Reflecting on the "F" Word

It's been a particularly emotional couple of weeks for me and that's saying something given that I'm always emotional. I think it's fair to say the "F" word was the source of my emotion overload. Yes, family has a way of affecting us like nothing else can. It can bring out the best in us and the worst. It can be a source of great joy and utter misery. We may relish the laughter of shared memories, and at the same time struggle with the disappointment of unmet expectations. We can take comfort in the power of forgiveness, or live with the bitterness of unresolved issues. Family is a big bundle of crazy that we can't imagine (though sometimes we wish we were) living without.

My family has tapped into my every emotion in the past two weeks. It started with Rob and Ian traveling to Mexico City on a week long church mission trip. I was concerned for their safety, proud of their willingness to serve, and a bit envious that the two of them were spending that special time together. I also was lonely. With communications limited to three brief text messages, for the first time in my marriage I acutely felt Rob's absence.
I discovered I missed my husband. While it sounds terrible, I confess that I'm not someone who pines for my spouse when we're apart. With phone calls and email and Facebook updates, it's hard to feel truly separated. But when Rob wasn't here and I couldn't call him and didn't know how he and Ian were, and there was no opportunity to share and take comfort in the mere the presence of the person with whom I share my life, my heart hurt. I was reminded of how much I love him and how blessed I am. Missing him was good for me.

Two days after Ian and Rob returned home, I left for three days, thereby maintaining the warm fuzzies that came from missing them. I headed to the mecca of Waretown, NJ along Barnegat Bay for a getaway with my parents and sister, brother-in-law and nephew who were home from Colorado for their semiannual visit. Time with my sister Dawn was spent laughing at painful memories of falling off my bike, competing in plank challenges (which I won both times), swatting green head flies on the boat while crabbing, and playing numerous games of Bananagrams (of which I am the champion). Unfortunately, on the first night of our visit, my mom learned that her sister Janet had died, nearly two years to the day that her sister Glenna passed away. My mom was one of five girls in her family. There are only two of them left, and this causes my mom considerable grief and pain.

When Irving Berlin wrote "Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters" he clearly had my mom and my aunts in mind. There existed a bond between those women that I've never seen before and likely never will experience personally. Interestingly, the closeness they shared is is in sharp contrast to the relationships my aunts often had with others, whether it be their husbands or their own children. In fact, in my Aunt Janet's obituary, there was no mention of her oldest son. They stopped talking decades ago, evidence of how easily relationships can be destroyed by an unwillingness to forgive and forget.

Last summer's photo.
We forgot to take one this year.

Irving Berlin did not write a song about my sister and me. While there is no bitterness or underlying root cause for the distance between us (literally and figuratively), I must confess to a level of disappointment with the way things are versus the way I'd like them to be. I would like Dawn to move home (or within reasonable driving distance). I would like Dawn to at least want to move home. I would like her to be sad when it's time to say goodbye. I would like it if we would start telling each other "I love you." While I don't expect to achieve the level of closeness my mom had with her sisters, I know Dawn and I could have more, but I don't know how to get us there.

Dawn's visit home coincided with my church's annual mission trip to western North Carolina. A truly family affair, this trip brings together all ages for a week of work and fellowship that has to be experienced because no description can do it justice. Obviously I did not go on the trip this year because I wanted to spend time with my sister. Abby, however, more than adequately represented the MacShimer family.

Abby on the roofing site with her MPC family.

Since she returned home on Saturday evening, I've lost count of the number of times Abby wished she were back in Banner Elk. For the first time in her life, Abby, who thinks a 30 minute car ride is torture, was sad to see a nine-hour car ride end (she had traveled with friends). Despite the fact that she was leaving for Avalon on Sunday to spend time with three girls from school, Abby actually seemed weepy when she repeated for the umpteenth time that she "didn't want to be home," but wished she could return to NC (which makes me sad, though I'm trying not to take it personally).

Car ride buddies (plus the Hicks girls)

The Sunday church service following Banner Elk is always wonderful. Those who went on the trip wear their matching t-shirts. We watch a slide show of photos from the week. The praise band (which for the first time included Abby on guitar!) plays the same music, and a few individuals on the trip share their experience in place of a traditional sermon. Naturally, I cried during several parts of the service, partly because I was disappointed to have missed being there, and partly because I was overwhelmed with love for my church family. While the church, like our flesh and blood family, has its own issues, the grace and forgiveness that we extend to one another provides a foundation for the strongest relationships I've ever known. And I don't know if it's a "Christian thing" or if we're just lucky, but my MPC brothers and sisters so openly share their love. There's no awkwardness in a hug. There's no discomfort in saying "I love you." What a gift!

As I reflect on the experiences of the past two weeks, I realize how blessed I am to have more than one family who loves me. If you've been separated from a loved one, I pray for reconciliation and healing. The bonds of family should not be so easily broken.

Don't Go Away

I have a bunch of work to do. Deadlines are looming. But there are more important things than the articles I need to write. Just as there are more important things than overdue homework assignments or a bad test grade.

Last week’s disappearance of 13-year-old Cayman Naib was frightening and beyond nerve wracking for his parents and even for us outsiders who wondered and waited. The discovery of his body two days ago was every parent’s worst nightmare. Learning that he had committed suicide made that nightmare even more unbearable.

When our kids are small we worry about doing something wrong, hurting them somehow. Are we sufficiently supporting the baby’s neck when we hold him? Are there too many blankets in the crib? Is she getting enough to eat? Are the outlets protected and the cleaning fluids locked up? Does he know not to talk to strangers? Are they okay crossing the street? Is this babysitter reliable?  Though we can make ourselves crazy with concern, to some degree we believe that we can keep them safe if we do everything right.

Of all the challenges that present themselves as the parents of teens, one of the biggest is trusting they will be okay when we can no longer hold them tight and keep them in our sights 24-7. Beyond the everyday risks that this world presents are the dangers that teens and young adults are to themselves. You pray that you've taught them well, but one bad decision can literally be the difference between life and death. Getting in the car with a buddy who’s been drinking, trying a drug that has disastrous consequences, checking out the handgun you found in a friend’s house, leaving home in anger at night, during a snowstorm. When we wondered whether Cayman had been hit by a car, I was struck with fear over one bad decision. It reminded me of the West Chester student who disappeared the night before Thanksgiving after going out drinking with friends and was later found drowned. One bad decision.

Learning that Cayman committed suicide compounds one life-ending decision with a parent’s overwhelming sense of guilt. Without knowing anything about this family, I can only surmise that they are asking themselves, “Did we put too much pressure on him? Did we see any signs that he was depressed?  Why didn't we go after him that night instead of thinking he just needed to let off some steam?”

As a parent I have agonized over how to raise productive, accomplished, hard-working, and happy children. How much do you push or "encourage?” When do you require commitment and when do you allow them to quit the team or the band to stop the tears and the fighting?  How do you know if they “can do better,” or if this is their best? How can you tell if they’re working hard to please themselves, or their teachers, or you? And when is it too much?

I imagine Cayman felt he had let someone down. That the pressure was ovewhelming. That he was never going to be successful and that meant he could never be happy. He didn't know that every 13-year-old has that doubt and fear and anxiety and that someday he would look back and shake his head and wonder why he let it matter so much.

As I was working on this post, I saw that my friend and Freakin’ Angel Kim Graham shared her thoughts about this tragedy on Facebook. And since she has a way of saying things so eloquently, I’m going to share some of what she wrote here. This is my plea as well. And parents, Kim's message about finding perspective and seeking help applies to you us too:

"If you need help finding perspective or seeing the big picture of whatever you are going through, tell an adult who loves you. I promise you there are adults who have loved you before you were ever graded on anything, and who will love you long after you’re no longer being graded. If--for whatever reason--you are too nervous to talk to them, come talk to me. And if you don't need to talk but just need a gentle reminder when things get stressful, stop and think about adults you know and respect. The ones you want to be like someday. Do you know what grade they got on their 9th grade social studies test? How many goals they scored for the soccer team? (Or if they were even on the soccer team?) What they got on their SATs? Exactly.

Driving home yesterday I heard the song "Father and Son" by Cat Stevens. Given the loss of this young man, I found the lyrics particularly painful:

“All the times that I cried, keeping all the things I knew inside, It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it. If they were right, I'd agree, but it's them you know not me. Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away. I know I have to go. Father, stay stay stay, why must you go and Make this decision alone?"

Don't go away.

Egyptian Rat Screw and Sister Sightings

"As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be." The doxology or a statement about mothers and daughters?

My sister Dawn.
I mean my daughter Abby.

I am the mother of a daughter. An incredibly bright, ambitious and talented 13 year-old. I am thankful that my relationship with Abby has been pretty darn good to this point. And, if I can avoid becoming competitive with my own child, we might just get along fine for the foreseeable future.

I have been envious of Abby's superior athletic ability since she was about five. Her math skills have impressed me since elementary school. The cool confidence and drama-free nature she possesses have been a pleasant surprise, particularly given her mother's dramatic tendencies. She knows her way around baked goods. And her desire to work hard and make a good impression are a source of pride. More recently, I've become aware with more than a little jealousy of Abby's cute teenage figure, which takes me back 30 years to when I was a stick-shaped dork, resenting girls like her.

While all of her qualities are enough to make anyone sick envious want to take her down a peg feel the need to strive to compete, what most gets to me about Abby is her resemblance to my sister Dawn. It's not so much a physical resemblance, but more about personality, attitude and character. It scares me how often I look at her and see my sister. The facial expressions are the same. The things she says and the way she says them is frighteningly similar. Where this causes me particular concern is with regard to their corresponding level of competitiveness. And this just happens to be one of the few things I have in common with my sister. So, if A = D and D = K, what must be true of A and K? Hey look! It's your first math problem of the new school year!

Being four years apart, Dawn and I didn't compete so much in school, but in any setting where we did interact, there was an unspoken desire to kick each others' asses outperform the other. The problem was is that I had have a soft spot that my sister didn't doesn't possess, which means she was is always able to get the better of me. The perfect example of when/where this competition reared its ugly head? The Monopoly board. Dawn was is vicious and ruthless and always had has to have the ship. She would will sucker me into making lousy deals. And, I don't think she ever lost loses.

The first indication that Abby and I might have issues? A game of cards. Not just any game of cards, but a game with the eyebrow-raising name "Egyptian Rat Screw." This is a game of memory and response time, requiring a heightened level of awareness and an above average ability to slap cards. Skills which have weakened in me with each passing year. Skills which Abby has in abundance. And did I mention we're both competitive?

It started out civilly enough. Abby taught me the rules of the game, and for about 10 minutes I behaved as an adult/parent. But then my child transformed before my very eyes and I saw Dawn sitting across from me with that confident smirk that said loud and clear, "You're going down!" And all hell broke loose. I refused to take any more beatings and I let it all out. Yelling. Aggressive card slapping. Profanities. Insults. It was when I told her "I'm surprised you have any friends; you're so mean!" that Abby brought me back to reality with "Mom! I can't believe you said that!" Oops. My bad.

You would think that would have been enough to snap me out of it, but the ugly continued, ultimately reaching its pinnacle when I demanded an impartial judge to make rulings on whose hand hit the deck first. Rob and Ian wisely declined to enter into our melee, leaving only one option: videotaping. We set up the iPad to record, and within minutes were in another disagreement as to who had won a hand. We turned to the iPad for answers. We watched the recording. And went back and watched the recording. And slowed it down frame by frame and watched the recording. And we still couldn't agree on who had won. We abandoned the videotaping. Abby won the game. I had a small tantrum, and that was that. I am happy to report that I have behaved much more appropriately during subsequent games, except when I won that one time. Then I did a little whooping and hollerin' and happy dance and told Abby she was a loser. Just kidding. I didn't do a happy dance. That's just immature.

I'll admit that I still see the ghost of my sister every now and then. Occasionally in my cat who is either aloof or nasty, but most often in Abby. I try to ward off the panic that results at these sightings by reminding myself that I am an adult and no matter how successful she is or how much she resembles Dawn, Abby is my child. This means I will always delude myself into believing have the upper hand...

...As long as I don't challenge her in baking, soccer, softball, clarinet, guitar, math or card games. From now on, I think we'll stick to Scrabble and Boggle. I can beat my sister daughter at those.

Has Anyone Seen My Mind? It Seems to Be Missing.

Have you ever wondered if you're losing your mind? I certainly have, and on more than one occasion. Last night being one of them. As I seriously consider the possibilities that this is happening to me, I find myself wondering if people who lose their minds actually realize it, or, does the fact that I'm asking mean that I'm not. And what does it mean to lose ones mind anyway?

On one hand I have real concerns that I'm headed for early onset dementia. Sure, everyone forgets what they walked into a certain room for, and forgotten names of folks you don't see that often is normal, but it's worse than that for me. I will completely blank on the names of people I'm close to. I  can't recall the title of that book, movie, or TV show to save my life (there goes my trivia game show dream). I remember dates and times wrong. My "brain farts" happen so frequently that I'm getting used to the smell.

Then there's the "crazy" side of losing ones mind. While I feel like my depression symptoms are, for the most part, under control, lately I'm wondering if I'm bipolar or just ridiculously moody. It's like my teenage and young adult years all over again. Come to think of it, I should call my college roommates to apologize. Anyway, last night I went from having a grand ole time with friends to walking a mile home at 11 p.m. because I was angry for no particularly good reason. (Though you'd think by now that husbands would know not to ask their wives, "What's your problem?" in that tone of voice. At least when the kids ask why I'm in a bad mood it's an innocent, albeit foolish, mistake.)

So what is my problem exactly? Well, that's the thing. Looking at the big picture, I have no problems. I have a job, a home, my health, my parents' health, my kids' health, a good great husband, and food for the table (when I actually go grocery shopping). But close up, everything is a problem. I have moments (they last no more than an hour, tops) where I try to be adult and not complain about life to my friends (whom I will be lucky to still call "friends" after my increasingly bad behavior), but ultimately I succumb to all the sh*t that's dragging me down:

Missed deadlines
Divorce news
Diagnoses
Family obligations
To do lists
Job searches
Aging
Cancer treatments
Parenting

Some of that has nothing to do with me personally. But it's affecting people I care about and that affects me. I'm well aware that this is the same sh*t that's dragging down nearly everyone I know, but it's just that I feel everything so much more acutely. I recently asked Rob if he thinks everyone experiences the world like I do (albeit without talking/blogging about it), and his immediate answer was "No." No thoughtful consideration required before responding. Isn't he the lucky one to have married me!

You're probably (hopefully) thinking that I'm normal and that this is life. You might say that every mom of a teenager goes through this crap, but I think it'd be so much easier if I didn't jump on the roller coaster with them. I can literally go from happy to bitch in 3.5 seconds. One minute I'll be dreaming of the day when the kids are out of the house and Rob and I can downsize and move somewhere warm and live happily ever after. The next minute I'm seriously doubting that I can stand even one more day together, listening to him pass gas breathe. The poor guy never knows who he's coming home to and a spouse can only be patient for so long. Hence, my walk home last night.

I realize that this post is probably better suited for my personal journal (yes, can you believe there are things I actually keep personal!), but these worries kept me tossing and turning last night and I guess I'm hoping someone will say that they get it, that they've been there, too.

That I'm not losing my mind.

So, this is how it's going to be

The summer of 2014 will be remembered as the season in which I lost my children. I think in my very last post, just two short weeks ago, I said something about really liking my kids, and as a result missing them when they're gone, which was the case for the first half of the summer. Well, Ian returned home on Saturday night and I spent a week on a mission trip with Abby, and I can now say that I don't like them nearly as much. Okay, that was a little harsh. Perhaps I should put it this way -- they both turned into teenagers this summer. Just putting that in writing makes my skin crawl.

Perhaps you think I'm lucky that Ian didn't hit this evil stage until now, but maybe in some ways that makes it harder to accept. I really thought that if my 16-year-old was still fairly likable that I was in the clear, that I'd made it past go and could collect $200. I had been patting myself on the back for being such an exceptional parent, having raised a kid who never rolled his eyes or gave me major attitude. Oh, how very foolish I've been.

When picking him up at the airport, after being gone for two weeks, my son's reaction to seeing me was "Hey." And no, it wasn't an upbeat, happy, let-me-give-you-a-hug "Hey!" In his first 24-hours at home I spent maybe three hours with him (he ran off to a friend's house), and in that short amount of time he gave me "the look" and the attitude to go with it. He actually had the cojones to attempt to "decline" a volunteer assignment for the following day that benefited an organization of which he's a member. He seriously thought that by stating, "I don't want to," he would get out of doing the job at hand. I don't know what kinds of kids he spent the past two weeks with, but I'm holding them responsible for this metamorphosis.

And then there's my daughter. Abby also deserted me, physically and emotionally, for most of July. The good news is that I know she felt some degree of guilt because of it. Case in point: Last week, Abby and I worked on Habitat for Humanity houses that were just a few hundred yards apart. During a lull in my work, I walked down to check on my girl (who, by the way, won the tool belt award for hardest worker on the first day of our trip). While visiting, I expressed concern for her safety with regard to something she was doing. She scolded me, in essence telling me to return to my own job site. I realized she was right and so I sulked and with my tail between my legs made my way back. Feeling melancholy over the distinct lack of interaction I'd had with Abby since the trip began, I sat myself down in a quiet place outside and contemplated the increasing gulf between me and my children. And I ate some Swedish Fish. And while I was wallowing in self pity and trying to get the candy out of my teeth, Abby came up to me and expressed concern for my well-being. She asked whether she'd done something wrong and apologized for upsetting me. I got teary-eyed telling her everything was fine and sent her on her way. Guilt is an invaluable tool.

Three days after returning home, Ian is ignoring my repeated requests to put away his clothing, groans when asked to do most any household chore, and feigns illness when he doesn't want to do something. In other words, things have somewhat returned to normal. At least he has stopped rolling his eyes and seems to like me a bit more. Of course, that could be because he again relies on me for food and lodging.

Abby, too, seems to have rediscovered me. When she was away on Monday, she texted to say goodnight and tell me she loves me. It was like the good ole days.

Today, Ian woke early to tell me he was heading to the shore with Noah for the day, asking if that was okay at the same time that Noah's dad was pulling into the driveway to pick him up. Sure, it's okay. Thanks for asking. Maybe 10 minutes notice next time instead of five? I believe that, starting tomorrow, Ian and Abby will both be home, together, for the rest of the summer. Which makes me think it's an excellent time for Rob and me to get out town.

My New Reality: A Preview

It's been a strange summer thus far and it's going to remain strange right up until the first of August. It began in June with Ian heading off to a church youth group retreat in the Poconos the Monday after school let out. He returned home on a Friday afternoon and declined to join his family at the Phillies game and fireworks that evening. The next morning, Rob took Ian and his friend Keaton to the airport at 4:15 a.m. for a flight to Atlanta, where Keaton's parents would pick the boys up and take them to Lake Burton, Georgia. Their stay in Georgia lasted 10 days. On the day they returned, we dropped Abby and her friend Maddie off at Immaculata University for soccer camp. They spent four days there. Three days later Abby left for the Poconos for the middle schoolers' week-long church youth group retreat. That same day Rob and I flew to Minneapolis for the All Star Game. We left Ian home alone, paying one of Rob's coworkers to spend the nights with him.

Rob and I returned from Minnesota last Wednesday afternoon; Abby got home on Thursday. On Saturday, Rob and Ian headed out on their road trip to Oxford, Ohio where Ian is spending two weeks in Miami University's Summer Scholars program.

At the parent meeting for Abby's soccer camp, the leaders told us this would be a good first step toward college for the girls. They were responsible for getting themselves where they needed to be, when they needed to be there. They had to remember their gear and their water, and be sure to change their socks and clothes frequently enough that they didn't develop any strange rashes. They ate in the dining hall and slept in the dormitory and if they had lost their keys it would have cost us them $75. Naturally, Abby and Maddie were just fine. Those two could run the camp.

Ian's two week experience at Miami will be an even greater pre-college test. The question is, who will perform better, him or me?

While I usually welcome the opportunity to have a few days away from my children, I have to confess that this June-July anomaly has me a bit freaked out. Let's face it, these exoduses away from home are just harbingers of things to come. And those things to come will be here before I know it. And quite frankly, I'm not sure I'm ready. Me. The one who started counting down the days till they left for college when they were three. Me. The one who thought this motherhood thing might have been a poor (and irreversible) job choice. Me. The one with the 10-year plan that includes no one except me and Rob on a beach somewhere. How has this happened? How is it that I actually have a small ache in my heart?

I think what happened is that I've grown to really like my kids. Loving your children is pretty much a given, but liking them? Not always. As they've gotten older, we actually have meaningful conversations (as long as Ian's not sitting in front of a screen of some sort), and I find I truly enjoy their company. Ian's bright, quick wit never fails to amuse and impress, and Abby's observations, intelligence and competitive spirit provide a challenge.

I'm amazed at the way they've both changed in the past year or so; Ian, in particular. Last summer he couldn't wait to come home from two camp experiences right here at Villanova, 15 minutes from home. He was miserable. This year he's nine hours away for two weeks, spending his days with complete strangers. And he loves it. He's made friends, enjoys his classes (The Business of Sports), and finds the whole experience "great." "Great" is high praise indeed from a 16-year-old boy. On day one it was only "good."

Knowing that Ian's doing well has eased that small ache, but I do miss his sense of humor. I suppose I better get used to it.

This Saturday, while Ian's still in Ohio, Rob, Abby, my mom and I will drive 10 hours to Banner Elk, NC for our church mission trip. We'll leave a day early, Friday, August 1, in order to pick up Ian at the Baltimore airport where he'll fly in from Cincinnati at the conclusion of his Miami U. experience. We'll return home that night where we will begin the month of August with nothing more than Vacation Bible School on the calendar.

It'll be weird, being together like that. I just hope the kids don't get on my nerves.

The #1 Challenge in Raising a Daughter

It's often said that it's easier to raise boys than girls. I guess that's true, though for me it's not about Abby herself, but rather her interaction with the world that makes having a daughter more challenging. I don't worry what people will think if Ian's shorts are too short. I'm not as concerned that someone will try to physically take advantage of Ian. I don't give much consideration as to whether Ian's "behavior" will cause people to talk, or whether others think he's a "bitch" for being smart, competitive and driven to succeed. These are real concerns for me with my daughter, however. And I would add to this list: society's definition of beauty.

No matter how confident we are, regardless of our level of self-esteem, at some point in our lives every single one of us has wondered whether we're good enough. I was at the pool this weekend, and as I walked the perimeter looking for an empty chair, I felt like I was on display. I was self-conscious about my less than perfectly toned thighs and I cursed the blemishes on my face. And when I found a chair and settled in, I looked at every other woman who walked by and tried to figure out whether I was more or less attractive than her. At the age of 13, I'm sure Abby already has compared herself to her peers, and if her self-confidence is what it should be, she's not concerned about how she measures up. But, unfortunately, someday she will be.

Though I stopped reading parenting books when the kids were little because they made me feel badly about my skills (the same reason I don't read Better Homes & Gardens, Self, or a single cooking magazine), the one thing I remember is that, as parents, the example we set is the number one influence on our children's lives. If we are committed to our faith, eating well and living a healthy lifestyle, our children are more likely to be similarly committed (maybe not as quickly as we'd like, but someday). If we demonstrate kindness, service to others and a strong work ethic, our children will likely do the same (or at least one of our children will pick up these traits). Naturally, the negatives apply here as well. If we put ourselves first in every way, judge others and allow ourselves to be consumed by bitterness and hate, we're raising kids who may do the same (unless they decide to be completely different because they are ashamed of us). If we have no use for reading and lifelong learning, exercising or spending money wisely, well, you get the picture. What I'm taking a long time to say is that a mom's self-image can have dramatic effects on her daughter(s). If I complain about my weight and my blemishes and I constantly compare myself to others, Abby may very likely follow suit. And let's face it, the last thing our daughters need is any help in feeling badly about themselves.

So why this topic now? Probably because I watched the whole season of American Idol and Jennifer Lopez is just depressing as hell at look at every week. And then there's Jennifer Aniston who reportedly wants to lose 10 pounds before her wedding, which is good news because her shape was starting to concern me. But then, on the opposite end of the spectrum, you have Aussie mom Tara Brumfitt who has embraced the "reverse progress body movement," showing off her rock solid body builder physique "before" and her soft, beautiful, mommy figure "after." With her daughter as her motivation, Tara's working on a documentary called Embrace. “How will I teach my daughter to love her body?” she wrote on her website. “How am I going to encourage her to accept and love her body, when I am standing in front of her with a surgically enhanced body? What type of hypocrite or mother would I be?”

I had a friend recently confess that she considered breast implants, but when she thought of the message it would send her daughter, she decided against it. This was in sharp contrast to another friend who offered her physically fit, athletic 12-year-old daughter a reward if she lost some weight.

I don't generally say much about my weight in front of Abby, but where I increasingly have expressed frustration and insecurity is with the appearance of my face. From first time fever blisters and recent breakouts that take weeks to clear, to those obvious fine lines above my lips and the dark circles under my eyes, I know I'm growing older and I feel considerably less attractive. And this is obvious to Abby because I recently bought stock in Mary Kay cosmetics and am having their makeup and skin care solutions shipped directly to our house by the palate.

I used to be an all-natural kind of girl like my mom, who never wore anything on her face except lipstick, But now I'm using special facial cleanser and zit cream. I bought foundation powder. And just last week, I asked my Mary Kay rep to stop by and give me a makeup lesson. She showed up with a case larger than most of my pieces of luggage, and tried to sell me everything under the sun. Rather than just covering those dark circles, I really need their special heavy duty eye cream. If my blemishes aren't clearing up with the treatment she sold me, then I may need to wash with another Mary Kay product. She showed me numerous combinations of eye shadow colors, and lipsticks that I could brighten with a separate purchase of gloss. She left with my order for mascara (waterproof, of course), eye shadow, eye liner and blush/bronzer, but what was most interesting about this sales call visit was the rep's interaction with Abby, who sat at the table and judged whether what I was being pitched actually made a difference.

The Mary Kay rep tried to hook Abby like a drug dealer. "Ooh, I bet you'll like this eye shadow." Nope. Abby doesn't wear eye shadow. "Oh, how about these great lip pencils." Nope. Abby doesn't wear lip color. "This gloss would be fun, right?" Abby explained that she prefers the EOS lip balm. Mission Failed. That's my girl. You don't need makeup, my dear. Your natural beauty is undeniable. I can only hope that she will avoid painting her face simply because mom does, and as a teenager, it's important to avoid anything that makes you look like your mom.

So that's my two cents on how society's notion of beauty makes raising girls more difficult than parenting their brothers. I'd love to know your thoughts on the subject!

Sweet 16

Today I became the mother of a 16-year-old. I realize you may question the accuracy of this statement given that I haven't hit 30 yet myself, but it's true. My son Ian is 16. The big question for me is "How did this happen?" I remember I couldn't wait for the first few years of motherhood to speed up. The baby and toddler years were not my best. Everyone told me that time would fly, but you really have no concept of just how true that is until your child is in high school and preparing to leave the nest in just a couple years.

Today's blog post is dedicated to Ian, who has humored me, frustrated me, impressed me, and driven me crazy. I am blessed beyond measure to call him my son.

16 Reasons to Love Ian

1. He makes people laugh.
2. He has a beautiful singing voice.
3. He has an overwhelming passion for soccer, despite not being a player.
4. He's a loyal friend.
5. He's as quick-witted as anyone I know. The Tonight Show will be his someday.
6. He's super smart.
7. He looks adults in the eye when they make conversation with him.
8. He teaches Sunday school to elementary-age kids who can't wait to see him.
9. I've never known him to be mean.
10. Shockingly, he doesn't mind hanging out with me. No, really!
11. His friends' parents adore him.
12. He's a total smart ass, without being disrespectful.
13. He still gives hugs.
14. He has only run away from home once, albeit in the snow wearing really good shoes. 
15. He's the dictionary example of a "really good kid."
16. He still tells me he loves me. 

This is when he started laying around.

The first time we saw that awesome smile. 

He still makes a mess when he eats, 15 years later.

Early gangsta days.

Abby's already trying to tell him what to do.

He's never eaten black licorice again
since learning it comes with a baby sister.

Young man's best friend.

You mean not every kid sees Jamie Moyer
when visiting Dad at work?

The first and only time
he considered playing football.

First time we discovered he looks great dressed up.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Not Reflected in the Score

It's not everyday that a lacrosse game makes you cry. Unless you're me, in which case you cry over everything from the sunrise and puppies to death and taxes. I can tell you that in the case of this game, however, I wasn't the only one emotionally affected.

On Tuesday evening, Villanova men's lacrosse played Princeton here at Villanova. For those of you who remember everything I say and write (which means you probably need to expand your social circle), you may recall that Chris Bates, husband of my friend, the late Dr. Ann Bates, is coach of the Princeton team. For the last two years, a small group of Freakin' Angels has road tripped to Princeton to see a game. When we learned of the match up here, Angel Kim G. suggested we make it a group outing and extended an invitation to our wider church community. In the end, we more than qualified for a ticket discount with a group of 44 "Ann's Fans" planning to attend.

Tuesday evening was cold, but can I be totally dorky and tell you that we were comfortable and warm in each others company? (Literally. The minute someone got up to hit the snack bar, their absence made you chilly.) There was something so incredibly moving about this group of 40-some people, from ages 5 to 55, all gathered together to celebrate our friend Ann and cheer on the man she loved. On a personal level, the gathering was a living reminder of our human need for community, the need to belong to something bigger than ourselves. I was awed by the blessing that these people are in my life. My Freakin' Angel friend Cathie, who does not cry, was also touched by the experience. The next day, she sent this email to the group:

I'm thankful:
> For you all and for your friendship.
> For the warmth that comes from having you all in my life & from sitting close under blankets.
> For our families and how they can all just blend together.
> For laughter.
> For a win for Princeton.
> For Theresa's on the spot medical assistance (damn those bleachers).
> For cocoa and pretzels generously delivered.
> For strong arms to carry Gemma when mine get tired.
> For Kim's organization in purchasing tickets for us all.
> For Nicholas' (Bates) never ending smile.
> For joy on a cold night.
> For Dickie's excellent photography work to capture the gems below.
> For Ann's friendship that continues to give to each of us.

Just a few of the girls in the group

When I asked Cathie's permission to use this in my blog, she said those were just the quick ones off the top of her head, there were plenty more things to be thankful for. Amen to that. 

Cathie wasn't the only one to share her feelings after the game. Kim S. (we have lots of Kims) noted, "A couple of times during the night I looked around and felt so lucky to be a part of such a great group." And Kim G. added, "It was so fun and such a blessing. I remember thinking that it's quite possible that a similar type of group someday soon will be gathering to watch some of our kids in their ventures. I truly consider you all family."

Someone who I never expect to share her feelings or express emotion is my daughter Abby. She'll tell you she loves you at least twice a day, but she doesn't put her feelings on display (I'm not sure we're actually related). For the first part of the game she voiced her displeasure at being there. "Cold and bored." After I further bundled the blankets around her and pulled her up close to me (and paid for hot chocolate), she seemed satisfied and even passed on the opportunity to go home early with a friend. When we arrived home after the game, Abby was almost giddy and unusually affectionate. In fact, when it was time for bed, she said something about snuggling with Rob and me, and when I agreed, she retrieved her favorite blanket and cuddled up between us, arms wrapped around me. If you think that's kinda weird, you've never watched your teenage daughter grow up too quickly and wished you could stop time and have her be a little girl again. The little one who wanted to sleep with you when she was scared, or not feeling well, or daddy was out of town. When they're little, those nights can be frustrating, but when they're 13, you know each time they cuddle with you could very well be the last (until you're 40, at which point you're happy to snuggle with your mom again).

I guess what I haven't said here is that I firmly believe Abby was moved by the friendship, love and affection our group of 40-some showed for one another. She knows how much my friends mean to me, but there was something incredibly powerful about seeing, and being part of, the sheer number of moms, dads, and kids gathered together for much laughter and joy. It's contagious. In fact, I hope that if you haven't yet been afflicted with this degree of love and friendship, that you catch it real quickly. This wonderful group of people is more than happy to spread it around.

I'm Going 'Round, 'Round, 'Round...

I'm picturing a hamster cage, sort of like the one here on the right. It's got a nice little hang out pad or dome on one end, which connects by a tube or passageway to the hamster wheel on the other side.

I believe I've become the hamster.

I've been here before; I think most of us have. It happens when we over-commit, forget how to say "no," and make promises we're not sure we want to keep. We find ourselves spinning madly out of control and getting nowhere fast.

Here's the situation. Everyday I go to work and do a job that I absolutely love. I know what needs to be done, I know how to do it, and I enjoy my responsibilities. I consider this the "hang out dome" part of my day. I am steady and content and sitting on my butt (at the computer) for hours on end. But around 3:30 or 4:00 p.m. as my day is about to end (hey, I start at 7:30 a.m., so don't judge me), I start to feel the slightest pang of anxiety. On my drive home, the traffic is much heavier than it should be, giving me entirely too much time to think. I spend 20-30 minutes considering what my options are once I reach my humble abode. For most people, heading home after eight-plus hours in the office is the best part of their day; the at home options are far better than whatever they've just left behind. For me, this transition time is the equivalent of the tube/passageway section of the hamster cage. As I pass through, my anxiety reaches a dangerous level, and before I know it, I'm on the hamster wheel.

As I spin, I know I have some decisions to make, namely, what should I do with my time? There's the gym, and I know I should go, but I don't want to go, even though I always feel better afterwards. Then there's my never-ending list of things to do. If I could handle just a few small things, I'd spend less of my weekend making myself (and my children) miserable with what needs to be done. One of my most stressful options responsibilities at home is making dinner. Like the gym, this is something I know I should do (if not for me, at least for the children), but don't want to do. Unlike the gym, however, I rarely feel better when I'm done. Mostly because my cooking stinks and I don't know what to make, and God forbid I try anything new (the picky eater being me).

If I survive those couple of hours before dinnertime, I now face a decision about what to do with my evening. That's assuming I don't have a meeting on the calendar for youth committee, church session, or book club, and that Abby doesn't have a sporting event that I'd like to attend (providing me with a very good excuse reason to not take care of other stuff). Do I clean? Maybe I should handle the laundry. Or put the dishes in the dishwasher, and wipe off the table, stove and kitchen counters. For some reason, the prospect of cleaning up after I've just tortured myself by making dinner (or serving bagel bites), is more than I can bear. And don't suggest that I have the kids clean up. No one else in the house can properly load a dishwasher. But I digress.

Because I am a completely insane individual, I recently decided that it would be fun to add a little something extra to my list of time-killing obligations. I committed to spending about 10 hours a week handling the social media for an organization I'm fond of. Normally this is the kind of work that I would thoroughly enjoy, but because 1) it's brand new, and 2) I'm spinning on a hamster wheel, the whole thing has me a little stressed out and wondering what I've gotten myself into.

You might be saying to yourself, "I wonder what Kim really wants to do with her time?" Well, it's nice of you to ask, and I'm not embarrassed to say that I want to catch up on American Idol (love that Harry Connick Jr.), watch last week's episode of Scandal, or binge watch some new series. If we want to pretend I'm more highbrow than that, then let's say I'd like to read, or at least play spider solitaire (I'm up to three suits!) or sudoku until my eyes glaze over and I can shut my brain down and go to sleep.

Ah, sleep. My happy place. The other night, Abby asked me why I go to bed so early. Without hesitation, I told her that some people do drugs to deal with stress; I go to bed. (Then I asked her to fill my weekly pill organizer; the irony wasn't lost on either of us). It's true. Sleep has always been a wonderful avoidance technique for me. I recall during college, if I felt the least bit tired, I could convince myself that sleep was more important than my school work. Worked then. Works now.

Not surprisingly, by going to sleep early, the morning comes more quickly. I love mornings. I realize this makes little sense, given the way I've just compared my life to a hamster cage, but for some reason everything dissolves away overnight and I wake up happy, even though I know what I'll face at the 4:00 hour. Makes me think of the movie Groundhog Day when every day is a repeat of the last. I'm detecting a rodent theme here. Of all the animals I could compare myself to...

The good news is that I think I may have found a solution. I've been asked to join the Sanctuary Choir at our church (I felt flattered at the invitation, but in reality 1) they will gladly take anybody and 2) they just want to use me to help bring the median age down closer to 60). Singing has always been a source of joy for me. In fact, it's one of my favorite memories of my Pop Pop: "When you're unhappy, Kim, just sing." So I might say yes to this choir opportunity. That will take care of Thursday nights, giving me one less evening to figure out on my own. Although it does add one more commitment to keep...

Hanging on by a thread...

Well that's Depressing: A Checklist for Parents of Teens

Last week was back-to-school night at Ian's high school (they have block scheduling, which means classes change halfway through the year). Back-to-school night is like a high school flashback for the parents. Well, for me, anyway. I check out the cute guys what the other girls are wearing and regret my choice. I go to classes and wonder if that mom would get a better grade than me. Sometimes I have the classic anxiety dream the night before. The one where I have an exam and haven't been to class for months. Sometimes I show up naked.

This particular back-to-school night was made that much more upsetting interesting by the presence of a helpful handout. In addition to the schedule for the evening, this brochure included guilt inducing parenting mandates advice. Along with "Tips for Healthy Teens" there were "Keys to Being a Hands-On Parent," published by the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse. In neither category did I score my usual an A. I don't think I even pulled out a B. Under tips for healthy teens:

• Enough sleep? No. 
• Breakfast? Abby, occasionally. Ian, rarely. 
• Hand washing to kill germs? Um. Well. I think one of them does that. Not coincidentally, it's the child who doesn't get sick as often.

As depressing as my results were in the health category, I felt even worse about my parenting skills when I got to the anti-addiction/substance abuse guidelines. Based on my score, it seems my kids are destined for "at-risk behaviors." My failures lie in:

• Not monitoring what they watch on television.
• Not monitoring what they do on the internet.
• Not putting restrictions on the music they buy.
• Not having an adult present when they arrive home from school.
• Not eating dinner with them (that would require feeding them - see #7 below)

On the positive side, I'm relatively sure:

• I know where they are after school and on weekends. And I think they're telling me the truth about their whereabouts.
• I'm aware of their academic performance. Yes, I definitely have that under control.
• I'm making my values clear to them. They just have to remember to do as I say, not as I do.
• There's no television watching during dinner. That's the only advantage of having just one TV in the house.
• I've assigned them regular chores. I know that I've asked. Whether they do them when I ask is a whole other thing. 

Did this helpful brochure end on an up note? Did it soften the blow with an amusing or empathetic quote that reminded me how none of us is perfect, and that it takes a village, yada, yada, yada? No. What followed was a list of upcoming school events. None of which I was aware of and none that I'm interested in attending or volunteering for. I'm feeling really good about myself right now.

Since I'm already raw and exposed, I may as well add these 10 confessions, addressed to my wonderful teenagers:

1. When you're helpful, pleasant, and nice to your sibling, I can't help but wonder what you want or what you've done.
2. There are times I look forward to the day you leave for college, just so I can clean your room and it will stay that way for more than 24-hours.
3. I have no idea which parts of your life I'm still supposed to be actively involved in. Should I be nagging you about your school work, or save my breath for the bigger stuff? 
4. Speaking of the big stuff, I have a lot riding on your ability to drive. That's the day I will be free to fulfill my dreams of community theater stardom, attend best-selling author book readings, and take a class. I probably won't do any of that, but I won't have you as an excuse if I don't.
5. I'm scared to death at the thought of you driving. You know it's not like Grand Theft Auto, right?
6. Someone should invent an app that senses your mood (a modern day mood ring) and communicates those findings electronically so I know what to expect before I get home from work.
7. I live in a constant state of uncertainty as to how much to provide for you. You demand regular feedings and clean clothes, which is a drag, but do you really need a Spanish class trip to Costa Rica?
8. I haven't known the names of your teachers since you left elementary school. I just feel good when I know what classes you're taking. I hate back-to-school night when they imply I should know about your big writing assignment or end-of-the-semester project. Not sure who's to blame. You for not telling me anything, or me for failing to ask.
9. Speaking of your classwork, I know that you know that I haven't known how to help you with your math homework since 2nd grade. So stop asking. 
10. While I will enjoy your room being free of dirty dishes, dirty clothes, and toxic spills, I won't enjoy not having you here (that's a double negative, isn't it?). To be honest, as far as teenagers go, you're pretty awesome. 

Do you have your own confessions to share? Poor parenting loves company!

Not So Cruel to Be Kind

One of the gifts I requested and received for Christmas was a magnifying/make-up mirror. As I grow older and face the distinct possibility probability that it's time to start applying spackle and paint on a regular basis, I thought it important that I had an accurate view of my true self. When I saw the price tag on this fancy mirror, however, I decided it wasn't worth that kind of money to see myself in what is never a flattering light. Therefore, over the weekend, I returned the high-end mirror and picked up a cheap plastic one. It requires me to squint to avoid a distorted view, but shows my flaws just the same. Let me tell you, examining your face magnified 10x is no way to spend a weekend. I nearly rushed out to the Vietnamese nail salon and apologized for assuming they were scamming me when they recommended a whole-face wax.

While self deprecation is always good for a laugh, as a rule, I'm not terribly hard on myself, though I know my blog would lead you to believe otherwise. I'd say I'm more "self-aware" than "self-critical." I'm pretty good at acknowledging my flaws and weaknesses and accepting myself for who I am. That's one of the few benefits of age. What I still haven't figured out, however, is to how to deal with the criticism of others.

The old Kim would have criticized
his misspelling of Critisize.

Criticism can take a variety of forms, from the obvious "you are so stupid," to the thinly veiled, "I wish you would think before you speak." Criticism can be blunt: "I love you, but you're really not a very nice person;" or couched in concern, "I'm worried about your children growing up without discipline." Criticism can even be communicated with nothing more than a tone of voice or the curtness of a reply. Regardless of how it's delivered, it hurts, and over time those hurts begin to scar both our sense of self and our relationships.

I doubt there's a single one of us who can claim to have never criticized another, even someone we love. But, I'm becoming more aware of its effects. Though I don't usually bother with New Year resolutions, this year I decided that I need to be kinder to others, especially those I care about. I have to decide if I'm truly offering what I like to call "constructive criticism," or if I'm finding fault "just because." I also have to consider how I'm delivering the message, based on the person on the receiving end. One of my children, for example, reacts with strong emotion to what they perceive to be criticism or "being yelled at." Being yelled at, by the way, almost never involves actual yelling or raising my voice, but that's the way it's perceived. Their reaction is usually anger, followed by profound hurt. It can be a challenge to not react in the moment so that both parties aren't frustrated and saddened by the exchange.

Our relationships might be overwhelming positive and full of love, but memories of being judged or scolded leave a definite mark. For example, I remember being criticized for things as unimportant as the cleanliness of my car or the clothes I chose to wear for Ian's baptism. And criticism (whether delivered or perceived) of the big things, like our parenting skills, cut particularly deep. To be criticized or seemingly disrespected by the people we love most leaves an ugly mark on what may otherwise be a wonderful relationship.

I think I take criticism so hard because I want nothing more than to please those who are important to me: my children, husband, parents, friends, boss, etc. I take great joy in those rare occasions when I clearly impress my spouse by adding something valuable to a conversation or managing a challenging situation all by myself (I'm such a big girl!). I still tell my parents about any success I have at work or something I manage to fix at home without my dad's help. This need for approval might be a Shimer girl thing. Even my sister -- who is considerably thicker-skinned than I am -- calls home after every performance evaluation (of course her evaluations result in bonuses worth more than half my salary). Just picking a good movie provides me with a sense of fulfillment.

Two of my favorite critics.

I might be am most likely more sensitive than the average person, but the hurt I feel when on the receiving end of criticism has opened my eyes to the negative, lasting effect I can have when I am the one dishing it out. Hence, my vow to be kinder and gentler in the year to come so that no one ever tells me I'm "not a very nice person."

Heady Stuff

Given the year I'm having I shouldn't have been surprised to learn -- within 24 hours -- that both of my children have mild concussions. Abby's is the result of a tremendously impressive header in Sunday's soccer game with her travel team. (For those who don't know, a "header" is the redirection of a soccer ball with one's head.) Ian's is the result of an accident during play practice. Yes, I'm serious. Apparently he was lying on the floor (for a reason), when another actor whose vision was obscured because he was carrying someone else off stage (for a reason), stepped on Ian's head. Basically, Ian had the weight of two teenagers on his head. Obviously, that hurts. It just so happened that the high school's athletic trainer was still in his office and was able to see Ian and diagnose him with a concussion.

Five days later, Abby feels fine but won't be permitted to play soccer again until she's seen by a concussion specialist (pediatricians apparently are not qualified to evaluate these types of injuries). We couldn't get an appointment with one until Tuesday. Four days after his incident, Ian is still struggling. Or so he says. He is an actor after all. But seriously, his headaches are bad and he's experiencing occasional dizziness. I don't think he's faking it because with a concussion you're not supposed to watch television or sit in front of a computer or view anything with moving pixels. In other words, he's bored out of his mind at home and would actually prefer to be at school. He will also see the concussion specialist on Tuesday. (Unfortunately, the doctor didn't go for my "two for one" suggestion.)

Concussions are scary stuff. Did you know that the brain doesn't stop growing until about age 25, making impact that much more dangerous for children and teens? Did you know that for some reason concussions are worse for girls than they are for boys? Just a couple months ago an enlightening and disturbing piece appeared on Huffington Post. In "Why My Wife and I Pulled Our Daughter Out of Soccer" the author shares research findings which report that "girls' soccer is second only to football in terms of the number of concussions in youth and high school sports." While most soccer concussions are the result of collisions between players, or falls in which a player's head strikes the ground, what is of even greater concern is the effect of the repetitive sub-concussive hits the brain absorbs during games and practices as a result of heading.

Habitually heading soccer balls may have similar effects on the brain as the repetitive sub-concussive hits that offensive and defensive linemen receive banging heads along the line of scrimmage in football.

According to a UNC brain researcher, "Long-term (brain) damage may have less to do with the number of diagnosed concussions and perhaps more to do with the number of sub-concussive impacts to the head." The post goes on to cite other research findings and none of them paint a pretty picture. Like I said, this is scary stuff.

I confess to having trouble with the idea of Abby never playing soccer again, but I also can't imagine my incredibly bright, confident and industrious daughter not having her brain intact for the long life that's ahead of her. I can't imagine that thinking, solving and remembering could become a challenge because she played soccer throughout her formative years. While I realize that one header is not (God-willing) going to leave Abby brain damaged, I do question whether it makes sense to allow her to continue to play, even if we forbid her from heading. While I don't have the same concerns about Ian's time in the theater, I am worried about his current injury and any long-term effects it might have. When something happens to your children that could affect them for life, you quickly realize how precious their lives are and how much you love them just as they are now.

I know I'm generally not the picture image of parental love and concern, but my words today are heartfelt and serious. I'm sure if the kids were to read this, however, they'd have their doubts. I submit as evidence a conversation I had with Abby on Monday night:

Me:  I think I have a "sympathy headache" for you and Ian.

Abby: No, you don't. You're not sympathetic.

Me: [A look of shock and disbelief]

Abby: When we were little you told us that you weren't sympathetic and that "if you're not bleeding, you're fine."

Damn that kid and her long-term memory.

As Ian and Abby have grown, I've learned that the cuts, scrapes and bruises of their childhood are not, in fact, the injuries most deserving of my concern. It's the hurts they suffer on the inside -- emotionally, mentally and physically -- that demand my full attention.

Great Expectations

Earlier this year I became aware of a tween and teenage issue affecting families in what I naively thought was my perfectly insulated and innocent community. It seems "sexting" hit close to home in the families of more than one personal friend. The shock and disappointment was profound and ultimately led to our church organizing a parents' night on the topic of teens and sexuality. And yes, if you know what my church has been going through, you're seeing some irony in this. But that's beside the point.

As my friends and I discussed this disturbing trend in teen behavior, someone mentioned having read about the affects of technology on a teen's desires and proclivities. She reported that the graphic and "advanced" nature of their early exposure to sexuality results in many teens needing "more" in the way of stimulation as they grow toward adulthood. The effects of peeking at Playboy magazine or reading a young adult romance pales in comparison to what our kids are finding online and sharing with one another on their cell phones.  

I'm finding this desire for "more" to be an ongoing theme in this world in which my children live. It may be a byproduct of living in a community where most families have what they need and then some, but it's disturbingly prevalent. No longer is a cell phone acceptable; a smart phone is required (and they still don't answer when you call). A vacation to Colorado is unappreciated because "we've been to that state before." A plain old birthday party at home doesn't suffice when everyone else does something way cooler and more expensive.

Sweet 16 parties and bar/bat mitzvahs are often examples of "more." In many cases, these rite of passage events resemble mini-proms or a wedding reception. I can't speak to the bar/bat mitzvahs of my day because I never attended one until recently, but I did turn 16 a couple nearly three decades ago and these grand affairs were not the norm. I find myself wondering what happened to the good old slumber party. But then again, it's probably safer to gather all of your kids friends in a supervised location where they're less likely to be drinking and photographing their private parts to text to a friend (who then sends it to his friend, and so on). I guess my biggest concern with these first class affairs is that they're setting our kids up for disappointment years from now. What if on their 21st, 30th, and 50th birthdays there's no one to throw them a lavish private party? How can your wedding reception top your bar/bat mitzvah when twenty years earlier it was the talk of the town? If you set the standard so high so early in their lives, can we exceed those expectations for the special moments later in life?

A couple years ago I heard stories of prom date invitations that both amused and concerned me. Boys were arranging elaborate scenarios in which to pop the question, "Will you go to prom with me?" Proposals were staged involving teachers and principals. Banners were hung on the bridge that links the middle and high schools. And a member of the track team recruited his friends to run in sequence wearing specially made t-shirts that read WILL - YOU - GO - TO - PROM, followed by Romeo wearing "WITH ME?" Awe! As in awesome, right? Absolutely. I would have loved to have been proposed to that way. Oops. That's what I was afraid of. To be on the receiving end of that level of sweetness and creativity as a high school senior only sets you up for disappointment when your adult boyfriend proposes marriage by leaning across the couch during a timeout in the football game and opening a little black box. And, he probably belched at some point in this transaction. Trust me, guys get lazy once you've been together awhile. You're rarely going to find romance delivered high school style. (Side note: Rob did not propose to me on the couch during a football game. It was a baseball game. No, but seriously, he proposed to me on the side of the road. It was more romantic than it sounds.)

Lest you think I'm presenting myself as above all this excess, I can assure you that I'm not immune to the temptation to fulfill my kids' desire for more. This Christmas we're heading to Mexico for the week. Unlike Colorado, Ian and Abby haven't been there yet, so they're looking forward to it. (Just hope we can get Abby a passport in time. Damn government shutdown.) And in lieu of a Sweet 16 party, a friend and I made our daughters a deal a year ago, promising them a trip to France instead, assuming they keep up their French studies. I'm sure the party would be much less expensive, but this way I get something out of it, too.

The reality is that many parents, myself included, want to give their children more than they had. Or they want to express their love and pride in their child, regardless of the cost. Sometimes, we go overboard trying to make up for the lack of time we spend together as a family. Our hearts are in the right place when we decide to go big for our kids, I just sometimes wonder whether our heads are in on it too.

Your thoughts?

Hop On! We're Taking a Tour of Changeland

The Funkapotomus has been away on an extended vacation. I always feel better when he heads out of town (obviously). Unfortunately, the big guy's back and settled in quite nicely, occasionally hugging me so tightly I can barely breath or think.

Whenever the Funkapotomus returns I spend a good deal of time trying to figure out exactly why he's here. Rainy day? Wintertime? Fight with Rob, or the kids, or my parents, or my boss or a friend? My monthly hormonal imbalances? If I answer "no" to all of the above I begin my nearly expert process of self-diagnosis. It's better than self-medicating and considerably less expensive than seeing a professional.

I have come to the conclusion that the Funkapotomus came home at this particular time because he's relishing the significant amount of change happening in my life, practically none of which is great or even good. Allow me to take you on a guided tour of Changeland, featuring the Funkapotomus in a starring role.

For our first stop, let's visit Kim's not-so-new-anymore job. I weathered quite well the initial transition in November. Making the move after eleven years at Judson Press was surprisingly painless. But as you know, my dear colleague/boss Burt passed away in January and that saddened me tremendously. I soldiered on and the dean lifted my spirits by taking a minute to say hello to me in the mornings. But now they've gone and replaced Burt. The new gentleman started a couple weeks ago and by all appearances he's a good guy. He says the right things, does the right things, treats his staff the right way. I think it's the staff part that's causing me to be childish bothering me. I'm not used to being "supervised" by someone ten years younger than me. Actually, I'm not accustomed to being supervised at all. And if I am going to work for someone, I want it to be Burt. I miss him. And it doesn't help that the dean stopped saying hello to me. I guess hellos are reserved for his direct reports.

We're now moving out of Career World toward our second stop -- Parenthood. A considerably more complex site on our tour. Simply put, I'm becoming painfully aware that my children don't really want me involved in their lives anymore. They still need me to drive them places, but that's about it. Heck, Abby can make her own meals, go grocery shopping, and do her laundry, rendering me almost completely obsolete. Being sad about this is terribly ironic given that I spent the first ten five few years of their lives wishing they didn't need me so damn much. It's not that I've had a change of heart and really want to do stuff for my kids, it's more that I want to be needed and loved and then free to decline all demands and requests they make of me. Kinda the way I want to be invited to parties, but don't actually want to go.

Now, let's pay a visit to Friendville. This year I watched as my childrens' relationships evolved and in some cases dissolved. Over the past year I too have seen a number of my friendships change. Some have become stronger and more fulfilling, while others have faded or been strained by forces left unspoken. Never an easy thing, no matter how old you are.

And speaking of age, like it or not, we have to take a moment for Grown Up Stuff. My parents, my friends' parents, and my aunts and uncles are all getting older (as if the rest of us are standing still). This means we're increasingly dealing with loss. My Aunt Faify passed last month. My friend Amy's father died in June. And my Aunt Glenna only has a short time left.as she battles leukemia. In the years ahead loss is going to become way too familiar. I know it's inevitable, but it still weighs on me. I'm not in the slightest bit prepared to lose my parents.

Let's make Media Presbyterian Church the fifth and final stop on our tour. Formerly a place of comfort, fellowship and strength, my church has become a source of division, stress and disappointment. For those of you who aren't experiencing hell's arrival in your place of worship, let me tell you it sucks. Our senior pastor resigned after it was discovered he had been (and is still) in a relationship with a former coworker while she was employed by the church. (And no, it's not our awesome former children's director, Cara.) His behavior is in direct violation of the Presbyterian Church's Book of Order. And yes, I've only shared the Reader's Digest condensed version with you, partly because it's not proper to air what is actually years worth of dirty laundry, but mostly because I don't want to be sued for libel. Let's just say I feel like Dorothy, seeing the great and powerful Oz behind the curtain. It's been heartbreaking and emotionally and physically exhausting, and I've been bitterly disappointed not only in my pastor but in those whose responsibility it is (as church elders) to make important decisions related to this difficult situation. Even though I'm certain we'll survive this turbulent time, a strong, loving church -- your place of refuge -- is last place you want to see change.

This concludes our tour of Changeland.  I hope you've enjoyed the whine. Please watch the tram car and carefully exit through the gift shop. Come back soon!

Ack! Young Love

All you do, don't tell Abby I'm writing about her. She's not on Facebook and doesn't really care enough about what I'm thinking to check out my blog on her own, so I think I'm safe as long as you don't blab. I'm writing about Abby for two reasons: 1) She's apparently set a new record; and 2) I can't think of anything else to write about.

If you know Abby, you're probably not surprised to hear that she set a record. You may be wondering if it's related to baking, duct tape design, clarinet, hula  hooping, soccer, softball or math. What you probably would never have guessed is that she has apparently broken the middle school record for the longest sixth grade relationship. Yep, you read that right. If you're surprised, imagine how her poor mother felt when she learned four five months ago that Abby has a boyfriend. Just weeks prior to this great reveal (thanks to her brother, of course), I had told a fellow mom that Abby was not in to boys. In fact I'm pretty sure I said something like "I don't think she even knows they exist." Yep, I was that mom. The clueless one saying "My kid would never..." Next thing you know I'll find out Ian's given up computer games in order to take on yard work.  

The good news is that I know Abby's "boyfriend." In fact, they met in church, like all 12-year-old couples should. And did I mention his mom is one of my best friends? And that she isn't shy about "checking on things?"  If she can't find out anything by snooping, she'll actually talk to her son to find out where things stand. In other words, "Are you and Abby still a couple? Have you kissed?" They haven't. That's what we're told and that's what we choose to believe. From all indications, sixth grade dating seems to consist of text messaging, instagram and holding hands while walking around the school track at lunchtime. There's very little talking and even less actual time spent in one another's company. Hence the success of their relationship.

So my Abby has a boyfriend. This explains a lot about the increased frequency with which she showers and brushes her hair. She hasn't changed how she dresses, however, (t-shirts and shorts), but I guess that look works for her. "I'm an athlete mom, not some girly girl," she explains. Point taken. While I'm totally relieved okay with the improvement in her personal hygiene, there's one change in my near-teenage daughter that I can tell is going to cause me great angst for the next five-plus years: her complete lack of interest in sharing anything personal with me.

How did a woman like me who shares everything with everybody, end up with a daughter who doesn't want to tell me squat? When I try to talk to her, I get one word responses that provide me with just enough information to consider the question answered. No attitude or sneering or complete silence involved, but absolutely no details either. For example, when I ask whether she and the boyfriend remain a couple, I get (with no eye contact whatsoever) "Mm hmm." When I suggest she might want to talk to me about him she responds with, "What do you want me to say? You already know him." It's quite clear that Abby will volunteer nothing over the next five-plus years, which means I better figure out the right questions to ask.

Upon further reflection, I should have expected this.

The Christmas when Abby was nine-years-old, I gave her a copy of the popular American Girl book, The Care and Keeping of You. This book offers a way out for those of us who don't want to have this conversation an ideal starting place for the mom/daughter conversation about changing bodies. It covers everything from deodorant and haircare to breasts and periods to friendship and healthy eating. When Abby received the book, I recall a grimace after which it was promptly forgotten. Or so I thought. The next day I suggested to Abby that we talk about it. From there, the conversation went something like this:

"I've already read it."

"All of it?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh. What did you think?" 

"I really didn't need to know all that."

We never did talk about that book. Thank goodness for 5th grade health class or Abby might find herself asking the boy at the bus stop what a period is when she gets to that place in Are You There God, It's Me Margaret? Yes, I did.

So what's a mother to do with a daughter like Abby? Do I force the conversations knowing she'll avoid eye contact and shuffle her feet and behave as though I'm holding her against her will? Do I hope she's got it all figured out and that her friends are providing her with reliable information? (That was a joke.) Do I try to explain that "You don't really 'love him so much.' Here's what love is...?" (Good luck with that.) Do I ask our youth minister to speak to them, warning that God will strike them down should they ever lay a finger on each other?" (Seems like a good time for the scary version of God.)

I know, I know. You're reading this and admonishing me to talk to her, regardless of my her discomfort. Okay. You're right. I know you're right. I'm going to get right on it.

I just think it's prudent to give it another month to see if they're still a couple. These sixth grade relationships generally don't last very long.