Notes from the Homefront

Letter to the young mom in church

2011-11-13T19:15:00.002-05:00

Dear Mommy-in-the-next-pew,

You don’t know me, but I know you. I recognize the look of exhaustion on your face as you juggled young children, a bottle, a pacifier, and a quest for an hour of worship. I’m familiar with the tone in your frustrated voice when you whispered to your husband, “Please take one of them.”

I know the expression that fears the judgment of other worshippers around you, afraid we will see misbehaving children. You are worried we will see parents who can’t control their young ones.

But as the mom who sat in her childless pew behind you, let me tell you what I really did see:
I saw joy in the sweet faces looking back for a quick game of peek-a-boo.
I saw pride in the older ones attempting to mimic your moves and care for the littlest one.
I saw curiosity as their young eyes turned to you taking in your every move.
I saw peace as they reached for you, to be held secure in your arms, their tiny heads nestled in the nook of your neck.
I saw a precious reflection of my own little ones, now so grown.

But what I saw the most was a mom and dad setting a significant example for their young children about the importance of worshipping even when it seems so far from easy, or even remotely holy.

And trust me, young mom in the next pew, the day will come way too soon when you will be sitting in a childless pew, no sticky hands poking you, no fussy ones distracting you, and you will see little ones close by, and your heart will hurt a little for the way the world spins so quickly. You will play a quick game of peek-a-boo with them, and smile as you realize you sometimes miss those crazy, exhausting days.

Then, you, too, will fight the urge to tell that young mom, “You don’t know me, but I know you.”
Or maybe you will write her a letter.

For Cody

2011-08-06T19:41:00.009-04:00

Maybe it was the pet carrier he was riding in, but I couldn’t help but to think of another time so long ago. After not eating for a couple of days, and a painful walking gate, we were on our way to the vet hospital.
Suddenly, I remembered each of the four kids gathered by the window waiting for daddy to pull up with our new puppy: our Cody. Arguments over who would first get to hold him quickly abated when the puppy arrived with what appeared to be nervous puppy intestines. Our little white fur-ball was not so white when he made his debut.
Upon immediately giving him a bath and swaddling him in a soft towel, I wondered if he knew he was now at home. He closed his eyes and I swear he smiled.
I think he knew.
And now thirteen years and so many baths and swaddles and smiles later, he was in that carrier being uncharacteristically sedate. My mother-heart that understands the difference between children and pets, couldn’t help but hurt for this little guy who believes himself to be my fifth child. The doctor diagnosed arthritis and prescribed medicine and sent us home. I was happy we were on the right track, but sadness crept in the back of my mind.
I think I knew.
A few days went by. He ate too little and limped too much. I noticed he followed us everywhere, not letting us out of his sight. He seemed to be taking it all in as long as he could.
I think he knew.
A week after the original vet visit, I returned with a weaker dog who refused to eat or take any medicine. X-rays revealed the real culprit: bone cancer. Upon finding it had aggressively spread to his lungs, the vet this time sent us home with a few days' supply of Morphine, telling us there was nothing else to do but try to keep him comfortable, love him… and say goodbye. But she didn’t really have to tell me that.
I think I knew.
Too soon it was time. And as we waited, waited, and waited for the beginning of the end to begin, I watched as my tearful daughter held my trembling dog and I fought the urge to hold them both in my arms and make it all go away.
It was time for the I.V. to be placed in the paw of his now 12-pound body. Then, I held him as the injection began. Within seconds he was at peace for the first time in a long time. No more trembling. No more pain. No more cancer.
No more Cody.
And as I held him, the precious family memories of which he is so entwined raced through my mind: the Christmas we told the kids we were finally getting a puppy; the walks, the games, the days, the nights. Remembered photographs of holidays and birthdays flashed before me. But even more than that, so many memories not photographed because they seemed so unimportant, but at moments like these, become so important, all played like a slow motion slide show in my mind.
And I think I knew.
I always understood that Cody wasn’t really my fifth child. I recognized he was our pet. But more than that, he was such a vital part of our family dynamic. He was both devotedly loving and devotedly loved. He belonged to us. We belonged to him. We’re family.
As I looked down at the eternally sleeping dog in my arms, through my own tears I swear he smiled.
I think he knew.

What's in a name?

2011-06-12T00:01:00.004-04:00

Eighteen years ago, above the swish-shish of the ultra sound machine, I heard the doctor announce, “Without a doubt, this one’s a boy.” Soon I was blinking back tears of joy which spilled into worries of how much pink in our existing nursery needed to be replaced with a cute hue of blue. Then, after dismissing the nursery rhyme line of “snakes and snails and puppy dog tails,” I finally allowed myself the precious pontification, “What will we call him?”
There is something so monumental about assigning a child a name that will be his calling card, his introduction, his label of who he is for the rest of his life. Having had two other babies in five years, we, of course had some boys’ names as back-up just in case. But at the moment when it wasn’t just a possibility he would be a boy, but a fact he was, choosing a name took on even more responsibility.
As a teacher, several names that had been favorites over the years often became unflatteringly attached to the mannerisms of another child who also just happened to answer to the once favored name. That shortened the possible-name-list a bit. And having had a Megan and a Katelyn, we needed a brother’s name that sounded like it could be said in the same breath as the others. “Megan, Katelyn, Frank—time to eat!” just didn’t sound natural.
So it was, we came up with a name. The baby books said it was Irish which went well with his sisters. They also said it meant “Little King” which sounded like a name that should certainly lead a child to a life of confidence and success.
And soon after, our “Little King” was born and we removed the “Baby Boy Bundy” sign and christened him “Ryan”. Not long after that, he would assume the alternate titles of grandson, nephew, baby brother, big brother, and “little Brad”.
Over the years he would also answer to “Ry”, “Ry-guy”, “Bundy” and, at the age of 9, after mistakenly climbing into the Tasmanian devil’s pit at the zoo (and hurriedly climbing out) he became known as “Taz-Bundy”.
Later, he’d grow into other names. By his own efforts, he has been referred to as friend, volunteer, fan, student, musician and athlete. In sports he’s been numbers 14, 34, 1, and for the last four years, 2.
Still today, he has earned yet another name: “Graduate”. And as he prepares to leave Wyoming High School and walk his path to Miami University and the endless stage of the world, I can’t help but to marvel at the amazing young man he has become and how much he has blessed my life from that first moment of the tell-tale swish-shish of the ultra sound machine. It’s then I realize that of all the names, nicknames, and monikers he has had over the years and will have in the future, there is one of his titles that fills my heart, meaning the most to me: “Son”.

On turning 50

2011-04-07T22:07:00.002-04:00

Standing at the dawn of my second half-century of life, the words of Mother Superior echo in my head. No, I’m not considering joining a convent and picking up a new habit, but I am hearing a song over and over. The song is “Climb Every Mountain” from The Sound of Music because I’m coming to realize that’s what it’s been about for my first fifty years.

Over the years I have climbed mountains: Education mountains. Marriage mountains. Parenting mountians. Career Mountains. Some have assured me after days or weeks or years of climbing, that I have indeed, climbed the right mountain. And yet, my victory dance of completion is always interrupted by a metaphorical sign that tells me, “But wait… there’s more…keeping climbing.”

Still others, have been in vain; a realization I find only after laboring away for long periods of time to find it was the wrong mountain --- the sign this time tells me the mountain I have spent my time on wasn’t my mountain at all.

Of course, there have been mountains in my life where I have begun to climb, but backed down. Tired, discouraged, distracted, bored, there were many excuses I found for ending the climbs prematurely. But today, they still remain mysteries to me –my what ifs, would-a beens, could-a-beens and should-a-beens.

There’s something about a milestone birthday that calls us to reflect on where we’ve been and where we are going. There’s also something about it that forces us to acknowledge we are getting old. Would I like to look younger? Sure. Would I like to see better, move better, remember better? Okay, I’ll give you that. But would I like to be younger? Absolutely not. Because being younger would mean taking away the experience of one of those mountains I spent my time climbing. Even the ones that didn’t turn out to be meant for me, taught me something along the way. And the ones that were mine to climb? Which one would I give up? I can’t part with any of them. They are mine. They are my yesterdays that guided me into my today that point me to my tomorrow.

So I kick off my next 50 years, grateful for the steps I took before and excited for the steps to come. I pray for the strength to keep climbing and the discernment to pick the right mountains. Of course, these days I also pray for some soft spots to rest along the way; and when I get to the top, I’m hoping those metaphorical signs will be in large, bold print. But whatever my next years hold for me, I never want to stop climbing those mountains. Who knows? I might also start fording streams and following rainbows. There’s no guarantee I’ll find my dream, but it’s a chance of a lifetime to try.

I am a teacher

2011-03-05T18:21:00.003-05:00

I am a teacher. And as a teacher, Senate Bill 5 has brought something to my attention that both surprises me and saddens me. It’s probably not what you might assume. Yes, the potential to lose up to $20,000 of my salary is enough to make me sad. What’s more, losing benefits is never good to hear. Also, merit-based pay that would only work if all students were equal and all tests were fair, is definitely frightening to me.

But what surprises me and saddens me the most about Senate Bill 5 is the response against teachers it has revealed. Every article or debate discussing either side of this issue soon becomes flooded with vitriolic comments that paint teachers as lazy elitists who seem to only care about their tenure and summer vacations. When did this happen?

In the twenty-eight years since I became a teacher, I cannot think of one teacher who went into the field to make money. We all knew that was not an incentive. Still, we were drawn to a career that placed us directly in the lives of our students --the future of our nation. There used to be an honor, an understood respect in being able to say, “I am a teacher”.

True, the state of education is in a state of chaos. You don’t have to point that out to any teacher. We’re at the front lines of this battle. We know. But, assuming this dire state is because teachers aren’t doing their jobs, is like assuming the ongoing war in Iraq is due to the soldiers overseas not doing their jobs. No one would dare put that blame on our brave soldiers’ shoulders. We are quick to point out there are many other factors out of their control. Instead of blame, we look for ways to support them in their battle. Why the opposite for teachers who battle to educate our future?

Are there bad teachers out there? Certainly. Is that what causes such a negative reaction when this topic comes up? Maybe. Perhaps some people simply remember the one teacher they had who never should have become a teacher at all, and forget all the wonderful teachers who helped shape them into who they are today. Believe me, though, the bad teachers are the exception. Instead, the field of education is saturated with wonderful, caring teachers who give way beyond their 180 days of contracted service to ensure that each child has a chance to succeed.

If Senate Bill 5 passes, stripping wonderful teachers of pay and benefits, and strapping their merit to ridiculous standardized tests approved by those who have never been in a classroom, many great teachers will be forced to leave the profession they love. And many great teachers-to-be will be forced to choose other fields. In the meantime, we teachers will continue to do our jobs amidst growing frustration, disrespect, and uncertainty.

Because we are proud of who we are. We are teachers.

Blink

2010-08-25T19:57:00.003-04:00

Hello, my little one!
Welcome to my world.
Your first breaths
become my last
breaths I ever breathe
without thinking of you.
And as you lie upon my chest
nestled close to my heart,
I wonder what being a mommy will hold
as I smile and breathe in your delicious baby smell
and promise not to blink.

But I must have….

Because now you are learning to walk
One toddler foot in front of another
Your dancing eyes lock on mine
determination oozing from your beaming smile.
You can do it…you can do it.
And you do
as I smile and breathe in your delightful giggle
and promise not to blink.

But I must have…

Because now you are trying to ride a bike
Wobbling, weaving, zigging and zagging.
Slowly, my steadying hand
becomes less necessary.
You can do it…you can do it.
And you do.
as I smile and breathe in your exhilarating joy.
And promise not to blink

But I must have…

Because now you are entering
Kindergarten…
First grade…
Middle School…
High School…
College…
You can do it… you can do it
And you do.
As I smile and breathe in the wonder of the woman
standing next to me.
preparing for life on her own
miles and miles away from home
yet still so close to my heart.
Wondering what waits for you now,
I must remind myself to breathe.
I can do it….I can do it.

“Welcome to your world, my little one.
Take a deep breath
…and promise me you won’t blink.”

Excellence

2010-05-25T19:53:00.000-04:00

Some moments wrap so tightly around me, I have no choice but to write them down. So it was with the May morning breeze cooling off an otherwise overheated week, that I glanced around the fields of Colerain High School at the mixture of teens and teachers and had to smile.
A week earlier, we finally received the results of the test that holds our students’ sophomore year hostage. Thankfully our banner can stay –we are excellent once again.
Now it was time for our OGT party.
And amid donuts and Deejays, the teenagers mingled among their teachers while the tunes of country, pop, and hip-hip hugged the air.
And that’s when I smiled.
As a Sophomore English teacher I understand the importance of the Ohio Graduation Test. I get the significance it can hold for my students as well as my district. Still, sometimes as much as we try to make the necessary information palatable, it seems we teachers must spend months cramming test answers down our students’ throats instead of feeding them morsels of knowledge to whet their academic appetites.
And perhaps it was this fact combined with the juxtaposition of the mild mini moment of the party coupled with the intenseness of the end of the year academic demands, and the worry of piling up papers to grade, that made me stop and take notice. But when I looked out and saw teachers and students laughing, bouncing soccer balls, hula-hooping and just sharing this time together, I had an “aha!” moment.
For, standing before me were not test scores and statistics.
No, standing before me were the adults and teenagers I had worked closely with to get as many across the finish line as possible. Sadly, some students remain shy of the goal, while, happily, others have flown past any preconceived success estimation. But that day we celebrated the coordinated effort of so many individuals working together, culminating in just having fun together.
And as I was competing in my own hula-hoop contest with one of my students, she giggled at me and said, “Mrs. Bundy, when I’m a senior and look back –this is going to one of my best memories from high school.”
Now, that is an excellent rating that beats any banner or ribbon anywhere.

Judgement Day

2010-01-25T19:48:00.000-05:00

At the end of the seventeen hour journey, the trophy proclaiming second runner-up was positioned next to the Grand Champion trophy. Although the smaller award was admittedly dwarfed in the shadow of the previous week's impressive prize, it represented something mere size can't measure.
The high school Show Choir met at 7 a.m. on that Saturday to travel to their destination in another state for an all-day competition that culminated months of practicing everything from singing and dancing, to presentation and production, to articulation and attitude. Coming off the grand champion victory of the previous week, the teen's spirits were high. They walked into the venue with a confidence that belongs to champions.
Unfortunately, the wheel of good fortune spun that day and landed on the judges proclaiming them third place in the preliminaries. And for a while this affected the way they saw themselves. They were the same award-winning, awe-inspiring, talented kids that walked into that competition. It's just they stopped believing that's who they were the moment someone else deemed them less deserving than the best. The performers had forgotten that others can judge us, but they can't define us.
The teens themselves had not changed. Perhaps this week, a pose wasn't held long enough, or a note went sharp, but that didn't change the definition of who those teenagers were.
At last by the finals, they finally seemed to realize this. They didn’t give up. They regrouped and reclaimed their winning spirit. This goose-bump-inducing performance would leave the audience recognizing beyond a doubt that they were winners. Receiving the second runner-up trophy didn't change the triumphant definition of who they were in the least. In some ways it represented the heart of a champion even more than the colossal trophy of the week before. True, we all like coming in first. Winning is good. And we certainly need to encourage our children to strive to be the best they can be, not settling for less than we know they are capable of. But when we allow those judging us to have the power to define us, we lose sight of who we are and who God intended us to be.
After all, He is the one who originally defined each of us and ultimately is the only one whose judgment actually matters at all.

Lessons Learn from Haiti

2010-01-15T19:37:00.002-05:00

Things we learned about Haiti this week:
• It makes up one-third of the second largest island in the Caribbean.
• The capital is Port-au-Prince.
• Haiti is one of poorest countries in the Western hemisphere.
• 80% of its residents live in poverty. Things we learned about earthquakes this week:
• The largest recorded earthquake in the world was 9.5 on the Richter scale in Chile in 1960.
• Haiti’s quake rocked their world with a 7.0 .

Things we learned about people this week:
• They are resilient: The Haitian people, while waiting for help to come, began their own rescue missions. This often resulted in heroes, battered, bruised, and barefoot, frantically digging with bare hands to try to find a sign of life buried under layers and layers of crushed buildings.
• They want to help: The spirit of help began to formulate around the world even before the last tremor of the quake was felt. Churches, schools, charities and individuals began to collect money, canned goods, water, and various personal items in hopes of somehow sending a bit of a band aid to a country with such a horrific gapping wound.

Things we learned about God this week:
• He uses it all: Strength can be found in weakness. Hope can be found in despair. Joy can be found in suffering.

And now that we know all we know, what we decide to do with this information will help determine the answer to another question: “What did God learn about us this week?”

A Minivan Named Gratitude

2009-08-05T17:15:00.004-04:00

In A Streetcar Named Desire, Blanche Dubois utters the famous line, “I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.”
Today, I know exactly how she feels.
It all began with a two hour drive to Indiana so my son and daughter could fulfill one of their dreams: seats in the fifth row of a Dave Matthews Band concert.
Just shy of our destination outside of Indianapolis, people in other cars started honking, waving and pointing to us. Realizing they were probably not expressing their deep admiration for my eight year old minivan, my kids pointed out that they seemed to be pointing to my tire. Upon pulling over, it was easy to see the flat tire was about as useless as my knowledge of fixing it.
Buying air from a gas station pump (who said air is free?), I managed to buy a little more time and get the kids to their concert venue. Then, I set out to figure out where on earth my spare tire actually was, and what on earth I would do with it, once I found it.
Within minutes, the newly replaced air was hissing out of my tire. Finally finding my way to another gas station, my hopes became as deflated as my tire when I realized that gas station didn’t even have an air pump.
At this point, I had a flat tire 120 miles from home, by myself, at 6:00 on a Saturday night. And of course, just to complete the mood, it started to rain.
That’s when I uttered a prayer –admittedly more of a complaint than a petition. “Lord, You have to help me here –I have no idea what to do.”
And then, just shy of a chorus of angels singing harmonies in my head, directly across the street, I saw a muffler shop with an open garage door.
Approaching the garage, I noticed they had closed an hour earlier, but three grease covered mechanics were still inside working.
Playing the damsel in distress more than I really wanted to, I interrupted them, hoping one might at least know where the allusive spare tire was on a Honda Odyssey minivan.
When all was said and done, they not only knew where the tire was, but without hesitating, they also put the van on their car rack and changed the tire for me. All of this was more than an hour after they had closed on a Saturday night.
Overcome with gratitude I choked back tears as I asked how much I owed them.
“Don’t worry about it, Ma’am,” the young mechanic replied.
Once back in my van, I allowed the tears to flow as I thanked God for the kindness of strangers, and all the angels he sends into our lives –especially the strangers who are angels who are sometimes covered in grease.

Megan's Rainbow

2009-07-21T21:28:00.003-04:00

Some life moments wash over us as if they were scripted by Hollywood. The time is so intense we are certain that at any instant we might hear a director yelling, “Cue the music!” as the dramatic scene plays out before us.

Thus, I was waiting for the swell of the soundtrack of my life to begin playing last night while on a walk with my first born.

Her suitcase was waiting by the door.

Her passport was waiting in her purse.

Her future was waiting around the corner.

This was the night before she was to leave for Guatemala as part of a program to help Guatemalan women find life skills and careers that will keep them from being at the mercy of others. It’s a wonderful program–--one I fully believe in ---–for other people’s daughters. For my daughter, after she graduated from college, I was thinking more along the lines of a job within fifteen minutes of home, one she could drive to and from in an armored vehicle, with or without an escort from the National Guard. So it was, this detour from the life-bubble I wanted to keep her in was smacking me in the face while we walked on the eve of her endeavor.

It was an unseasonably cool summer night. The light mist of rain was a perfect setting for the mood I was wallowing in. We walked and talked and I hugged her as much as I could.

As we arrived back to where we began, we sat for a moment on the front porch, looking out at the cloud covered horizon. She indulged me as I blabbered on about how quickly the years had gone ---how proud I was of her –how hard letting go sometimes is.

And then, just as the misting rain was watering my wallowing, a ray of sun squeaked through the dusk sky. “Look,” my daughter pointed at what the ray had brought us.

There, right above us, was a rainbow. And at that moment I felt a blanket of comfort covering me, reassuring me, reminding me.

When my first born was a baby, her daddy used to sing her a song that became her theme song. The refrain is:

“Look, look, look to the rainbow

Follow it over the hills and streams

Look, look, look to the rainbow

Follow the fellow who follows a dream”.

As I remembered those words of her song, I realized that is exactly what she is doing ---following her rainbow –following her dream.

And if a director were to be shooting that scene of my life, he would have at that moment yelled, “Cue the music.” And the scene would fade with my arms lovingly wrapped around my baby girl.

For at least a few more minutes.

Tammy's Tat

2009-07-14T21:45:00.005-04:00

“Maybe one day you can write an article about it and tell me why you did it,” teased my father-in-law as he heard of my absolutely uncharacteristic “indiscretion” of the weekend before.
And as I now pivot my head to look in the full-length mirror, the reflection of my no-longer bare back takes me aback for just a moment.
A tattoo? Who-da- thunk it?
Yes, the weekend involved a college campus and a bit of peer pressure. But I swear no alcohol was involved.
I was attending a weekend workshop as part of my Masters’ classes at Miami University. The day marked the last day that my two daughters and I would all be students at Miami at the same time. With my oldest graduating the next month, the day was all the more sweet due to its significance.
“We need to do something big today,” one of my girls suggested. After a varying degree of propositions that took more time, money or nerve than I had that day, they both agreed on the best memory maker for us.
“You need to get the tattoo today.”
A few months earlier, when my younger daughter started at the same university as her sister, they decided to get matching tattoos. Their selection was a Celtic cross –the cross with the circle in the middle. When they unveiled this decision and tattoo to me for the first time, I have to admit it was a bit concerning to see the backs that I had rubbed with sunscreen all those years to protect from any permanent marks, now forever marked with a symbol. Still, I admit the idea of the symbol was intriguing. The cross of course, represents our faith; the circle of the cross, a symbol of eternal love. I actually thought it was a pretty nice tattoo for my daughters to share. When I mentioned it was, indeed, a nice bond, they suggested I join them in the bond. And I laughed at the impossibility of it all.
But somehow it didn’t seem so impossible when my daughters reminded me of their suggestion that day at Miami. Standing there with my two girls each now a young woman, on her own verge of the rest of her life, I wanted to freeze the moment. So I said yes.
And as I sat in the tattoo parlor in Oxford I could not stop smiling a ridiculously goofy smile at the strange scenario I was witnessing but could not fathom. This was a piece of my life’s puzzle you could never have told me would fit in with the other pieces of the last 48 years. It was so not me. And yet, knowing my girls wanted me to share in their bond, made me want to share in getting a tattoo I never would have imagined.
And as I stare at my back today, I think about writing that article to explain to my father-in-law and others why I did such a thing that is so different than anything else I have ever done. But maybe that is also part of the reason I did it.
Coloring inside the lines, thinking inside the box, doing the expected, is stable and decent and good. And that is pretty much how I have lived my life. I have prided myself in being dependable and therefore, pretty predictable. But there is something so liberating about getting older and waking up one day to realize you don’t need the approval of everyone after all. You have reached a beautiful zenith of life when you embrace the idea that you just don’t need to explain everything anymore.
So part of me was tempted to write that article explaining why I got my Celtic cross tattoo; but the other part of me doesn’t want to write it, because after 48 years, I finally know that I understand. And that’s enough.

Reflections

2009-07-08T10:31:00.002-04:00

Holidays when the kids are little have their own way of grabbing your attention as if in a face-hold and not allowing you a single thought until the moment is over. With those early years and the overwhelming need to protect, entertain, and feed our children, the reflective thoughts about the moment get put on the backburner for one day when you might actually entertain a free thought.
That day is today for me.
With my oldest now just graduated from college and my youngest in middle school, the days are full of busy-ness –but the time between the moments allow me to actually have a thought and process it.
This is what I reflected on while watching the 4th of July fireworks reflect from my rearview mirror this year.
Gone are the fourth of July days of preparing a bicycle for that early morning parade. No more purchases of crepe paper and mini flags to adorn a tricycle that will end up not being ridden when the little one decides he wants to be carried for the mile walk. No more packing a suitcase full of toys, snacks and mosquito repellent to take along for the waiting of the evening fireworks display.
This fourth of July had most in the family going their separate ways. Then as night began to fall, in anticipation of the fireworks, my son asked for a ride for him and his friends to go to the display. After dropping them off, I pulled over on the side of the road to watch the fireworks from my car.
At that moment it was the independence of my children I was reflecting on more than the independence of my country. But that night with every beautiful burst of light shooting across the sky, I started to believe the fireworks were symbolic of that precious thing called childhood.
With a burst of beauty, it all begins. At times loud, but always exciting, it has your full attention. You swear you will never take it for granted. But somehow you do. Then, when you think you have seen it all, something surprises you that takes your breath away, once again. Sometimes you think it’s preparing for the finale, but before you know it, you are given a little bit more. And a little bit more.
And then you start to kid yourself and pretend it will never end. But the fireworks and childhood always seem to end before you are completely ready to admit it’s time.

Champions

2009-06-23T20:35:00.002-04:00

The first definition my dictionary uses to define the word champion is: “Anything that takes first place in a competition”. After last weekend, I might argue that one.
My 13 year-old son’s baseball team, the Grinders, headed off for an overnight tournament. This was the first full-fledged-travel-four-hours-and-stay-in-a-hotel kind of tournament. The boys were in the big time now and they knew it. Spirits were high. Unfortunately, right before the first game, my son admitted his shoulder had been hurting since baseball camp earlier in the week. The motion of throwing a ball caused him to grimace in pain. Now, I don’t know a lot about baseball, but I do know that the motion of throwing a ball is fairly important to the game. He didn’t want to let his team down, but he knew he could only bat, not field for the weekend. The tournament began as the games were played; my son’s team managed to win both games on the first day. Heads were held high –spirits remained higher.
On the next day of the tournament, the Grinders started looking a bit grinded up. One player’s back had a muscle strain; one, just off crutches, had a swollen hand; another, a broken toe, a possible broken finger and broken glasses; yet another, something wrong with his foot. But still, they played. They pulled together, they encouraged each other. The boys were obviously hurting but they continued to play baseball. By the last game, my son had to field with his sore arm since the boy with the possible broken finger, who finished the game before, could not even begin to grip the bat now–and the team would have to forfeit if they couldn’t field nine players. So my son went on the field. The young boy with the back problem, needed to bat, even though he was quite certain he couldn’t run if he hit the ball. So he went on the field. And on it continued. Battered boys with bats hanging in there, playing ball, encouraging each other to keep on going. It may not have been pretty. But it seemed pretty wonderful.
According to the first definition in my dictionary, the Grinders were not the champions of the tournament.

They did not take first place.

Or even second.

But looking further down the list of definitions, the dictionary offers that a champion is also “a fighter or warrior”.
And there is not one person at that tournament who could deny that definition to the unrelenting team that seemed to have something wrong with every body part --- except their heart.

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-18T20:37:00.002-04:00

“You look nice. Have a good day.”
And thus began a typical day for me.
It was the ‘70’s, I was on my way to school, and my dad was driving.
Fathers of this time were of a different generation. Their sole concern was that there was enough money to clothe the family, feed the family and educate the family. It was the mother’s job to raise the family.
My dad was not into reading books to pontificate parenting practices. Dads of this time were just in their kids’ lives –they didn’t worry about all that “bonding stuff” we worry about today.
For this reason, I enjoyed my rides to school with my daddy. Having him and his full attention to myself was a treat. And everyday it was the same routine. As we pulled into the school, I would kiss him on the cheek, at which point he would say the lines I had grown to expect, “You look nice. Have a good day.” And, I would exit the car, ready to start my day, full of the knowledge that my daddy thought I looked nice.
This routine remained unchanged for years, with the small exception of when I started Jr. High School. This was the time I informed him I was going to kiss him goodbye while he was still driving, before we actually got to school. This, of course, was due to my adolescent anxiety, fueled by the fear my classmates might realize I actually had parents, and heaven forbid, even liked them.
And he humored me and continued to reply those edifying words.
It was such a simple thing, but I am certain from that original exchange, blossomed a belief I was worth something. Years later, before I found my prince, while shuffling through many frogs, I remember on more than one occasion being displeased with something one of my dates might have said. The first thought to pop into my head was always, “My dad wouldn’t treat me that way.”
How true it is, that the first man in a little girl’s life is her daddy.
So, this year for Father’s Day, I know just what I’ll do. I am going to go right up to my dad and proudly say, “You look nice. Have a good day.” And then I will kiss him on the cheek.
No matter who is watching.

Someone's child

2009-06-04T16:34:00.002-04:00

In three month’s time, three friends have lost a parent.
Somehow, that expression has always seemed strange to me as it seems better used to describe a child losing a parent in a crowd, panicking and crying for a minute and then finding them again. When we refer to the death of a loved one as losing that loved one, it negates the permanency of the situation. The implication of losing something is that it might ultimately be found. But in death, the loved one is not returning. And as much we can find comfort in our faith and rejoice in the promises of heaven of one day being together again, the death of a parent is one of those life moments you deny will ever happen even as a part of you understands it eventually will.
Because no matter how old you are, you are the child and they are the parent. Our words for them may change over the years. Da-da and Ma-ma become Mommy and Daddy which ultimately might morph into mom and dad, or mother and father. But while labels change, the role they play in our lives never completely changes.
We are their child.
Someone’s son.
Someone’s daughter.
We are someone’s child.
True, the rest of the world might recognize us as full-grown, competent adults, perhaps even answering to the labels of mom or dad ourselves; but to somebody somewhere, we are the child, the one they care for and love with an unconditional love. They’re our parents.
No matter how imperfect we are –or how imperfect our parents are--- there is a love that’s a love that forever defines what love is for us. There is a connection that connects us beyond genetic make-up and hereditary traits.
Maybe that’s it: we’ve always known we’ve had our mom or dad’s eyes, nose, mouth –but as we get older we come to realize we also have something so much more meaningful –we have their heart. And that is something we never lose.
Even after they’re gone.

Sweet 16

2009-05-24T15:55:00.003-04:00

A déjà vu moment washed over me as I sat on my front porch, the day of my son's 16th birthday.
Sweet 16 --- that magical day when the world collectively nods and confirms you are, indeed, growing up. Everything that 15 isn't ---16 is. My son’s birthday was one of those early spring days where the sun that had been hidden for too long finally shines with a brightness that seems to apologize for having held back. After I retrieved the mail on this day, the desire to soak in the sun beckoned me to sit for awhile.
Squinting as my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I caught sight of some elementary students on their walk home. The bounce in their steps made me smile with the memory it induced. Perhaps it was due to the special day, but my mind immediately landed on my birthday boy, to the time when he first informed me he could walk home on his own so many years earlier. For awhile after that declaration, I’d again sit on the porch after school waiting for him. Soon I would see him rounding the corner with a determined, confident gait. His young face would light up with an undeniable joy that only little ones allow to come over their faces upon seeing their parents. A few steps closer to home, he would break into a run, ending in a hug that would come close to knocking me down.
Too soon the preciousness of those days slipped away, giving way to after school sports practices, going to friends’ houses, and of course, simply knowing it's not cool to run into the waiting arms of your mother. And soon, a simple test will change the bounce of his step on the sidewalk to the hum of his engine in the driveway.
As I sat on my porch realizing how quickly the years are going, I could feel the pace of the world lapping at my heels. Still, I refuse to speed up. As a matter of fact, I resolve to try to slow down. Because I understand the little one I watched confidently walking home so many years ago, is every day, more and more confidently, walking further and further away.

Of Mermaids and Miami grads

2009-05-10T22:01:00.002-04:00

A figurine of a Disney character may not represent for everyone the perfect college graduation gift. But for me, there was no other choice. The Little Mermaid’s Ariel had to be the gift given to my first-born daughter to commemorate the occasion of her walking across the stage at Miami University to receive a piece of paper that said she was officially, completely, without a doubt, now an adult.
The obvious connection is that it was the first Disney movie that secured my daughter’s passion for Disney princesses, as she watched it over and over and over. For a period of several months she would sing Ariel’s anthem to end in a dramatic finale of the line “…wish I could be….part of that …world” which would see her three-year-old body posed in a position identical to the animated Ariel who was perched on a rock in the sea.
I can see that image in my mind’s eye today, in spite of the woman’s body that has taken the place of the little girl’s.

Still, the main connection I think of while holding the mermaid figure all these years later is the theme of Ariel’s voice in the movie. The little mermaid, of course, traded her voice for the legs necessary to walk in the world where she wanted to go. And that voice is what I think of when I think of my daughter. Yes, the magnificent musicality of her voice is part of what defines her as she now entertains, singing songs beyond Disney sound tracks. But it goes deeper than that.
There is also her voice of compassion that shines through when a friend or even a stranger in a third world country is in need.
There is her voice of reason that has always been wise beyond her years.
There is her voice of change that will travel to Guatemala and places I cannot and probably do not want to imagine, simply for the reason that she might be able to make a difference there.
All these voices are inside one beautiful girl who is today learning to walk on legs that will take her into a whole new world.
But no matter where her voice… or her legs take her, I will always be blessed that she is, indeed, a part of my world.

Tree of Life

2009-04-18T10:23:00.003-04:00

Nothing heralds in the overture of the spring season of rebirth like the blossomings of a Bradford pear and a magnolia tree. Every year I observe the coloration of the world with these beautiful branches awash in delicate pinks and whites, and I feel a sense of hope and connection to God.

Perhaps it’s the fact that the creation reminds me of my Creator. I can imagine God dipping His paint brush first into a delightful pure white paint to tint the trees that were the day before brown and dreary. With the stroke of His majestic brush, He then draws on delicate flowerets that from afar look to be puffy popcorn balls. Then, perhaps, God smiles at His Bradford pear tree before moving on.

For the next special masterpiece of the magnolia tree, God keeps just enough of the pear-tree white on His brush to blend with the sweetest shade of pink. With broader strokes this time, He paints pretty petals that will burst into life with the sunrise. I don’t know if the Creator then takes time to admire this beautiful creation, but I certainly hope He does.

And then, sometimes too soon, it seems God must decide to dry the paint by blowing on it. Gentle winds --- and not so gentle winds waft through the air, transporting the pretty petals. With each breath of wind, the gorgeous blossoms of the trees become more sparse, as the once bare ground beneath the trees becomes carpeted with perfect petals of pink or white. As a child, the blossom’s short life-cycle used to sadden me.

But with the gift of age, I’ve come to understand that a short life seems lengthened by the beauty left behind. Like sweet blossoms fallen on the ground, the memory of the departed wonder clings to our hearts making that wonder never far from us, even when it’s time to enter a new season of our lives.

One Mama, Obama, and Notre Dame

2009-04-07T12:42:00.002-04:00

I sat down at my computer to try to put into words my thoughts on the controversy of President Obama being invited to give the commencement address and receive an honorary degree from Notre Dame. Unfortunately, before I could even begin to process my thoughts, I heard language coming from my kitchen that was not the voice or character of any of my kids. The words spewing forth were derogatory, degrading, and profane. Upon investigating, I saw the source of the vile verbiage was not one I had given birth to, but one MTV had spawned. The show was one of those cable offerings that seem to be popular simply due to the number of times the participants, seeking their own fifteen minutes of fame, can squeeze in insulting conversation and gestures between being bleeped by the generous censures.
My turning off the television caused my thirteen-year-old, who was doing his homework in the kitchen, to lift his head and offer, “I was watching that.”
“I know,” I informed him, “and that’s the problem.”
“It’s just a show,” he attempted to reason. “Why can’t I watch it?”
“If I don’t allow you to talk in my house the way that guy was talking,” I explained, “why would I let some stranger from MTV talk like that in here?”
“But it’s not going to change me,” he tried to justify. “Just because I listen to it, doesn’t mean I am going to start talking like that.”
With four kids, this was an argument I had heard many times over the years. Whether pleading for a movie, video game, or song, each child would try to argue the same futile argument that their actions would not change just because of what they watched or listened to. They never won this argument, and my son wasn’t about to win this time either.
I took a deep breath and began an explanation I had given to his brother and sisters before. “It’s not about any lack of faith in you or how you might act if exposed to something I disagree with. But if something is completely against my beliefs and I welcome it into our home, I would be a hypocrite. You deserve better of me than that.”
And with the television turned off, I went back to my computer to pursue my original task of trying to explain my view on the most pro-abortion president being asked to give the commencement address to the graduates of the most visible Catholic university in America.
But then I realized, I just did.

The Dr. Seuss DVD (and me)

2009-03-24T17:36:00.003-04:00

There I sat in my classroom a little after noon,
awash in the Seussical sounds
of “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.”
In an instant, I was a little girl again giggling
over the way the wondrous words tripped over
my seven year old tongue.
For a brief moment I could bask in the task
of needing to do nothing more than soak in the world,
discovering the uncovering of words.
Then, with no time between rhymes,
I heard the familiar refrain involving the train and the rain:
“I do not like Green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I am.”
This time, though fast, the years had past.
The little girl I’d now find in my mind
was my daughter
who was no more than two,
reading by memory her favorite book.
“Would you, could you on a boat? Would you, could you with a goat?”
the precious voice from so many years ago
proudly recited each line in my mind.
And then the blast from the past gave way to today,
as I remembered that little girl
will be graduating from college in two months.
Two months and then she will be completely free.
No more my little girl.
No more Seuss.
No more youth.
The mere thought made me
wipe my eyes to try not to cry.
But before I could dry my eyes,
my movie wrapped with a quote
from a note that Dr. Seuss wrote
in his last years:
“How did it get so late so soon?
It's night before it's afternoon.
December is here before it's June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?"

And as I stared at every letter,
I knew no one could say it better.

Happy Birthday, Barbie!

2009-03-10T16:25:00.004-04:00

It’s a little known fact that a bleach bottle, when cut a certain way and filled with padding, makes a great chair. What is more, a box of tissues, covered in material, can become a perfect bed.
Those are just some of the ways I decorated my childhood Barbie house --- which was actually a three-tiered book case whose shelves I covered with left-over carpeting swatches.
Hundreds of hours of my childhood were spent with my less than one-foot friend, Barbie, and her friends, Skipper, Francie, and Ken, along with an occasional “adopted” baby from another line of toys. Together we would decorate that house, make more faux furniture, become singing sensations, get married, and have babies, all before lunch some days.
Back in those proverbial good-old-days, Barbie’s parent company, Mattel, didn’t release a new “must-have” dream house, sports car, or new, improved doll every season. Sure, I had a few of the commercial items like Barbie clothes and a mod-looking 1970’s camper, but my best memories of my Barbie days are of me pretending, stretching my imagination, being creative.
My bond with Barbie was such a part of my childhood that I felt it mandatory to break up with her when it was time for me to go to that necessary next level of my youth: Junior High School. I was, after all, almost a teenager, and teenagers certainly didn’t play with dolls, did they? Always a proponent of ripping the band-aid off instead of taking it off slowly, I reluctantly said goodbye to and then banished my dolls to my plastic Barbie case under my bed the day before 7th grade began, forcing myself to go cold turkey.
It wasn’t a painless rehab, but somehow I survived, only occasionally sneaking the cherished case out as if it were certified contraband all for the pleasure of checking on my old friends. Still, to this day, when I open up a new shower curtain and get a wondrous whiff of the brand new plastic, my senses take me back to the instant of getting that perfectly new Barbie case for Christmas one year and the childhood memories of my Barbie moments flood over me like refreshing rain.
Now my Barbie in the case is turning 50.
Some of those many years Barbie has been hidden, she might have been glad to be in seclusion Too much time and energy has been spent scaling Barbie’s measurements to that of a woman over five feet tall. It turns out if Barbie were true to size, her real life counter-part’s figure would measure 39-19-33. All that considered, it seems a miracle that during my youth I was fixated on cutting product boxes to make furniture for Barbie instead of cutting out lunch to make myself look more like her.
And now, as she celebrates her golden birthday, someone is sending her a birthday present in an invitation to a vacation to go away and never come back. All this because Mattel has come out with “Totally Stylin’ Tattoos” Barbie that allows little girls to temporarily tattoo Barbie (or themselves) with a symbol such as a butterfly, flower or star. This edgy Barbie is sending some parents and politicians over the edge. According to the Associated Press, West Virginia state lawmaker, Jeff Eldridge, wants to outlaw the sale of Barbie dolls, saying, "I just hate the image that we give to our kids that if you're beautiful, you're beautiful and you don't have to be smart.”
Maybe it’s the fact that my daughters, now in college, are old enough to get tattoos that aren’t temporary; or maybe I’ve been sniffing shower curtains again, but I don’t want anyone shoving my dear old friend forever in her case.
Perhaps it’s the timing of the whole thing. In a week that saw a reality show bachelor profess his love to a woman; break up with her; profess and propose to another; break up with her, and then bounce back to the previous lady he sent packing (who welcomed him with open arms), I don’t think my 11 ½ inch doll is going to be the blame for girls not understanding their true worth.
And in a time where a female singer is allegedly abused by her singing boyfriend, and then announces a happy reconciliation with him before the pictures of her bruised face are out of our minds, I doubt if the illogical proportions of Barbie, with or without a butterfly tattoo, will harm our children’s spirit more.
If only more kids took the opportunity to innocently play in a make-believe world with Barbie these days, maybe they would have the chance to slowly discover who they are without waiting for the “real” world to thrust unauthentic identities upon them. I wish upon the girls of today the hours of imaginative fun I had as a child before my self-imposed withdrawal. Truthfully, though, unless Barbie would appear in a new movie with a rating of PG 13 or acquire her own reality show, kids probably wouldn’t be as interested. There just doesn’t seem to be that much innocent, creative, unplugged play going on now. No more tissue box beds or bleach bottle chairs.
It all makes me a bit sad. Perhaps it’s time to sneak a look in my Barbie case again. Or maybe I’ll buy a new shower curtain.

"Mr. Colerain"

2009-02-23T16:56:00.003-05:00

The lawn chair he always brought with him was green and white, but in his heart, everything was red… Cardinal red.

For thirty years, Colerain High School’s biggest fan, Norb Monning, aka: “Mr. Colerain”, attended every game imaginable. Through victory and defeat, he watched and cheered from that lawn chair, never letting the outcome of the game effect his team spirit. Offering words of wit and wisdom to the youthful players, he became a grandfather-figure who wouldn’t miss a game of one of his hundreds of “grandchildren”. And like all good grandfathers, Norb Monning would often be found with a camera, taking pictures he would later bestow on the athletes along with more of his generous praise. It was as much a part of the Colerain tradition as their cardinal mascot.

Then, the day one knows will come, but hopes never will, came to Colerain. "Mr. Colerain" didn’t show up for the girls’ basketball game; and the students noticed. He wouldn’t miss a game if he could help it. Something had to be wrong. Soon the news was broken that the heart that kept beat to the Colerain Cardinal’s fight song, had stopped beating. At the age of 85, Mr. Norb Monning passed away.

Sometimes teenagers aren't the best at showing the emotions they are feeling, especially for older adults. But the week after Norb Monning's death, the emotion was palpable. It was as if a dimmer switch had turned the brightness of the school down a level or two.

His family was kind enough to give the green and white lawn chair to the school to remind them of their number one fan. But if you ask any of the students "Mr. Colerain" cheered for and was there for over the last thirty years, the lawn chair isn’t necessary to hold his memory. That job is happily being done by the thousands of hearts that have been touched by a fan who turned out to be a true champion.

Weighty Issue

2009-02-18T19:25:00.002-05:00

Someone once told me that each dawning day deposits something into the memory banks of our children. Lately, it is daunting to think what is being put in–or more correctly shoved in --my children’s memory banks with all the attention a young celebrity has received. Singer and reality star, Jessica Simpson, has been the talk of the tabloids lately for a picture of her sporting a less than flattering pair of jeans and a high-waisted belt. Soon headlines such as “Jessica Simpson’s Weighty Issue” and “Jessica’s Weight-gate” screamed from every newsstand in every grocery store.
The fact that a young lady who is most likely a size 6 is being scrutinized for being overweight is concerning enough. But what is even more upsetting is how this perpetuates the message the media keeps feeding our daughters about body size. Is it not bad enough that too many stars appear to starve themselves to maintain a look that is little more than a walking corpse with too much make-up? Don’t girls have enough to process from every teen “beauty” magazine that promises them the perfect diet and the perfect exercise for the perfect body?
The media plays lip service to preventing eating disorders, informing young girls of the perils of becoming obsessed with body image. Campaigns like Dove’s Real Beauty ads pop up to attempt to remind us that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. And then, faster than you can say, “anorexia nervosa”, society spends days analyzing and criticizing the eating and exercise habits of a young woman who dared to display a figure that was not the shape of a broom stick.
My college freshman daughter said she and her roommate saw the picture in question before it became fodder for editorial cartoonists and late-night talk show hosts everywhere. At the time, the girls’ reaction was simply, “That’s not a flattering belt.” Now, thanks to the media’s obsession with perceived perfection, they both have had deposits made in their memory banks to hammer home the American belief that, indeed, one can never be too thin.
To our young women everywhere, that can turn in to the weightiest issue of all.

Watered-down apology

2009-02-08T15:25:00.002-05:00

Last summer, a young man dived into the waters in Beijing and came out an international celebrity.
And then, mere months later, after multi-million dollar endorsement deals, Michael Phelps falls from his podium with the publication of a picture of him with his mouth, not set firm in a competitive stare, but set casually on a water bong.
Damage control had to begin faster than Phelp’s could swim the freestyle. Soon, the one who broke the record, went on the record saying, "I engaged in behavior which was regrettable and demonstrated bad judgment. I am 23 years old and despite the successes I've had in the pool, I acted in a youthful and inappropriate way…”
I had to stopped listening to the watered-down apology there. Shoving the word youthful into the mea culpa ruined it for me. It was slipped in there to suggest we read between the lines and understand: “Boys will be boys” and he’s not the only 23 year old to smoke pot.
But isn’t he one of only a few 23 year old role models who have signed contracts that earn them millions of dollars? And somewhere in those contracts, aren’t there clauses about leading their lives in a way that is a good reflection on the company they represent? And isn’t marijuana still illegal?
As a high school teacher and mom, I know all too well that kids make bad decisions every day. Some are easily forgotten and forgiven, while other decisions are life changing. And somehow kids still aren’t understanding that every decision they make is only a fifteen second download on a digital camera away from being broadcast to everyone.
When a multi-million dollar role model attends a party and willingly partakes in an activity which he knows is illegal, and which he has to understand can and will be filmed by anyone and everyone around him, he’s dived into the deep end of poor judgment.
If Michael Phelps can admit he made a mistake without a disclaimer about his age and if he sincerely learns from this, I am sure his career will not be all washed up. I sincerely wish him well. Still there was nothing golden about his first apology attempt. As a mom concerned with her children looking up to him, I happen to think it was all wet.

Winter Wonderland

2009-01-29T20:15:00.003-05:00

I look out my ice-framed window at the wonderfully white winter wonderland that was simply my front yard the night before. The sun has finally come up to allow his rays to glisten on every ice cycle that envelops every bough of every tree within my vision. The blanket of newly fallen snow that the meteorologist will insist was only four inches looks to me to cover everything within sight. Its crystal surface shimmers in the new light of day. The mere brightness, or perhaps the mere beauty, makes my eyes begin to tear.
Where yesterday there was a messy mixture of mud and slush, hibernating brownish grass, and a driveway that has needed a new coat of blacktop for three years, today there is a faultless layer of sparkling perfection. At this moment, the moment before the first person dares to trod over the new fallen snow, before the dog runs out to do what dogs must do, this moment is the moment I am reminded of God’s grandeur. But even more, the purity, the clearness, the newness of the freshly fallen snow remind me of the grand gift of forgiveness.
Only God can change the ugliness of sin –all our mud and slush and everything about us that is not at all attractive. Only He can cover our inequities and imperfections with the sanctifying Grace of exquisite forgiveness. We still know what lies underneath; we are acutely aware of what we’ve done, and the limits of who we are. But when we ask, when we are very still, God’s grace falls upon us like forgiving flakes, permitting us to be new again.
And so I start the day by staring out my ice covered window, thanking God for the splendor of the seamless snow and the chance to glisten in the rising of the Son.

Hold me, Daddy

2009-01-27T16:55:00.002-05:00

It’s not that I was surprised to be inspired. I was, after all, in church. It wasn’t so much the location of the inspiration as it was the source.
We had all just stood up. The homily was over and we were getting ready to profess our faith. I know I should have been focusing on the stream of words coming out of my mouth, but as too often happens, I allowed my wavering attention span to wander around, taking my focus with it until landing on the family a couple of pews in front of me.
And then I saw it.
A young girl stood next to her father, leaning into him as if her own body could not support her light weight. He continued to recite his profession of faith.
And that's when it happened.
Somewhere before our petition of prayers, the little girl must have decided the support from the lean wasn't enough, as she instinctively held her arms up to her daddy who picked her up without a moment’s hesitation.
The reason this caught my attention was that she appeared too old to be held. I wouldn’t have paid attention if she were three or under –but this little girl seemed years beyond the holding stage, and yet her father picked her up the moment she asked.
Without any prodding or pleading, he picked up his daughter and held her for the rest of the standing portion of the service. Contented, she nuzzled her head on his shoulder with a look of peace that we adults just can’t mimic.
It was that simple. She asked to be held and her daddy held her. And even though I was surprised by the request being made at her age, it somehow looked so right.
And of course, it made me think.
Why do we too often equate losing our ability to ask for help with losing our youth?
Many times in life we might find ourselves growing weary, hoping for someone to lean on.
But we’re too big, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we find a way to handle it all on our own?
Life would be so much simpler if we could all remember no matter how old or self-sufficient we think we are, we are still God’s children. Like the daddy in church, God is always there for us to lean on.
And when we need more than leaning for support, how happy it must make our Father if we could only remember to instinctively raise our arms to Him and ask to be held. For it is only in our Father’s arms that we might find the true peace of a contented child.

Merge Ahead

2009-01-21T17:32:00.003-05:00

My on-line dictionary says the definition of “merge” is: to combine, blend, or unite gradually.
Unfortunately, I think the “in traffic” dictionary would say the definition of “merge” is: to come to a complete and exasperating standstill.
Recently, I had one of those white knuckle days; I was, of course, running late for work when I noticed the darkness before dawn was partially lit with the ominous site of ascending tail lights waiting on the road in front of me.
Was there an accident? Blocked road?
For five minutes and three light changes the parade of paused vehicles sat as nothing but shrinking levels of tolerance moved. At last we began to inch our ways back to some sort of semblance of motion. Fifteen minutes and 1/8 of a mile later, I saw the sign: Merge.
That was it. No accident. No blockage; just the simple directional sign trying to get two lines of traffic to combine into one.
Merging would be so easy –if only the other guy would get out of our way.
Unfortunately, the guy beside us doesn’t know this obvious rule of “it’s my turn”. Or perhaps he does and that’s the problem.
Merging forces us to step aside, work with each other, and give up a little bit to each other.
Unfortunately, it’s necessary not only in traffic, but also in life.
No where is this more relevant today than in politics. Right side? Left Side? Middle? We are now stuck in a traffic jam that is frustrating everyone and putting pressure on more than simply our white knuckles. We’ve honked our horns, counted to ten, and some have even used words and gestures that in some way made them feel better in their incessant waiting.
Perhaps now is the moment to merge.
Without a doubt, this coming together won’t be easy for any of us, no matter what direction you’re coming from.
My faith and heart color me with the label of conservative. Today, there are some life issues I hold dear that are threatened by our new president who has promised to put up a sign that might detour these issues, or close the road altogether.
Should those of us who hold these life issues as basic issues of life come to a complete stop now? Should we change our direction entirely?
Of course not. I wouldn’t begin to suggest we make a U-turn just to keep the country moving in some sort of semblance of motion.
A merge obliges us to work together, to try to find a way to actually make progress.
Those on the right give a little. Those on the left give a little. And, with God’s help, we’ll all arrive where we hope to be sooner, not later.
For too long we’ve been stuck in bottlenecked traffic. We’ve already tried, yelling and waving various fingers at those who disagree with us.
It’s time to combine, blend, or unite gradually.

It’s time to see the sign.

Home Improvement

2009-01-13T22:25:00.005-05:00

There’s a pretty plaque in my kitchen that proclaims, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
I’m fond of that plaque. I pass the verse every day. And when I actually take time to register what it means, I like to think I am doing just what it says. I am building a house—a family-- that serves the Lord.
But am I really?
As yet another year dawns, it seems a perfect time to take a good look and reflect on the “house” my family and I are forming.
When looking at the value of any house, it’s important to study the foundation. Is it solid and sturdy? Does my “house” have God at the center –always? Or have I admittedly pushed God aside as the foundation when the world comes knocking with more immediate rewards and gratification?
Next, I have to ask what might need patching this year? Are there cracks in my house that I noticed in years past, but ignored, figuring they “weren’t that bad”? After all, other people’s houses had worse problems, didn’t they? Or what about the defects I tired to cover up? Has the fresh coat of paint, meant to distract from the imperfections only made it worse since I never addressed the root of the issue? Might these problems in my house now grow to a level where they will no longer be ignored?
And what about the roof over our heads? Does it give us all the shelter we need? Are we ready for the storms that lie ahead? Will our roof keep out the harmful elements – but still allow the Son to shine in and illuminate everything?
A new year offers us a fresh opportunity to look around and see what might need changing. A new year offers us hope that we will, indeed, resolve to be better. I know I am far from where God wants me to be, but I am grateful He hasn’t given up on me yet. As for me and my house, we will continue serve the Lord. And somehow, I suspect He will continue to bless our feeble efforts --- cracks and all.

Oh, Christmas Tree!

2009-01-06T16:56:00.005-05:00

This year, my Christmas tree taught me some lessons I needed to learn.
We found the tree at the same tree farm we visit each year. Of course, in reality, it is just a lot in a shopping area that sells chopped down trees, but that doesn’t sound nearly as quaint as the words “tree farm”.
We went to this tree-farm/shopping lot and brought the too-big tree home, working hard to get it to stand upright in the corner of our family room. Finally the mission was accomplished and it was time to decorate.
Now, I am an admitted control freak when it comes to decorating my tree. I will spend hours putting up the lights, squinting to make sure each bulb is placed about the same distance from the next. Then, I will strategically place the ornaments. As the hours of decorating went on, I soon began running out of lights, ornaments and eventually time, so I stopped, leaving the back of the tree—the side that was shoved into the corner --- completely blank. I flipped the switch and marveled in Advent amazement at the beauty before me. The tree looked …tremendous.
Until Christmas Eve.
Because it was on Christmas Eve, right before we were to leave for Mass that I heard a loud thud, followed by my son affirming my immediate suspicions with the words, “Mom! The tree just fell!”
Running into the room, I saw my beautifully decorated tree looking not so beautiful, sprawled out across the floor, resting on a bed of broken ornaments.
We managed to get “old Tannenbaum” back up, but only by changing the direction the tree was leaning. Because it was such a heavy tree, my husband had to secure it with rope to the side window to keep it from falling again. Once this was finally accomplished, I realized that the only part now visible was the part of the tree I had not decorated since it was originally in the corner.
With mass and Christmas morning both right around the corner, it was going to have to stay this way. And so it was we celebrated Christmas with my humble-looking tree, tied with a rope to the window.
As always, I figured God was trying to tell me something. First of all, I’m sure there was a message there about being a control freak. But more than that, I couldn’t help but to think about the way we hide our less than attractive sides of ourselves everyday. We spend so much time making sure we are presenting to the world only the side that we want them to see. But then, when our balance is off, when we least expect it, we might fall and end up showing the world the side of ourselves we’re not so proud of.
For the coming year, I hope I remember several lessons from my fallen tree. I will try to have less to hide, even through life’s falls. I will also try to be less of a control freak. And yes, when next Christmas comes, I will remember to buy a smaller tree---or bigger rope.

The beginning of the story

2008-12-16T20:21:00.003-05:00

While decking the halls of my home with holiday cheer, I turned on the t.v. seeking some seasonal background accompaniment while hoping for something to put me in the right spirit. The Grinch, Frosty, Rudolph… any of them would suffice.
After more time channel surfing than my shortening attention span would allow, I eventually landed on Life is Beautiful, a movie about the Holocaust. Certainly, a holocaust movie was not at all what I was searching for to put me in the Christmas spirit; still, I had to watch because I had seen this film before. But this time it was more powerful. Knowing what was to happen, intensified the way I watched it. I knew the trials and tribulations the main character would have to go through, and this deeply touched me, as if I had an investment in his life. While watching scenes of the character in innocent, happy times, my heart ached for him, knowing what waited around the corner. I wanted to warn him. Somehow, my knowledge of how the story ended affected the way I looked at the beginning.
Finally, I had to continue decorating my house for Christmas and I pulled my nativity scene out of storage.
That’s when it hit me.
Setting up my nativity, I had that same empathetic feeling as when I watched the movie.
Carefully placing the stable on the table, I could feel the coldness of the holy family’s shelter on my hands. I knew what was going to happen inside those drafty walls.
I lifted my Joseph figure out of the box and placed him inside the shelter. His simple expression could not begin to hint at what I understood was in store for this earthly father---what he would have to go through to keep his family safe. Then, I held Mary in my hands and thought of her. So loving and peaceful. Her trusting words echoed in my head. "Let it be done to me according to your will." But could she possibly have known what was to happen to her son? I knew and I had this overwhelming desire to warn her.
Then it was time for the manger, simple and humble, to be placed in position.
Finally, I was ready for Jesus. So perfect and good –the figure was cast with a smile of rapturous joy on his baby face. Surrendering him to his manger of straw, I felt as if I were putting the lamb up for slaughter. And, indeed, I was.
I knew what was to happen 33 years later. I knew. God knew. Our Lord knew. And still it happened. Not in spite of this knowledge, but because of this knowledge –it happened.
Sitting before my nativity scene, I reflected on the Easter end of the story that begins at this Christmas season.
What a gift it is, knowing how this story ends. What an awesome responsibility we have, to take that knowledge and make the most of it—not just for Christmas, but our whole lives. For it is only because of this beginning and ending, that we have been offered the most beautiful beginning of all.

Something to hold on to...

2008-12-09T16:33:00.002-05:00

The mound of luggage and laundry left at the door by my college freshman returning home for the upcoming holidays almost tripped me. As I stumbled to avoid a fall, something caught my eye. Right on top of one of the overflowing laundry baskets, was a very tattered, very loved stuffed animal named Simba.
Simba, the young cub from the Lion King movie, was a gift my daughter received when she was four years old. From that day on, Simba would be a part of her life. Through strep throat, chicken pox, various stomach aliments and even a tonsillectomy, clutching this cub was the best medicine for her. When she finally overcame her fear of spending the night away from home, it was only if Simba could go with her. So, it was not at all a surprise when I noticed the stuffed animal stuffed into the personal belongings she was taking with her to Miami University.
And, now, standing by the door, I picked up this precious piece of my daughter’s childhood and I could not stop smiling.
I smiled thinking of the messy young woman who left the pile by the door. Still so familiar in so many ways. She has the same way of talking like the rapid ratta-tat-tat of a machine gun; and the same way of laughing a laugh that leaves energy in the room long after she walks out. All that has not changed. But still, there is something different about this child who walked out the door four short months ago only to walk back through the door a young woman with a bit more of the world in her baggage.
Yes, I know it’s called growing up, but to me it is more like growing into the person I knew she always was. Looking into your child’s face and seeing both the small child who clutches a stuffed animal for security, and the young adult who has been living away from you for awhile, is mystifying. And yet, somehow, so right.
I understand she will go out that door more and more, and one day more time will pass before she walks through it again.
And so I find myself clutching Simba, taking comfort in the fact that, like the raggedy stuffed animal, I know there is a part of me she always takes with her when she walks out that door, and whenever she returns.

Dirty laundry and all.

Oh, Come, Oh, Come…..

2008-12-02T16:40:00.002-05:00

As I sat down at the computer to reflect on my excitement of the coming holiday season, I turned on my I-tunes Christmas list to hear some seasonal songs.
“Oh, come, oh, come, Emanuel…,” the Advent choir joyfully sang.
Unfortunately, before I could clasp onto my holiday thought, my attention was captured by an on-line news headline:
“Wal-Mart worker trampled to death by frenzied Black Friday shoppers”. Reading about the chaos in a New Jersey store, my up-lifted spirit took a turn downward. I shook my head as I read about the dead man in the headline as well as four other people –including an eight month pregnant woman being taken to the hospital –all because shoppers were trying to get the best gift to give at five in the morning, the day after Thanksgiving.
“Silent Night, Holy Night
All is calm, all is bright…”
The music playing on my computer tried to lighten the mood and return me to my holiday state of mind.
But that wasn’t to last for long as my eyes were drawn to another headline:
“Two shot dead in Toy’s R Us”.
Again, I read in disbelief of men who pulled guns on each other after a dispute in the middle of holiday bargain-seekers in a toy store, the day after Thanksgiving.
My computer playlist attempted to combat this:
“Oh, Come all ye Faithful
Joyful and triumphant...”
The next on-line headline seemed to mock the joyful words as it broadcast the news:
“Terror Strikes India as death toll rises to 195”.
I couldn’t even click on the details this time.
I had simply wanted to write about Advent. I had wanted to write about the coming of Jesus. But was now the right time to talk of baby Jesus coming into the world? Was it appropriate to celebrate Him coming into a world that just can’t seem to get the message right?
“Oh Holy Night” then played on my computer:
“Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices…”
All at once I understood.
There is no better time to celebrate Christ’s birth than right now. There is no better moment to get excited for the coming of our Savior than when the world so desperately needs one.
“For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…”

"Nothing to be thankful for...?"

2008-11-25T16:31:00.005-05:00

While at the grocery store the other day, I overheard a lady complaining about the economy. "Things are so tight this year," she protested, "I don't think we have very much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving."
Now, I don't know her exact situation. I have no idea what hurdles in her life have been laid out for her to jump over. But I could see she was walking and talking. I noticed she had clothes on her back and shoes on her feet. And I am fairly certain she was planning on buying the groceries in her cart and taking them home to eat.

It is too easy to get caught up in the "glass half-empty" mentality when times get tough. We're human and we have our fears and worries. To say that times are hard for many people doesn’t paint a complete picture of the difficulty some are going through right now. What is more, with Christmas looming over our shoulders like a neon sign, inviting us to spend, spend, spend, it is more than natural to focus on debt,debt, debt. What we can't afford becomes more glaring to us than the life we have been afforded. But isn’t that the time we are told to give thanks? Isn’t this the time to truly count our blessings and celebrate Thanksgiving?
The Bible hints at this when the apostle Paul talks about rejoicing in his weakness and giving thanks for the thorn in his side. Granted, most of us aren't quite there yet -- but the point is clear that we need to have an attitude of gratitude on Thanksgiving –and everyday. There is no better time to thank God for what He has given us than when we have been made aware of what we have taken for granted for so very long.
I think the author, H.U. Westermayer said it best when he once observed,"The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts. No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving."
Who then are we to doubt our reasons to give thanks?
Have a happy, blessed, and grateful Thanksgiving!

For Goodness Sake

2008-11-18T19:21:00.004-05:00

Even before our turkeys have been sacrificed for our Thanksgiving tables, some people are attempting to sacrifice our Christmas beliefs.
Last week I got an email from a friend who lives in DC where the American Humanist Association has just plopped down $40,000 to run a campaign in bus stations for an ad that features a shrugging person in an oversized Santa suit. The slogan reads, “Why believe in a god? Just be good for goodness sake.” Trying to justify this campaign, a spokesman acknowledged, "Our reason for doing it during the holidays is there are an awful lot of agnostics, atheists and other types of non-theists who feel a little alone during the holidays because of its association with traditional religion."
Isn’t that like saying, “All the Super Bowl parties are not fair to people who don’t like football, so we want to remove that aspect of it to make it more enjoyable for everyone?
And isn’t there a better place to spend $40,000 than to try to attempt to chisel away at the sacredness of the season?
When I would chaperone my kids’ holiday parties at their public schools, we had to be careful to include everyone. Kwanza, Chanukah, and Christmas were all to be respected as celebrations that a child might hold sacred. I never would have considered taking a piece of Kwanza or Chanukah and removing anything I didn’t understand or agree with simply so I wouldn’t feel left out.
But somehow, the Christian faith is constantly challenged in public. Will we say “Happy Holidays’ this year --- or will we come right out and say “Merry Christmas"? Will government put a ban on public displays of the nativity again?
Last month, the British Humanist Association began their attacks with their campaign which attempted to advise: "There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life."
A recent study reports that 92% of Americans believe in God. Do the other 8% have a right to voice their questions and comments? Of course they do; that is the beauty of our country. But do we have the right to defend our faith? Of course we do; that is the necessity of our times.
The question then, as we prepare for the holy season of Christmas, is what are we willing to do to keep Christ in Christmas? Or better yet, what are we willing to do to keep Christ in our lives throughout the whole year? We need to decide now.
For goodness sake.

Veteran's Day

2008-11-10T20:43:00.004-05:00

I received an email from a fellow teacher containing a poem recounting his return trip home from the war –the Vietnam War. He recalled buddies left behind, some he prayed might return one day, others whose flag-draped caskets were the only return they would ever get.
Reading his emotional account of his re-entry into the real-world following his service to his country – my country ---hit me hard on this week of Veteran’s Day.
I was so young during the Vietnam War that I’m not sure what I remember about it and what has actually been planted in my mind from movies and old news footage.
As I grew, I thought the Vietnam War was, like World Wars I and II, simply pages in a history book.
Now, the war-pages of history are still being written.
Daily, we hear of young men and women going off to serve their country.
Last month, when one of my former students left for the Army, this living history became more real for me. I guess I always suspected the war was made up of sons, and daughters, and students, but as long as we can compartmentalize our world here and their world there, we don’t have to put faces on the soldiers.
But of course, they all have faces. They all have positions of importance in someone’s life. And right now they are in a position of uncertainty, serving our country.
Like the Vietnam War of years ago, so much is argued today about the rightness of the war that is currently going on.
But at least one thing that has changed for the better, is perhaps we finally understand that no matter what someone thinks of the war, the soldiers---both young and old--- helping to fight it, deserve our thanks, prayers and praise.
Throughout history, if we have managed to learn anything at all, it is that there would be no land of the free without this being the home of so many of the brave.

Election Reflection

2008-11-08T22:07:00.003-05:00

The election that reignited the fire of patriotism in both citizens who vote faithfully every year and those who may not have even known where to vote in the past, is now history.
Never before have I witnessed the passion of a passionate debate like happened in America this year. Our country awoke from an apparent apathetic slumber with a new-found fervor.
Citizens who support life through their debates, discussions and ballots, worked overtime this election.
We did our homework, shared our knowledge and came to the test day as prepared as we could be.
Gratefully, we survived the rainstorm of campaign commercials, contrary columns, angry letters to the editors, and even … infomercials.
We stood on principal. We stood on faith. We stood together even when it seemed we stood alone.
We supported our beliefs, our candidates, our values.
And now, some wave a banner of victory –others a flag of defeat.
But regardless of the banner or flag that is being waved, wouldn’t it be a waste to have all this reignited passion for a purpose, all this reaffirmed commitment for life, go the way of our rotting Halloween pumpkins?
We can’t stop now.
It would be easy to feel we have done our part –fought the good fight and simply sit back knowing we tried our best.
But wouldn’t that be a waste?
We need to hold onto this rekindled passion for the possibilities of our beliefs, our values, our country and we need to move forward with it. We need to harness the energy of the last few weeks –the prayer, the solidarity and the determination, and make something good come from it.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, now that our votes have been counted by someone, we have to make sure that our votes count for something.

For Alice

2008-11-01T22:24:00.002-04:00

A poet once observed:
“The sweetest sounds to mortals given
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.”
I was thinking about this recently after attending the funeral of a woman who epitomizes for me what a mother should be: Loving, faithful, serving, ever-praising.
Alice Willig, wife of Ed Willig, was the mother of 11 children, 36 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. I got to know her as the mother of my dear friend, Fr. Jim Willig. When we were brought together to write his book, Lessons from the School of Suffering, chronicling his journey with cancer, much of it had to be written from his parent’s house where he was recuperating from different cancer treatments.
Alice’s love and care for her hurting son was actually palpable. You felt it the minute you walked into their home. As a mother, I understood. It doesn’t matter if our child is four or forty. When they are hurting, we are hurting. And Alice turned her hurt for her son into ways to help. From praying with him and cooking for him, to rubbing his feet after a weary cancer treatment, Alice served her son with a happy heart. Fr. Jim would often comment how doubly blessed he was to have a loving, heavenly mother in the Blessed Mother, and a loving, earthly mother to help him through his suffering. Alice’s role in his life made his devotion to Mary all the more natural. But Alice wasn’t just serving and loving her suffering son; she was able to serve and love all her children and grandchildren with this selfless, Christ-like love. And all the while she was serving, she was daily praying for them and their salvation.
We can learn so much from mothers like this: Moms who truly live their lives to raise their children in this world with the sole purpose of getting them into the next world.
We get so caught up in our ideas of the super-mom of today: the one who brings home the bacon and fries it up in the pan. But, if truth be told, there is no better supermom than one who spends her life showing her children Christ’s love through her love for them.
Today, we can all learn so much from the life of supermom, Alice Willig. We can smile as we think of the poet’s words once again:
“The sweetest sounds to mortals given
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.”
And those words are even sweeter when they refer to a life well loved and lived, and a dear mother who finally makes it home to heaven.

Homecoming Dance

2008-10-10T16:22:00.001-04:00

While chaperoning the homecoming dance at Colerain High School, I realized the most dramatic dance I was witnessing, was a dance of friendship.
The evening began with the arrival of the students wearing outfits that sparkled almost as much as their anticipation which bounced around the helium balloon-filled air.
As a teacher, it is a treat to see the students in the strobe-light of a social function like this. Even the ones that may have given me a heavy dose of teenage attitude over a missing assignment’s penalty the day before, run over to me at the dance, seeking approval of their beautiful new dress.
It’s also fun to see who is friends with whom. It’s easy to assume the student who sits in my class knows only the other students from that class. School-wide functions make it possible to see the chains of friendship that extend way past the block schedule of a typical school day.
Taking my place in the back of the decorated gymnasium, I watched the interactions taking place amid the pulsating sound-track of their generation.
I watched as individuals would arrive without their group, desperately hunting for where he or she belonged.
I smiled as groups of students circled around each other mirroring one another, as if they were watching themselves in the reflection of their friends.
And in so many ways they were.
My gaze was caught by two sturdy teenage boys who began dancing a goofy fast dance across the back of the room, laughing as they mocked each others’ moves. I couldn’t help but to wonder how they found someone so like themselves in this great big world. Then, I looked over and saw two other teenaged young men who had obviously practiced the choreography of their dance for hours and were now debuting it for an appreciative audience of clapping young ladies. Again, I smiled and thought, how great that they, too found each other.
And in the middle of the gym, swayed the others, all packed together, being as fun-loving and goofy as possible, having the time of their lives. At just the right time, they had found each other.
That night reminded me how amazing it is that we find the people we find in our lives. Sometimes we forget how incredible it is that we have one very good friend, let alone others, who like what we like, laugh when we laugh, cry when we cry.
And when we are truly blessed, we find people who not only don’t make us feel silly when we act that way, but they’re also more than willing to act silly right there beside us.
Dancing to our own beat may be important.
But finding people who can stay in step with us makes this big dance of life even better.

Let there be light

2008-09-21T16:28:00.003-04:00

In Genesis, we are told God said, “‘Let there be light’. And then there was light”
For some of us last week, it was not so simple.
After the remnants of Hurricane Ike blew through Cincinnati leaving downed wires and trees in its path, close to 1 million households were left without electrical power --- for days.
No power.
No lights.
No refrigerators.
No computer.
And for some, no phones.
This literally hit us where we live.
All our modern conveniences were suddenly inconvenienced.
Looking back on the blackout, I had a light-bulb moment. Modern technology supposedly came about to keep us better connected and to help us get through our days. Somehow though, the opposite tends to be true. For example, on a normal evening in my house, I can be found working on my computer, my husband is hooked up to his laptop, and the kids are connected to either an I-pod or X-box game.
Where’s all that connectedness?
So it is that when the power goes off like it did last week, we are left with only one thing: each other.
“I’m so bored!” my youngest walked around muttering, only 3 hours after the electricity shut down. “What is there to do?”
My suggestion of doing homework on the porch in the last light of daylight was not met with a positive response.
But as the darkness of the evening hours arrived and the currents of electricity never did, we all found ourselves in our back room surrounded by open windows allowing the calmed night air to blow just enough breeze in to make the flames of the candles dance across the room. My older son brought out his guitar and played some songs for us.
I didn’t know he could play that well.
Soon, my younger son started talking about what causes the winds to stir up like they had just done.
Who knew he had learned all that?
Later, my husband was sharing how he got a call from a recruiter who was trying to lure him away from his current job. Then he mentioned he gets a call like that at least once a week.
I never knew that, either.
Over the next few days without electricity, I was not able to work on my computer, cook or wash. We had our moments of impatience and, like so many others, would have to throw out any semblance of food in our once cold refrigerator. But what I was able to do more than made up for what we lacked due to no electricity. Because what I was able to do was talk to people in my life that I hadn’t had the time --- or more correctly –taken the time to talk to in quite a while.
Maybe God sometimes takes away the conveniences we have come to know in order to teach us what we really need to know.
Sometimes He brings on the dark, to help us see the light.

God Willing

2008-09-10T16:24:00.000-04:00

Trying to stay as informed as possible during this election year, I was watching a town meeting. The first person stood up to speak. “If the Democrats can maintain control of the senate,” the woman began her question, “and Roe v. Wade is upheld--- God willing…”
I couldn’t even hear the rest of her question since the resounding noise of what she had said was echoing in my head: The phrase “God willing…” was being used in connection with abortion! As if anyone could possibly think that abortion was willed by our heavenly Father.
Pro-life.
Pro-Choice.
The debate is heating up again.
But has this debate ever not been in the forefront?
Once where I was teaching, one of my fifteen-year-old students announced to another, who announced to another, until it finally got back to me, that she was having an abortion the next week. I felt sick. I mourned for two lives lost –the unborn baby’s life and the innocence of the child who was pregnant and making this life-ending “choice” that would haunt her forever.
As a public school teacher, my hands were tied. I couldn’t offer any faith-based discussion to this child. All I could do was pray for her –for her baby. And I did.
The next week came as did the end of the school year.
Then the start of the next school year began.
That’s when I saw the girl in the hallway and noticed the ever-telling baby-bump.
I certainly can’t celebrate a young child making a choice to engage in activities a few months earlier that put her at that life changing moment of teenage pregnancy. But I can celebrate a choice to not kill a baby.
I don’t know what her plans were. And I make no pretense of the fact that statistics point to challenges for that unborn baby if this teenage mother decided against adoption. But that baby had already beaten the odds and was living.
I will continue to pray for that young girl and her baby –as well as all women who daily are told by our society that it’s their choice whether or not the baby they are carrying lives or dies.
And I will continue to pray that fewer women will be in the position of having to make this choice. And that some day it will not be a choice at all. One day, the right of killing an unborn child will be universally understood to be wrong.
God willing.

Mother's Day

2008-06-02T15:44:00.000-04:00

I suspect my youngest child will one day be referred to as a man of few words.
Perhaps it comes from being the youngest of four siblings who happen to have no trouble sharing their thoughts with anyone listening. Maybe it’s the apple falling far from the tree of his parents who have conquered the mastery of the word beyond that which may be healthy. Then again, it might just be the combination of the two and the simple fact that he has to work too hard to get a word in edgewise.
Regardless of the considerable conversational characteristics of the rest of us, I think it all boils down to the mere fact that my youngest happens to be a genius at getting his point across in other ways, when he sees the need, completely on his own terms.
I have seen this for his entire eleven years. Even as a toddler, he wasn't likely to give a hug when it was requested of him; but completely out of the blue, when the mood struck him, and only when the mood struck him, he would bestow upon me the most wonderful embrace that was all the sweeter due to its rarity.
When he began to talk, the gushing words may not have spouted forth frequently, but like the rationed hugs, loving words would eventually be delivered in beautiful packages, and savored for their preciousness.
So it is, on days like Sunday, I can appreciate the big picture of my child even more.
It began on Saturday when my little guy had just returned from going out with his dad to get me a Mother’s Day present. He hung around where I was working on my computer, leaning closer and closer to me. Soon, he was practically knocking me off my desk chair as he nudged as close to me as humanly possible without crawling into my skin. Knowing better than to ask what was on his mind, I just waited until he was ready.
Soon he was.
With no deliberate drama whatsoever, he simply began to tell me about a new friend of his who had lost her mother to cancer a little over a year ago. He twisted his body around enough so that he was looking into my eyes as he all but sat on my lap. And then the boy who sometimes only seems to care about sports and other things eleven year old boys care about, the boy who doesn’t say too much, astutely observed, “I’ll bet tomorrow is going to be really hard for her.”
Allowing himself one minute of sentiment, he put his head on my shoulder just long enough for me to try to think of something… anything… to say to a child about another child losing a parent.
And before I could swallow what felt to be my heart in my throat, that moment was over.
But then the next day came.
I was treated to my annual breakfast from my kids and then came the “giving of the presents” portion of the morning. Upon thanking them all for my gifts, I went to give them each a kiss and a hug. That’s when my youngest grabbed hold of me and didn’t let go. At first his brother and sisters thought he was just hogging the hugs; but I soon realized there was more to it than that. The prolonged hug was simply him remembering his little friend who was without her mom on Mother’s day and every day after that. It was, indeed, my youngest child’s way of proclaiming, “Mom, I’m so glad you’re here.”
As tears filled my eyes, I held tightly to my little man of few words.
Somehow I could hear, loud and clear, exactly what he was saying.

Grandpa Gethers

2008-04-07T16:33:00.002-04:00

Delmar Gethers loved his garden. For years he had a garden that would put other gardeners to shame. It would put others to shame except for that fact that even more than he loved gardening, Delmar loved sharing the fruits (and vegetables!) of his labors with everyone. And he shared and shared.
Sharing was a big part of Delmar’s life. After losing his wife, his “Babe,” of 59 years, many expected him to fade quickly thereafter. Their love was just one of those you hear of where when one goes and the other is soon to follow. But somehow Delmar carried on. He fondly spoke of his “Babe” and how he would be ready to meet her again whenever the good Lord decided it was his time.
He continued on, keeping up his house, his garden, his life. He mowed the grass throughout his eighties and tended that garden in the spring and summer, even shoveling snow in the winter. When he was asked how he was, he would always cheerfully answer, “I can’t complain. No one wants to hear complaints, anyhow.”
And he never did complain either.
The closest he ever got to admitting aging wasn’t a walk in the park was when he once admitted, at the age of 93, “Compared to the eighties, these nineties are a whole new ballgame.”
One might conclude that his gardening know-how taught him what he needed to know in order to age so gracefully.
From his garden he learned, you have to plan ahead. If you are expecting something good today, you better have planted the necessary seeds early enough.
From his garden he learned, it takes a lot of hard work. It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it.
From his garden he learned, things don’t always go the way you intended. Sometimes, no matter how well you planned and tended your garden, the other elements affect the outcome more than you wanted.
From his garden he learned, patience. You really do reap what you sow.
From his garden he learned, you need to enjoy what you have today.
And Delmar Gethers did just that.
This morning, the good Lord decided it was his time.
So at the age of 94, he is once again united with his “Babe”.
We couldn’t be happier for him.
The tears we shed now are simply a gentle rain, and every gardener knows how beneficial rain can be.
Yes, Delmar Gethers loved his garden.
But he loved his family even more.
And we’d have to say those seeds were the best seeds he ever planted.

Spring Break

2008-03-20T22:59:00.000-04:00

Sometimes being selfish isn’t such a bad thing.
I realized this while watching all four of my kids play touch-football on a Florida beach last week while the sun was setting in the background. The selfish proclamation wasn’t a result of the way they were playing together; it was, instead, a result of the fact they were playing together at all.
Now that my kids are at the ages between almost adolescent and already adult, I have had to share them with every club, team, event and organization imaginable. Truthfully, I am pleased they are involved in various organizations and I certainly don’t need them around me 24/7; but occasionally there comes a time when each of us parents just don’t want to share our kids… for at least a little while.
And that’s where I was a couple of weeks ago.
I share my oldest child with the world in general, but specifically Miami University.
I share my next daughter with cheerleading, musicals, and of course, her cell phone.
I share my two boys with the baseball schedules that seem tailored-made for the child who happens to be an only child of very wealthy parents.
I was simply tired of sharing.
And so when my daughter’s Miami spring break coincided with my own spring break, which coincided with Grandma and Grandpa’s month in Florida, I began to fantasize about the whole family all going off together to stop that incessant sharing with others.
But I hesitated.
Would the teachers of the ones who were not on spring break be upset?
Would the drama director for the one who had to miss some practices get angry?
Would the baseball coaches of the ones who had to miss workouts and conditionings understand enough not to penalize the players?
Somehow that hesitation managed to push me over the edge enough to make the necessary decision. I guess the idea of having to ask for permission to take my own children on a family vacation was enough motivation to decide to do just that.
The next thing I knew, I was on a balcony at sunset in Florida, watching my four kids running, passing, tumbling, laughing. With only each other.
I stared at the moving silhouettes of these four people I love so much, marveling at how they were simply loving being together.
Soon the world will come again to occupy my kids. And I will be able to share them –--quite happily even, at times. But for that moment on that beach, in the afterglow of the day’s sun, nothing else interfered.
Perhaps I simply looked too long at the setting sun, but I soon had tears in my eyes.
As quickly as the sun set that night and disappeared into the ocean, the impromptu football game was over. With that same intense speed, so too will pass the years of childhood that at one time seemed to promise to be here forever.
But when I closed my eyes after that Florida night, I could still see remnants of the glow of the sun long after it set.
And with that same technique, in the future both near and far, I plan on being able to conjure up the site of four brothers and sisters laughing, playing, and just being brothers and sisters. And the best part is, I know they, too, will be able to conjure up that same memory for years to come.
Sometimes sharing isn’t such a bad thing after all.

First and Last?

2007-04-11T22:32:00.000-04:00

“He said it first!"
Many times over the course of my career as a mom, I have heard those words being used by one child in an effort to lesson the ramifications of impending punishment for saying something mean to a sibling. To a child, it is perfect justification of an offense to simply be the repeating offender and not the originator.
I didn't buy it then.
And I don't buy it now.
For example, I don't buy it when I hear of radio talk show host, Don Imus, defending his ugly comments about the Rutgers University girls' basketball team.
As a mother of two girls, I have tried over the years to refrain from allowing language in the house that defines or limits my daughters on the basis of their physical appearance or sexuality. I have banned songs, TV shows, and occasionally, even friends.
Of course, my daughters, ever members of the millennial generation, would roll their eyes at my over-protection. "We hear worse in the hallway at school," they would argue when I confiscated a CD that was rejoicing in what the female singer could do to a man.
That didn't matter.
I was determined my girls would grow up knowing they were more than their looks. They were more than their gender. They were more than what a culture might try to label them.
And so it is when a man with a microphone references a group of intelligent, athletic college women in a racist and sexist way, and with one smack of a phrase belittles them into nothing more than an offensive stereotype, I want to ban him as well.
Of course, Don Imus would soon argue the argument my children always tried, by saying he didn't invent the terminology. It can certainly be found in any rap song now playing on any Ipod at any moment.
And he is right.
But the fact that he is basically saying, "I didn't start it" offers him no more respite from the fall-out than it offered my children when they were little. There still needs to be ramifications and punishment.
Perhaps it is time we all quit worrying about who said something insulting and offensive for the first time, and focus more on making sure Don Imus said it for the last time.

Season's Reason

2006-12-12T11:18:00.000-05:00

by Tammy Bundy

Something was missing.
I was going through the motions. I was playing all the parts. And still something was missing.
I’m talking about my Christmas spirit, here. Or lack of it.
Now, usually I am among one of the biggest kids I know at holiday time. My oldest will not even go shopping with me during this time of year, because all the stores are playing Christmas music and I cannot always be held to my promise of not singing in the middle of a department store. I mean, who can resist the urge to sing along with “Jingle Bell Rock”---even if your daughter and four of her closet friends are watching?
But this year it hadn’t happened for me yet. Something was missing.
Maybe it was because the holiday displays hit the stores before my kids had even hit the streets for trick-or-treating.
Whatever the reason for my lack of cheer, I knew I had better put on a happy face and get moving. There were cookies to bake, presents to buy and a house to decorate.
And it was during this last stage of events that I discovered something---or something was discovered for me.
My youngest and I were sorting through the musty boxes of stored decorations, accomplishing little more than inventory.
“Oh, I remember this!” he would gush as he pulled out each and every item that had made it through another year. “Do you remember this one, Mommy?” he would ask.
Now, this is the point where I would usually turn into a seasonal sentimental fool, picking up each ornament and recalling when, where and why it was purchased.
Not this year, though. There was just something missing.
“I can’t find it,” my son’s words, all at once, seemed to echo my own thoughts. “Where is it?” he continued as he not very gently pulled from the box various items that were obviously not what he had in mind.
“Where is it?” he intently repeated his inquiry. Before I could even ask him what it was he was seeking, his next statement answered more than one question for me.
“I found Jesus!” my son triumphantly declared.
Now, this was not so much a spiritual revelation for him as much as it was an actual discovery. He had finally found the manger scene.
“Is that what you were looking for?” I asked even though the answer was obvious.
“Yeah, Mommy. Look.” His big brown eyes were dancing as he explained the rest. “He was right here the whole time. Only all this other stuff was covering him up.”
If our lives came equipped a soundtrack, at that very moment, the Christmas carols, for me, would have begun to fill the air.
“Thank you so much for finding Him for me,” I managed to say in spite of the cracking in my voice.
“Welcome, Mommy,” he answered, oblivious to the actual discovery he had made.
And that is my holiday wish for you.
Whatever this season means to you, may you celebrate it with more meaning than ever before. But if somehow, throughout the years, you start to forget what that reason really is, I have but one suggestion:
Let a little child lead you.

***********************************************************************************
From The Book of Mom: What Parents Know by Heart published by St. Anthony Messenger Press
*******************************************************************************

Christmas Countdown

2006-12-12T11:16:00.000-05:00

by Tammy Bundy

Did you know that there are less than 600 hours left until Christmas? That statistic is compliments of my daughter who obviously has too much time on her hands.
How does this holiday constantly sneak up on me?
I’m smart enough to remember that every year it falls on the same day. But for some reason, it is always a shock to hear how close the big day really is.
This should not happen to me, due to the fact that I am always amply warned about it, because every year it is the same routine.
Before the taste of my Thanksgiving turkey is out of my mouth, these words come out of the mouth of my dear mom: “I have all my Christmas shopping done.”
And those words set off an alarm system in my mind that makes me think I am already falling behind on a season that just arrived.
I should have known. I received even earlier warning signs about the closeness of the season way back when I was back-to-school shopping and I spied a poster advertisement telling me to buy early for the holidays.
But I was too busy with new schedules and homework and extra-curricular activities to pay attention. But my mom started her shopping.
Then I was given another gentle reminder of the impending season by the fact that the day after Halloween, my grocery store took down their trick-or-treat candy display and in its place put up Christmas cards and decorations.
But I was too busy gathering up chocolate stained costumes and pumpkin splattered remains to worry. By now, my mom was more than half-way done checking things off her Christmas list.
And as soon as the calendar said it was November, the commercials said we had better start buying our Christmas presents before it was too late.
But I was too busy finding out whose coats, hats and mittens had survived the perils of life in the attic, to go shopping for Christmas. But, my mom was down to buying stocking-stuffers by now.
And now, Thanksgiving is a memory and I hear those words again grating on my nerves like ornament hooks on a chalkboard, “I have all my Christmas shopping done.”
Now, in the past, I have actually tried to shop early for presents. But I usually find this does not work at my house. And I have three categories of explanations as to why this doesn’t work:
First of all, there is the exploration explanation. For, many times when I actually have tried to buy early Christmas presents, the present is eventually found by an eager elf who had been snooping.
Then there is the expiration explanation. Oftentimes a present that was considered the most magnificent potential present for a child when it was purchased in August, is no longer desired or even recognized by the coveting child when Christmas finally arrives.
And lastly there is the inexplicable explanation. This is when the present, purchased particularly prematurely, gets lost in the black hole that I sometimes call my bedroom closet. I won’t remember it or find until the next July.
But last weekend, I decided it was time to push all excuses and explanations aside. I was determined to get started on my Christmas shopping. Humming a few Christmas carols to put me in the spirit, I joyfully grabbed my keys and began to walk out the door. Then the phone rang. It was my mom. She was calling to tell me all her presents were now wrapped.
Battling the duel feelings of both panic and resignation, I sat down at the bottom of my stair steps in a motion of surrender.
This was the exact time when my daughter came up to me with her latest discovery.
Did you know there are less than 36,000 minutes left until Christmas?

***********************************************************************************
From The Book Of Mom: What Parents know by Heart published by St. Anthony Messenger Press
***********************************************************************************

Christmas Wish

2006-12-12T11:13:00.000-05:00

by Tammy Bundy

I remember when I was a little girl and I would always ask my dad what he wanted the most for Christmas. Every year it would be the same answer, “Peace on earth. Good will towards men”.
That seemed like a pretty tall order to fill for a kid. So I always bought him a package of handkerchiefs, instead.
It has only been recently, though, that I understand what my dad was getting at. The older I get the more I realize that “peace on earth and good will towards men” is not that outlandish of a request after all.
And we don’t even have to go to the Middle East to achieve it, either.
We could start with our very own family.
The other day my two youngest were at the store that sells everything for .99 cents. This is where they were doing their only Christmas shopping. After picking out most of their presents rather quickly, my boys asked me to hide my eyes while they searched for my gift. This proved to be a difficult task for the kid consumers. Finally, growing impatient with having to hide my eyes in public, I commented that I was sure they could find something I would like very much in the few minutes we had left, but could they please decide quickly. To that my little one announced, "But I don’t want to hurry, mommy---I want your gift to be the best one of them all.”
It will be many years before he will realize that the precious gift he did, indeed, give me this year did not come with a bar-code or price tag attached.
His words were wee steps towards peace on earth…good will towards men.
I had another reminder of my dad’s Christmas wish this holiday season when my kids and I went to visit our friend who is in a Retirement Center. We wanted to take her something special, but what could she possibly want or need?
We arrived with a Christmas sweatshirt that was gratefully accepted. But I didn’t feel that was quite it. Soon into our conversation, our elderly friend apologized for not being able to put up her decorations this year.
That was it.
That was all I needed.
Within fifteen minutes my kids and I had her room decorated from the meager two boxes of Christmas memories that we pulled from her closet.
Her tears of joy told us that this was the best present we could give her. We gave her ourselves.
Peace on earth. Good will towards men.
I think maybe my dad was on to something here.
Truthfully, this is something we all know but we push aside because it is actually easier for us to go to a store to find our presents than it is for us to go deep inside ourselves to find the gifts we possess within.
But let’s remember, after the sweatshirts and handkerchiefs are all opened, let’s decide to give a gift that only needs to be wrapped in our own arms.
Before the gifts of this special season give way to a memory once again, let us start giving gifts of the heart.
We can call it baby steps for peace on earth and good will towards men.
Let’s give each other the gift of our love.
It’s one size fits all.
And returns are not just allowed, they are absolutely encouraged.

********************************************************************************
From The Book of Mom: What Parents know by heart published by St. Anthony Messenger Press
*******************************************************************************

Christmas Lights

2006-12-12T11:09:00.000-05:00

by Tammy Bundy

When it comes to Christmas, my husband and I are in a mixed marriage.
Now, the difference is not in the way we celebrate Christmas. The difference is in the way we decorate Christmas.
And as with everything, this difference is rooted in our childhoods.
During our first Christmas, shortly after my husband and I were engaged, we went to visit my future in-laws. As we pulled up to their house, I stared into the darkness and asked, “When are your folks decorating for Christmas?”
“What do you mean?” my husband blankly asked. “They already did decorate.”
Upon closer inspection---much closer inspection---I noticed there was, indeed, a single lit candle in each of their windows. And a green wreath on their front door.
My husband did not have to wait long to understand my confusion as to his parent’s understated decorated house. He only had to wait until our first Christmas visit with my parents.
Upon turning the corner that leads to their house, my husband-to-be had to shield his eyes from the glare. There were lights in the trees, lights on the bushes, lights on the rooftop. You name it and if it did not move, my parents hung a string of lights on it. My fiancee commented that he had seen less lights on the Vegas strip.
And so you can easily see that we came by our mixed marriage quite naturally.
But we have tried to deal with this Christmas quandary from the beginning of our marriage. We compromised. I decorated the inside of the house however I wanted and he decorated the outside however he pleased.
For the first few years my spouse went all out. He hung a wreath on the front door. Of course, I must mention there was a flood light shining on this wreath for effect.
This worked up until the kids were born and developed their own opinions---which was approximately fifteen minutes after birth.
“Our house looks boring.” They would complain. “ Santa won’t even be able to find it. Please can we put up some lights?”
And so, little by little---one year at a time---I have been sneaking in a few decorative touches to our outside Yule tide decorations. One year it was simply a few red bows for the bushes. The next year, it was a few white lights for the bushes. My husband, of course, did notice the additions, but, wise man that he is, he knew he was outnumbered, and reluctantly gave in to this mutiny. But still the kids wanted more.
“Everyone else has those pretty icicle lights,” They noticed this year. “Can we please get those?”
And so it was that I could recently be found precariously perched on a ladder next to a tree in our front yard, trying to hang a tangled tier of icicle lights. One hour later I had learned something important. You can’t hang icicle lights from a tree.
And so, after another half-hour of untangling them from the tree, I decided to try to hang them from my house. I soon discovered another important point to remember. I have a two-story house, but only a one-story ladder. So, ever the diligent little elf, I thought I would simply drape the icicle lights across the middle of the house for a dramatic effect. Once more, I spent the better part of an hour attempting this. And after almost three hours total decorating time, it was finally done.
And as I stood in the yard, staring at my accomplishment, panting and yet proud of my new strand of lights---my youngest son came out to inspect my work. After looking quizzically at the new display for a minute, he honestly responded, “It looks like our house has a mustache.”
The worst part was---he was right. The windows were the eyes---the front door was an open mouth---and my attempt at icicle lights had created an elaborate handlebar mustache for the Bundy abode.
I ripped the icicle lights down and put a wreath on the door. That took about five minutes.
Now, where do I find those darn candles?

*******************************************************************************************
From The Book of Mom: What Parents Know by Heart published by St. Anthony Messenger Press
*******************************************************************************************

The Question

2006-11-11T15:48:00.000-05:00

The sight of the horse and buggy on the country road awakened the interests of my kids that the ninety-minute car ride had deadened.
"What is that?" my (then) six-year-old was the first to notice and question.
I smiled at the sight that I had seen many times before when visiting my grandparents in Belle Center, Ohio. "There are Amish people who live up here and that is the way they travel."
"Cool!" came the response from the backseat.
The closer we got to the slow moving mode of transportation, the more the questions arose about the Amish life style. To kids who had just been complaining about not having a cell phone, the idea of such a simple lack of modern day conveniences seemed not only unheard of, but downright antiquated.
"Do they know what they're missing?" my son questioned as we slowly made our way past the buggy. The plainly dressed gentleman smiled as he nodded and waved while holding onto the reigns.
We returned his courteousness and waved, continuing on our way to Grandma's house.
I couldn't help but to think of that scene when I was awakened to the news of another school shooting last week. This time the shooting took place in the humble dwelling of a one room Amish school house in Pennsylvania .
It breaks our hearts anytime we hear of a school shooting ---and there have been more times lately than we can wrap our broken hearts around. But there was something even more sinister in this choice of victims: a community that is known for such simple-God fearing ways; a people that remind us of a time so long ago. Hostage situations and multiple murders here seem even more of a deplorable violation to the rest of the world.
But now the rest of the world is sitting back with a sense of awe in what happened next in the community.
The afternoon of the murder, the families involved led a walk to the house of the murderer to show forgiveness to the family he left behind.
When asked about this, an Amish gentleman answered, "It's just our way of life."
Peace.
Forgiveness.
One mother who lost her daughter was overheard saying it was a horrible tragedy that should never happen. But if it had to happen, "...it was probably best that it happened in our community, where we are prepared to leave this world for the next."
The simple people with the plain clothes have spoken so profoundly.
We do tend to look at their way of life as being antiquated, almost backward in thought. It appears, though, they are better futuristic thinkers than most.
To answer my son's question, they indeed, appear to know what it is they are missing in their chosen lifestyle.
The better question, though, just might be: Do we?

Halloween fright

2006-11-01T15:04:00.000-05:00

Walking through the creepy isles of the Halloween store, I had to stifle the urge to let out a blood-curdling scream. No, it was not the disembodied head hanging from one of the displays that frightened me; it was actually the costume selections my 16-year-old daughter was considering.
We had entered the store in search of a costume for her to wear to a big Halloween party on Saturday night. Having gone a few years since her last trick-or-treat trek, we hadn’t had the need to look for costumes for her in awhile. Thus, I was unprepared for what I found.
My daughter had informed me of some of her friends’ selections: Little Red Riding Hood, Dorothy, and a policewoman.
So far so good, right?
Wrong.
What she had forgotten to mention was the adjective used to describe each of these outfits: Sexy Little Red Riding Hood, Naughty Dorothy, and Arresting Policewoman. Each costume was built around one foundation garment: a bustier. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought we were all picking out costumes for a Victoria Secret fashion show, and not a teenager’s Halloween Party.
My teenager tried her best to “shush” my vocal objections, but I could not stay muted for long. Corsets, and garters, and stockings--- oh my! The only thing missing seemed to be edible underwear.
I understand that Halloween took on a whole new slant after the movie Mean Girls came out a few years ago. In this film, the main character, arrives at a Halloween party in—of all things –a ghoulish Halloween costume. She is mortified to find all the other girls dressed in little more than lingerie. And faster than one can say, “peer pressure,” teenage girls across America ditched all potential Halloween costumes that actually covered skin and once again, allowed themselves to be treated as sex objects by Hollywood and everyone else.
Somewhere, years ago, in the ancient civilization known as my youth, I, too, attended Halloween parties. One year, I went as Miss Piggy—wearing a bed sheet and a nose I cut out of a toilet paper role. Yet another year, I went as a bag of trash. Each of those costumes showed off my ample creativity, not cleavage.
Is it simply that we parents today are too willing to buy these overpriced costumes—which range from $49-$129? And by affording these costumes, are we affording our daughters a lesson we really don’t want them to learn?
I know my teenager would love any of those costumes –they are a great fantasy. But, a fantasy for whom?
When I wore my self made costumes all those years ago, I had an entire night of people affirming my creativity. That helped me grow into who I am today. But just what grows and develops in you from the basic affirmation that at 16, you nicely fill out a bustier?
My daughter is used to her “old fashioned” mom. She knew the compromise would end up being a home-made costume that is similar to the coveted ones, but slightly more modest ---and, yes, way more grown-up than her mom would like it to be.
But still, the backwards double-standard that society puts on our daughters bothers me. While I know without a doubt what the boys at that party will be seeing, I have to wonder what they will be wearing. I fully doubt that any of the boys will be buying any costumes that show off their bodies and sexuality. And still, we all buy into the sexing up of our daughters --- allowing, and thereby encouraging them to be defined by their bodies—all in the name of Halloween.
And frankly, that scares me most of all.

Letting Go

2005-08-11T15:40:00.000-04:00

The picture made me smile.
It was an old picture of my daughter, not even two years old giving me one of her “squeezy hugs” --the kind where she would obediently hold on so tightly, we would have to say from time to time, “Okay ---you can let go now”.
She was holding on to me so sweetly in the picture, I had to smile. I had to smile to keep from crying. Because I see the new pictures of that not-so-little girl, are her in a white dress walking across a stage to receive her high school diploma.
And the pictures after that will be of her walking out the door to attend Miami University and the rest of her life.
My head knows it is supposed to be this way. All babies, even the ones that give big “squeezy-hugs” eventually do grow up. But my heart isn’t being that rational right now. My heart is feeling a “squeezy hug” like never before.
You see, my heart remembers the first time I felt a hint of this feeling. My heart remembers this very same girl learning to ride a bike. In my over-zealousness I had her five year-old body wrapped in every protective gear available at that time. Helmet, shin guards, knee pads, elbow pads. It was a wonder she could even pedal. But she is my first born and that’s just part of the package with first borns.
And even though I had her so overly protected, I still worried as I watched her learn to go forward on her own. Faster and faster. Further and further.
And just like she’s supposed to, she’s beginning to move further away everyday ---sometimes merely by inches, sometimes by leaps and bounds. Only now I have no protective armor to cover her in as she rides off for this next incredible step of her life.
Somehow she’s so ready. Somehow, I’m so not.
So I smile at the 16 year old picture that seems like it was taken just yesterday.
Remembering it all.
Only now the roles have changed a bit.
Now, the grown-up voice I hear is hers, as she begins to turn to me and say, “Okay ---you can let go now.”