

Parsing words at age 4!  I'm so proud of him!  These were the little games I played with words, too.  Still play (?)  No matter.  He is so my son.  Doesn't look at all like me.  But that's just on the outside. 

Gemma said, "Joshua, do you want to put the whole can of soda in?" 

Of course he did.  I knew just what Gemma would say next, as soon as he had finished a choice task like that.  "Mommy, since Josh got to put in the soda, can I press the blender buttons?"

And there we see Gemma, like her Daddy, through and through.  Planning a few steps ahead.  Though his plans lack her sense of crafty sibling manipulation. . .  I don't know that they always have.

***

The Sky Sox game made clear to me that we need to be a bit pro-active about the whole sports thing.  There is a basic cultural literacy issue at stake here and given that Bryan and I never watch sports on TV at home, we need to get out to more games.

It's nice to have the Air Force Academy in town.  Not only are they NCAA, their events cost next to nothing to attend and if our kids ever become fans of their teams, the chances of one of the players they admire behaving badly are next to zero.  Most of all, I like the idea of seeing players compete for love of their game.  No full-ride prima donas here.  All cadets are on full rides! 

I explained the rules of volleyball in the car on the way to the AFA women's season opener.  The intricacies of side-out, whence a team only gets a point if it's serving.  That games went to 15 points.  That a match was best out of 3.  All of which was what I remembered from Mrs. Field's written volleyball test from high school gym class.

By the way, I've always liked games that are won in matches.  I like how you can lose battles but win wars. 

They were a fun team to watch.  Lots of energy.  Their "bench" didn't sit on a bench.  They stood to the side.  (And stayed warmed-up that way?)  They were tall.  And their opponents were sucking wind about 15 minutes into the warm-up.  The altitude was killing them. 

Ah.  The opponents.  "Long Island University."  Huh.  Like.  From the "Long Island"?  Why would a New York team come to Colorado Springs to compete?  And why were there three Colorado Springs natives on the Long Island University team?

Answer: Their head coach used to assist at AFA. 

Begetting another question:  Why are there so many male coaches in collegiate volleyball?  I looked into this (a little) and found that about half are men.  What?  These guys probably didn't play NCAA volleyball--I think because of Title IX, mens teams are limited to club sports.  Why aren't these coaching jobs populated by women who, you know, played the game?

No matter.  Speaking of little cheers "we all know," I offered up a version for Bryan to consider.  The future Air Force officers could say:

That's all right
That's OK
We'll drop a bomb on YOU someday!

Heh heh.  But it went totally unappreciated.  Bryan had a difficult time making the emotional adjustment to being at an Air Force game.  And being expected to cheer for them.

I say: Time to buy in, buddy.  This is our home now.

The only shock of the night is that there is no more "side-out"!  Every ball is a point!  And now there are 25 points in a game and 5 games in a match! 

***

We went to Buckskin Joe's.  This is a "western theme tourist attraction where the West is Fun!"  It is a mining town, composed of about 25 buildings found all over the West and moved there.  Some are operational, like the saloon where we ate lunch, or the dry goods store where the kids bought candy that cost a lot more than a penny. . .   Many buildings were decorated to the period inside, but cordoned off so that visitors could just peer in at the antiques. 

After 50 years of operation in Canyon City, it was sold at auction.  Some billionaire bought the place for parts, he says.  There's a lot of 'em.  He is a collector who plans to move most of the stuff to his private ranch.  The purchase also included the 800 acres that sits along the Royal Gorge.  We won't be surprised if there's a 4 star lodge and golf course in Canyon City about 5 years from now.

We're just glad we got to go there while it was still open.  The afternoon was punctuated by a few "gun shows"--the kind where some guys acted out a comedic melodrama with fake gun shots that fake-killed people.  (Josh was engrossed, and pretty concerned until he saw them wake up at the end, despite our assuring him that it was for pretend.) 

I want to know how those guys got those jobs.  Are they actors?  The guy who played the Medicine man seemed like he took his craft seriously. . . 

Where are they going to work now?
How does that job look on a resume? 

Buckskin Joe's also featured a narrow-gauge train ride out the Royal Gorge and along it.  Passengers are let off at the mid-point and allowed onto a "scenic overlook" platform.  We wondered if this part of the attraction would be incorporated into the golf course. . .

Both kids still want to sit next to me at events or restaurants or train rides.  All the time, if they can.  I don't know if that's normal or if it's a lingering reaction to the cancer.  Or if it hurts Bryan's feelings on some level.  I try to accommodate them when I can.

We rode, then, the kids and I in one car with Bryan in front of us.  I had my arm around each one and the sun was so warm in the brisk Fall mountain air.  It was a gorgeous ride out, a long, long hug among us slicing through an already serene day.  Friends, it was a perfect moment.

You've had moments like this, too.  An "I can't believe this is actually my life" moment.  Gemma and Josh could feel it, too.   They kept smiling up at me and touching my face with soft, cupped palms.  Josh said a few times, "I just love you so much, Mommy." 

And finally the moment would not sustain.  Or I couldn't sustain it. Or something.  And I thought, "The cancer is going to come back and I am going to die soon and this afternoon is what they will remember."

So began a different kind of game, but one that must be pretty common among cancer champions. There's a tiny seed of a thought that if I lose sight of the possibility of more cancer and just enjoy the life in front of me, I'll get sick again.  As though keeping it mind means it cannot sneak up on me.

I talk back to this seed of a thought.  So begins a whole conversation with myself and with God about what is True.  On goes the game of choosing to believe it.  Choosing not to dwell on possibilities.  It's a struggle.  It is not a battle I win every time.

***

That same day, we got back into town in time for another Sky Sox game!  Friends gave us tickets to their sky box.  We went with our neighbors, and our 4 children together didn't watch a whole lot of baseball.  The beautiful Fall day turned into a perfect night. 

Right after the game ended, the park put on their fireworks display and we had the best seats in the house for them.  I held Joshua on my lap as they danced.  We can see the Friday night fireworks all summer long from our park, but now we were close enough to see the trails of smoke linger behind each burst, illuminated by the next round's explosion. 

And just like that, I found myself in another perfect moment.  I don't think I'd ever had two in one day before.  But there it was.  The thought came to mind, "This is abundant life, Amy.  It's not your job to sustain it.  It's your job not to sacrifice it."

So I didn't.  This time.  Battle won.  A total match victory in sight. 

Charge.

About That Deadline. . .

See?  I let it slip just one day.  And that turned into a week, even though I had the daily plan of getting a post up before bedtime.  And here I am, staring at another deadline.  Yet, I'm dead tired. 

I have a whole essay composed in my head.  This is what I do, you know, as I'm driving from here to there, or doing the dishes, or clipping the bushes: I'm thinking about how I will write the thing I am planning to write.  But at 10:15, it's not going to come out well. 

So here is what we are left with:  I'll give a very brief run-down of all that we've been doing.  It won't be fun or interesting.  But it will be a bookmark for next Sunday's post.  Then all you sweet people who have stopped by to see if I've finally done my duty will at least know that there's no need to check until yet another week has gone by. 

Official Superhero SOE:

went to a Sky Sox game

went to the Air Force Academy volleyball season opener

started our homeschool co-op for the semester

saw Gemma ride a two wheeler and nearly went hoarse cheering for her--can I just say?: one of the happiest moments of my life

went on field trip to 4 Mile Historical Park in Denver

went to Buckskin Joe's in Canyon City and rode its train over the Royal Gorge

went to another Sky Sox game on a Friday night because very generous friends gave us box suite tickets--we had the best seat in the house for the pretty terrific fireworks.  (Is it relavent that the Sox lost both games we attended?) 

spent most of today at the pool--last visit of the season!--and, ahem: I swam four lengths consecutively (checked that box!)  I actually did learn to do flip-turns this summer, too.  But they take so much wind, I would not have been able to swim all 100 yards if I'd done them at each end.  Mark my words:  a year from now. . .

re-decorated/arranged/organized our basement where we do most of our schooling; it is a shadow of the things to come for this house, now that we know (hope!) we'll be staying for a while

And, oh yeah!, have been working like beasts trying to prepare for the kick-off of AWANA, the Bible-memory-fun-fellowship-coolness club at our church.  Bryan is now the Director for Cubbies, the pre-school level of this group, and I am the "secretary" (all I really do is ghost-write his communications to leaders and parents).  We've both been a little shocked at how much work it takes to get the year started. 

It's a rich life.  I'm looking forward to telling you all about it. 

Many Hands

What a terrific day we've had!  We are completely exhausted.  The house is a wreck inside because no one has been around to maintain it.  And my back muscles are killing me.

Like I said:  terrific.

This morning, we helped our neighbors move.  We're bummed that they are leaving, but happy for them as they've left this rental behind and bought a home a mile up the road.  This is the neighbor I asked you to pray for months ago (when we met at the Big "C").  She's a cancer champion, but is still reeling from the side effects of treatment and though various surgeries to help the problems have gone well, she is still walking around in chronic and exhausting pain.

As if moving weren't painful enough. . .

All of which is to say that it's fun to help friends.  It's fun to see how many hands make light work.  But it's even more fun when one of those friends really shouldn't be going up and down the stairs herself too many times and you know that making those trips for her is a very helpful thing.

And, yeah boy:  There were many stairs involved.

As I went up and down and up and down and up and down, breathing as required, heart rate elevated, and yet smiling the whole time because it felt good, I realized that the most fun thing about helping friends move is that I'm healthy enough to do it! 

Will I ever get used to this?  The feeling of good physical health?  I hope not.  I hope I'll always remember to count it as a principle blessing.

Speaking of other principle blessings:
This afternoon, Gemma and I went to a Feed My Starving Children event. 

It was about what that title would prompt you to expect.  The organization itself is located in Minnesota, where they have permanent packing facilities.  People elsewhere in the country learn about it and set up a local event that FMSC sends staff members and supplies to operate.

It's an amazing Organization.  In part because they have amazing organization. . .  Each meal costs 19 cents, and every last one of them is packed by a volunteer.  This year, they are on target to ship 90 million meals to starving children, and the distribution is through other ministry organizations that know how to navigate a foreign country's customs and actually get the food to a hungry child. 

And, wherever they go, they go with a plan to be able to continue to feed the children they reach throughout their childhood as the partnering ministry provides basic education and vocational training. 

Wow.  I just love that this organization exists!

When I heard about it, I asked Gemma if she'd like to go to a packing session with me.  (Joshua is a year too young. . .)  She was all for it.  When I told her that they ask volunteers to pay $39 each to cover the cost of the food they will pack during their two hour shift, she counted up her own money, saw that she was four dollars short, and asked Daddy if she could move some bricks in the backyard to earn the difference!

Sure enough, at the check in table, she unwadded her stash and counted out--bills and change together--her whole portion. 

It made me cry.

There were about 75 volunteers at our shift and the logistics of the brief training and packing process were systems of beauty.  They demonstrated the 8 steps that go into packing one meal, and then the job of boxing them.  They'd set up a room of 8 different packing stations, where two assembly lines fed into one boxing spot.  Your job pretty much was to pay quiet attention during the mini training, find a job of those they just explained, and then get to work. 

(There was a company of Air Force Academy cadets there, in their PT uniforms.  The staff member said, "We need 8 volunteers to be the 'warehouse' workers who load the palettes.  You have to be able to lift a 60 lb box and you have to be wearing close-toed shoes."  Every head turned to look at the cadets.  Who then raised their hands. . .)

We all went to work. Gemma and I worked to seal each meal.  And for 90 minutes, that's all I cared about doing.  Getting those bags sealed.  Staying ahead of the line of bags coming up behind us.  There was no changing jobs once we started.  No "trying something different."  You figured out how to do your job efficiently and then you did it. This might be as close as I ever get to factory work.

As for Gemma.  It was interesting: I held the plastic bag tight and slipped it into the heat crimper.  Gemma pulled down and then let up after a few seconds.  The heated irons melted the plastic into an air tight seal.  She didn't complain about the monotony or ask to do a different job.  But after about 45 minutes, she said her stomach was really hurting. 

It turned out she'd been using her core ab muscles to press down and she actually got sore from it!  So she took a few breaks throughout, which was OK because it was kind of a one-person job. . .

During our shift, we packed 22,000 meals, which is enough to feed 60 children for a whole year.  The event here began on Friday and ended today.  During that time, we packed 370,000 meals that, in this case, will be shipped to El Salvadore with an organization called Convoy of Hope.  This is enough to feed over a thousand children for a year. 

Many hands make light work.  And there's something about being one ant in an army of thousands that feels better than I've felt during any moment of standing out. 

Camping

 [Note: I started this post back in June, and was going to add to it following the camping trip we were supposed to take this weekend.  Then Gemma threw up on Thursday morning and on into the afternoon and on into the night.  So we cancelled the trip.  She woke up feeling all better.  No one else caught her bug.  And I am left without anything to add from a late-summer camping trip.]

 

 

Back in the day, Dad and his best friend, Mr. Thallemer, would take their kids camping in Wisconsin every summer. There were a few iron clad rules for these trips that Dad never called "rules." Yet, every summer, this is how things happened:

  

1. A kid had to be 6 years old before she could go on the camping trip.

2. We camped in Wisconsin. Usually Devil's Lake. But only in Wisconsin.

3. We left on a Tuesday morning and broke camp to come home on Thursday morning. I'm not sure why we only camped mid-week, but it almost certainly had something to do with a) avoiding traffic and b) avoiding crowds.

4. Wives/Moms were neither invited nor permitted to come. If I had been the wife/Mom in question, this would have suited me just fine and I'd have looked forward to those 3 days and 2 nights as the best mid-week of the year. But I learned later that the actual wife/Mom in question of our family did not like "rule" #4.  So she claims.  I don't really believe her.

5. We used a tent.  I don't remember the idea of using a pop-up or camper even being considered. 

Dad had a vast 7-sleeper that he'd bought on sale as a floor model from Sears years before I was born.  Compared to anything you'd find today at Sportsman's Warehouse, it was Old School.  Heavy steele poles.  Metal stakes, not plastic.  No rain fly to speak of.  And it was, of course, made out of canvass. 

This was charming in some ways.  Canvass is quaint.  But it was also bad news for whomever was sleeping on the ends of the bag line-up, because those people invariably rolled against the tent at night, and touching canvass with body heat makes the canvass expand, so any, say, rain, from a humid summer night in Wisconsin would soak right through.

This tent was red, white and blue.  We called it "Old Glory," as in, upon coming back to the sight after swimming at the lake: "There's Old Glory. . ."

6. The two Dads did not care about the nutritional value of the trip. We would grocery shop at a Piggly Wiggly right before checking into the camp ground, and we would generally buy the same stuff every year: Jarred pasta sauce, pasta, individual boxes of cereal, hot dogs, peanut butter, bread, marshmallows, generic brand cans of soda and, of course--

7. BEER.

 

Beer was a rule unto itself. The cooler was never to be empty of it. Anytime after 12:00 CST was a fine time to start drinking it. And the two Dads hardly cared what we kids were up to so long as they had a lawn chair to sit in and a cold one popped open.

 

Beer even dictated the selection of our campsite upon check-in during the majority of summers when we found ourselves at Devil's Lake. Site 116, they had discovered by happy accident, was located on the edge of the camp ground. 43 steps through the woods brought us to the road that bordered the grounds. And across that ground stood a tavern.

 

These were good camping trips. The purpose of them was simple back then: We went camping because that was the thing Dad did with us every summer. He was fun to be around during those three days. And now that I know what it means for a man to go to work every day to provide for his family, I understand why.

 

It never occured to me to get analytical about camping until we moved to Colorado and tried an overnight trip two years ago, when Joshua was just shy of 2 years old.

That night, having just changed his diaper, I sat down to watch our two children, now hopped up on sugar from the s'mores, goofing around perilously close to the flames. Joshua's marshmallow caught on fire, and instead of blowing it out as all campers know to do, he started waving it around like a caveman with his first torch ablaze. Bryan disarmed Joshua just before he made contact with our (flammable) tent and I thought, for the first time in my life, "Why do people camp?"

 

No answer presented itself that night.  Only more objections.  Like the toilet situation.  It has been years since I've been able to go the whole night without a potty break.  I woke up that night and was cold and so hurried out of my sleeping bag, knowing I had a 50 yard walk in the darkness to get to the vault toilet, only to then remember that I had to put on shoes first. . .  Argh!  Why do people camp????

We decided after that trip to wait until the next summer before trying again.  Then the whole cancer thing was a very handy excuse to put it off another year.  Then, this June, it was time for another attempt.

We went with 3 other families we are good friends with.  In all, there were 11 children that weekend, ages 3 through 12--and the older kids are all so terrific with the little ones.  They run together like a very harmonious and responsible pack of wolves.  Our camp sites were all together, in a secluded cul-de-sac on the edge of the State grounds.  We felt like we had the forest to ourselves.

These families all came with camper trailers.  And while our kids were pretty impressed at the little houses-on-wheels, they also really liked sleeping in a tent.

From the moment the kids hopped out of the car, they were in the woods.  There was a nice playground with modern equipment up the road from our site, but the kids had no interest in it.  What is a jungle gym compared to a forest?

Gemma, Josh and Bryan were part of the expedition that hiked 1.5 miles uphill to a lake for fishing.  (And then 1.5 miles back, and both kids walked the whole way!)  I remained behind to enjoy the solitude.  Upon their return, Joshua announced to me that he had caught 2 fish.  The first wasn't big enough to keep.  The second one escaped while Jimmy, one of the Dads, was cleaning it.

Joshua's explanation of this second one:  "He ran away while he was getting a bath."


We had great fires.  Great worship (one of the Dads brought his guitar) and great conversation. 

Not great toilets.  Not great sleeping.  But a great time, yes. 


During those few hours to myself, I considered potential rules as measured against the old:

1. A kids needs to be out of diapers, but age 6 is not necessary.

2. Colorado was a lot better for camping than Wisconsin because we have no insects or humidity to contend with.  But I am open to camping all over the West.

3. The days we camp don't matter so long as we can avoid traffic wherever we are headed, as we were able to do this weekend.  But as we wouldn't be able to do if we ever tried to use I-70 (and have to go through Denver) on a Friday.

4. Wives/Moms definitely welcome.  Though I fully support Bryan if he ever announces he wants to leave me home alone.

5. We are tent campers through and through. I looked over at our nylon tent and noticed for the first time that it, too, is red, white and blue.  It's our new Old Glory!

6. Nutritional value of the trip? I gotta say, I packed fruit and veggies and good protein and dairy not for the sake of nutrition itself, but because a crummy diet puts my kids in a crummy mood. They behave a lot better when they eat well.


7. Beer?  I laughed as I thought back to the camping trips of my youth.  And then realized--I'm not making this up--that I was sitting there in Meuller State Park at site #116. 
 
Why do people camp?  It's something different.  A change of pace.  A simpler life for a few days.  A chance to be a step or two closer to nature, and to enjoy seeing your kids get lost in it. 
 
Maybe, above all, there's the realization that if you can make your home in the middle of a forest with a couple poles and some nylon and a few bags of groceries, then everything you've left behind could burn up and you'd still be sitting around the campfire with your husband and kids and know that what you value most is next to you and ready to cuddle into a 4-sleeper against the cold, inky darkness of a Colorado night.

B, G and J Day: Spotlight on Joshua

I missed my deadline!  Sorry, sorry. 

Sister #2, brother-in-law #1 and their 3 terrific boys were visiting this week and we were having too much fun for me to get online much.

***

B: He's adjusted just fine to civilian life.  He likes dressing up in a suit and tie each morning and has come upon the reputation of "Best Dressed" in his office.  I don't think he has to dress that formally.  But he likes to be dapper. 

Last night at dinner, Joshua announced that he was done with the food in front of him and then said, "I'd like some pie!"

Without skipping a beat, Daddy said, "You can have some pie-napple. . ." 

***

G:  She was old enough to go on the white water rafting trip with our guests and Bryan.  (Joshua had to stay home with Mommy. . .)  She sat in the front row during the lulls, and in the middle during the rapids.  Sister #2 bought the CD of photos that the rafting company takes of the trip and in all 10 of them, Gemma's face is a mouth-open, eyes-bright, smile-huge portrait of exhilaration. 

I wouldn't have guessed that she'd be a thrill-seeker.  But there you have it.


***

J: I think I have a lot to tell you about him because he's in that magical stage of having acquired language in a level that finally gives expression to everything in his head. 

For instance:

He was packing stuffed animals to take on one of our many trips this summer and had chosen, of course, Doggers and then the Moose that heretofore has only been "The Moose." 

I asked what that one was called and Gemma piped in with a somewhat predictable, "Moosey."  Josh's eyes darted to her, he scowled as if she didn't know anything and then announced, "No.  He's Mooster-Head."

Last Spring, he'd had a stuffed puppy on the airplane when a passenger asked its name and Josh said, "This is Cutey-Cute."  Right on the spot.

I thought it was fleeting, that a name like that would not stick.  But all these months later, Josh is still walking around with Doggers, Mooster-Head and Cutey-Cute.

***
Speaking of our day together while the others rafted:  I had played it up as Josh and Mommy's Special Day together and was prepared to lay on a thick supply of bribes to make it worth his while. 

We did eat at IHOP for breakfast, which was a treat.  And I did buy him his little birthday present at the teacher supply and awesome toy store, where I had to go anyway to get Gemma's handwriting book.

But after that, we came home and went downstairs to play and he was simply thrilled to have my attention for several hours.  (He told me I couldn't do any laundry.  Ha!  If it's one thing that doesn't distract my attention from him, it's laundry. . .  Clearly, he meant, "Don't work. Just play with me.")

It's like this for the kids who aren't born first, I think.  With Gemma, there was no point in trying to do much else while she was awake because she had no distraction.  But Joshua has always had a Gemma around to play with him. 

I don't regret this.  Who am I to argue with the physics of Birth Order?  But I took this day together as God's reminder to me not to miss out on him.  Gemma will go to a home school enrichment program every Tuesday for a full day of school, and instead of trying to knock out errands that day with Joshua in tow, I now think that we'll have a day together each week to enjoy.

It was especially fun to see him play for nearly 2 hours with a single toy--those plastic stacking pegs and rubbery-mats with peg holes in them.  He has a great imagination that I hadn't noticed before. 

***
Bryan had another load of bricks to move, and he offered Gemma $1 for every 10 small ones and $1 for every 6 big ones she carried.

Josh piped in, "For me, it's 1 for 5 small ones and 1 for every 2 big ones because I'm little." 

Bryan and I both swiveled our heads towards him.  Joshua The Negotiator. 

***

Josh is into hugs.  He is a very cuddly boy.  A few weeks ago, he said, "I'm going to give you the biggest hug," and then he latched on.

He squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, the whole time saying, "Bigger than a house, bigger than a rocket, bigger than an elephant, bigger than the moon. . ." 

Finally, he broke it off.  Stepped back.  Then spread his arms out in a ta-daa kind of pose and shouted, "That's the biggest hug!!!!"

***

While at the Burches for an overnight, he kept making mischief via the annoy-Gemma mode.  (He has several modes of mischief-making. . . )

Amy, who was watching them, kept putting him into Time Out.  After the third offense, she asked him, "Why do you keep being naughty after I have to put you into Time Out?"

He shrugged and said, 'I didn't make any promises.'

***

I started the summer off by giving a swim and diving report. 

Both kids are now swimmers.  Gemma is approaching what looks like the real free style.  (Her arms have to get a bigger stroke...)

(What's that?  How is my swimming coming?  I can go from here to there with a flip turn without stopping.  That's 50 yards, baby.  I'm looking around for a good Fall-Winter swimming situation for the kids because Gemma wants to keep doing lessons and I figure I could swim while they did theirs. 

One thing is for certain: I'll never be able to do 75 and then 100 and then 150 yards without actually being in the pool.  There is no training like swimming training.  And it's the best exercise I can do to rebuild my lung capacity, which was damaged by the radiation, so I'm especially motivated to get something set up. . .)

Joshua is a proficient doggy paddler, belly glider (e.g. face in the water, kicks his way to where he's headed) and back floater. 

He is allowed to go off the diving board if I'm standing on the side to watch him.  And by this point, he just walks right off the plank without hesitation. 

The other day, he got the edge, stopped with his toes hanging over, tilted his head back and flipped his goggle up to peer over at me. Then he snapped the goggle back down and jumped off.

As he came up the ladder, he said, 'Did you see that?  That was my Looking Dive.'

On the next one, he wiggled his arms around and then jumped.  His Juggle Dive.

On the next one, he flapped his arms like a bird and then jumped.  His Wing Dive.


In general, I was thinking that all of these were My Awesome Kid Dives.

Rodeo Days

I'd had one experience with the rodeo before last Thursday. 

(And I like how it's referred to as "the" rodeo much the same as we say "the" circus, not "a" circus.  Unless you're my father, who calls any given badly organized affair "a" "three-ring circus."  But I have been to "a" three-ring circus and it was a model of precision performance.  So.  Take that, Dad.)

(And now I can hear him saying, "Don't get smart with me.") 

My one experience with the rodeo before last Thursday happened on Sunday, November 23, 2003, beginning at about 1:00 AM when labor pains that eventually yielded Gemma had kicked into way high gear. I didn't wake Bryan up for them because I knew it would take an hour or two before they were close enough to warrant the trip to the hospital.  (I don't think I am the only pregnant woman who harbored just one chief concern about giving birth--the one about being turned away from the hospital because you're not "far enough along.")

What is on television at 1:00 AM on a Sunday morning?  The rodeo. 

I watched some kind of riding. . . something that involved a huge animal bucking like crazy and I remember sympathizing with it instead of the cowboy.  "You go, animal!"  (And, in the midst of a contraction: "I wish I could buck my way out of this one!")

Two weeks ago, when the superheroes went to the Pikes Peak or Bust Rodeo, I paid a little more attention to the events.  There was one singular conclusion to reach:  The rodeo is a lot of crazy.

Not stupid.  I would never fault a sport for being stupid.  Hitting a ball with a piece of wood?  Throwing a ball into a hoop?  Hitting a ball again and again and again over huge swaths of lawn until you finally get it into a tiny cup?  No.  Stupid is fine with me.  Stupid is the beginning of sport.

I'm talking crazy.  At least, the riding events were.  I hadn't realized that the rodeo features more than just bull riding, which is the sport whence the cowboy climbs aboard and stays on as long as he can, but with only one arm.  Because. . .  Because. . .   Using two arms would be sissy-like? 

It also features bronco riding, whence the cowboy climbs aboard either a bare-back or, in a different event, a saddle and then hangs on for eight seconds.  Judges give him points on his style.  Less than eight seconds on disqualifies him (and gets him booed, at least by audience members who knew more about the rodeo). More than eight seconds doesn't count for a thing.

What is he judged on?  Dang.  Who knows?  Something about leaning back as far as he can on each buck, and kicking his legs in a certain time with each buck.  If I were a chiropractor, I'd hand out my cards at the rodeo dressing rooms.

Here's the amazing part: After eight seconds, another cowboy who works for the rodeo rides alongside him and grabs him off the bucking bronco. 

Carried off of your horse?  For safety?  Talk about sissy-like. 

Hey rodeo: Keep your safety riders and let the cowboys get off the bronco on their own.  Add the dismount to the points.  Then you got yourself an interesting event!

Maybe these events when compared illustrate a truth that spreads past the rodeo:  There are some trials you just have to hold on tight for and ride out for as long as you can however you can.

There are other trials that have a definite end and you try to ride them out with style. 

Other portions dazzled.  Dana Bowman parachuted in with the colors to kick us off.  He was an active duty serviceman who became a paraplegic during a training sky dive.  He recuperated.  Figured out how to use his prosthetics and then re-enlisted.  Now retired, he parachutes into various venues.  He walked by our row and I teared up as I shook his hand and told him it was honor to meet him. 

Then Joshua tripped him.

Total accident.  One of those "didn't see the little tike" kind of things.  Yep.  That's my son . . .

The rodeo MC was impressive.  He knew a ton about each competitor and his or her career and the horses and bulls they were riding.  We heard so much about it because it was his job to fill the gaps between runs.  Sure, color commentators do that for televised sports, but no one can see them, so they can use as many cheat sheets as they want. 

This guy sat on his horse in the middle of the sideline with nothing but his cowboy gear and a headset microphone.

His shirt was pink, by the way.  Because "Tough Guys Wear Pink" that night.  Because it was breast cancer awareness night.  Because--the day after my port removal--of course it was. 

Gemma's favorite part was watching the Ranger-ettes ride in.  They were a team of 30 or so cowgirls, all wearing satinny hot pink blouses and pink hats.  It would be their job to charge the flag of the various sponsors around the arena between events.  But when they first came out as a group and ran around in a little routine, their horses in full gallop, I found myself thinking, "Why am I not a cowgirl?"

(Because I'm a superhero instead!)

(Note on this, Joshua found one of our ParTAY invitations, which includes the graphic of a naval officer standing next to a super-heroine.  He asked, "Are you like this for real, Mommy?"

"You mean, am I a superhero?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I am."

"You can't be!  You don't even have a cape." 

I wanted to explain to him that the cape stuff and the secret identity stuff--that's all Hollywood.  But I'll wait until he's older.)

Joshua's favorite part was the barrel racing.  I think he liked it because it was the one thing that made sense.  Everyone knows what a race is and what it's for.  Interesting that women do this event but men do not.  Maybe because if men could, no one would choose to ride the back-breaking wild animals.

My favorite event was the team steer roping.  Two cowboys would charge after a runaway steer.  The first would lasso its horn, then the second would lasso it's rear leg.  That was some good ropin'.

But each time a steer came charging out of the gate, I was cheering for it. And a few of them made it all the way across the arena to the far gate.  You go, cow!

Bryan's favorite was calf roping.  Why?  "Lot of action.  A lot of skill."

The overall family favorite, by far, was mutton bustin'.

I thought this was when children were sent to tackle sheep.  No, no.  It's when a child is suited up in a couple knee and elbow pads and a helmet, then placed on board a sheep, then set out like a bull or bronco rider.

The sheep kicks a lot, too.

And the kid hangs on for dear sweet life.  Longest time wins.

Gemma and Joshua couldn't believe it.  Then the MC announced the next competitor was a 6 year old girl.  My daughter exclaimed, "That means I can do it!  Can I do it next year???"

Sure!

Joshua's face trembled.  He feared this would be another left-out-cus-yer-too-young moment.  At which point the MC announced the next competitor was a 4 year old boy. 

Josh's face lit up. Same question.  Same answer.  And I thought a) what kind of forms do the legal guardians have to sign for these kids?  and b) I wonder if Mr. Colorado will let my kids practice mutton bustin' on his golden retriever. . . 

We left before it was over, though it was late for the kids--9:30.  They both stayed awake for the whole ride home.  Another sign of how big they're getting. 

*****
Epilogue:

That weekend, we went to Grand Lake.  The next weekend (so, last week), we'd planned to visit our friend, Helen, up in Story, Wyoming.  It was going to be a family trip.

But Amy Burch had been planning to take Gemma to the Renaissance Fair here in Larkspur.  She'd even asked her friend to make Gemma a beautiful fairy costume so the three of them could go as fairies, and this was to be the last weekend for the Fair.  So, could they have the kids for the weekend?  Please?

Uh.  Yeah. 

The kids had a great time, of course.  They spent all of Saturday at a Burch family reunion picnic.  And Joshua got to spend a special time with Miss Betsy while Gemma went to the Fair on Sunday.  It was a fairy tale come true for her. 

It was a dream come true for me and Bryan.  Story is a 7 hour trip away.  A beautiful drive. Time to talk without interruption.  We left Friday afternoon and began our return trip on Sunday morning, so it was a brief time.  But it felt like we had all the time in the world.

Helen is doing well.  She lives in an 1880's log cabin on a beautiful property.  We chatted with her on Saturday morning, then walked across the street for lunch on an outdoor porch and chatted, then went to her sister's place and sat on her porch and chatted, then went back to Helen's yard and chatted, then all went to dinner and dined outside and chatted. 

There are times when all you really want to do is enjoy good company, and that's just what we did.  I found myself thinking of something Sister #1 had said around the time of what felt like another crappy hurdle to deal with--that she was looking forward to a time when I would just be able to enjoy my husband and my kids. 

The season for that has been heaped upon us, I'd say.

(I should include: To get everyone to the restaurant for dinner included, for the sake of making things easy and because I felt a little adventurous, my climbing onto the back of Helen's sister's ATV.  She toodles around the little town on that thing and it looks so fun.

As soon as we were on our way, it occurred to me that we weren't wearing helmets.  And it didn't matter that we didn't pass a single car to or fro, or that she wasn't going fast, or that the restaurant was only 3 blocks away.  I kept thinking, "If I endured 7 weeks of radiation only to die of stupidity, a lot of people are going to be pretty annoyed with me. . ."

But here I am.  Thank You, Jesus, Whom I spent most of the ride praying to.)

So, yes.  Good company. 

On our drive home, we passed through Cheyenne, where "The Grand-daddy of 'Em All" rodeo was taking place.  We skirted through at just the right time to avoid traffic, but the interstate did take us right past the arena.

I thought of all the riders inside.  Some hanging on as long as they can.  Some riding it out with style.  It was a beautiful ride home.

Picture Perfect

Some photos for you this week of what we were up to the last few weekends in July.

We attended the dedication to Walt and Kim's newly built indoor-outdoor riding arena in Elbert, Colorado--a 20 minute drive from here. These are people Bryan works with, people we are becoming friends with.


They let the kids feed Levi some "cookies." Josh would have preferred a real cookie that he could eat. But feeding the horse was a satisfying second.




Walt and Kim are followers of Jesus, and their point in building this massive arena is to invite mothers and daughters to riding lessons as a ministry to them, and to have Bible studies with the Moms and the daughters are getting their lessons.

They've named the place "Glory Falls." Isn't that lovely?

So listen to this: The "official" part of the day had just begun with two riders giving a demonstration in the outdoor circle when the weather turned.

It was a sunny day. That part didn't change. . . But an amazing rain started to fall. "Amazing" because it was like a barrage of silver bullet rain drops was streaking down. The fell gently. But spectacularly. I could see each drop, they were that sparse. But I could see each drop! They were that big and shiny!

The guests all walked back inside.
Gemma, transfixed, walked outside.

Glory falls.








Last week, we went to Grand Lake with Miss Betsy and her family. They have been going to Grand Lake for many, many weekends throughout many, many years. If they aren't in town, they are most likely at Grand Lake.

Betsy and Amy (her daughter, who is now 18 and who graduated from high-school as a 100% homeschooler--congratulations, Amy!) told me that they have been looking forward to a trip to Grand Lake with us since a few months after we first met 4 years ago.

At last, our weekend arrived.

Grand Lake, Grand Lake, Grand Lake! So what is it?

It's a lake. It's gorgeous, like every other lake I've seen in Colorado. The drive out I-70 and then North is gorgeous, like every other Westward drive in Colorado we've made.

(What scenery?)

There is a little tourist town right along the lake, complete with wooden board walk and shop owners who've been in business long enough to watch Amy and TJ grow up. And there are cabins and lodges all around for the tourists to rent.


We stayed in a place that was right along a river. The kids would have been happy climbing on the river rocks for the whole 2 days we were there.

This is Amy, who says she used to skip from one side of the river to the other. But now she realizes she should have a modicum of caution.

A little bit older and a lot less bolder than you used to be, eh, Amy?




This is TJ, now 16. I notice Josh relating to him
more and more as a boy. This is the age when kids start to realize there is a difference between men and women. I'm glad Josh has a big brother like this.








RATS! I had a photo right here of Bryan and Terry (Miss Betsy's husband), but I hit "delete" one too many times and whamo! It's gone. Blogspot does not have great software for fiddling with photos, so I'm not going to try to re-load it.

My incompetence is your loss.

After the river rock scrambling, we walked around town for a bit. Had an ice cream cone. Then walked half a block down to the lake. The town was having some kind of festival. I still don't know what for. It included a bandshell and I was treated to a rythm and blues band concert.

Man. I could have listened to them the whole weekend.

Bryan swam with the kids in the lake. He insisted it was crazy-frigid-cold. But the kids kept playing in it. Something about youth doesn't register extremes.

As for me, doctor's orders: because of my port removal wound, swimming was verboten for a week.


There was a sandy beach to dig in, too. Aside from all this, the Burches had also brought their canoe with them. Gemma and Josh got a lot of rides that afternoon.

On Sunday morning, we rented a pontoon and toodled around the lake.

There were only a few other vessels to share it with, and many, many lake mansions to ogle, including a house Lucille Ball had built.

I liked imagining what the lake looked like before anyone had built anything. . .

Then Daddy asked Gemma if she wanted to drive.

It wasn't just a turn holding the steering wheel.

He gave her a full-blown nautical navigation lesson.

"When you're crossing another boat's path, maintain speed and direction."

"When you're approaching another boat head-on, always veer right."

"When you're passing a non-motorized vessel, reduce your wake."

It was. . . cute.

You-know-who was not to be out-done.

He waited so patiently for his turn. He watched Gemma intently. He was quiet the whole time Daddy was talking.

And then, when he sat down at the wheel, the very first thing he did was jam the geer into full speed.

He done drived that sucker!





Later in the afternoon, the town had a parade.

Our kids had never been to a parade! If we lived in a smaller town, this would not be. But the expected crowds at Colorado Springs affairs are, like, 70,000+ people.

I've yet to talk myself into dealing with that.

Parades are mentioned often enough in children's books, so they knew that the whole point was to stand on the side of the street while a bunch of stuff drives or walks or marches by.

Here's what they did not know about parades: These people who are driving and walking and marching by often throw candy.

Gemma and Joshua couldn't believe it! Candy! Being thrown! Into the street! At their feet! It's CANDY!

They're so simple, these kids.

I love it.

Gemma asked for a very special item to be her souveneir. It cost a bit more than what I think a souveneir should cost, but it fit her so well, I couldn't resist. And she had gotten the idea from our time at the rodeo, so I felt glad to oblige. (Oh, I haven't told you about the rodeo? Next week, then, friends. Next week.)

I bought it for her. She wore it all weekend. Something about it seems perfect. Maybe you'll agree.

We left Grand Lake on Sunday afternoon, about 4:00, for a 3 hour drive home. We've learned that the biggest component of a great weekend getaway in the Mountains if your trip includes I-70 is to beat Denver traffic.

We timed it pretty well and slipped home right behind the bulk of the congestion. The 3 hour trip ended up being 3 hours and 15 minutes.

Not bad at all.

Being pleased about a un-snarled drive home after a weekend of such pleasure?

Yep. We're pretty simple, too.

And Then, All At Once. . .

It's been a big week for this super hero cell.

On Monday, I went to the chemo barn for the last time to receive my last treatment of Herceptin.

(Did you think I was already done with the chemo barn? No, I've been going every three weeks for this medicine. I wrote about it on my other blog in great detail. Suffice it to say here that it takes 30 minutes to receive through the port that was surgically implanted in my chest last year. And there are no side effects.)

A year ago, I would have predicted that I'd greet a day of "last treatment" with smiles and cheers and my arms pumped up in a Rocky pose. I'm done, right? Victorious, right?

But, oh, the weeping! As the appointment approached. During the appointment. After the needle came out for the last time following the infusion. As I hugged the nurse, Shannon, who had been there since the middle of chemotherapy.

Lots of tears.

Sometimes, I'm good at identifying my own feelings. This time, I knew there was a big portion of joy, a big portion of relief, and a big portion of gratitude. These things make us cry.

But there was something else that was a little sick in my heart, too. What was it?. . .

After the infusion, my friend (who'd accompanied me) and I went to Starbucks and celebrated with tall mocha frappucinos. (Does "tall" mean the biggest size there? I think they have a different term for it. But we had the biggest size there. Bought for 2 bucks apiece, no less, because the guy at the register wanted to celebrate along with us!)

Monday night was sleepless. This was partly because of the really big mocha consumed at 4:30 PM. But it was also because I'd detected a lump along my scar line, right where the tumor had been, and it was painful and tender to the touch.

I was going to an appointment with the surgeon the next morning to make arrangements for the port to be taken out, so I knew I would ask him about it.

All that night, I tried to think of how I would be able to tell my parents that the cancer was back. How could I tell my sisters and brother? How could I make all the phone calls that I'd made the first time around? I played out 60 different conversations in my head.

Caffeine + a Lump = a bad combination

I prayed that night for a decisive answer the next day: If this is cancer again, or if there is something in my body to be found, then let the doctor be concerned enough to tell me to talk to my oncologist or get a scan or something.

But if this is nothing to be concerned about, then let that be clearly explained and then let this be the last night I ever wonder whether I have breast cancer. This is why we took aggressive measures, after all, to do all we humanly could to guard against future breast cancer. I want to live in that peace and not doubt it.

Here is the good news: the fact that it is painful and tender means that it's not cancer, it is instead scar tissue and chest nerves trying to reconnect. Cancer doesn't feel like anything. (Which is how a tumor could grow to, say, 9 cm without my being able to feel it internally.)

All the anxiety helped me to understand something about my emotion of this week. There is a bit of grief in saying good-bye to "being a cancer patient." It's been my project for 14 months. It's been the thing I've done and studied and written about and concentrated on. And now it's not.

There is an emptiness.

I realized during those 60 mental conversations that there is something comforting in relating to people in this way. Comforting only, I think, because I've been doing it for 14 months.

But I'm not that cancer patient anymore. I have the "Congratulations!" certificate from the chemo barn nurses to prove it.

***
The surgeon I saw on Tuesday is not our guy, Mayfield, who was deployed to Iraq at the end of May. Mayfield was not supposed to leave until August, but the Army moved the date up on him, causing him to cancel his 9 day vacation to Germany he'd planned with his wife. Further evidence that the military, at times, goes out of its way to make its best people hate it. . .

Had he left in August, he'd have been able to remove my port in the nick of time. But he selected a surgeon for me--even while getting his own affairs in order in the hurry of shipping out with no warning--and briefed this doctor on what needed to be done.

What needed to be done?

Amy needed to be permitted to keep her port. And the replacement surgeon he selected was a guy who, Mayfield surmised, would be willing to do what needed to be done.

(It's not really, ahem, protocol, to permit patients to do this. I was told.)

I won't advertise the name of the surgeon, lest any trouble befall him. And I have another post to write that details my time spent in his care.

Right now, I am going to skip to the part where he said, "Are you free tomorrow?" and I said "Yes," and he scheduled me for the port removal on Wednesday, whereas I'd been expecting to wait another 2 or 3 weeks before getting onto his calender.

So. Last Herceptin on Monday. Appointment with Dr. Replacement on Tuesday. Port removal on Wednesday.

As Bryan drove me to the removal appointment, I still felt that sadness I described. I told him about it, and figured out loud that it would just take a couple weeks, maybe a couple months to get over it.

I did the procedure, some details to follow later, and walked out of the office holding a bag which was holding my port. I was smiling. That sense of grief and emptiness was gone.

I hugged Bryan and the kids in the waiting room. And then, all at once, I was done.

A Few Items Finally Collected

Considering the conditions that started me on the blogging road, I have written far less about breasts that you'd expect.

Today, it's time to back fill.


1. Having no breasts is not as good as having two breasts, but it is a lot better than having just one breast.

There is something. . .pleasant about the symmetry I have now. With one, I still had all the maintenance requirements that may have looked normal to everyone else, but always felt to me inconvenient.

Now, I can add to my figure if I want to, but I don't have to wear any special garments up top if I don't want to. And since our party on May 22, I haven't.


2. While at Glenwood Springs, I was changing in the locker room when I noticed a woman in my same aisle. She was being very Korean about getting dressed. She seemed particularly pleased with her breasts, which I thought had been worked on. (An easy conclusion to reach: age shows all over a body, not just in those parts.)

Well. Whatever. Right? But I still had to get dressed myself and I wasn't about to move to a different aisle because I is what I is, baby. And I will confess to all of cyber-space and its readers that I wanted to see her reaction when she saw me.

There is not one iota of me that envied her, or wanted to look like her or, more importantly, that blamed her for looking as she did. I was not, I promise you, harboring the thought, "I've had work done on my breasts, too. Only it was to save my life."

Instead, it was more like, "I'm proud of my body, too. . ."

What kind of reaction would I get? Did I want? I can't say.

She looked. Terror flashed across her face--eyes widened, eyebrows furrowed, a silent gasp. Is this a way of describing surprise? And then: humility. She turned away and got dressed in just seconds and then got out of there.


3. Related point: If 1 in 8 women are diagnosed with breast cancer, a breastless torso could be a more common sight.

If we all knew what it looked like, we'd fear it less, wouldn't we?

And when it came time for that 1 out of 8 women to decide on treatment options, if there were less fear, maybe there would be more willingness to go ahead with removal instead of pursuing "breast conservation" with desperate optimism. And then maybe there's be fewer cases of Stage II patients getting lumpectomies only to end up being Stage IV patients a few years later.

People make their own choices, of course. Each patient will decide for herself and I will not ever call that decision wrong. But what I don't want to see happen that I'm sure happens a lot is the following: The zeal for pursuing all life-saving measures is hampered by a woman's fear of living without breasts.

Fear not. Life goes on. And I'll go Korean in all the locker rooms available to me now to prove it.


4. Related to this, Dr. Susan Love coined the term "slash, poison and burn" to describe removal, chemo and radiation.

Not helpful, Dr. Love.

It's what we have to do, you know. And making it sound so terrible doesn't make it easier for us to go through with it.


5. Advantages to being breastless:

• I can work out in complete comfort
• I can get dressed in under a minute--I seem to remember spending a lot of time adjusting and fiddling and getting everything to look right
• I was wearing a t-shirt outside on a cool day when a chilly breeze swept in and made me sprout goose-bumps. Chilly, but no worries!

6. At our pool, where I practice swimming, obviously I wear a bathing suit. Modest though my suit is, there is no disguising missing body parts.

It is a family-friendly place. It seems to me there are no oglers--men nor women--around. But, come on, people notice other people at a pool. Not in a critical way. But with a dose of evaluation? Yeah. Sure. Are you going to deny it?

I've made friendly acquaintances with most of the other parents. It is not that anyone has ever stared at me. But quite a few times, I've caught a glance and a look that, roughly translated, reads, "What's. . .going on. . .exactly. . .?"

After two weeks of this, I decided to be a little pro-active. As we talked, I'd find natural opportunities to include a story from this past year, or some other way to mention that I had cancer.

Without fail, their response: "Oh? What kind of cancer?"

And I say, with a genuine smile, because I think they are all so sweet to play dumb, "Breast cancer. That's why I have no breasts."

I go on to say that the treatment is all done, that it turned out to be a joyful, magnificent year, that we experienced so much love and so much of God's power--that it's all good.

With the air cleared, I'm getting to be good pool-friends with them.

7. But is it "all good"?

Well. It's mostly good. There are still moments of searing grief once in a while. Last night I came to the obvious realization--but one I don't think I'd been willing to deal with--that this is what my body will be like for the rest of my life here on Earth. That long after this past year is a distant memory, I will still have scars and not breasts.

I prayed with Bryan. And, specifically, I found myself telling God that if I can enjoy Him and experience Him as intimately and powerfully and. . .consistently as I have this past year during this trial, then it would make the loss bearable. Joyful, even. I would consider it a good trade.

Tonight, during our church service, God answered me with a promise: The pouring of His life into mine would be far greater than what was poured out of my body this year.

How great? I asked. 4 times? 10 times?

So great, He answered, that I would not have the terms to quantify it.

I don't know what this means, friends. But it's going to be fun to find out.

8. Finally, a Gemma story that I've smiled about for months, but have just now found the right post in which to share it:

You know how children make malapropisms not to be funny, but because they really think they are using the right word?

Well, Gemma thinks that nipples are called, "Nibbles."

Without realizing it, she amplified the cuteness of her mistake. She saw some guy with a six-pack of abs on a magazine cover at the store and said, "Look how many nibbles that man has."

Either two or eight more than I have, depending on how you count.

To Do and To Go

We approached this summer looking to make up for what feels like the lost time of last summer. This yearning plus the kids' ages plus the related fact that Joshua is no longer in diapers means that we've starting looking at the list of Things We Intend to Do and Places We Intend to Go and then doing and going.

This weekend, we headed to Glenwood Springs for a few days.

The highlight reel:

We were packed up, pulling out of the driveway, when Bryan handed me two sets of Mapquest directions and asked, "Which way do you want to go?"

There is nothing that qualifies me to answer that question when it is in the context of geographical directions.

I said, "Let's see if Mr. Colorado is home"--because he'd mentioned something about going one route that would take us above tree line and that the view was worth the trip.

He was home. He told us which of the two Mapquests would take us the scenic route, called Indepence Pass. It would take us above tree line, to about 12,000 feet, and then back down the ridge on our way to Glenwood.

And scenic, it was.

The whole drive was breath-taking. . . thought-taking, even, as Bryan and I hardly said anything and I, at least, didn't even have a daydream. I just looked and looked and looked. It was incalculable majesty.

We pulled over at the twin lakes reservoir for a picnic at lunch time.

The following photos are from the picnic stop, too, but I've embedded them among the somewhat unseemly stories:

We also pulled over to a generously sized shoulder about 30 seconds after Joshua announced that he had to make potty and couldn't hold it. Bryan hopped out and helped him. A few seconds later, the boys got back in and we were off.

Maybe 40 yards up the road, we saw a blue sign: Point of Interest, 1 Mile.

Bryan said, "Too bad, Josh. You could have whizzed at a Point of Interest."

To my way of thinking, the entire route was a Point of Interest.

In the midst of the grandeur, Gemma announced that she'd finished one DVD on her portable player and would soon start another. I said, "Put that away for a little while, honey. Enjoy the scenery."

She said, "What scenery?"

This became our catch-phrase for the weekend, and probably for life. Bryan or I would look up to see a waterfall crashing down the mountainside and then say, "What scenery?"

And we did make them put the movies down as we made the final ascent past the tree line to the top of the pass. They neither objected nor applauded.

We were just minutes away on the Interstate from our hotel when an electronic sign alerted drivers that a massive accident ahead required an exit at mile 105.

Most of the cars in front of us were getting off at 109, one exit earlier. In fact, the right lane was now crawling because the exit had completely backed up. Due to indecision? Slowness? Concern over the exit traffic? We passed up 109 and then quickly came to a crawl of our own.

You know what we were feeling right then because you've been there yourself. . .

Then, up ahead, a Hummer turned from the left lane, crossed the median strip of grass, and booked on by, now going the opposite direction

Amy: Look at him go. . .

Bryan: Too bad we're not in the Explorer.

(We were in the Volvo sedan, which also has four wheel drive. So. . .it wouldn't be that crazy to try. . .)

Then a pick-up truck did the Hummer move.

Amy: The ditch between lanes doesn't look too steep.

Bryan: You know how embarrassing it would be to get stuck?

Then a Pontiac Firebird did the pick-up move.

Amy: A sedan! Look! That sedan did it!

(All the while, I was thinking there was no way Bryan would make the move. He follows the law, not out of fear of getting caught, so it made no difference that there were no cops around, but because his heart is streaked with a deep, deep respect for rules and regulations. Hence a 20 year military career.)

Then a Toyota Prius did the Firebird move. A Prius!

Amy: Babe! That hybrid just pulled it off!

Maybe Bryan could have slept knowing he'd been bested by a Pontiac Firebird. But the Prius was too much to take as it puttered past us in the opposite direction.

We approached the spot where the other cars had made the U-turn, and we turned it ourselves.

This, happily, put us at the front of the line for the exit at 109, because there were only other law-breakers coming from our new direction.

The exit sent us along a state highway that ran alongside the Interstate, and soon this traffic slowed as well. Bryan said, "We're going Korean on them"--

This is a compliment to Koreans. Kind of. They drove not like maniacs, but like people who were shrewd enough not to be part of a traffic problem. For instance, in Seoul traffic, motorcyclists and drivers of small cars just hopped the curb and drove on the sidewalk. Pedestrians, watch out!

And "going Korean," to Bryan, is not the same as "law breaking."

Bryan stayed on streets. And then cut through a Lowe's parking lot in order to go around the intersection that was now being controlled by a state trooper. Once again we, happily, found ourselves at the head of the crowd.

Our hotel was great. The kids' favorite part was not the indoor, heated pool, but, by a slim margin, the juice dispenser in the dining area. They figured out they could combine cranberry with apple juice into the same glass with just a few touches of buttons. Brilliant!

A quote from each:

At one point, I said, "You can watch a TV show while I'm taking my shower, and then I'll read to you before bedtime. But you can only watch it if you're sitting in bed quietly."

Gemma said, "Dad will police that."

Where did she get that verb?

A different time, I told them, "Please get into your jammies."

Joshua looked at the T-shirt he was wearing, saw that it was clean enough for his standard of nightwear, and said, "All I have to do is take of my shorts, and voila! I'm in my jammies!"

The highlight of Glenwood Springs, for their age, anyway, is the hot springs swimming pool and its water slides. We spent all of Saturday there, taking a break in the afternoon to see Toy Story 3 (Loved it!) and eat dinner before returning for an evening swim.

I've heard of people who find hot springs to be very refreshing, as though they can detect the mineral content of the water.

For me, it just seemed like warm, salty water. But here's the big news about me and that pool: This summer, I have been learning to swim.

Yes. You read that correctly.

Don't get be wrong: I know how not to drown. I can do Ethel Merman strokes that get me from here to there with my face above water the whole time.

But never in my life have I known how to do the freestyle or, associatedly, how to swim for fitness.

This was to be my summer. Why? Mostly, it's because conquering cancer makes me feel like I can do anything, and not being dead right now makes me want to actually do the things I've always thought I'd like to try--like, for instance, learning to swim the real way.

So I've been practicing each day I take the kids to the pool. I asked Bryan for a basic lesson, and I've been asking the various swimmers, life guards and swim coaches I've met at the pool for little pointers here and there. Much the way golfers talk about their game, I think.

A very big day for me was about 2 weeks ago, when I put my face into the water without wearing a nose plug.

Another big day for me was when I swam a 25 meter length of the pool without stopping.

At Glenwood Springs, I swam the 30 meter width of the pool without stopping, and, more importantly, spent more time thinking about the saltiness of the water than about what I was doing, which means that it's becoming more and more automatic for me! What a breakthrough summer for me!

Now, the limitations I work against are much less issues of mechanics and much more issues of endurance. Swimming is hard, hard work. . .

I find it all pretty mysterious, because I can go for an hour on the treadmill at a pretty brisk clip with my heart rate elevated in the cardio zone, but after those 30 meters of swimming, I was sucking wind. Phew!

My goal is to be able to swim 4 lengths of our pool here by the end of the summer. That does not include doing kick-turns.

I know, I know. You've finished this last part about my swimming and my little victories towards learning and you're thinking: What scenery?

But hey--Glenwood Springs. Some swimming action. That's two things off our list.

Conservation

Is it me or are libraries today way more awesome than they were when I was growing up? The Elmhurst Public Library was a pleasant place to be, back in the day. But I remember it was a place to be quiet. There were never too many people inside of it. And I remember that nothing fun ever happened there.

Our library is not quiet. It has a massive room set aside as a "teen library" where the "teen" book collection resides and computers whir and bean bag chairs abound. It has a story time room where librarians perform a 30 minute story-telling routine that is never just the reading of books. It has a coffee and snack stand in front, for goodness sake! And at this library, the parking lot is always full.

I know that your libraries are probably a lot like this, too.

All of this makes me happy for my kids. We go once a week and they love it.

The summer's Reading Program theme has something to do with the ocean. The kids color in splashes for each book they read, and after a bunch of splashes they get a prize. You know the drill.

Instead of story time, they program professionals to do 45 minute presentations. Musicians, clowns, puppeteers. . .all of their presentations have something to do with the ocean.

On Wednesday, we went to see Inspector Magic's Lobster Tales. Inspector Magic was great last year. His tricks dazzled, and he concluded with a clever one that required 3 children and one mother. I did not volunteer, yet he picked me.

So I did my part, which was to stand there, and he did his sleight of hand and switcheroo, and the different name plates the kids were holding all--magically!--changed hands.

But the name plate I was holding itself was changed into the following word: SUPERHERO

(Because I was a Mom, get it? We're all "superheroes.")

But the real magic was that Inspector Magic had NO IDEA that I am a real superhero. I showed him my calling card afterward, to prove that I really am one, and he kind of looked at me like I was a dork.

Still--what were the chances that he'd pick me of all the moms there? Like, 1 in about 48. And you can ask Mr. Colorado's wife to attest to the facts of this story because she was there.

(Why didn't I tell this story on The Big "C"? I think it happened a few days before my surgery, and so the blog had not launched yet.)

I'm serious about that.

Back to Inspector Magic's Lobster Tales:

His act this year was all about conservation, which only partially relates to the ocean, so I'm calling a foul on that.

What was worse--his message dominated the magic and took up way too much time. Hey, Inspector: Less chat, more tricks.

(He did, however, share with the children that he is the new president of the magician association that was founded by Harry Houdini and is now 6,000 strong. And I was there for his act/conservationist harangue. So. I got that goin' for me.)

Here's what I found fascinating: Every child there (except for mine, I guess) already knew everything this guy was saying. He asked, 'What are the 3 R's?' and every hand (except for my kids') shot up. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. Duh. He asked, "How many trees are chopped down to make the Sunday paper each week?" and many hands shot up, the boy he called on actually knew the answer!

How much time do schools spend teaching this stuff? That room was filled with Pre-schoolers through, at least, 4th graders, and they all knew the content of Inspector Magic's appeal.


There's a reason I offer these observations.

A few weeks ago, we had our bounce house set up in our backyard for our kids and those of our guests who'd come for a BBQ. It's a great toy. We set it up about half a dozen times a year, and by now, it has more than paid for itself as compared to the cost of renting one. It came with a blower that plugs into a normal socket, and the kids love it.

After everyone had left, Gemma was still playing on it, and I overheard part of a conversation she was having with the little girl who lives behind us. These neighbors seem nice enough, though they are not the least bit neighborly or social. And their kids--a bit older than ours--don't have very good manners.

(Oh, I'm sorry, is throwing rocks from one's backyard into one's neighbors in an attempt to hit the children who are playing there considered OK nowadays? I must catch up with the times. . .)

I could not make out all the words of the exchange, but the tone was very clearly a classic swap of toy-smack-down. A "mine's better than yours" kind of thing. The little girl was standing on her trampoline, and Gemma was pridefully perched on the top of her bounce house slide.

The neighbor girl shouted, in exasperation, "Well you're killing the polar bears!"

(Because Gemma was using electricity? Get it? Polar ice melt, etc?)

Gemma's brow furrowed and she was stymied beyond response. Killing polar bears? She must have been thinking. That cannot possibly be true.

I called out to the little girl, "It's OK. We're using the carbon credits we earn by hanging our clothes to dry on a line instead of using our clothes drier."

The part about telling the little girl this is not true. The part about hanging our clothing to dry is true.

Here's the part that fascinates me: In generations past, at the point of exasperation in this kind of squabble a kid used to say, "Well, your mother wears combat boots!" or, "Well, you're ugly!" or, "Well, you're a weirdo!"

This child's most handy and cutting insult was that Gemma was a poor conservationist.

How interesting is it, too, that I am going to write a paragraph now to assure you/defend myself: We do a lot of the 3 R's in our home, too. And we turn off the water while we're brushing our teeth. And I almost always remember to bring my canvass bags into the grocery store now that I don't have to have plastic ones on hand to dispose of Joshua's diapers.


This story also reminds me of a moment that I will live many times in the next several months. As I sat down for Inspector Magic's Lobster Tales, I thought, "One year ago at this time. . ."

I do that often. We did Vacation Bible School 2 weeks ago, and throughout it, I was thinking, "Last year at this time, I was diagnosed. . . Last year at the this time, playing this game, I had that Big Moment with Song #10. . ."

I recoil from the habit of this thinking. A bit. I want to be over cancer on an emotional level. But I think a year's worth of these anniversaries stand between me and a near-total point of being done with the journey.

Speaking of anniversaries, though: Yesterday, 26 June 2010, was the one year anniversary of my first surgery, the one that felt like such a dark day to walk towards and wake up to and show up for, the one that ended up being miraculous and the beginning of the healing.

Yesterday, we went to church, Saturday evening service people that we are, and unaware of the exact date (we're on a summer schedule, after all) I was mystified as to why I was so emotional during worship. It's always a very powerful time for me when I experience a lot of God's presence, but last night was especially moving.

And then the band started playing Song #10. I heard the first chords and somehow realized in an instant what the date was. . .

Wow.

He is an Everlasting God
He did not faint, He did not grow weary.

In Medias Res

We joined a pool this summer. Good timing on this one, as Colorado Springs is on course to set all kinds of records for frequent high temps. But it's a dry heat.

Yesterday, Gemma again announced that she would try to jump off the diving board. On other days, she has climbed up, walked to the edge, then turned around. "It's OK," I've been telling her. "I don't blame you for being scared. One day you'll be ready."

She met a friend her age who jumps off the board and then swims on her own to the ladder without so much as arm floaties. Arden's performance in this way was too much for Gemma to observe unanswered. So, as I said, she made an announcement.

I walked to the board with her, she fiddled with the buckles on her swim vest, then climbed on, and then reversed course. Again.

Another girl's father who was there asked if it would help for someone to be in the deep end waiting for her. Gemma nodded. I said, "If I get into the pool, then you HAVE to jump because I'm going to be pretty annoyed if I get wet for nothing."

The father said, "Oh, I'll get in for her."

How nice.

Moments later, Gemma was perched on the end and the father was patting the water right below her saying, "Just jump right here."

The other 28 people at the pool were watching now, too, and were starting to shout things like, "You can do it!" and "Just jump!"

I counted to 3 for her and, 1. . .2 . . .3 -- Gemma jumped!

All 28 people cheered and applauded! It choked me up.


Then Joshua decided he would jump, too. Odd, though: He jumped off the board 2 weeks ago. Several times. Now, he was 3 steps away from the ladder on his journey to the edge when he halted, turned to me and said, "I love you, Mom."

The crowd laughed. What? Was he never to return?

He took another step. That girl's father started encouraging him and patting the water in front of the landing zone. Josh turned again to me and said, "I would be happier if it was you."

Geez. . . If this conversation had been private, I'd have told him he could either jump with that guy, or with no one, or not jump at all. But the whole crowd was in on this exchange and I was not willing to be a Bad Mother this early in the summer.

I jumped in. Paddled over. Tread water. All with a big smile because I was just so dang delighted to be playing the Diving Board Game.

Josh inched to the edge. I patted the water. I encouraged. I counted up to 3. I counted down from 5.

The crowd encouraged. And counted with me. And 3 boys around 10 or 11 started chanting, "Let's Go Jo-osh, Let's Go!" CLAP CLAP "Let's Go Jo-osh, Let's Go!" CLAP CLAP

The atmosphere could not have been more supportive. Then Josh said something. The crowd hushed and strained to hear. I asked, "What was that?"

He said, simply, "I would be happier if they--" (then he got loud for this part) "STOPPED SCREAMING!"

This got a big laugh.

Then Gemma piped up, from where she stood fourth in line for the diving board, "Come on, Josh!"

Another big laugh.

What was I to do? If I were standing by the board, I'd have coaxed him off. But I was on the jumping end of the board and the most I could do was wait.

The Pool Director stepped onto the board behind him and announced, "I'll help you." Before Joshua knew it, she'd grabbed his hands and initiated a countdown from 5 and, after "1," she tossed him in.

The crowd erupted in whoops and cheering and clapping. Yay, Josh!

Then Gemma went off again, this time without fanfare, and still got applause.

Then Joshua again and he announced right away, "I want someone to help me," so some other woman climbed on board and "helped" him, as before. Much applause.

The third time, he needed no help and it's the cutest thing when he goes on his own: he doesn't just jump, he tucks his knees up into a tidy cannon ball.

And this--this jumping unaided by the both of them, and, yes, all the rest of the dog paddling and going under without any fuss and meeting friends there and spending hours and hours in the water without a care in the world--all this has been the accomplishment of our summer so far.

In our view, it's record-setting.