Driven to Grief

It was supposed to be the closest thing to a vacation I will get this year. I drove four children, four bikes, six suitcases, two parakeets and a variety of playthings to Texas for a two-week visit with my extended family. We loaded up our trusty old (as in 195,000 miles) Suburban and headed south, thankful that the horrible tornado had already come and gone in Oklahoma.

The short story is that the car broke down as we sat in the traffic of rubberneckers slowing in Moore, OK, to see all the damage caused by that tornado. I managed to restart it and limp it off the interstate to three different shops before someone had the time to assess our problem. Getting it fixed meant leaving it in Oklahoma City and cramming all of us and our stuff into my parents’ SUV for the two-hour drive to their house just across the Red River. You are never really too old to have your daddy come and rescue you, by the way.

Thinking the worst was behind me, I was able to enjoy time with family and borrowed various vehicles that week to get around. My plan to go back and get the repaired Suburban was cut short by a phone call that left me speechless. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Bartee,” she said. “Immediately after the second round of tornadoes yesterday our shop’s electricity was knocked out, we had our first break-in in 25 years, and the thieves stole your car.” Speechless, I tell you. They stole a car with almost 200K, torn leather seats, impenetrable stains, and sticky cup holders.

I am usually very unsentimental about things. But I took the loss of our family car kind of hard. There are five stages of grief, you know, and I have been through them all.

1. Denial. As in, “No, no, no, no, no. There is no way any sane crook would choose such an old car to steal. Really. That car was on its last tire and the dashboard vinyl was peeling and the heated seats haven’t worked in years. They don’t want MY car. They want something newer and better and more fun. And I definitely do NOT have time for this. No, no, no, no, no.”

2. Anger. As in, “Are you kidding me?! Suburbans are popular to steal because of their parts? You mean to tell me they used that car, the very one we drove home from the hospital with our youngest and the setting of many happy family road trips, to crash through a metal security fence? And we STILL have to pay for the fuel pump? And I had just filled up the tank to the tune of $85? And if they happen to find it we have to take it back and forego any settlement? What?!?!?”

Happy family, happy car!

Right there in the background of an all-American Cub Scout parade moment.

 3. Bargaining. As in, “Okay, insurance company, I know what the stated value is. I realize it’s not your problem that the tank was full, and I had never made a copy of the college-era photo of my husband and me that was in there, and that my kid’s favorite pillow is one of the things we left behind, and that my hard-earned marathon sticker was on the back window. But let’s discuss why that car was worth so much more than what Kelly’s Blue Book wants to tell you. I mean, if you think an old Suburban with so many miles is worth only THAT…well, I’m just not sure that’s acceptable. No really. I insist. Let’s negotiate a little more.”

So many miles...so many memories.

4. Depression. As in, “The reasonable thing to do is take the (measly) settlement from the insurance company and invest in a used minivan instead of a new SUV as we are about to have two kids in college for the next four years. But here’s the thing—I’m a mom who spends most of my time hauling kids around. Driving a black Suburban let me pretend I was in the Secret Service or guest-starring on an episode of 24. I have already owned three different vans. Have to be honest—there is no pretending I am a crime fighter in a van. Sigh.”

One of the four vans we have owned over the years.

5. Acceptance. As in, “Fine. This is incredibly frustrating and a huge inconvenience, but a car is just a car. The fact that the saga began against the backdrop of a neighborhood devastated by a natural disaster makes it pretty easy to keep everything in the right perspective. In a very abrupt and unkind way we lost something. But it was just some thing.”

I do believe that, but it’s possible I am still working through the depression stage when it comes to the minivan. I’m more than a little bummed that my imaginary career as a spy is over.

Dream Right

I went shopping for graduation cards today. All around me they shouted Dream Big! and Shoot for the Stars! because You Can Do It! since You're #1!

We've been convincing this generation since their earliest days that they are super special. One of a kind. "If you believe it, you can achieve it." There's nothing you can't do, kiddo.

      

Their theme song might best be summed up by their old friend Steve over at Blue's Clues: 

Notwithstanding his overkill, we've
always been Steve fans around here.

You can be anything that you want to be. 

Do anything that you want to do. 

If you don't give up, you know it's true. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Isn't that just a little bit much? I mean, anything? Really?

Can a child who is grown at 5'2" believe his way into the NBA because he is absolutely certain he's #1? A kid who is color blind become a fighter pilot or astronaut in spite of military restrictions because his mama told him he's super special and the exception to the rules? Can a child without a generous helping of natural talent earn a living by singing on stage simply because she believed hard enough?

Self-esteem is absolutely important and we all know that kids get their biggest dose of self-esteem from home. But I think we might have overdone it in some instances. And I even wonder if we might be contributing to lower self-esteem by accidentally sending the message that less than the absolute best is just...meh.

Take, for instance, the kid who worked hard, studied consistently, read and tutored and planned, and yet doesn't get to give that graduation speech. What about the kid who auditioned well but did not get the part? How about the one who works far harder than anyone else on the team but still loses the starting position to someone else?

Society answers, "Work harder. Dream bigger."

How about this instead? "Keep working. Dream better."

It is really fun to watch our toddlers dance along to the song of easy-peasy-all-you-need-is-a-dream-success while we are full of pride and ambition that we may have created the next great leader, entrepreneur, discoverer, superstar, ruler of the world as we know it. With that first soccer goal or wrestling pin, we cheer and start planning for the Olympics (or at least a college scholarship). When they earn straight As in 3rd grade or have the starring role in the school play, we just know they are destined to be Magna Cum Laude or blow onto Broadway and be the talk of the town.

We can't help it. We're in love with our children. We, Moms and  Dads, are supposed to be their biggest support and cheering section and entourage. It's instinctual and exciting. Ask yourself how heartily you cheered and danced when your little protégé first pooped on the potty. Yes, me too. As if no one else on earth had ever learned to do it quite so well.

We are PROUD of these little people. And rightfully so.

Each one really is super special. And one of a kind. And destined for greatness. I have decided that I need to be careful, however, about defining greatness.

With apologies to Steve and all of his TV friends, I want to give my kids a better theme song:

You can't be anything you want to be, 

but you can be everything you were meant to be.

A dream is good. A big dream is fine. But the right dream is what will guide you to a beautiful life. And that, my sweeties, is how you will change the world.

St. Catherine of Siena said, "If you are what you should be, you will set the whole world on fire!"

And I will be there, proud as only a mother can be, believing that no one has ever set it on fire quite so well.

Bye-Bye, Baby

Moroccan Mint Tea...yum!

Our oldest turns 20 in just a few days. This would be an important birthday no matter what, but after spending eight days with her in northern Africa, where she is living as a college student, there is no way to deny our baby is grown and gone and a young adult has taken her place. If not for her level head and language skills, I am pretty certain that I would still be wandering around a souk in Meknés right now. For sure I would have overpaid every single taxi driver and souvenir seller.

So many times that week she grabbed my arm and said, “Mom!” (as in, “pay attention and follow me!”). I was reminded of how I would grab her arm as a child to gently turn her in the right direction. I felt that familiar parental combination of pride and fear upon realizing that this person who breathed her first breath on my chest and depended upon me for absolutely everything is now smarter than I am. 

Baby's first camel ride!

Lest I seem too overly sentimental, it is the very same feeling I have when my 8-year-old quickly fixes the computer problem I cannot seem to repair. And when my 10-year-old effortlessly remembers the old neighbor’s name that I have tried to recall for days. But at least those two will still snuggle with me at bedtime and need help with homework now and then. They still need me in a way that I now know will not last all that long. 

Hat lover...no matter the country.

 One of the best things about being a mom, I have found, is getting to watch a child’s inner spirit develop and emerge. It is easy to type-cast the kids, especially in a large family. “You’re the athletic one.” “You’re the music lover.” “You’re the scholar.” We have made an earnest effort to help our kids explore and grow and stretch into roles that might not come naturally. Some of our best moments as parents have happened when we’ve whispered to each other in an audience or cheering crowd, “I can’t believe s/he is doing this!” 

That’s how we felt when our oldest stepped onto a plane in January and took off for a foreign continent not knowing a single soul yet on the other side. She could easily be typecast as “the shy one” who hesitates to talk to someone new. That sentence is truth. But so is this one: Something in her fabric pulls her out into the world to learn and explore and experience and grow. As I let her lead me around Morocco and show me all she’s found there, I knew that letting that baby go was the best thing we could do for her today and always. 

Every minute together a gift.

All too soon I said good-bye and headed home to the rest of our kids who are still in the process of trying on goals and personas. I watched our toddler hurtle down the steepest slide by himself yesterday. He wanted no help in spite of landing in a muddy heap at the bottom every time until he learned to get his feet under him. “I’ll hold your hand,” I offered. “No! Mine!” he answered. 

Later, by email I let our oldest know her return ticket was purchased for the end of May. “I can’t wait to get back,” she answered. “I’m so glad I got to come here, but I can’t wait to be home with all of you soon.” 

Well done, birthday girl, getting your feet under you. Thanks for sometimes holding your mom’s hand just because you can tell I need it even when you do not.

A Teenage Lullaby

There's a clock on your wall that used to stand still
While I rocked you through midnights of crying.
I willed it to move a little faster each time
As I kissed you and left the room sighing.

So tired, I thought, this must be the worst.
Mothering will ease as they age.
And that clock on the wall did seem to start up
As your story filled page after page.

Soon you were quiet in darkest of night,
Your needs less with each growing day.
Though I paid no attention to that ticking clock,
And drooly kisses just faded away.

From left to right these babies are now studying in Africa,
almost six feet tall, and visiting potential colleges.
But I still see the same sillies when I look in their eyes.

Soon you were quiet as evening fell,
Nose buried in book or a game.
A quick good night snuggle was all to be done.
And the clock ticked as always the same.

Soon it was silent in afternoons too.
Practices, meetings and school...
And I asked it to slow,
time was going too fast.
But the clock ticked on, quiet but cruel.

Soon now your story will take you away.
There are places to go and be gone.
And though the clock still ticks faster,
faster each day,
One thing keeps my heart strong.

No matter the time,
No matter the place,
When I look in your eyes,
I'll see my baby's sweet face.

No, mothering does not ease as they age, I know now.
But it's sweet pain when love is so deep.
Strange comfort it is now to stop late at your door,
The clock and I watching you sleep.

The Con List

*originally published in the Weston Chronicle on January 23, 2013.

I have written this column for the Weston Chronicle for almost a year now in order to share what I love about this place. There are many reasons why we chose to make Weston our hometown, but it was not an easy decision for a military family with 10 moves on the books to consider any one city right enough to settle forever. It’s coming up on two years that we’ve been back and there are no regrets (though we’d sure love a little more snow—but that’s a different column).

As with any big decision, part of the discussion process involved a pro and con list. Top of our con list for Weston: the lack of diversity. This generated at the top of our list not due to political correctness, but as a result of 21 years of the military lifestyle. The United States Army was the first public institution to fully integrate and so, by the time we got there in 1990, diversity was no longer a topic for committees and special educational programs. It was simply a no-brainer. Diversity was everywhere. Our oldest three children spent their formative years daily surrounded by teachers and students and neighbors from all over the world with different colors of skin, religions, socio-economic backgrounds, and national heritages.

No one gave it a second thought when a female African-American co-worker came over for dinner or that dad’s boss had a different color of skin. Child #5’s godmother is a darling woman of Korean descent with broken English, a killer kimchi recipe, and the sweetest hugs around. While looking through old pictures of Child #2’s 10^th birthday sleepover party, we discovered that hers is the only white face in the crowd of five little girls. Is it strange that we never noticed that at the time? Child #1 departed last week for a semester abroad in Africa. We’d like to think that part of her motivation for studying other languages and experiencing other cultures is that she knows how small the world really is and how much we have to learn from each other. But mostly we’d like to think she learned from the beginning how very much alike we all are.

Which brings me back to our con list. It certainly was not that we thought Weston was a town of fearful racists or religious bigots. Hardly! Some of the biggest hearts and brightest minds we’ve ever met were born and raised right here. It was more that we knew it would be much harder to teach our younger kids about their place in the world if they were always surrounded by people just like them.

Yet here we are living in this very intelligent, very warm, very ambitious, yet very homogeneous community. How will we impart the same empathy and worldliness to our younger three kids that our older three absorbed so easily and so early? We are still working that out.

One thing we will do is talk about the con list. No place will be perfect, we tell our kids, and you are no better or worse or smarter or more special than a child on the other side of the world. Or the other side of the tracks. Do we want our kids to succeed in the global economy? Absolutely. The better they learn that we have way more that links us than separates us, the better it will be for whatever career and community they choose to call home one day.

Family Game Time

We do not guarantee non-stop fun around here. Have you met those kids who come from non-stop fun-providing parents? They're kind of hard to like and we are committed to raising likable people. Which is why, logically, we strive to make sure our children are not always having fun. So far, so good, the kids would say.

Games, on the other hand, are being played all the live long day. I'm not sure what goes on at your house, but here's a list of a few that occur a lot at ours.

Hide and Seek
The rules of the game:

Kids:
Hide the clean dishtowels in the drawer with the rolling pins and stuff all the dirty ones under the table. Use the 37 spoons just washed and put away last night and use them in such a way that the utensil drawer is now empty but there are only nine dirty spoons in the sink. If you are a 7-year-old boy, place an average of two mis-matched socks in the laundry basket each week and--this is important--no underwear at all. If you are a teenager, have your cell phones rather permanently attached to your hand and yet don't immediately answer calls or texts coming in from your parents. If you are a daughter approximately adult-size, stash all the white camis in your dresser drawer while insisting that you have no idea where those belonging to your mom could possibly be.

Mom:
Before 8 a.m. start to lose it while seeking dishtowels, spoons, dirty underwear, teenagers and just one stinking white cami.

Tag
The rules of the game:

Kids:
Argue as frequently and vehemently as possible about who was "it" yesterday or the day before or last month. Keep meticulous track of who made the biggest part of the mess, who traded turns with whom to clean the bathroom last week, or who "didn't hear" the phone while Mom was in the bathroom and all of you sat within three feet of it ringing incessantly.

Mom:
Start to lose it while fighting the urge to just do it yourself in order to shut up the offspring. Launch into a detailed lecture about how many messes you have cleaned up since the birth of Child #1 and how little you care whose turn it is. Drone on and on about the little ingrates until they hang their heads and finally get the job done.

Musical Chairs

The rules of the game:

Kids:
Race each other to the car/table/couch, knocking down the little ones if necessary, all while shouting, "I called it! I called it!" If you do not get the seat of your choice, whine. A lot.

Mom:
Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and repeat the following. Again: "Think of it this way: we are all part-owners of everything in this house. Only Dad and I are really full owners. We just let you live here. 'Shotgun!' means nothing to me. No one has a reserved seat in the car, on the couch, or on the pew at church. You may, in fact, have to sleep in someone else's bed when we have company. Variety is the spice of life, people. What we promise is that everyone will have a seat on which to sit and bed in which to sleep, even if it is cheap and has to be aired up with the compressor. Which is not where I put it, by the way!" (see Hide and Seek)

Red Rover, Red Rover, Can (_____) Come Over?

The rules of the game:

Kids:
Wait to tell your parents about your friends and the big party you have planned until after parents have changed into comfy clothes and started dinner prep for seven. Then casually drop the news that you and a dozen of your friends have planned to eat and watch movies. Here. Tonight.

Mom:
Smile with as much fake sincerity as you can muster and explain, "We sincerely like your friends and the fact that you (and they) want to hang out here. A little warning is all we ask.The open door policy means anyone is welcome at any time. It also means I can never venture outside of my own bathroom without a bra, can never stock too many juice pouches, must keep ingredients for a giant-size breakfast coffee cake on hand at all times, and should install more hooks on the wall for all those backpacks. But, seriously, the more the merrier."

Counting shoes and backpacks is usually how I know how many kids are here at any given time.

Duck, Duck, Goose!
The rules of the game:

Kids:
Instigate a game in which as many of your siblings as possible have to duck and duck again to avoid "aggressive affection" from you. The goose! part of the game is that fun little bit about pinching each other's backsides in the hopes of leaving a mark. Thank God you will finally outgrow the compulsion to do this. Too bad it is usually a week or so before you leave for college.

Mom:
Just go to the other room, lock the door, and pretend you hear nothing.

Target Practice
The rules of the game:

Kids:
Well, really, this applies only to boy kids. In spite of the fact that a toilet bowl is actually a pretty huge target, you miss time and time again. This results in a sticky, yellow wash of pee all over the outside of the bowl and on the floor. The truly ambitious manage to hit the shower curtain. Knowledge of geometry and trajectories must have something to do with it.

Mom:
Beg, threaten, bribe or punish. But it's game over if you ever get so desperate as to purchase the floating targets. (Editor's note: Save your money. This too shall also pass right about the time they leave for college.)

Charades

The rules of the game:

Parents only.

It doesn't take long for your children to learn how to spell (even if you purposely refrain from actually teaching them yourself). Which means keeping a secret from all of them must  progress into your own private game of charades. Not to brag, but we are sort of experts at communicating with eye rolls, hand gestures, verbal shorthand and grunts. Our children have yet to fully crack our code. It's great fun and also one of our #1 tools in the fight for self-preservation.

Which is good, because although it's considered better for kids' self-esteem to ignore the score when you're playing a game, around here everyone knows the kids are definitely winning.

A Pile of Little Things

During a very happy Christmas season with my festive brood, I have found my thoughts drifting consistently to my friends who are missing their other half right now. Some have deployed spouses, others met divorce and are working through everything that comes with the breakup of a family, a handful have said a final good-bye and walk daily with the burden of knowing they will never meet again on this side of heaven.

There is some comfort in knowing that 2013 will bring reunions, new relationships, and happier days for many of those same friends.

In the meantime, it is no mere platitude when we say that our thoughts and prayers are with you.

Below is a blog entry by my old neighbor and dear friend. It's a brief and thoughtful glimpse into those little moments that can stop the world for a minute when you are missing the one you love the most.

Chris, Pam, Tim and Matt Zimmerman the day Tim deployed.

It's the little things, like dirty socks

by Pamela Zimmerman

Yesterday under the stacks of folded laundry that had been piling up for days in the big reading chair in our room, I found the clothes Tim wore the last day he was home.  

A sweatshirt, jeans and a pair of socks.  I picked up the socks and the “I’m tough and I can take it” wall crumbled around me. This pair of socks reduced me to a puddle of tears. I sat down in the middle of the boxers, t shirts and jeans and realized it really would be six months before I’d find another pair of Tim’s dirty socks just lying around. Something that would have been an irritation before became so precious to me. In that moment I thought of the little things I miss most when Tim is deployed:

His backpack and boots by the door.

His wallet, keys and phone in the middle of the kitchen counter.

Wet towels on the bathroom floor after his shower.

Asking him a question twice because he is so into the book he’s reading on his Nook.

And yes, I miss his dirty clothes just lying around.

The boys with Tim via Skype on Christmas Day.

I miss the simple signs of his presence in our home. I miss the clutter and the warmth it creates. I miss his laughter, his teasing and his wrestling with the boys at the top of stairs as I say to stop before someone gets hurt. I miss everything. 

Those socks sit perched on top of a new pile of freshly laundered clothes. The cycle of everyday living goes on and I go on too. In six months I will again trip over the boots; move the keys, wallet and phone off the counter; pick the wet towels off the floor; and ask my questions twice. I’ll remind Tim to put his dirty clothes in the hamper but they won’t get there and that’s okay. 

It wouldn’t be home if they did.