Let's take the StoryTime Machine back to a year I do not like to revisit: my freshman year of high school. It will be instructive. This was the Fall of 1989.
I'm telling you now: my recollection of these details might stun you.
What's more: I've never told this story before. I've hardly even thought of it until just recently. But before recent history comes ancient history.
Hence: the Fall of 1989.
This year, my high school had hired a new Theology teacher names Cameron Cehola. This was Czek name, he told us on the first day. There we were, 23 or so students on our first day of high school, staring agape at a teacher who had just told us his first name.
Forget "Cehola" and its ethnic origins. Who in the heck is named "Cameron"?
He had earned his Masters degree in Theology. This was shocking, too. You mean to say that people actually studied theology?
Mr. Cehola was a young man. He would sit on his desk, gripping the front edge with both hands as he leaned forward and swung his legs. To demonstrate what, exactly? I think it was to show us how very engaging he found our young minds. To show us he was interesting enough to dispense with standard teacher formalities and get serious, instead, about opening the world of theology to us.
If this was his strategy, he had miscalculated. We were not the class of kids in Dead Poet's Society who rejoiced to find an inspiring voice singing in an institution of academic oppression. We were just in Theology because that's where the guidance councilor scheduled us in Immaculate Conception High School because that's where our parents had sent us.
Most of us, anyway, saw things this way.
A few held Mr. Cehola in utter disdain. I recall Lauren Guidice's older sister, who was a Junior, bragging to those of us near her in study hall (which was all ages) that she called him "Cam" to his face, repeatedly. I remember feeling so scandalized by this older girls' boldness. Had she gotten away with that?
Maybe there were a few others who were like me: I didn't know what to make of a guy who sat on his desk as he taught us, or who wasn't actually Catholic (we discovered early on), or who used words like "exam" instead of "test," and "hypothesis" even though this wasn't a science class.
Part of me was Dead Poet's Society-ish. I did find it thrilling to have a teacher who wanted to make a challenge out of his class. Even though it was Theology. Do you know that for our first "exam," we were to memorize the Beatitudes as found in the Gospel of Matthew??? This was an extraordinary assignment! Memorize part of the Bible? No way! (I experienced 11 years of formal, Catholic school education--grade 6 through 16--and this is the only time I was required to memorize scripture!)
I responded to the challenge gladly. I remember sitting on the Sorce's couch, where I was babysitting one afternoon, memorizing those Beatitudes, thinking that I was going to blow Cameron Cehola away by getting a perfect score on his exam.
There were other things to know for this exam, and I studied them, too. I went to class the day of and wrote out my answers and left confident that I had aced that thing. Do you remember that feeling of knowing you've done well on a test after you've prepared to do well on it? It's been a long, long time since I've taken one. . . I miss that feeling. . .
We came back to class the next day and Mr. Cehola had already graded our exams. He handed them back. There was a red mark on mine. Points taken off. It was surprising. My grade was a 98%, and yet there could be no rejoicing until I looked into something.
I consulted my notes that I had transcribed from the chalkboard. I looked back at my test. I was not wrong.
The question had stated, "Define 'theology.'"
My answer (and I promise that I am going from memory here, sick though that is):
"Theology is the study of all things in relation to one another in light of revelation."
(Today, I would quibble with that definition. But back then, all I knew is that this is what Mr. Cehola had written on the board and told us to know for the "exam.")
I asked, basically, what I had lost points on.
"Ah," he said smugly. "Theology is the study of all things in relation to one another by light of revelation."
This drew scoffs and some guffaws and a bit of outrage from several others who had also prepared for the test.
To which Mr. Cehola took up his perch on the desk and launched into how the two words were different and their uses created a world of difference between his definition and ours. My peers tried to argue that he was being too picky. He easily defeated their argument because, well, he was right. There is a difference between "by" and "in."
Finally, I had the chance to weigh in. "The point is not that we got the definition wrong. The point is that we all wrote down the definition you put up on the board."
This shut everyone up. They liked what they were now hearing.
Mr. Cehola, not so much. "I would not have put up the wrong definition," he said.
"Let's check every one's notebooks," I said. "If we all wrote down 'in' instead of 'by,' we'll know what was written on the board."
He refused to check. He hopped off the desk, made another comment from the previous argument--the one he could win--about the differences between the two prepositions. And he tried to go on with the lesson.
I couldn't let him. I couldn't. The injustice of it consumed me. It was so logical for him simply to fix the problem. Recollect the texts. Award 2 pts to each student who deserved it. Move on.
But he couldn't admit that he'd made this mistake. And that's when I decided he was a fraud, and my disappointment crashed on top of the injustice. I was incensed. I would not let it rest. There was nothing he could say that would make me stop arguing the point, which the rest of the room found very entertaining. They cast their lot with me. This teacher now had a full-blown uprising on his hands.
He announced that we were all to write out answers to some BS chapter questions. It was seat work. Silent work. Nothing was resolved about the test. I was crying. Seriously. It was that important to me to hear him admit that he was wrong and I was right. But it wasn't a pride thing. Everyone in the room knew I was right. In this way, I had "won."
I just needed to hear him say it out loud. I never did.
Something clicked over for him, though. Something about that day, plus all the days of upperclassmen calling him "Cam," plus, most likely the biggest dynamic of all, something about seeing this high school for a couple of week and realizing that there were a lot of average kids inside of it--something made him quit. His job. I mean, he left the school.
A replacement came soon after, Mrs. Diesing. We loved her. And she either stood at the podium or sat behind her desk. And though she was one of several people who taught, as the text book did, that the wondrous stories we read in the Bible are "biblical myth," she also confided to us one day that she, "Reads the Bible while take a bubble bath--it's corny, I know, but I do it because it relaxes me," thus making her my first teacher ever to say that she read scripture.
So much for ancient history. Flashing forward now:
The other day, Joshua was still in his pajamas. We were ready to start our school work, for which we all must be dressed. I asked him to go upstairs and change.
"But Mommy," he said, calmly, "Sometimes you stay in pajamas all day."
"No," I said, calmly, "I get dressed every morning before we start school work."
He insisted, "There are times when you stayed in your jammies for a long, long time."
"No there aren't," I told him. Then, sternly, "Please go upstairs now."
He headed upstairs, but was now perturbed. Seriously. "I know it's true," he pleaded. "You stay in your jammies sometimes!"
"When, Josh? Like when I was sick??? Like when I was doing chemotherapy? Is that when I stayed in jammies????"
"No," he said with certainty, now at the top of the stairs. Talking down below to me through the railings. "When we came home from Betsy's and Daddy brought us but you were here and it was all day, that's when."
I had no idea what he was talking about. Still don't.
But he said it with conviction. There is something he knew that I didn't and he wasn't stalling to avoid getting dressed. He just needed to hear me validate his point. I remember that feeling. I remember that it wasn't about getting a different result out of the other person--100% or 98%? who cares?--it was about the argument itself. It was about what I knew and needing the other person to acknowledge that what I was saying was important.
I could hear his frustration. What others would take (understandably) and have taken (understandably) to be an argumentative spirit or bratty-ness, I understood this was just what God built into him. He loves words. They are important to him. It is impossible for him to move on from the place of being misunderstood. I know that feeling. . .
"OK, Josh," I told him, "I don't remember the time you are talking about, but I agree that there have been some days when I have stayed in my jammies for a long time. Today is not one of them. We both need to be dressed."
He nodded at this. Clearly, I had scratched his itch. He stood and the galloped like a horse to his room where he got dressed in just a few minutes.
I kind of feel like I passed this exam. Blessed are they who remember the past well enough to apply it to the present.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Veteran's Weekend
Yes, yes, I know Bryan is the veteran in this family. Thank you, Bryan. And thank you to all serve.
Now, let's talk about me.
I am a veteran of something, too. Pre-school motherhood. The days of caring for little ones are behind me. I don't think I had realized it until this weekend.
We left on Wednesday afternoon for Weston, MO, where we have some land and a big tobacco barn that was full of. . .shtuff that Bryan needed to get rid of. We also have dear friends in the area, Helen and David, and, from our time in Korea, Parin and her family who are now stationed at Leavenworth.
Bryan spent both days selling stuff out of the barn. The kids and I spent Thursday with Helen and David and then Friday with Parin and Jason, and their two girls, who are the same ages as our two kids. A delightful time all around.
A note on our drive out: The kids travel so well now, it is painless to drive long distances with them. We were not commited to making it all the way out and with two hours to go, Bryan considered stopping in Topeka for the night. But then we caught a talk radio program that covered something outrageous. It really got his dander up and with this mighty shot of adrenaline, he felt great for the tail end of the journey. We checked in at 1:45 AM.
This is also where I noticed the first difference. Gemma and Josh can both do everything for themselves in the back seat now. And they're both thrilled to watch DVD's on their little players. There was a time when I could not sit for 20 minutes without having to turn around for some reason or another. This time, Bryan and I had the chance to talk for a couple hours without interruption.
Aunt Helen and Uncle David are the kids' Godparents. Helen has a giant service dog. I would tell you the breed--it's something French--but I don't remember it and you've never heard of it anyway. His name is BroJean and he's wonderful. The kids love him, too.
We discovered on the weekend of our ParTAY, whence BroJean sat outside with Helen, several of our neighbors and a yard full of neighborhood kids, that this breed shepherds. At least, BroJean does. He just couldn't lie still. He could not stand watching a bunch of children scatter and run around. So he got up, loped over on his long legs, and proceeded to herd them into a group, either by circling them, or nudging them, or--yes indeed--nipping them.
Well. Just one. And it happened to be Mr. Colorado's daughter. Mr. Colorado loves dogs more than Colorado, I think, and was very understanding. Instinct. What can you do? Besides, Kate was fine. . .
Helen, David, BroJean, their doberman who is called Tootsie, the kids and I drove over to our land. The dogs love to run there and I was glad the kids would have a chance to poke around, too.
The went for it. Almost immediately. It was cold out, but something about the fields and thickets beckoned. Later, Helen remarked to me, "Um. . .We have 2 kids and 2 dogs wandering around out there that we can't see."
I shrugged and said, "BroJean is with them. I am completely confident he's watching over them."
This is why shepherding dogs are so great. Why we had planned to get one if we had moved to that piece of land. Why we would still get one if we end up moving to the country at some future point.
Would I have let them go off if they had been much younger? No. But this is what it means that Joshua is now older. I know how he thinks and he has the maturity and good sense to stick with his sister and not do anything stupid. (Like what, even? It's not like we have cliffs to jump off of. . .)
They eventually returned. After nearly an hour. BroJean was right by their sides. Joshua's wool coat was stuck full of thistles, which gave us some clues as to their adventure. I asked Gemma what BroJean had been doing. "He was just by us the whole time," she said.
What a dog!
Bryan made a wad of cash from the sale. I had Gemma count it. In our conversations throughout the day, certain turns of phrase would come up, like, "barn-burner," or. . .a few others that now escape me. One of the kids would ask us to explain, and we would. Helen said, towards the end of the afternoon, "I'm seeing that homeschool is really just an all-the-time thing." Yes. On days like that, I am reminded of it.
By the way, the name Weston, Missouri might seem familiar to you now due to recent news. Those maniacs from that cult in Topeka scheduled a protest at a fallen soldier's funeral the weekend before last. They have to obtain a permit to protest, and they have the constitutional right to one.
The townspeople of Weston knew their rights, too. They organized in about 24 hours. Over half the town turned out to do the following:
Take up all the parking spaces along the funeral route and surrounded the protest area;
Wire up a sound system from one of the bars and blast "Amazing Grace" and other songs whenever the protesters started singing;
assemble the Patriot Guard (a biker group that will show up whenever requested for this purpose) to gun their engines whenever the protesters tried to speak;
stand right in front of the protesting group with a giant flag held up so that none of their hateful signs could be read;
and, of course, stand on the flag line approaching the funeral home to specifically honor the fallen.
This didn't just hit CNN and other national news, it actually got international coverage as well. Letters poured into the Weston Chronicle from all over the country.
The hope, I would think, is that other towns will use this as a model for handling future attempts by these hideous cult members and after a year of getting shut down systematically, they'll find some other way to garner attention and money.
It was a glorious day for Weston.
Helen says they'd like to see "Pull a Weston" enter the vernacular.
I entertained visions of what this would look like 50 years from now. My best hypothesis: it will come to mean, "to take up space or opportunity another party thought it had privy to." So, when you pull into a parking space someone else is waiting for, you would be "pulling a Weston."
No part of that carries the sheen of honor. But that's how language is. At least, that's my prediction for how this language will go.
Finally, David, Helen and the Ponces had dinner out at the best BBQ place I've ever enjoyed, and it was a joy to revisit it Thursday night. The kids were a delight to have with us and once again I found myself really liking that we can all like having them around.
Quick Josh story here: I brought their scooters with us and they zoomed around David and Helen's cul-de-sac for a while to burn off their pent up car energy earlier in the day. Josh's scooter needed a quick inspection, and when I gave it back to him, he jumped on and yelled, "Ride on!!!" and zoomed away.
What a boy.
On Friday, the kids and I got to Parin's on-post house at 9:15. We did not leave until 9:00 PM, and this following a leisurely day of the kids playing somewhere else and Parin and I chatting and chatting and. . .you know, there are just some friends you can re-connect with without labor. It was awesome.
In all that kid-playing, there was not one single squabble. The four of them just got along really well, and had a hard time saying good-bye when it was time.
Parin remembered, "Amy, we used to sit on the floor with them in Korea and say, 'OK, Sarah, now we share the toy with Gemma, and Gemma says, 'Thank you'" and on and on. . . I had forgotten! But she was right! We used to pour a lot of energy into teaching those girls basic kindness and manners. All the Mommies in our little group did, actually, and I know now what an unusual blessing that was.
Well. There we were. Reaping what we'd sown. Polite, sociable children who loved to just play, play, play with each other!
Saturday morning, we took the time to swim in the pool before loading up for the long ride home. Instead of movies all the way, we listened to some audio books. That's a simple pleasure, too. We had finished up Paddington before the trip, a book that made all three of us laugh out loud as we tootled around town. This time, we listened to Clementine and it was short and sweet. Then we started The Railway Children, published in 1906 or so. Normally, books that old are not written in language that I or the kids want to listen to. But this one. . .we are all enchanted.
So. I sign off as a happy Veteran. Those early years were not easy for me. I am thankful for them, of course. For some mothers, those baby days are the highlight of parenthood. For me, they were the woods that I knew I'd get through one day. That day is here! God was so good to have helped me persevere to a season of sweet harvest.
Now, let's talk about me.
I am a veteran of something, too. Pre-school motherhood. The days of caring for little ones are behind me. I don't think I had realized it until this weekend.
We left on Wednesday afternoon for Weston, MO, where we have some land and a big tobacco barn that was full of. . .shtuff that Bryan needed to get rid of. We also have dear friends in the area, Helen and David, and, from our time in Korea, Parin and her family who are now stationed at Leavenworth.
Bryan spent both days selling stuff out of the barn. The kids and I spent Thursday with Helen and David and then Friday with Parin and Jason, and their two girls, who are the same ages as our two kids. A delightful time all around.
A note on our drive out: The kids travel so well now, it is painless to drive long distances with them. We were not commited to making it all the way out and with two hours to go, Bryan considered stopping in Topeka for the night. But then we caught a talk radio program that covered something outrageous. It really got his dander up and with this mighty shot of adrenaline, he felt great for the tail end of the journey. We checked in at 1:45 AM.
This is also where I noticed the first difference. Gemma and Josh can both do everything for themselves in the back seat now. And they're both thrilled to watch DVD's on their little players. There was a time when I could not sit for 20 minutes without having to turn around for some reason or another. This time, Bryan and I had the chance to talk for a couple hours without interruption.
Aunt Helen and Uncle David are the kids' Godparents. Helen has a giant service dog. I would tell you the breed--it's something French--but I don't remember it and you've never heard of it anyway. His name is BroJean and he's wonderful. The kids love him, too.
We discovered on the weekend of our ParTAY, whence BroJean sat outside with Helen, several of our neighbors and a yard full of neighborhood kids, that this breed shepherds. At least, BroJean does. He just couldn't lie still. He could not stand watching a bunch of children scatter and run around. So he got up, loped over on his long legs, and proceeded to herd them into a group, either by circling them, or nudging them, or--yes indeed--nipping them.
Well. Just one. And it happened to be Mr. Colorado's daughter. Mr. Colorado loves dogs more than Colorado, I think, and was very understanding. Instinct. What can you do? Besides, Kate was fine. . .
Helen, David, BroJean, their doberman who is called Tootsie, the kids and I drove over to our land. The dogs love to run there and I was glad the kids would have a chance to poke around, too.
The went for it. Almost immediately. It was cold out, but something about the fields and thickets beckoned. Later, Helen remarked to me, "Um. . .We have 2 kids and 2 dogs wandering around out there that we can't see."
I shrugged and said, "BroJean is with them. I am completely confident he's watching over them."
This is why shepherding dogs are so great. Why we had planned to get one if we had moved to that piece of land. Why we would still get one if we end up moving to the country at some future point.
Would I have let them go off if they had been much younger? No. But this is what it means that Joshua is now older. I know how he thinks and he has the maturity and good sense to stick with his sister and not do anything stupid. (Like what, even? It's not like we have cliffs to jump off of. . .)
They eventually returned. After nearly an hour. BroJean was right by their sides. Joshua's wool coat was stuck full of thistles, which gave us some clues as to their adventure. I asked Gemma what BroJean had been doing. "He was just by us the whole time," she said.
What a dog!
Bryan made a wad of cash from the sale. I had Gemma count it. In our conversations throughout the day, certain turns of phrase would come up, like, "barn-burner," or. . .a few others that now escape me. One of the kids would ask us to explain, and we would. Helen said, towards the end of the afternoon, "I'm seeing that homeschool is really just an all-the-time thing." Yes. On days like that, I am reminded of it.
By the way, the name Weston, Missouri might seem familiar to you now due to recent news. Those maniacs from that cult in Topeka scheduled a protest at a fallen soldier's funeral the weekend before last. They have to obtain a permit to protest, and they have the constitutional right to one.
The townspeople of Weston knew their rights, too. They organized in about 24 hours. Over half the town turned out to do the following:
Take up all the parking spaces along the funeral route and surrounded the protest area;
Wire up a sound system from one of the bars and blast "Amazing Grace" and other songs whenever the protesters started singing;
assemble the Patriot Guard (a biker group that will show up whenever requested for this purpose) to gun their engines whenever the protesters tried to speak;
stand right in front of the protesting group with a giant flag held up so that none of their hateful signs could be read;
and, of course, stand on the flag line approaching the funeral home to specifically honor the fallen.
This didn't just hit CNN and other national news, it actually got international coverage as well. Letters poured into the Weston Chronicle from all over the country.
The hope, I would think, is that other towns will use this as a model for handling future attempts by these hideous cult members and after a year of getting shut down systematically, they'll find some other way to garner attention and money.
It was a glorious day for Weston.
Helen says they'd like to see "Pull a Weston" enter the vernacular.
I entertained visions of what this would look like 50 years from now. My best hypothesis: it will come to mean, "to take up space or opportunity another party thought it had privy to." So, when you pull into a parking space someone else is waiting for, you would be "pulling a Weston."
No part of that carries the sheen of honor. But that's how language is. At least, that's my prediction for how this language will go.
Finally, David, Helen and the Ponces had dinner out at the best BBQ place I've ever enjoyed, and it was a joy to revisit it Thursday night. The kids were a delight to have with us and once again I found myself really liking that we can all like having them around.
Quick Josh story here: I brought their scooters with us and they zoomed around David and Helen's cul-de-sac for a while to burn off their pent up car energy earlier in the day. Josh's scooter needed a quick inspection, and when I gave it back to him, he jumped on and yelled, "Ride on!!!" and zoomed away.
What a boy.
On Friday, the kids and I got to Parin's on-post house at 9:15. We did not leave until 9:00 PM, and this following a leisurely day of the kids playing somewhere else and Parin and I chatting and chatting and. . .you know, there are just some friends you can re-connect with without labor. It was awesome.
In all that kid-playing, there was not one single squabble. The four of them just got along really well, and had a hard time saying good-bye when it was time.
Parin remembered, "Amy, we used to sit on the floor with them in Korea and say, 'OK, Sarah, now we share the toy with Gemma, and Gemma says, 'Thank you'" and on and on. . . I had forgotten! But she was right! We used to pour a lot of energy into teaching those girls basic kindness and manners. All the Mommies in our little group did, actually, and I know now what an unusual blessing that was.
Well. There we were. Reaping what we'd sown. Polite, sociable children who loved to just play, play, play with each other!
Saturday morning, we took the time to swim in the pool before loading up for the long ride home. Instead of movies all the way, we listened to some audio books. That's a simple pleasure, too. We had finished up Paddington before the trip, a book that made all three of us laugh out loud as we tootled around town. This time, we listened to Clementine and it was short and sweet. Then we started The Railway Children, published in 1906 or so. Normally, books that old are not written in language that I or the kids want to listen to. But this one. . .we are all enchanted.
So. I sign off as a happy Veteran. Those early years were not easy for me. I am thankful for them, of course. For some mothers, those baby days are the highlight of parenthood. For me, they were the woods that I knew I'd get through one day. That day is here! God was so good to have helped me persevere to a season of sweet harvest.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Derby
Our AWANA club hosts a Grand Prix pinewood boxcar derby each year. Gemma (and Bryan) started participating in AWANA 3 years ago, yet this is the first year we did the Grand Prix.
That's because Gemma seemed not to know what it was and we were just as glad not to put it onto her radar.
That's because each year so far, we have figured we would want to be doing something else on a Saturday morning. Plus, we knew that we would get into it eventually. Later seemed better than sooner.
This year, someone told Gemma about it. And so it began. . .
In each club level, there are prizes for the 3 fastest cars. The club levels include the pre-schoolers, K-2, 3-5, 6-8 and high school. Each car in each level races 3 times and the highest average scores win.
That is a lot of racing, which is why this event lasts Friday night and most of Saturday.
There are also three trophies for best car design (which is determined aside from its speed) and, for the 3 youngest levels, three trophies for best "Dress Like Your Car" entries.
Bryan has never raced these cars before. He knows that there are tricks to it, that many of those tricks are on the internet, and that several different power tools could be used to great effect. (A few different couples host "pit parties" on the weekends leading up to the race and all are welcome to stop by and use the woodshops.)
But we weren't going for speed this year. I think we figured we'd test the waters and come up with a good plan for next year.
This left the design categories open. Joshua dressed in Bryan's fatigues and painted his car with camo-colors. It looked great. But in this town, the military thing is not unique. He didn't win any design trophies.
Gemma dressed as Little Bo Peep (using a costume from 2 Halloween's ago) and made her car look like a sheep. She did the whole project by herself and the finished product was impressive! It took a great exertion on my part not to do some of it for her, not to correct her as she worked, not to improve on it. But when it comes to these creative endeavors, we must shut up and keep our hands to ourselves.
She was very pleased with her own work. I told her to hope for a design aware because there is no way she would win by speed. (The "fleece" was made of cotton balls, of course.)
Friday night, check-in and registration for all cars was from 5-7. We all went together and decided to stay for the older clubs' racing. The track was a marvel. It included electronic sensors hooked up to a computer that calculated the speeds and put them up on the big screen in about 2 seconds.
Gemma and Josh loved watching each race.
I loved seeing the older kids participate. AWANA is a Bible-memorization club. By these older grades, the work is very intense and demanding and it culminates in a national tournament held in St. Charles, IL each year. (AWANA started in inner-city Chicago! Just learned that. . .)
One would expect to find a big crowd of pretty geeky kids populating the older levels. While there's room for maneuver in defining "geeky," it seemed to me like most of them were really great kids: well-adjusted, very social, with so much camaraderie and love among each other. I've never seen anything like it.
The next morning, my kids sprang out of bed, ready for Game Day and, having seen the spectacular trophies the night before, they were now pretty interested in winning. Something.
Joshua's car placed 13th overall.
Gemma's at least got across the finish line each time without needing a push.
And there was a 3rd place design award in it after all.
(That thing behind her is Sparky, the mascot for her level. "Who are we?" "Sparks!" "Who for?" "Jesus!" "What do we do???" "LIGHT THE WORLD!!!!!")
(Speaking of mascots: Bryan put on the Cubbie Bear suit last weekend just to give our clubbers a special treat. The 85 children were either DELIGHTED to see Cubbie in person, or FREAKED OUT, in which case, Bryan popped his top and showed them his real face, which seemed to help in most cases...)
The speeds of the winning Cubbies and Sparks cars beat the champion cars of the older kids the night before by at least 4 points. (The numbers weren't posted in seconds or mph. . .they were just numbers.) Obviously, this was a competition among parents.
And some of the Dads were into it.
One family there had two biological children and two foster children, all in the Cubbies club level. And this Dad grew up racing cars with his Dad and so built the 4 cars that took the top 4 speeds.
I walked up to the fastest car owner, Blake, age 3, and said, "Great job, Blake! Can I see that championship car?" And I inspected it carefully. I learned some things. . .
His older brother came along and I said, "Hey Hudson! Pretty great cars you guys build. Do you do the trick with only putting 3 wheels down?"
He said, "Yeah, but that's not the secret."
"Oh really? What's the secret?" I have no shame about asking, by the way. I figured it was worth the shot. But the kid wouldn't tell me. . .
His Dad told someone, though. He told one of his best friends, Rick, and the two of them have sons in the Sparks club level. Sure enough, Rick's son's car was fast. So fast, the two boys had to have a race-off because their average times were identical. And Rick's son won! Guess he shouldn't have shared that secret. . .
Speaking of which: If you know a super secret squirrel secret that's not even on the internet, please pass it along. We've got less than a year to figure this out.
I knew as soon as I reported all this to Bryan, who is working this weekend and so missed the Saturday morning races, he would be thinking, "There's the gauntlet. Game on." And I was right.
I'm just hoping that rising to the challenge won't include the acquisition of any new power tools.
That's because Gemma seemed not to know what it was and we were just as glad not to put it onto her radar.
That's because each year so far, we have figured we would want to be doing something else on a Saturday morning. Plus, we knew that we would get into it eventually. Later seemed better than sooner.
This year, someone told Gemma about it. And so it began. . .
In each club level, there are prizes for the 3 fastest cars. The club levels include the pre-schoolers, K-2, 3-5, 6-8 and high school. Each car in each level races 3 times and the highest average scores win.
That is a lot of racing, which is why this event lasts Friday night and most of Saturday.
There are also three trophies for best car design (which is determined aside from its speed) and, for the 3 youngest levels, three trophies for best "Dress Like Your Car" entries.
Bryan has never raced these cars before. He knows that there are tricks to it, that many of those tricks are on the internet, and that several different power tools could be used to great effect. (A few different couples host "pit parties" on the weekends leading up to the race and all are welcome to stop by and use the woodshops.)
But we weren't going for speed this year. I think we figured we'd test the waters and come up with a good plan for next year.
This left the design categories open. Joshua dressed in Bryan's fatigues and painted his car with camo-colors. It looked great. But in this town, the military thing is not unique. He didn't win any design trophies.
Gemma dressed as Little Bo Peep (using a costume from 2 Halloween's ago) and made her car look like a sheep. She did the whole project by herself and the finished product was impressive! It took a great exertion on my part not to do some of it for her, not to correct her as she worked, not to improve on it. But when it comes to these creative endeavors, we must shut up and keep our hands to ourselves.
She was very pleased with her own work. I told her to hope for a design aware because there is no way she would win by speed. (The "fleece" was made of cotton balls, of course.)
Josh did all the painting himself, too! I picked out the colors and told him to make blobs, and he did all the rest.
***Friday night, check-in and registration for all cars was from 5-7. We all went together and decided to stay for the older clubs' racing. The track was a marvel. It included electronic sensors hooked up to a computer that calculated the speeds and put them up on the big screen in about 2 seconds.
Gemma and Josh loved watching each race.
I loved seeing the older kids participate. AWANA is a Bible-memorization club. By these older grades, the work is very intense and demanding and it culminates in a national tournament held in St. Charles, IL each year. (AWANA started in inner-city Chicago! Just learned that. . .)
One would expect to find a big crowd of pretty geeky kids populating the older levels. While there's room for maneuver in defining "geeky," it seemed to me like most of them were really great kids: well-adjusted, very social, with so much camaraderie and love among each other. I've never seen anything like it.
The next morning, my kids sprang out of bed, ready for Game Day and, having seen the spectacular trophies the night before, they were now pretty interested in winning. Something.
Joshua's car placed 13th overall.
Gemma's at least got across the finish line each time without needing a push.
And there was a 3rd place design award in it after all.
(That thing behind her is Sparky, the mascot for her level. "Who are we?" "Sparks!" "Who for?" "Jesus!" "What do we do???" "LIGHT THE WORLD!!!!!")
(Speaking of mascots: Bryan put on the Cubbie Bear suit last weekend just to give our clubbers a special treat. The 85 children were either DELIGHTED to see Cubbie in person, or FREAKED OUT, in which case, Bryan popped his top and showed them his real face, which seemed to help in most cases...)
The speeds of the winning Cubbies and Sparks cars beat the champion cars of the older kids the night before by at least 4 points. (The numbers weren't posted in seconds or mph. . .they were just numbers.) Obviously, this was a competition among parents.
And some of the Dads were into it.
One family there had two biological children and two foster children, all in the Cubbies club level. And this Dad grew up racing cars with his Dad and so built the 4 cars that took the top 4 speeds.
I walked up to the fastest car owner, Blake, age 3, and said, "Great job, Blake! Can I see that championship car?" And I inspected it carefully. I learned some things. . .
His older brother came along and I said, "Hey Hudson! Pretty great cars you guys build. Do you do the trick with only putting 3 wheels down?"
He said, "Yeah, but that's not the secret."
"Oh really? What's the secret?" I have no shame about asking, by the way. I figured it was worth the shot. But the kid wouldn't tell me. . .
His Dad told someone, though. He told one of his best friends, Rick, and the two of them have sons in the Sparks club level. Sure enough, Rick's son's car was fast. So fast, the two boys had to have a race-off because their average times were identical. And Rick's son won! Guess he shouldn't have shared that secret. . .
Speaking of which: If you know a super secret squirrel secret that's not even on the internet, please pass it along. We've got less than a year to figure this out.
I knew as soon as I reported all this to Bryan, who is working this weekend and so missed the Saturday morning races, he would be thinking, "There's the gauntlet. Game on." And I was right.
I'm just hoping that rising to the challenge won't include the acquisition of any new power tools.
Monday, November 1, 2010
No Cancer!
YAY! and Ahhh. . . and Phew!
Why the "Phew!"? I'll tell you: by the 3rd week of September, I had become reactive to sugar again. I tested it a little: sugar out of my system, better. Sugar back in, bad. Sugar still in, increasingly worse. Sugar out all together, completely better.
None of which necessarily has anything to do with cancer. It's just that after the chemo, when I could suddenly eat sugar again to no ill effect, I said, "Hmm! Well, if I ever become reactive again, I'll know to look for cancer."
Dr. Science was puzzled, too. And he said it was a good enough reason for him to order a PET scan, just to check and be sure. He likes for his breast cancer patients to have a scan some point during this second year anyway. But, as of today, there are no markers in the blood work to indicate a problem.
Hoorah!
But I'd like to tell you a little about the last two weeks, after I was certain there was a sugar problem, but before I could learn the results of the test.
These weeks were tense. I did not tell many people about my concern because, well. . . I just didn't want to give the flame of concern more oxygen than it had already. On the other hand, an immense pressure came along with them, and telling one person here, one person there was like unhooking the lid of a pressure cooker.
It wasn't anxiety. I guess you have to take my word on that. I was not consumed by worry or thinking the worst of all thoughts. It was more like, "Amy, there's a good chance that you have stage IV cancer now, what does that mean to you?"
I tried to avoid the sad thoughts. I came up with some exceedingly practical ones:
I still have my wigs and hats.
Chemo won't be dreadful this time because I know what to expect.
Speaking of which, I now know that an eye doctor can prescribe a salve that will help with styes.
Though I need to get my hair trimmed up, I won't until I know that I won't be going bald a month from now.
Speaking of which: I bought clippers for Joshua's hair and so won't have to borrow them from my friend this time.
Two weeks of this, people. It's crazy, now that I can look at it and afford to call it crazy.
I'll tell you what else came of it, though. And this other thing answers my chief question all along, which was, "God, if this isn't cancer again, why are you letting me think that it might be?"
Because God's guidance to me as I prayed and worshipped over the last 2 weeks was not a rebuke as in, "Amy, we've been through this before, right before your port removal and I answered you then and now you are choosing not to believe Me."
His guidance was not a simple, "You're fine. No cancer."
His guidance, instead, was this:
"I am sovereign over all the world and I'm sovereign over you. If this is a sacrifice I'm asking you to make, won't you make it?"
and
"There is no circumstance I would permit in your life that I will not use for My glory. Do you want the chief purpose of your life to be My glory?"
and
"So what if it is stage IV cancer, Amy. Do you believe I am working out a purpose in your life? Then stage IV cancer is part of that purpose. Part of My glory. Part of the best version of yourself that only I can bring you to. Which version of yourself do you want? Yours or Mine?"
Given all this guidance, can I be blamed for expecting Dr. Science to tell me he was very concerned about my blood work?
But, as I've said, the cancer is not back.
So why did God permit this two weeks of concern and give this two weeks worth of guidance? I believe it was to have that conversation with me about where my committments lie, about why I am alive in this body at this time, in this place. I believe that in this conversation, God declared an end to our season of celebration and rest and the beginning of the next season of growing to become more and more like His Son.
The details of this are hard to share. I just tried to write about them and had to delete the paragraphs because they just don't belong on this blog at this moment. Suffice it to say that God is showing both me and Bryan what we need to do next and it's dramatic enough that we're a little scared about it. Not cancer-scared. But: this-is-going-to-change-everything-scared.
To sum up, then. . . No cancer ahead. There's something far more exciting instead.
Why the "Phew!"? I'll tell you: by the 3rd week of September, I had become reactive to sugar again. I tested it a little: sugar out of my system, better. Sugar back in, bad. Sugar still in, increasingly worse. Sugar out all together, completely better.
None of which necessarily has anything to do with cancer. It's just that after the chemo, when I could suddenly eat sugar again to no ill effect, I said, "Hmm! Well, if I ever become reactive again, I'll know to look for cancer."
Dr. Science was puzzled, too. And he said it was a good enough reason for him to order a PET scan, just to check and be sure. He likes for his breast cancer patients to have a scan some point during this second year anyway. But, as of today, there are no markers in the blood work to indicate a problem.
Hoorah!
But I'd like to tell you a little about the last two weeks, after I was certain there was a sugar problem, but before I could learn the results of the test.
These weeks were tense. I did not tell many people about my concern because, well. . . I just didn't want to give the flame of concern more oxygen than it had already. On the other hand, an immense pressure came along with them, and telling one person here, one person there was like unhooking the lid of a pressure cooker.
It wasn't anxiety. I guess you have to take my word on that. I was not consumed by worry or thinking the worst of all thoughts. It was more like, "Amy, there's a good chance that you have stage IV cancer now, what does that mean to you?"
I tried to avoid the sad thoughts. I came up with some exceedingly practical ones:
I still have my wigs and hats.
Chemo won't be dreadful this time because I know what to expect.
Speaking of which, I now know that an eye doctor can prescribe a salve that will help with styes.
Though I need to get my hair trimmed up, I won't until I know that I won't be going bald a month from now.
Speaking of which: I bought clippers for Joshua's hair and so won't have to borrow them from my friend this time.
Two weeks of this, people. It's crazy, now that I can look at it and afford to call it crazy.
I'll tell you what else came of it, though. And this other thing answers my chief question all along, which was, "God, if this isn't cancer again, why are you letting me think that it might be?"
Because God's guidance to me as I prayed and worshipped over the last 2 weeks was not a rebuke as in, "Amy, we've been through this before, right before your port removal and I answered you then and now you are choosing not to believe Me."
His guidance was not a simple, "You're fine. No cancer."
His guidance, instead, was this:
"I am sovereign over all the world and I'm sovereign over you. If this is a sacrifice I'm asking you to make, won't you make it?"
and
"There is no circumstance I would permit in your life that I will not use for My glory. Do you want the chief purpose of your life to be My glory?"
and
"So what if it is stage IV cancer, Amy. Do you believe I am working out a purpose in your life? Then stage IV cancer is part of that purpose. Part of My glory. Part of the best version of yourself that only I can bring you to. Which version of yourself do you want? Yours or Mine?"
Given all this guidance, can I be blamed for expecting Dr. Science to tell me he was very concerned about my blood work?
But, as I've said, the cancer is not back.
So why did God permit this two weeks of concern and give this two weeks worth of guidance? I believe it was to have that conversation with me about where my committments lie, about why I am alive in this body at this time, in this place. I believe that in this conversation, God declared an end to our season of celebration and rest and the beginning of the next season of growing to become more and more like His Son.
The details of this are hard to share. I just tried to write about them and had to delete the paragraphs because they just don't belong on this blog at this moment. Suffice it to say that God is showing both me and Bryan what we need to do next and it's dramatic enough that we're a little scared about it. Not cancer-scared. But: this-is-going-to-change-everything-scared.
To sum up, then. . . No cancer ahead. There's something far more exciting instead.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
That Time of Year
Halloween. Again.
I have resolved to stop fighting Colorado Springs on the issue of their trick-or-treating madness. That is, instead of kids going out while the sun is shining, kids wait until nightfall when it is a LOT colder than it had been just 3 hours earlier.
By "stop fighting," I mean that I made no attempt to make costumes for the kids. No attempt to mold an idea they may have had with my own ingenuity to create something both original and suitable for the temperature. I said, simply, "Kids, today we're going to the Good Will to find your costumes!"
And there we found them. Both warm. Both cute (enough). Both pleasing to Gemma and Joshua. When they put them on tonight, the fate of Ponce Halloween will be sealed: This holiday is not about the creativity after all. It's about the candy.
It looks to be a warm (enough) night, though. Probably in the low 50's. Our cul-de-sac will get together around our fire pit and hand out our candy from our lawn chairs there. As a new addition to our autumn celebration, we'll also serve hot apple cider to the parents passing by as well as ginger snaps, cheese ball with crackers and caramel apple slices. I'm actually looking forward to the whole thing!
This is all for now. Tomorrow is the other "that time of year." Time for a check-up (check-in?) with Dr. Markus. I left my blood at the lab early in the week.
(To their great puzzlement:
"Where is your port?"
"I had it removed in July. I called ahead of time to tell you this would be an arm draw. . ." Long pause. "Why would you get it removed?" Long pause on my part. . .
"Because I'm done with treatment...?..." Another long pause.
"So, putting it in is easier than keeping it in?"
Now, genuine confusion on my part. Why would I have kept it? Doesn't she know that you have to flush your port every 3 to 4 weeks if you're not actually using it?)
They will scan it, looking for certain markers that will indicate the presence of--or lack of--cancer in a body. This is the appointment where Dr. Science would say, "You are in remission."
I'll write before going to sleep on Monday with a full report. I'm sure you all miss hearing about him. I know I miss seeing him. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.
I have resolved to stop fighting Colorado Springs on the issue of their trick-or-treating madness. That is, instead of kids going out while the sun is shining, kids wait until nightfall when it is a LOT colder than it had been just 3 hours earlier.
By "stop fighting," I mean that I made no attempt to make costumes for the kids. No attempt to mold an idea they may have had with my own ingenuity to create something both original and suitable for the temperature. I said, simply, "Kids, today we're going to the Good Will to find your costumes!"
And there we found them. Both warm. Both cute (enough). Both pleasing to Gemma and Joshua. When they put them on tonight, the fate of Ponce Halloween will be sealed: This holiday is not about the creativity after all. It's about the candy.
It looks to be a warm (enough) night, though. Probably in the low 50's. Our cul-de-sac will get together around our fire pit and hand out our candy from our lawn chairs there. As a new addition to our autumn celebration, we'll also serve hot apple cider to the parents passing by as well as ginger snaps, cheese ball with crackers and caramel apple slices. I'm actually looking forward to the whole thing!
This is all for now. Tomorrow is the other "that time of year." Time for a check-up (check-in?) with Dr. Markus. I left my blood at the lab early in the week.
(To their great puzzlement:
"Where is your port?"
"I had it removed in July. I called ahead of time to tell you this would be an arm draw. . ." Long pause. "Why would you get it removed?" Long pause on my part. . .
"Because I'm done with treatment...?..." Another long pause.
"So, putting it in is easier than keeping it in?"
Now, genuine confusion on my part. Why would I have kept it? Doesn't she know that you have to flush your port every 3 to 4 weeks if you're not actually using it?)
They will scan it, looking for certain markers that will indicate the presence of--or lack of--cancer in a body. This is the appointment where Dr. Science would say, "You are in remission."
I'll write before going to sleep on Monday with a full report. I'm sure you all miss hearing about him. I know I miss seeing him. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Chicago and My Ever After
I’ve gone there and back since I last wrote. The days before departure were hectic with preparations. The days after returning were muddled with playing catch-up. All the while, I thought, “I should have done my homework ahead of time and had posts scheduled to go up on Sundays.”
But almost everything that starts with “should” is something I don’t want to do. This is the problem with e-mail and blogs and, if I were ever to take the plunge, facebook: I like them when I want to use them. When I don’t, they hover on the horizon each day as something I “should” do.
Bah!
***
It is October again. No longer do we need the trees or pumpkins or vests applique’d with scarecrows to tip us off. Ditch the calendar. We have pink.
You all know my feelings on this. As I become farther removed from treatment, I’m getting more critical. And noticing how pink exercises a certain tyranny. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t had breast cancer is allowed to be critical of it. What kind of jerk would say, “I think we’re aware enough, don’t you? What are they spending those pink portions of profit on, anyway?”
But I think some people are with me on this. I was at the egg case in the commissary. I picked out a dozen and a half box, noted that a portion of the profit Egglands Best would make on that box with “go to fight breast cancer,” and then opened the lid to check them for cracks.
Staring back at me were 18 Susan G. Komen running ribbons. Every egg had been stamped.
I remarked to a guy standing next to me, “This ribbon is everywhere!”
He shrugged and rolled his eyes. A daring display on his part.
***
As I wrapped up that shopping trip, I asked myself what about the pink ribbons bothered me so much more than last year. I realized that seeing them infringed upon my sense of closure. Kind of like: Will I ever be done with this?
I wrote the story of breast cancer. I am still writing it in that I sense the memoir should not end with the last surgery, or the last treatment, or with Dr. Science telling me that the scan has come back clean. (A scan I will take in about 3 weeks.) Bryan and I are forever changed by our experience with this disease. I think a few pictures of that change belong in the story.
But when will it end? When will I stop thinking, “And now, ladies and gentlemen: the rest of my life!”
It seems cerebral as I write it here, but as I loaded Bryan’s yogurts into my cart (each of which had a pink ribbon. . .) I was nearly crying.
A couple paces down, I turned from the shredded cheese to see a tall man coming towards me with a Creighton shirt on. I caught his eye and said, “Go Bluejays!”
And then realized who he was: one of the ICU nurses at Evans who tended to me following that first surgery. I asked him if he was a nurse there, then reminded him who I was.
He said, “Oh that’s right. . . but you didn’t really need to be in the ICU.”
Right, I recalled. It was a precaution because my surgeon thought he might have dropped my lung. The nurse chuckled at this.
(I think medical professionals like to hear about mistakes surgeons make so long as they don’t hurt anyone. Surgeons are the confident-jocks-big-men-and-women-on-campus. There is a certain rejoicing among the others when they biff it. I don’t think I ever remarked on that last year when I observed it.)
I caught up quickly with this nurse—done with treatment, feeling good and so forth. His wife came up the aisle towards him, and instead of making him tread the HIPPA line, I said, “Thanks again,” and rolled on.
Seeing the nurse who had stripped my drainage tubes in the middle of the night while I’m grocery shopping? Geez. Either I’ll need to manufacture or decide on my own ending to this story, or it will never end.
***
Travel with the kids to Chicago was great. They each had their own airplane TV to watch. That kind of cartoon access was a Top 10 highlight for them.
***
We got to enjoy a lot of time with my family. I saw all of my sisters (except #1, who was travelling—but, bonus!—this meant my parents were already slated to housesit for them and take care of the cats. And that home happens to be in downtown Chicago. More later on city adventures).
I soaked up one of parenthood’s unexpected pleasures: seeing my kids play with their cousins. And what a terrific herd of children those cousins are together. No one sour in the bunch. All of them for each other. I just loved it.
***
Speaking of children, we spent a day with my friend, Sarah (a.k.a. SEL) and her two children. Another delight. We walked up to Visitation, our alma mader, where we met in 6th grade, to pick up her son, Luke, from kindergarten.
We arrived to find a line of cones in the parking lot with a crowd of mothers and strollers standing behind it, waiting for the classes to get out.
Sarah and I and the kids, however, were standing in front of the cones, in no particular order.
“Are we in the right place?” I kept asking Sarah. Yes, sure, she repeated.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling: at any moment, a nun is going to pop out and tell me that I am wrong. About something.
***
We rounded out our day together at a park. The kids played hard. Sarah and I remarked that here we were, 20+ years down the road: The Mommies at the Playground.
***
We spent 5 days downtown. Sister #1 has two cats, one of which didn’t want much to do with us, the other, Sammie, was very social.
Joshua was dazzled at how Sammie could jump up to the top of a thin wall divider, by how he stalked his little cat toy, by how he purred.
Gemma couldn’t have cared. Surprising, really, because she’s a nurturing kind of girl.
After 5 days with this cat, I wanted one myself, for one reason: Every time I looked at him, how he moved, how his fur was striped, how his little white chin jutted out, I found myself marveling at his Creator. Seriously. I looked at Sammie and then thought, “God is amazing. Creating a work like this would be a lifetime achievement for me. Yet, he’s just one of a billion miracles of God.”
By the time we got home, I had decided I don’t want to deal with cat hair.
***
Each day, we went on a little adventure with my mom, got home in mid-afternoon, rested a bit, then played at the park down the street before dinner and bedtime.
We went to Navy Pier on Monday. Saw many people wearing their Chicago Marathon Finisher shirts from the day before. They were all walking funny.
One guy, not as much. I remarked, “Looks like you’re walking OK!” He shook his head and said, “Downhill is murder.”
On Tuesday, the Art Institute. The key to enjoying a place like that with kids is going in with no expectations of them. They loved the Thorne miniature rooms. They liked seeing the Serraut in person. They were underwhelmed by the Rembrants. (“But, kids! Those are the actual paintings we have only before seen in books!”)
On Wednesday, we took the train out to Naperville to meet Sister #4 and her 3 kids and went to the DuPage County Children’s Museum. Very well-executed place. Plus, we rode on the upper deck of a double-decker commuter train, which G and J had not even known existed.
On Thursday, we strolled on Michigan avenue and did a bit of shopping, most notably at the Lego store. Who knew Legos could build so much?
On Friday: home. Another great trip. Colorado Springs smelled really good.
***
What’s that? The reason we went? Right. Friday Night Fun for Funding.
Sarah, who did all the organizing, and I didn’t say up front what we were hoping for. I guess at least 100 guests. At $20 a piece, I guess: $2000. I don’t know. . .
What happened? A crowd of about 100. Plus several on-line donations from people who couldn’t make it. All told: $6700. Wow. I mean—wow. What generosity! And, I think, goes to show how far and deep cancer touches.
Why a night like that? I guess. . .after our big ParTAY, our grand celebration of looking forward after a hard season, it just didn’t feel right to move along as though I had no obligation to people who came before me. God used a state of the art medicine to heal me, and that medicine would not have been developed if other people hadn’t paid a foundation to pay a scientist to do the work.
In a most basic sense, I wanted to both pay something back and, when I think of people I love being diagnosed at some point in the future, pay something forward.
And I’m so thankful to have a friend like Sarah who would help me discharge this responsibility, and a family and community that was so glad to jump in.
One more happy chapter in a story that goes on.
But almost everything that starts with “should” is something I don’t want to do. This is the problem with e-mail and blogs and, if I were ever to take the plunge, facebook: I like them when I want to use them. When I don’t, they hover on the horizon each day as something I “should” do.
Bah!
***
It is October again. No longer do we need the trees or pumpkins or vests applique’d with scarecrows to tip us off. Ditch the calendar. We have pink.
You all know my feelings on this. As I become farther removed from treatment, I’m getting more critical. And noticing how pink exercises a certain tyranny. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t had breast cancer is allowed to be critical of it. What kind of jerk would say, “I think we’re aware enough, don’t you? What are they spending those pink portions of profit on, anyway?”
But I think some people are with me on this. I was at the egg case in the commissary. I picked out a dozen and a half box, noted that a portion of the profit Egglands Best would make on that box with “go to fight breast cancer,” and then opened the lid to check them for cracks.
Staring back at me were 18 Susan G. Komen running ribbons. Every egg had been stamped.
I remarked to a guy standing next to me, “This ribbon is everywhere!”
He shrugged and rolled his eyes. A daring display on his part.
***
As I wrapped up that shopping trip, I asked myself what about the pink ribbons bothered me so much more than last year. I realized that seeing them infringed upon my sense of closure. Kind of like: Will I ever be done with this?
I wrote the story of breast cancer. I am still writing it in that I sense the memoir should not end with the last surgery, or the last treatment, or with Dr. Science telling me that the scan has come back clean. (A scan I will take in about 3 weeks.) Bryan and I are forever changed by our experience with this disease. I think a few pictures of that change belong in the story.
But when will it end? When will I stop thinking, “And now, ladies and gentlemen: the rest of my life!”
It seems cerebral as I write it here, but as I loaded Bryan’s yogurts into my cart (each of which had a pink ribbon. . .) I was nearly crying.
A couple paces down, I turned from the shredded cheese to see a tall man coming towards me with a Creighton shirt on. I caught his eye and said, “Go Bluejays!”
And then realized who he was: one of the ICU nurses at Evans who tended to me following that first surgery. I asked him if he was a nurse there, then reminded him who I was.
He said, “Oh that’s right. . . but you didn’t really need to be in the ICU.”
Right, I recalled. It was a precaution because my surgeon thought he might have dropped my lung. The nurse chuckled at this.
(I think medical professionals like to hear about mistakes surgeons make so long as they don’t hurt anyone. Surgeons are the confident-jocks-big-men-and-women-on-campus. There is a certain rejoicing among the others when they biff it. I don’t think I ever remarked on that last year when I observed it.)
I caught up quickly with this nurse—done with treatment, feeling good and so forth. His wife came up the aisle towards him, and instead of making him tread the HIPPA line, I said, “Thanks again,” and rolled on.
Seeing the nurse who had stripped my drainage tubes in the middle of the night while I’m grocery shopping? Geez. Either I’ll need to manufacture or decide on my own ending to this story, or it will never end.
***
Travel with the kids to Chicago was great. They each had their own airplane TV to watch. That kind of cartoon access was a Top 10 highlight for them.
***
We got to enjoy a lot of time with my family. I saw all of my sisters (except #1, who was travelling—but, bonus!—this meant my parents were already slated to housesit for them and take care of the cats. And that home happens to be in downtown Chicago. More later on city adventures).
I soaked up one of parenthood’s unexpected pleasures: seeing my kids play with their cousins. And what a terrific herd of children those cousins are together. No one sour in the bunch. All of them for each other. I just loved it.
***
Speaking of children, we spent a day with my friend, Sarah (a.k.a. SEL) and her two children. Another delight. We walked up to Visitation, our alma mader, where we met in 6th grade, to pick up her son, Luke, from kindergarten.
We arrived to find a line of cones in the parking lot with a crowd of mothers and strollers standing behind it, waiting for the classes to get out.
Sarah and I and the kids, however, were standing in front of the cones, in no particular order.
“Are we in the right place?” I kept asking Sarah. Yes, sure, she repeated.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling: at any moment, a nun is going to pop out and tell me that I am wrong. About something.
***
We rounded out our day together at a park. The kids played hard. Sarah and I remarked that here we were, 20+ years down the road: The Mommies at the Playground.
***
We spent 5 days downtown. Sister #1 has two cats, one of which didn’t want much to do with us, the other, Sammie, was very social.
Joshua was dazzled at how Sammie could jump up to the top of a thin wall divider, by how he stalked his little cat toy, by how he purred.
Gemma couldn’t have cared. Surprising, really, because she’s a nurturing kind of girl.
After 5 days with this cat, I wanted one myself, for one reason: Every time I looked at him, how he moved, how his fur was striped, how his little white chin jutted out, I found myself marveling at his Creator. Seriously. I looked at Sammie and then thought, “God is amazing. Creating a work like this would be a lifetime achievement for me. Yet, he’s just one of a billion miracles of God.”
By the time we got home, I had decided I don’t want to deal with cat hair.
***
Each day, we went on a little adventure with my mom, got home in mid-afternoon, rested a bit, then played at the park down the street before dinner and bedtime.
We went to Navy Pier on Monday. Saw many people wearing their Chicago Marathon Finisher shirts from the day before. They were all walking funny.
One guy, not as much. I remarked, “Looks like you’re walking OK!” He shook his head and said, “Downhill is murder.”
On Tuesday, the Art Institute. The key to enjoying a place like that with kids is going in with no expectations of them. They loved the Thorne miniature rooms. They liked seeing the Serraut in person. They were underwhelmed by the Rembrants. (“But, kids! Those are the actual paintings we have only before seen in books!”)
On Wednesday, we took the train out to Naperville to meet Sister #4 and her 3 kids and went to the DuPage County Children’s Museum. Very well-executed place. Plus, we rode on the upper deck of a double-decker commuter train, which G and J had not even known existed.
On Thursday, we strolled on Michigan avenue and did a bit of shopping, most notably at the Lego store. Who knew Legos could build so much?
On Friday: home. Another great trip. Colorado Springs smelled really good.
***
What’s that? The reason we went? Right. Friday Night Fun for Funding.
Sarah, who did all the organizing, and I didn’t say up front what we were hoping for. I guess at least 100 guests. At $20 a piece, I guess: $2000. I don’t know. . .
What happened? A crowd of about 100. Plus several on-line donations from people who couldn’t make it. All told: $6700. Wow. I mean—wow. What generosity! And, I think, goes to show how far and deep cancer touches.
Why a night like that? I guess. . .after our big ParTAY, our grand celebration of looking forward after a hard season, it just didn’t feel right to move along as though I had no obligation to people who came before me. God used a state of the art medicine to heal me, and that medicine would not have been developed if other people hadn’t paid a foundation to pay a scientist to do the work.
In a most basic sense, I wanted to both pay something back and, when I think of people I love being diagnosed at some point in the future, pay something forward.
And I’m so thankful to have a friend like Sarah who would help me discharge this responsibility, and a family and community that was so glad to jump in.
One more happy chapter in a story that goes on.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Port Removal
I wonder now why I didn't write about my port removal procedure.
Yeah, it was a busy summer. Yeah, we were at Grand Lake the weekend after it came out, so there were other things to share. But I think now that I just felt so done with medical appointments that I figured anyone who has been reading along surely also felt done with them, too.
But some funny things happened. It'd be a shame to forget them. . .
We travel back to mid-July. I knew already that Mayfield would not be there to cross the finish line with us because the Army--in its persistent crusade to make its best people hate their employer--had moved up Mayfield's deployment date from September to late May. With less than a week's notice. (Which means he and his wife had to cancel their vacation to Germany, too!)
No one's asking for violins, here. I'm telling you that in order to tell you this: In the midst of last-minute preparations and the intense pressure couples endure before saying goodbye for un-natural lengths of time, Mayfield both faxed in paperwork to assure my continuity of care when our insurance switched from active duty to retired coverage AND he spoke with the surgeon at the hospital he recommended to remove my port.
So. One last round of applause for my awesome surgeon.
The guy he recommended got the nod for one single reason: I wanted to keep my port. Patients are not allowed, by regulation, to keep their ports. But Dr. Golden (that's a code name) has selected 06, and Colonels are kind of. . . not messed with in hospitals. Colonels have already passed 20 years, and so they are "working for half-pay" and generally could be earning much more outside the military.
They don't get fired for letting patients keep ports.
I went to my appointment with Dr. Golden on a Tuesday afternoon with the expectation that I could get on his schedule in 2 to 3 weeks. (That was the time when I felt a painful lump and was assured it was scar tissue and not returning cancer.)
Dr. Golden is a quiet, little man. Friendly enough. Not cold. Not super warm. Very clinical. As I sat there answering his standard questions, I thought, "Thank You, God, that I did not have to experience this past year with this surgeon."
Dr. Golden was quiet for several seconds, after the last answer. Then he said, "Are you free tomorrow?" At which the Golden-o-meter shot up about 17 points. Tell me what time to be here. . .
Bryan drove me down and stayed with the kids in the waiting room. On the way to the office, I ran into a woman in the corridor who was leaving pediatrics. I stopped and said, "I know you. . ." It was Su, a friend from Korea I had known 5 years earlier. Her husband is now stationed in the Springs.
Well. It had been 5 years. We hadn't been close--just knew each other from a Bible study on Post. How much do you say in a 2 minute conversation? On one hand, there was the question of "What are you doing in a hospital?" On the other hand, wasn't the fact that I had breast cancer now just another piece of my history? No longer 'What is going on with you?' and how often do we need to tell each other 'What was going on'?
Still. Good to see her. And what were the chances?. . .
Once I checked in, I was taken to a room across the hall from the offices and exam rooms I'd been sitting in all year and this procedure room didn't look too different. Better lighting, of course. More stuff. A crash cart. . .
The nurse assisting was a man. Some middle-aged guy. Very sociable. Told me a funny story about Mayfield.
[What's that? You want to hear it? Well. . . So Mayfield was doing some kind of stitching and he left the thread on the body. The nurse's words: "And I asked him the wrong way--because what I meant was, 'Which procedure are you going to use at this point because there's 2 different ways to do it?' But what I said was, 'Are you going to leave that there?' And he turned to me and said, totally stone-faced, 'I've done these before. . .'"
Heh heh. That is not a Mayfield story. That is a surgeon story. These people have to be like this. How else are they going to cut human bodies open and muck around with their insides?]
The nurse turned on a soft-pop music station and assured me that most patients found this palatable. I said, "Hey--whatever Dr. Golden wants to listen to!"
Which prompted the nurse to tell a Dr. Golden story.
[What's that? OK, OK. . .]
Following a 4 hour surgery, this nurse witnessed the surgical team exit the OR with eyes rolling and great exhaustion in their step. "That took forever," they complained.
4 hours? That's nothing!
"No, no, no," they explained. "Dr. Golden had one CD going the entire time: the Oklahoma! soundtrack. The entire time!"
I badly wanted to talk about Oklahoma! with Dr. Golden during the procedure because I payed the part of Aunt Eller at the pinnacle of my theater career. But I didn't want to get the nurse into trouble with the doctor, and how else would I know to bring it up if the nurse hadn't been gossipping?
Here's something interesting about that afternoon. I was unclothed, of course, from the waist up as I lay awake on the table. With two men in the room. And I didn't feel an ounce of self-consciousness.
The nurse sat to my right. The port was in my left. Dr. Golden flipped open the surgical fabrics to isolate the work area and then he settled them on me. He examined the scar from the the port installation and after some time, commented, "You have some abrasion here."
I popped my head up to look, the fabric was in the way, so I pressed it down to better see, whence he said, "Don't touch that."
Too late, of course.
He had to re-dress the area with a new set of sterile fabrics. I could not help but comment, after apologizing, "You know, when you opened the first set, I saw particles of dust puff off of them in the light. So, really, how sterile could this fabric be?"
He said, simply, "Those were sterile particles of dust."
I do not know if he was joking. . .
But none of this stopped me from chatting with him throughout. Why does he stay in the Army? Because he likes taking care of soldiers. And their families. Somehow we got to talking about pets and he does not have cats, but his wife does and he lives with them. And where he was from. And where we went to school. And on with all kinds of other chit chat.
Which was interrupted by his statement to the nurse, "I'm going to need a BOVIE." The nurse hopped up, got something out, told me it wouldn't hurt, but to be aware that it would be very cold, so don't sit up from the shock.
Then he slapped a very cold adhesive patch to my right chest wall and plugged me in. "You might see smoke," the nurse said, "Don't worry."
"Smoke?" I asked. Silence.
"Are you plugging that end in?" I asked.
"Just grounding you," he said.
Oh. OK. Right.
Wait. Grounding me????
Then I heard sizzlin' and poppin'. And I forced myself to stop thinking about it. I learned later what I suspected, and why the nurse had not done much to explain what a BOVIE is.
It's a cauterizing tool.
You can google that if you want to. I have easy-queasy sisters to think about here.
I could have done the whole thing as an out-patient, you know, with the use of a knock-me-out drug. But as much as I love a good ether story, I didn't want to have to go through a 2 hour check-in appointment on one day and then show up for an early report time for the actual procedure. I wanted convenience.
And I wanted to know what it's like to be awake while someone cuts your skin open and digs a hunk of titanium out of it.
Answer: Not as horrifying as you'd expect.
I couldn't see anything. I felt several pin pricks when he injected the local anesthesia and then had no way to know when or what he was slicing. The messing around he did in there sounded a little like. . . a dog chewing chicken. There was definitely the sound of sinew disturbed. And the BOVIE, well, that made sounds, too.
At one point, Dr. Golden remarked that it should be out, but wasn't coming out. Then I felt--and reported--a sharp pulling from the inside at the farthest right point of where I imagined the port sat.
Aha. Another stitch.
Moments later, it was out--which I didn't feel at all--and moments after that, I was stitched shut. Moments after that, it was thank you and good-bye, Dr. Golden. I haven't seen him since.
The nurse flushed the port out for me. It's purple. Kind of iridescent. Heavy. Shaped like a rounded triangle, almost like a heart. I keep it on my bathroom counter with the ambition of having a jeweler turn it into a key chain. For now, I like seeing it every morning, there, on the counter, unused.
I put it into a little bag and walked back into the waiting room. The kids had no idea what a big moment it was. For Bryan and me, it was the kind of moment you couldn't say anything about. He just hugged me.
Then Josh started crying over not being allowed to finish watching the cartoon on the waiting room screen and Gemma wanted to know what was in the bag. And the moment was over as the rest of our life beckoned us.
Yeah, it was a busy summer. Yeah, we were at Grand Lake the weekend after it came out, so there were other things to share. But I think now that I just felt so done with medical appointments that I figured anyone who has been reading along surely also felt done with them, too.
But some funny things happened. It'd be a shame to forget them. . .
We travel back to mid-July. I knew already that Mayfield would not be there to cross the finish line with us because the Army--in its persistent crusade to make its best people hate their employer--had moved up Mayfield's deployment date from September to late May. With less than a week's notice. (Which means he and his wife had to cancel their vacation to Germany, too!)
No one's asking for violins, here. I'm telling you that in order to tell you this: In the midst of last-minute preparations and the intense pressure couples endure before saying goodbye for un-natural lengths of time, Mayfield both faxed in paperwork to assure my continuity of care when our insurance switched from active duty to retired coverage AND he spoke with the surgeon at the hospital he recommended to remove my port.
So. One last round of applause for my awesome surgeon.
The guy he recommended got the nod for one single reason: I wanted to keep my port. Patients are not allowed, by regulation, to keep their ports. But Dr. Golden (that's a code name) has selected 06, and Colonels are kind of. . . not messed with in hospitals. Colonels have already passed 20 years, and so they are "working for half-pay" and generally could be earning much more outside the military.
They don't get fired for letting patients keep ports.
I went to my appointment with Dr. Golden on a Tuesday afternoon with the expectation that I could get on his schedule in 2 to 3 weeks. (That was the time when I felt a painful lump and was assured it was scar tissue and not returning cancer.)
Dr. Golden is a quiet, little man. Friendly enough. Not cold. Not super warm. Very clinical. As I sat there answering his standard questions, I thought, "Thank You, God, that I did not have to experience this past year with this surgeon."
Dr. Golden was quiet for several seconds, after the last answer. Then he said, "Are you free tomorrow?" At which the Golden-o-meter shot up about 17 points. Tell me what time to be here. . .
Bryan drove me down and stayed with the kids in the waiting room. On the way to the office, I ran into a woman in the corridor who was leaving pediatrics. I stopped and said, "I know you. . ." It was Su, a friend from Korea I had known 5 years earlier. Her husband is now stationed in the Springs.
Well. It had been 5 years. We hadn't been close--just knew each other from a Bible study on Post. How much do you say in a 2 minute conversation? On one hand, there was the question of "What are you doing in a hospital?" On the other hand, wasn't the fact that I had breast cancer now just another piece of my history? No longer 'What is going on with you?' and how often do we need to tell each other 'What was going on'?
Still. Good to see her. And what were the chances?. . .
Once I checked in, I was taken to a room across the hall from the offices and exam rooms I'd been sitting in all year and this procedure room didn't look too different. Better lighting, of course. More stuff. A crash cart. . .
The nurse assisting was a man. Some middle-aged guy. Very sociable. Told me a funny story about Mayfield.
[What's that? You want to hear it? Well. . . So Mayfield was doing some kind of stitching and he left the thread on the body. The nurse's words: "And I asked him the wrong way--because what I meant was, 'Which procedure are you going to use at this point because there's 2 different ways to do it?' But what I said was, 'Are you going to leave that there?' And he turned to me and said, totally stone-faced, 'I've done these before. . .'"
Heh heh. That is not a Mayfield story. That is a surgeon story. These people have to be like this. How else are they going to cut human bodies open and muck around with their insides?]
The nurse turned on a soft-pop music station and assured me that most patients found this palatable. I said, "Hey--whatever Dr. Golden wants to listen to!"
Which prompted the nurse to tell a Dr. Golden story.
[What's that? OK, OK. . .]
Following a 4 hour surgery, this nurse witnessed the surgical team exit the OR with eyes rolling and great exhaustion in their step. "That took forever," they complained.
4 hours? That's nothing!
"No, no, no," they explained. "Dr. Golden had one CD going the entire time: the Oklahoma! soundtrack. The entire time!"
I badly wanted to talk about Oklahoma! with Dr. Golden during the procedure because I payed the part of Aunt Eller at the pinnacle of my theater career. But I didn't want to get the nurse into trouble with the doctor, and how else would I know to bring it up if the nurse hadn't been gossipping?
Here's something interesting about that afternoon. I was unclothed, of course, from the waist up as I lay awake on the table. With two men in the room. And I didn't feel an ounce of self-consciousness.
The nurse sat to my right. The port was in my left. Dr. Golden flipped open the surgical fabrics to isolate the work area and then he settled them on me. He examined the scar from the the port installation and after some time, commented, "You have some abrasion here."
I popped my head up to look, the fabric was in the way, so I pressed it down to better see, whence he said, "Don't touch that."
Too late, of course.
He had to re-dress the area with a new set of sterile fabrics. I could not help but comment, after apologizing, "You know, when you opened the first set, I saw particles of dust puff off of them in the light. So, really, how sterile could this fabric be?"
He said, simply, "Those were sterile particles of dust."
I do not know if he was joking. . .
But none of this stopped me from chatting with him throughout. Why does he stay in the Army? Because he likes taking care of soldiers. And their families. Somehow we got to talking about pets and he does not have cats, but his wife does and he lives with them. And where he was from. And where we went to school. And on with all kinds of other chit chat.
Which was interrupted by his statement to the nurse, "I'm going to need a BOVIE." The nurse hopped up, got something out, told me it wouldn't hurt, but to be aware that it would be very cold, so don't sit up from the shock.
Then he slapped a very cold adhesive patch to my right chest wall and plugged me in. "You might see smoke," the nurse said, "Don't worry."
"Smoke?" I asked. Silence.
"Are you plugging that end in?" I asked.
"Just grounding you," he said.
Oh. OK. Right.
Wait. Grounding me????
Then I heard sizzlin' and poppin'. And I forced myself to stop thinking about it. I learned later what I suspected, and why the nurse had not done much to explain what a BOVIE is.
It's a cauterizing tool.
You can google that if you want to. I have easy-queasy sisters to think about here.
I could have done the whole thing as an out-patient, you know, with the use of a knock-me-out drug. But as much as I love a good ether story, I didn't want to have to go through a 2 hour check-in appointment on one day and then show up for an early report time for the actual procedure. I wanted convenience.
And I wanted to know what it's like to be awake while someone cuts your skin open and digs a hunk of titanium out of it.
Answer: Not as horrifying as you'd expect.
I couldn't see anything. I felt several pin pricks when he injected the local anesthesia and then had no way to know when or what he was slicing. The messing around he did in there sounded a little like. . . a dog chewing chicken. There was definitely the sound of sinew disturbed. And the BOVIE, well, that made sounds, too.
At one point, Dr. Golden remarked that it should be out, but wasn't coming out. Then I felt--and reported--a sharp pulling from the inside at the farthest right point of where I imagined the port sat.
Aha. Another stitch.
Moments later, it was out--which I didn't feel at all--and moments after that, I was stitched shut. Moments after that, it was thank you and good-bye, Dr. Golden. I haven't seen him since.
The nurse flushed the port out for me. It's purple. Kind of iridescent. Heavy. Shaped like a rounded triangle, almost like a heart. I keep it on my bathroom counter with the ambition of having a jeweler turn it into a key chain. For now, I like seeing it every morning, there, on the counter, unused.
I put it into a little bag and walked back into the waiting room. The kids had no idea what a big moment it was. For Bryan and me, it was the kind of moment you couldn't say anything about. He just hugged me.
Then Josh started crying over not being allowed to finish watching the cartoon on the waiting room screen and Gemma wanted to know what was in the bag. And the moment was over as the rest of our life beckoned us.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Friday Night Fun for Funding!
This idea has been cooking for several months. You can read about the event on my earlier blog. You know. The one that was not about cancer. . .
That is where I have posted for this week as we head into the publicity stage of the process. It's not great timing, actually, as I have a story to tell you about the two policemen who were standing on our porch this morning as neighbors looked on.
Alas. Superhero business comes first.
The other blog: The Big "C"
That is where I have posted for this week as we head into the publicity stage of the process. It's not great timing, actually, as I have a story to tell you about the two policemen who were standing on our porch this morning as neighbors looked on.
Alas. Superhero business comes first.
The other blog: The Big "C"
Sunday, September 19, 2010
B, G and J Day: Part of the Problem
From the bottom up, this time. And with a little "A!" thrown in.
A!: Bryan and I both take the kids to swim lessons at the Peterson AFB indoor pool on T and Th evenings. We lap swim while they do their thing. (And they're both really good for their ages. It's fun to watch them.)
I completed 7 laps on Thursday. That's 14 lengths, which is 350 yards. Of course, I caught my breath after each round trip. Still. This marks my progress. I can actually think about something else while swimming, the strokes are becoming that natural.
Does that sound lame? To have to concentrate so hard on something as simple as a free style swim? Part of the problem for me had been is that I am super-sensitive to water up the nose. Just a tiny bit really hurts. So I started wearing a nose plug and voila! 350 yards!
Did I mention that I was wearing foot-fins during this swim? Hey. If you ain't cheatin', you ain't tryin'.
G and J:
The other day, I made lunch for myself and the kids. That is, I re-heated the pizza we had made the night before and that Gemma had gladly eaten.
This time, she looked at it, grimmaced and asked if she could make herself a PBJ instead. I told her "no." Because that's the kind of mother I am.
Josh and I finished up while Gemma sat at the table, pouting. Not eating.
I had several things to get together before moving on to our next thing, so I left the table and began darting around the house. Gemma snipped at me. I don't even remember what it was.
Josh asked, "Why did Gemma just say that?"
I said, "Because she's cranky."
She whined back, "No I'm not."
Josh said, "I think she's still cranky, Mom."
This made me laugh. And it annoyed Gemma. So he repeated it, "Gemma is cranky." This annoyed her further. I shook my head at him, making that non-verbal Mom-cue that he shouldn't say this. Then I went on with my tasks.
I headed down the stairs and heard him say, "I think Gemma's still cranky."
Gemma: "No, I'm not!"
Josh: "See? Still cranky!"
Gemma: "Josh!"
Josh: "See? Still cranky!"
Gemma: "Josh!!"
Josh: "See? Still cranky!"
Then two seconds of silence. Then the sound of Joshua wailing. By which time I was headed back up the stairs with my last item.
"Gemma pinched me!!" he reported.
Gemma's lips were closed tightly. I know my daughter's looks. She regretted hurting him.
I said, "That's what you get when you choose to annoy people on purpose." This made him scowl. It also made Gemma nod in vindication.
I told her, "We don't hurt people on purpose, even when they deserve it." And this satisfied Josh, too.
Then I looked at them both and sighed. "You two are both part of the problem." But they'll read this one day and see that their worst problems with each other are just another version of their delight.
B:
On Monday, Bryan began work as a Government Servant. He's still doing his same job at the same desk with the same e-mail and same co-workers. Through May, it was the US Navy that wrote out his paycheck. In June, July, August and part of September, it was a government contracting firm. And now it's the US government proper.
Timely, too. Secretary Gates just announced a 100% hiring freeze on all government servants in the military effective Thursday. So. . .is three days too long to be considered "the nick of time"?
How does this fit into today's theme?
Are you kidding me? Bryan's a government servant! This kind of makes him part of the problem. . .
A!: Bryan and I both take the kids to swim lessons at the Peterson AFB indoor pool on T and Th evenings. We lap swim while they do their thing. (And they're both really good for their ages. It's fun to watch them.)
I completed 7 laps on Thursday. That's 14 lengths, which is 350 yards. Of course, I caught my breath after each round trip. Still. This marks my progress. I can actually think about something else while swimming, the strokes are becoming that natural.
Does that sound lame? To have to concentrate so hard on something as simple as a free style swim? Part of the problem for me had been is that I am super-sensitive to water up the nose. Just a tiny bit really hurts. So I started wearing a nose plug and voila! 350 yards!
Did I mention that I was wearing foot-fins during this swim? Hey. If you ain't cheatin', you ain't tryin'.
G and J:
The other day, I made lunch for myself and the kids. That is, I re-heated the pizza we had made the night before and that Gemma had gladly eaten.
This time, she looked at it, grimmaced and asked if she could make herself a PBJ instead. I told her "no." Because that's the kind of mother I am.
Josh and I finished up while Gemma sat at the table, pouting. Not eating.
I had several things to get together before moving on to our next thing, so I left the table and began darting around the house. Gemma snipped at me. I don't even remember what it was.
Josh asked, "Why did Gemma just say that?"
I said, "Because she's cranky."
She whined back, "No I'm not."
Josh said, "I think she's still cranky, Mom."
This made me laugh. And it annoyed Gemma. So he repeated it, "Gemma is cranky." This annoyed her further. I shook my head at him, making that non-verbal Mom-cue that he shouldn't say this. Then I went on with my tasks.
I headed down the stairs and heard him say, "I think Gemma's still cranky."
Gemma: "No, I'm not!"
Josh: "See? Still cranky!"
Gemma: "Josh!"
Josh: "See? Still cranky!"
Gemma: "Josh!!"
Josh: "See? Still cranky!"
Then two seconds of silence. Then the sound of Joshua wailing. By which time I was headed back up the stairs with my last item.
"Gemma pinched me!!" he reported.
Gemma's lips were closed tightly. I know my daughter's looks. She regretted hurting him.
I said, "That's what you get when you choose to annoy people on purpose." This made him scowl. It also made Gemma nod in vindication.
I told her, "We don't hurt people on purpose, even when they deserve it." And this satisfied Josh, too.
Then I looked at them both and sighed. "You two are both part of the problem." But they'll read this one day and see that their worst problems with each other are just another version of their delight.
B:
On Monday, Bryan began work as a Government Servant. He's still doing his same job at the same desk with the same e-mail and same co-workers. Through May, it was the US Navy that wrote out his paycheck. In June, July, August and part of September, it was a government contracting firm. And now it's the US government proper.
Timely, too. Secretary Gates just announced a 100% hiring freeze on all government servants in the military effective Thursday. So. . .is three days too long to be considered "the nick of time"?
How does this fit into today's theme?
Are you kidding me? Bryan's a government servant! This kind of makes him part of the problem. . .
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
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:
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.
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?"
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.
Monday, August 9, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
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.
(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.
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