So This Is Middle School...

Huckle began middle school last year. It was a transition I had dreaded for years, mourning the beginning of the end of childhood and feeling helpless in the face of the angsty, hormonal teen years.

What a joy that, one year later, that I feel so differently about the middle school years. Granted, Huckle is only twelve years old, but I'm writing this to show how my worst expectations have not been realized and, in fact, how we are on a different -- better -- trajectory. May this help other parents who feel that same kid-growing-up dread.

Now, of course, every twelve-year-old is different. I'm not saying yours will be like mine. I simply want to show the joy that comes with this stage.

1. Humor. Oh, the fart jokes are still going strong, but more subtle and sly forms of humor have emerged.

2. Evenkeeledness. To see maturity emerging and to love the companionship of the tiny being you once birthed, the headstrong toddler who left you questioning your decision to become a parent! It's humbling and thrilling. I look back and realize I felt less in control with the emotion-driven little boy storming in 2-4 time-outs per day than I do with a rational 12-year-old. My life is calmer now. The emotional energy in my household feels more stable now with stronger but far less frequent emotional firestorms.

4. Helpfulness. A parent never forgets the schlepping phase, when your arms are beyond full. I sitting in my car in the post office parking lot in early December when Huckle as a baby, wondering how I would ever manage to carry in a stack of large packages (much less stand in line with them), without temporarily abandoning my baby in that monsterly awkwardly heavy car seat, either in the car or in the post office. It was an impossible challenge. But now? A 12-year-old is strong and able. This one insists on shouldering more weight than me, even though he weighs far less than me. Not only that, but all those niggly little jobs I put off -- changing light bulbs, figuring out a new electronic -- Huckle LOVES those jobs, in fact would be disappointed if we didn't leave them for him.

4. Real grown-up conversation. Yes, we still have dinner conversations where silliness reigns. But our family also discusses books, current events, and everyone weighs in on certain decisions, like travel plans, schedule changes, that new sofa.

Now, for the sake of fair balance, let me say that all is not perfect. Balance between independence and obedience. But not the screaming rage sort of battles I expected. Rather, I find myself needing to rethink how we've been doing things for the past 12 years and needing to adjust, discuss, allow. In other words, I'm growing too. We also have flares of temper that cool within moments into apology and sense but leave me jarred and cranky. In fact, Huckle is gifted at apologizing. I am learning from him (and learning not to be exasperated about how much easier it would be if he didn't do anything requiring apology in the first place).

Just you wait. You will be blessed -- and challenged -- by your preteen too.

A White Girl's Lessons in Racial Profiling

In light of the Ferguson decision, I -- like everyone else -- am doing a lot of thinking about race and justice. Reactions to the verdict show the anger and frustration of dark-skinned Americans feeling judged by their appearance. What can I, a light-skinned person, bring to the discussion? Empathy, an open mind, and a humble heart willing to listen and learn. I'm reading news articles and opinion pieces about it and thinking back to my own lessons in profiling to try to better understand.

Lesson 1.
When I was in high school, I towered over my peers and was unusually thin -- to the point that people felt compelled to comment. A parade of well-meaning adults would come up to me and say, "So. Are you going to be a model or a basketball player?"

I laughed along with them ("Ha. Ha. What an original comment.") but inwardly seethed. How dare they assume my body shape limited my career options! What did they know about me and my aspirations?

The only thing that prevented my snark and anger from surfacing was knowing they meant it kindly -- to them, this was a compliment. 

So now I think back on it and wonder, what if -- instead of thinking "model or basketball player" -- they thought "criminal"? What if they didn't mean their comments kindly?

Lesson 2. 
When I was in graduate school, the professor in the lab next door couldn't stand me. She studied HIV and cared deeply about her patients and their cause. But she was snippy to me. She gave me -- an extremely conscientious student -- a B grade in a seminar class considered an easy A if you simply showed  up. Sometimes the other grad students speculated about her attitude toward me, but no believable explanations could be found.

I was very hurt and went out of my way to be kind and respectful to her. It did no good.

She was gone for a month while I was preparing for a difficult oral exam that would qualify me for the PhD program. I was so focused on preparing -- and so worried since my undergrad schooling left me far behind the other students -- that I hardly ate or slept.

When she returned from her trip, she called me into her office and closed the door.

"I'm worried about you," she said. "You've lost a lot of weight."

I was shocked -- both by her care and my weight loss. She sat me down, and we talked about my stress. She was surprised to meet someone who didn't own a scale and had never heard of comfort eating. I was surprised by her compassion and concern. We started getting to know one another. She had grown up on a  reservation in Arizona or New Mexico and, seeing how badly her friends and neighbors were treated, developed a heart for justice that influenced her career. I realized she had typed me as a privileged white girl -- the enemy of the people whose causes she fought for. Seeing my weakness -- my humanness, struggles, and individuality -- allowed her to extend her compassion to me.

Now I realize this is a rare instance when my appearance worked against me. The Ferguson situation has opened my eyes to my norm -- my white-girl status usually works in my favor without me even realizing it. I remember my frustration and hurt from her treatment. What if I constantly faced this sort of groundless suspicion and disdain based on my looks? 

Lesson 3.
Time passes and Tall (No-Longer-So-Thin) White Girl gives birth to Huckle, a baby so white that his nose turned orange when we introduced him to strained carrots. (Yes, really!)

Now Twelve-year-old Huckle is a Tall White Boy. Last month he went to a tae kwon do class without his newly earned, proudly earned black belt.

The teacher, a teenager half a head shorter than Huckle, says, "Where's your belt?"

Huckle already feels bad about forgetting it. But he remembers what teachers have told other students who forgot their belts -- that the important thing isn't the belt but the hard work behind it.

"It's okay," Huckle tells her. "It's not really important."

The teenaged teacher is shocked at his impertinence. How dare he take that attitude with her! She calls him out, and the matter quickly escalates. He doesn't understand her anger enough to explain the misunderstanding. She thinks this intimidatingly tall kid isn't giving her proper respect. By the end of class, she has decided to take away his belt for a week.

Huckle comes home confused and upset. He doesn't understand why he's being punished. We talk it through and, in a rare moment of assertiveness, I call the teacher. The issue is easily resolved -- she is as eager for reconciliation as Huckle -- but I'm left worrying about sending my son out into a world of strangers who don't know him. I think about him as an adult-sized kid, and I think about people insecure with their authority. What if it was a police officer, rather than a young martial arts instructor -- who thought he was being impertinent? It's like a terrifying accident waiting to happen, as he still has so much to learn about other people's perceptions. I wouldn't have understood this when he was younger, when everyone saw him as a harmless kid.

My worry extends to Huckle's friends. Among his favorite school buddies are triplets with skin so dark that I can't get a decent photo of them beside my ultra-pale son. We've known them since they were little nine year olds. They have amazing minds that are quick to memorize anything, from books about the Presidents (one is a history buff) to the license plate numbers of their friends' cars. They are shy around grownups and get nervous when separated from one another. Almost every day Huckle comes home from school with funny stories of what one said or another did, like the time they tried to sneak a friend into their car while the two moms chatted -- a spontaneous play date!

These boys are quickly becoming men. Like Huckle, they are tall and lanky. I worry about how strangers will perceive them. Will people mistake their serious faces or shyness for hostility? I've admired their mom's carefully crafted route to manhood: their 2013 project was learning to do laundry; their 2014 project was learning to cook (and only one recipe can be a dessert!). I wonder what she's had to tell them about the misperceptions and judgment they'll face as men. It breaks my heart to think that their innocence and integrity will be questioned simply because of their race. I want to protect them, to advocate for them, to get momma-fierce with anyone who treats them as anything less than the terrific and talented kids they are.

So there you have it: a white girl's lessons on racial profiling. Multiply by every day, and maybe that adds up to the disheartening experiences of my African-American friends. I'll do my best to keep these lessons in mind, to not judge by appearances, to stand for justice, and to raise empathetic kids.

May our country heal these centuries-old scars.

She's TEN Today

I can hardly believe it's been a decade since I first set eyes on my Sally.

• The little girl I wanted so badly because--as a girl myself and as sister to four girls--I thought I understood girls.
• The little girl who showed me I don't understand girls at all. At least not every girl. Not this one. But that I don't need to understand her to love my precious Sally.

My first impressions of Sally were simply that she wasn't her brother.

First of all, her birth was a breeze, not at all like her brother's traumatic entry into the world. With Sally, I went into labor two hours after Grandma flew in to stay with little Huckle. I calmly monitored contractions in the dark, didn't wake Husband until sure. We drove to the hospital, checked in, and found ourselves alone in the delivery room, watching the monitors and joking together, almost like a date. No fainting, frightening, pain-like-I-didn't-know-a-human-could-endure. No fear in the doctor's eyes, as she ordered everyone from the room--even the newly born Huckle--and yelled down the hall for help.

And when they put Sally into my arms, my first thought was that this was someone new. Before that moment, I thought all babies looked identical -- the same red, wrinkly, scrunched-up faces. But Sally's red, wrinkly, scrunched-up face was so very different from Huckle's. So very precious. So very mine.

Sally was a quiet baby. The easy one. No daily Colic Fest in those first few months. Quick to smile, slow to fuss. Oh, she learned to scream and could throw a mean tantrum by the time she hit the toddler years. But she also had an irresistible giggle. Once when she was two and we had been out for a long walk in Philadelphia, we finally stopped for lunch and she was tired and cranky. The waiter set a big plate of french fries on the table, and Sally's instant giggle of delight is still seared into my brain ten years later.

TEN!  I can't believe she's ten.

• She still wears footie pajamas. But when I gush, "Aww, you're in your cupcake jammies!", she rolls her eyes like teenager, because I'm treating her like a baby. She hates being treated like a baby.
• She hates getting hugged. Unless she needs a hug. And nine nights out of ten, she hides under the covers from my goodnight kiss. But that tenth night, she hugs me tight and kisses my cheek and says, "I love you, Mom" so tenderly that I'm fueled to go another ten nights.
• She still plays, but now she closes her bedroom door when she plays. But every now and then I'm invited into her private world to admire the floor plan of a castle she drew or to read the beginning of her latest dragon story. She still drops treasures into my purse for safekeeping -- a rock, a shell, an eraser hamster.
• She loves dragons: big, fierce, strong, independent. She also loves Jenny-the-Cat: sweet, delicate, purring, soft. Every night, Jenny climbs onto Sally's bed to get petted and snuggled.
• She's fiercely independent, and she can run a mile in 7 minutes -- second fastest kid in the fourth grade. But when her afternoon is going really bad and she's hungry, suddenly she can't do ANYTHING. Not even stand up. She can barely craaaaaawl into the kitchen when it's time to set the table.
• She's trying out identities. First, she wanted a boy haircut and smirked when salesclerks asked me how old my younger son is. Now she's growing her hair long and contemplating pierced ears. She spurns dresses on Sundays, but it's "because my school uniform is a dress and I'm sick of wearing dresses every day." I get it. But I love the plaid jumper of her school uniform.
• She just bought an artificial dagger with her allowance and starts fencing lessons next week. And yet our family hardly watches any movies, because she can't bear scenes when someone feels threatened or gets hurt. She hides behind the sofa or leaves the room. Unless it's a dragon movie.
• She still laughs at fart jokes but also reads aloud to me from books I didn't read until much older. A mix of the sophomoric and the sophisticated. When she makes up new words to songs, they make me laugh. They're actually funny. So is she.

 Sally's contradictions leave me confused. But then I think back and remember my own mixed-up emotions at that age, wanting my mom to leave me alone AND take care of me; wanting to be included by friends AND left to my own thoughts.

So I guess I do understand Sally--I understand that she's uniquely complicated. Just like me.

Happy birthday, Sally! I love you.

A Minecraft Summer?

I start every June blindly naive and idealistic about summer break. This year I thought I could simply close my study door and let Huckle and Sally find their own way to an idyllic backyard summer punctuated with bike rides to the library and expeditions to the woods behind our house.

Ha.
On the first day of break, they only budge from the family room to complain outside my study door. 
Knock. knock. "Mom, Huckle's making noises at me." 
Knock, knock. "Mom, Sally's using clay near my fountain pen."
Knock, knock. "Mom, he flapped his hand in my face."  "That's because she made a face at me!" "Can we play Minecraft, pleeeeease?"

I break down and give them 30 minutes of Minecraft, because I need to get some work done. And because sometimes it feels like Minecraft is the only world in which my children get along.

If you've never heard of Minecraft, you likely don't hang out with a kid aged 8-13. Not that I really understand this sort-of video game. As far as I can tell (from being called over to admire whatever's on the computer screen), Minecraft is a virtual world where players build elaborate towers, tunnels, and houses. They can also add the challenge of avoiding or fighting zombies, wolves, and "creepers."

Huckle and Sally can't get enough Minecraft time and, in their opinion, DON'T get enough Minecraft time. That's because Husband and I impose strict limits.

It's not that I'm against Minecraft; in fact, I'm grateful for it. No matter how much Huckle and Sally bicker in real life, they work beautifully together in this virtual life. They cooperate on joint projects! They admire each other's work! They take into account each other's preferences! I get a break of refereeing, disentangling, and punishing! The glow even lasts after their game time ends -- they spend hours scheming together, planning how they'll spend their next precious Minecraft minutes.

So part of me would love to give in and let them have a Minecraft summer -- hours of time spent agreeably agreeing. Peace would reign. But a bigger part of me feels that my kids need to play OUTSIDE in that great big world that they claim to long for during the busy, schedule-laden school season. We've got a big yard and a nice neighborhood -- surely they can find enough things to do and enough space to not argue? (Or least argue beyond my hearing range?) Surely we don't have to resort to a Minecraft summer?

Husband and I talked it over. We decided to try some new rules this summer: each kid starts the day with a certain number of minutes but can earn more by playing outside. Every hour outside earns 10 minutes on the computer.

Day 1. Sally's at a friend's house for the morning (guess what she and her friend played?). Huckle checks the clock and heads outside to accrue Minecraft minutes. He wanders around the yard. He comes back in to check the clock again. He offers to water plants. Checks the clock. Wanders barefoot to the local playground. Gets stung by an insect so hightails it back home. Checks the clock. Asks if lawn mowing would count toward earning game time.

It goes on like this for two hours. Then he sits down in relief to play his 20 minutes of accumulated Minecraft time.

When Sally returns, they spend the afternoon outside reading books, checking the clock, and talking about what they'll do with their accrued Minecraft time.

"It was peaceful and they spent a lot of time in the backyard, but it's not really what we intended," I tell Husband that night. "I want them to ENJOY being outside. To play and explore and feel independent."

I have no idea how to attain that. How strange. What do I need to do -- teach my kids how to play?

Day 2. Sally and Huckle start the morning with their 15 minutes of Minecraft and then head outside to earn more minutes. But today is better -- they rediscover the muddy part of our yard  where one summer they spent hours every day digging a big hole. The next year the hole became a deep lake in a system of rivers and islands caused by the hose. They called this area The Digging Spot. I called it Cheap Summer Camp -- hours of entertainment for the price of a trickling hose and a laundry load of muddy clothing.

I'm thrilled that they spend the whole morning out there without running in to check on the clock. Until an angry bee stings Huckle and, when I go out there to play hero, stings me too (on my lip! hours before I am scheduled to meet a new pharmaceutical client!). Then they head back inside playing the 20 minutes of Minecraft they earned and analyze their strategies in great detail.

Still, the morning was a success and bodes well for a peaceful summer (once we get rid of the bees). A summer of outdoor fun and sibling cooperation in a non-virtual world. A summer not ruled by Minecraft. Perfect!

Then, as I'm telling Husband out their outdoor fun, a funny thought strikes me. I picture the mud towers, bark homes, and mossy lawns they built that day on the islands of The Digging Spot. And I realize they were basically playing Minecraft, just playing it outside with non-virtual materials. Were those angry bees just nature's zombies?

Ha! But it IS outdoor play. And they were engaged enough to stop checking the clock. So if that's what a Minecraft summer looks like, then I'm good with that. We'll call it... Mudcraft.

Why My Kids LOVE Standardized Testing

Standardized testing starts tomorrow at my kids' school, and they couldn't be more excited. Why? Not because standardized testing is all over the news or because Huckle and Sally thrive under pressure (they don't). It's because test days are a welcome change in routine and because their school makes the days extra special.

Top 5 reasons my kids love standardized tests
1. NO HOMEWORK. Normally, homework looms over our evenings like those city-sized spacecraft in the movie Independence Day (which I didn't see because even this picture freaks me out). We're nearing Christmas break before Huckle and Sally have transitioned from regular homework meltdowns to just-get-it-done mode. (And then it alllll starts again after Christmas break...)

Homework has a way of overshadowing family time, dinner time, bedtime, playtime, sanity...

2. Standardized testing days are HALF DAYS. Not only is there no homework but there's a bonus chunk of free time. Right now, Huckle is mucking in a stream behind our house instead of madly finishing homework before his weekly Boy Scouts meeting. Sally is in the kitchen trying to improve cat treats by wetting them and rolling them in cat nip. 

3. EXTRA RECESS Between tests, the kids are given long recesses to do their crazed playground thing. As far as they're concerned, the school wants them to have more fun. Of course, it's no surprise that physical activity has also been shown to help kids concentrate and may even improve their performance. From a NY Times blog last fall:

A representative study, presented in May at the American College of Sports Medicine, found that fourth- and fifth-grade students who ran around and otherwise exercised vigorously for at least 10 minutes before a math test scored higher than children who had sat quietly before the exam.

4. SPECIAL SNACKS. Parents volunteer to make customized snacks, like sandwich wraps or baked potatoes with all the fixings. In a school with no cafeteria, these kids love marking their preferences on an order form and then having their specially designed snack delivered to them partway through the day.

5. NO PRESSURE from the school staff. The teachers tell their students that these tests aren't meant to measure an individual's intelligence or knowledge. Rather, they guide the school in identifying gaps in their material.

Of course, not every school is making the extra effort to make testing special. So what can you as a parent to encourage your test taker? Here are some suggestions:

• Make a special breakfast. We're having waffles tomorrow -- carbohydrate loading for the brain. Alternatively, pack a special snack or lunch (obviously not a sugary treat).
• Morning exercise. Leave ten minutes early for school to stop at a playground. Or shoot hoops on the driveway as you wait for the school bus. If you're not a morning person, use a stopwatch to time the kids as they run around the block or down to the corner and back. Then again, surprise them by joining in -- bounce on that trampoline, take a turn with the jump rope, show off those mad skipping skillz.
• Watch your words. If you call the test pointless or too hard, your kids will start thinking that way too. You influence their opinions--and possibly their friends' opinions when your kids talk at school.
• Extra special bedtime privilege. Good sleep helps, so keep bedtime on time. But consider making it special the day before a test. Maybe allow ten minutes of reading in bed with a flashlight. Or read aloud a favorite picture book from their younger years. Play a game together or watch funny cat videos on YouTube. Chose something that's different from your usual routine to make it special.  
• Maybe nothing. If your kid is the type who will see any change in routine as a sign that the test is BIGand scary, then keep to the comfortable usual. 
• What do you suggest?

April Fools Rush In...

Image: GHotz, license: Fotolia.com

This year, I made two people cry on April Fools Day. Neither intentionally, of course.

The first was Sally. Every year I play a harmless, little trick on my children to surprise them and make them laugh.

But I've been known to get it wrong before. Like when Huckle was in third grade and I put a plastic bug in his lunch bag. Even though it was fake (and clean, and not actually touching any food), Huckle was so grossed out that he couldn't get himself to eat so much as a bite. Now he thinks it's funny, but at the time I felt terrible when my boy came home hungry.

This year I bought an Easter egg dying kit with colored tablets. On the morning of April 1, while Huckle and Sally ate breakfast and wondered aloud what I would do to their lunches (last year I put soda in their water bottles), I sneaked into their bathroom, unscrewed the aerators of their faucets, and then re-screwed them with colored tablets hidden inside -- red in Huckle's (because he thinks blood is wonderfully gory) and green in Sally's (because she thinks blood is horribly gory).

Huckle went up to brush his teeth first. I "folded laundry" outside the bathroom door until I heard a surprised "Hey!" and then a "Mo-ooooom" said in a smiling voice. "That's a good one, Mom." Red water from his faucet. Got him!

Sally came upstairs to find out why her brother was laughing and to brush her teeth. She wasn't happy that he clearly knew something she didn't. (Note to self:  that's a bad start right there.)

Sally's "hey!" sounded indignant. Her "Mo-ooooom!" sounded accusing. Huckle standing there laughing only made matters worse. "Mom, you made my toothbrush turn green!" she cried.

"That's funny," said Huckle helpfully.

"No it's NOT!" yelled Sally. "Everybody's making fun of me!"

The green washed off Sally's toothbrush; would her anger wash off too? Maybe she would find it funny some day, like Huckle and the lunch bug?

It hardly mattered since it wasn't funny at that moment or for the entire car ride to school, with Sally fuming in the back seat. Two strikes and I'm out, I thought. No more April Fools for me! What could be worse than making someone cry when you meant to make them laugh?

But I had already set another, bigger April Fools Day prank into motion...

Sally's third-grade teacher is a lovely woman gifted in encouraging her students. Every so often she fills out a special form called a Student Success Report to report a student's extra act of kindness or studiousness or neatness. "Sally truly impressed me with the effort she applied to her spelling practice..." a recent report noted. One copy gets signed and returned to the teacher; the other copy gets taped to our refrigerator door. A Success Report makes Sally's day.

Toward the end of March, as I closed the refrigerator door, I had an idea -- I would duplicate the success report but change it to a Teacher Success Report. The result looked pleasingly authentic. A PDF file of my fake was sent to every student in the class, so they and their parents could fill it out and return it on April 1. The instructions were to encourage the teacher, a hard-working woman with a toddler and twin infants at home and a room full of high-energy third graders at school.

After I dropped off a happy Huckle and steaming Sally at school on April 1, I thought about the bigger, more public prank I had set in motion. Ugh. If my little, harmless-seeming prank on the kids could go wrong, would the bigger prank go even more wrong? Would the kids write thoughtless notes to their nice teacher? Would the parents use the form to air hidden grievances? Had I committed forgery by copying the success report??

A sense of foreboding with lots of second guessing...

I found out later that the prank worked better than expected. As the students filed into the classroom, the teacher was handed Success Report and after Success Report until she held a stack of papers, each filled with kind words about her successes. The students were delighted to be in on this secret and took the task seriously.

And that's where the second set of tears enters into the story:  the teacher was so touched by the outpouring of love from her class and their parents that she cried. An added bonus: the children saw how much their encouragement meant to their teacher, and they positively glowed at her response.

On April 2, a new Success Report appeared on our refrigerator. It's a Parent Success Report created by Sally. It commends me for "making up this idea for teachers."

My lesson? Pranks can have unexpected results. Some good, some bad. Even a well-meaning prank is a risk. But some risks pay off big. 

I'm not sure how, or if, I'll celebrate April 1 next year. Of course, it's a silly holiday. But silly can be sweet, and sweet can be wonderful.

Sometimes...

A Month for Lightheartedness

April begins with a day devoted to pranks and continues on with more daylight, more green things popping up, more birds twittering and hopping and generally looking cute and comical. The dreariness of post-Christmas winter is over. Warmer, brighter times are here. I look out my window and see daffodils, one of the funniest, cheeriest flowers I know.

So I'm devoting any April blog posts to funniness.
Let's kick it off with some favorite family stories.

Swallowing Sally.
One day, when Sally was barely old enough to put together a sentence, I took a driving detour past our old house. It was the first house Husband and I owned. It's where we started out as idealistic pre-parents and then had our bubble burst when our finicky, colicky, wonderful Huckle arrived. I was three months pregnant with Sally when we moved three miles away to our current house.

I stopped the car at the curb of the quiet street. The house looked different to me, thanks to the much-needed landscaping the current owners had completed. There was no reason to expect the house to look familiar to Huckle. He was a few months shy of two years old when we left.

"I remember it!" Huckle announced excitedly.

"You do??"

He did. But it wasn't the house he remembered. He remembered the lawnmower shed peeking out from behind the house. I shouldn't have been surprised -- Huckle's first word was "lawnmower."

Sally listened closely as Huckle recounted our daily trips to the shed. Nothing delighted him more than sitting on the riding mower and pretending to drive. He also remembered how he and I would sneak to the shed as quietly as possible in order to spy on the family of mice that lived there. Animal-loving Sally listened with envy. She would have loved to swing that shed door open and watch the mice scurry away!

"Where was I?" demanded Sally from her car seat behind me.

"You were in my tummy," I told her.

Silence from the backseat.

Then Sally piped up in an indignant voice, "You mean you ATE me??"


Wise Words.
Huckle told me this story last fall. As soon as he entered the house after school, I could see he wanted to confess something. He had that guilty look...

The school principal had led the sixth grade class in a discussion of literature that day. Her topic turned to how life just isn't fair.

Huckle raised his hand. "My mom says that ALL the time," he announced.

(As he described this, I smiled approvingly. Kudos to me! Not only do I have the affirmation of knowing I say the same things as our school's wise principal, but now she has heard tell of the pearls of wisdom dripping from my lips.)

Later in the class discussion, another illustration of life's unfairness was brought to the class's attention.

The principal turned to Huckle. "Remind the class what your mother always says."

Huckle gave the class a comic frown and said in a prissy, bossy voice, "Do your homework! Clean your room! Practice your guitar!"

(I died of shame. And then laughed. It really IS funny.)

Chicken of the Sea

Spring break in Curacao and Aruba—turquoise water, white sand beaches… and a reminder that I’m half terrified of the ocean.

Eleven-year-old Huckle and nine-year-old Sally take after Husband:  they strap on their snorkel gear and are soon paddling along the farthest edges of the cove, only identifiable by an occasional flip of a flipper. When the snorkel excitement wears off, the three of them jump off a high cliff wall and plunge into the sea. 

I stand among the sharp bits of coral washed up on shore. I am the family lifeguard watching for signs of snorkel distress. I'm the family photographer capturing their free fall in “sports mode.”

They swim back to shore and eagerly tell tales of cuttlefish and parrotfish. We celebrate their brave escapades, then they hand me the dripping snorkel gear. It’s my turn for fun! So... I pick up my book and head for the shade.

It’s not that I dislike snorkeling. It’s an amazing experience to float over the reef like a nosy cloud and spy on a busy, colorful, surreal world beneath the waves. The corals and creatures have such  fantastical shapes and colors that they seem artificial. I almost expect to see aquarium tchotchkes wedged in the sand, maybe a plastic treasure chest with aerator bubbles opening and closing the lid. 

But after fifteen minutes of glorious snorkeling, the fear kicks up. I think about jellyfish and sharks and man-o-wars and dark crevices full of moray eels that pop out with their cave-blind eyes and gaping, snaggle-tooth mouths. I think about swimming out too far and growing too tired to reach shore. Or not remembering where shore is. I think about “the bends,” whatever that is.  I only know scuba divers fear it. So I do too.

And suddenly, snorkeling doesn’t seem like a relaxing pastime. It seems terrifying.

I don’t share my thoughts with Huckle and Sally—I’d hate to plant my fears in their imaginations. I’d rather their fearlessness rub off on me. But it doesn’t. 

Sometimes I wish I were That Kind of Mom:  Adventure Mom! Exciting Mom! Brave Mom! Mom who dives off cliffs into the sea and skis the black diamond trails and wants to try sky diving! Or even just the kind of mom who doesn't come racing in from snorkeling because she's imagining moray eels chomping at her heels.

But I’m not that kind of mom. And I keep reminding myself what kind of mom I am. 

Sally's big leap!

First of all, I'm Encouraging Mom! Every kid could use a parent on the sidelines cheering. They’ve got Husband to lead their adventures and me to admire them. I saw Sally glow with pride when I complimented her for overcoming her fear of heights on that sea cliff. It's an important job, giving my kids encouragement and security to help them reach new heights.

Second, I'm a certain type of Adventure Mom. A subset but doesn't include jumping off cliffs.
See, every parent has their own set of interests worth passing on to their children. Not every parent loves extreme sports or group sports or crafts or board games or art museums or music or baking. You don’t have to do it all —just find your thing and share it with your kids (unless it’s illegal; then consider finding a new passion. Like macrame. Or nail art.). That makes it a joy for you and for your kids. 

I don’t like tossing a football or swimming in the ocean or playing those strategy board games that go on for hours—so these activities take a lot of effort on my part. But the activities I love are effortless to share.

I love trying new foods. I’ll eat just about anything (except caraway seeds; and I hate the chewy texture of squid), and I’m the only person in the family who eats canned tuna—I EAT chicken of the sea. I’m Courageous Eating Mom! I take my kids on eating adventures!

I also love living creatures. I’m not freaked out by most rodents or snakes or insects or other animals (well, except sea creatures; and those millipedes with hairy legs). I’m Pet Adventure Mom! I carry pet mice in my pockets while the cage gets cleaned! I approve the raising of tadpoles and the bringing home and displaying shed snake skins!

As for playing with Huckle and Sally, I don’t need to feel guilty about not tossing around the football—we love to toss around words! Palindromes! Puns! Onomatopoeia! We share books, critique books, write books. I always have time to hear Huckle’s and Sally’s elaborate stories, even the ones that make no sense or go on and on and on. And on.

We plunge into the deep parts of Tuck Everlasting or Tom Sawyer or The Complete Sherlock Holmes and snorkel through the text, pointing out the exotic words, the most colorful ones, the most interesting ones. We resurface miles away and laugh fearlessly. It’s effortless because I love it. And they love it right alongside me.

My contributions might not be thrilling to Risk-Taking Huckle and Not-To-Be-Outdone Sally. But I hope someday they’ll appreciate Mom who stood on the ocean shore and cheered them on as they jumped off cliffs. And who was brave and adventurous in her own quiet ways.

Vacation Destinations, Part 1

We've taken Huckle and Sally on some incredible trips in recent years. On many of these trips, our family stayed in fancy hotels, thanks to the "frequent stay" points Husband amasses on business trips. In fact, Husband patronizes a certain chain of hotels so frequently that the staff at any outpost makes a point of greeting him by name and dispatching a special Guest Services employee to guide us to our suite. By nightfall, they've lavished us with wine and chocolate-covered strawberries. Another knock at the door, and they're handing in milk and warm cookies for the kids.

It's a bit overwhelming for a non-fancy person like me. I catch a glimpse of my style-free hair in the hotel mirror or see Sally's orange-shirt-with-pink-sweatpants combo and wonder if the staff is a tad disappointed in us. Maybe they expect more glitz and glamor from their "special" guests.

View from our balcony. Oh my!

Sally and Huckle don't notice. They've caught a glimpse of the pool or beach from our balcony, and soon they're tearing through our luggage in search of swimsuits and snorkel gear. They speedwalk through the gold-toned lobby in their flip-flops, unfazed by the crystal chandeliers and attentive staff nodding indulgently. I trail behind, goggling at the opulence and wishing I had thought to pack lipstick. 

I don't take these vacations for granted. I grew up in a large family for which every trip was a camping trip, often cross-country and always accompanied by a streak of unseasonably wet weather. My dad was the driving force behind these trips, driving us out West with few plans or expectations beyond week after week surrounded by his beloved Great Outdoors. Mom was the long-suffering one. We only stayed in motels when she reached her breaking point, which corresponded with everything we owned -- tent, sleeping bags, clothing, skin -- being damp and starting to smell of mildew from day after day of rain. Our tiny room in some cheap roadside motel would be draped with tents and sleeping bags and take on "that smell" as our belongings dried. We kids were excited but not about dry clothes and hot showers. We were excited because motels meant dinner couldn't be cooked over the Coleman stove. And THAT meant the pinnacle of vacation splurges:  McDonald's for dinner!

Sometimes I think about how different my children's concept of vacation is from my childhood experience. I wonder if, when they're on their own as young adults, no accommodations within their means will match their high expectations for hot tubs on hotel balconies and pools with water slides and hidden grottoes.

But then I remind myself that our vacations are more than fancy beach hotels. We still camp at least once each summer, thanks to Husband and I both feeling nostalgic about our childhood trips. Huckle and Sally love playing with fire ("building campfires") and stuffing themselves with s'mores ("cooking"). They spend their days exploring a stream behind our campsite or scrambling up gigantic boulders. These are happy times with happy (and dirty) kids.

Huckle on a recent camping trip

I also remind myself that Huckle and Sally aren't impressed by opulence of our fancy destination hotels any more than I as a girl was cowed by the another dark cloud rolling over our damp tent. For kids, it's often the little things that make a trip memorable.

What do I remember most of childhood camping trips? Fitting a family of seven in our canoe (two of us were towed behind on inflatable rafts); falling asleep to the gurgle of a stream outside our tent; the enormous banana slugs in Olympic National Park; Dad betting us one dollar we couldn't dunk underwater in Lake Superior; campfire stories and Jiffy Pop popcorn; and of course McDonald's. I don't recall feeling damp or dirty. (Car sick, yes; dirty, no)

Sally in Ephesus

Last year, we spent a week in late November exploring Istanbul and its surroundings. (Yes, Turkey for Thanksgiving. It's too splendid a pun to let pass without comment.) This was one of Sally's all-time favorite vacations. Why? Not because she finally got to see the Hagia Sophia and the ruins of Ephesus. Those were Husband's and my dream-come-true destinations. Sally loved Istanbul, because it's crawling with friendly stray cats who are fed and petted by the locals. While Husband and I strained our necks looking up at the elaborate domes and mosaics of the mosques, Sally was sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking down with adoring eyes at the kitten purring on her lap.

This fall, we took a trip-of-a-lifetime to Africa. Our itinerary included a safari in Tanzania (that ruined us for zoos for the rest of our lives) and camel rides beside the pyramids in Egypt (that ruined us for antiquity museums in the U.S.). It was truly incredible.

Before we had recovered from jet lag, Husband asks over dinner, "Where shall we go next?"

He and I laugh. After all, we just returned from the Mother of All Vacations. Nothing could top it, so why even bother trying?

Huckle looks up from his plate. "I know! We should go camping!"

"Yeah!" says Sally. "We haven't been camping in ages. Can we go soon? Pleeeeease?"

I think they're going to be okay.

The Cat Stays in the Bag

A common theme of previous blog posts is my complex emotions about 11-year-old "Huckle" reaching the middle school years. 

A common theme of my non-posts (ie, reasons I don't post) is my complex emotions about writing publicly about Huckle. It's one thing to blab about your cute baby or preschooler; it's quite another to blab about a kid who will soon be developing his own internet presence.

But sometimes I need "blog therapy" to navigate the push and pull of wanting my guy to stay little and yet being so proud of the man he's becoming.

So let's just keep this post among ourselves, shall we? Keep the proverbial cat in the proverbial bag?

Earlier this month, Huckle had his first multi-night sleep-away experience: two nights on a church youth retreat two states away. He didn't seem too worried. In fact, he's a big fan of growing up and trying new, more grown-up things.

The day before the trip, I handed Huckle the packing list and told him to practice his grown-up-ness by gathering the necessary equipment into a duffle bag. Huckle managed to read the list and throw a few things in a pile. But he spent more time snickering over the word "toiletries" than actually packing. And then, when I asked him about a few essentials, it became clear that he took the list too literally:

Me: "Did you pack underwear?"   

Huckle: "What? Underwear wasn't on the list!" 

(Imagine the snickering, if 'underwear' had been on the list...).

When the departure time was an hour away and the dufflebag was only presumably somewhere under the haphazard-looking heap of "packed" items, I realized something: it's hard enough to let your kid go on a trip without you, when your kid is fully packed and ready to go. It would be even harder to let your kid go on a trip without you, if he left behind some important things (like the packed duffle bag) or if the packing wasn't completed until five minutes before the bus left, so you're all stressed out and yelling instead of saying fond farewells.

So I got involved...

Now, on family trips since Huckle was maybe six years old, he has made a point of bringing his favorite stuffed animal cat Tangles (pictured above in the little sleeping bag with attached pillow that Huckle made several years ago). Tangles has been to many states and even foreign countries. He has looked out the window of planes and over the edge of balconies. He's been lost in Chicago and the Omaha zoo (in fact, the current Tangles is actually Tangles 2. Or maybe Tangles 3). In other words, Tangles has been an important companion for many years and the subject of many family discussions ("What do you mean you can't find Tangles again?") and creative stories ("And then Tangles blasted off in his rocket..."). Tangles also owns a prime piece of real estate on Huckle's pillow.

Tangles in the arms of St. Francis;
Mexico 2011

 Cue the Mommy nostalgia, as I looked at Huckle's luggage pile and wondered -- not if he remembered toothpaste -- but if Tangles was somewhere deep in there. If Tangles didn't go, would this mean we had reached a new stage of grown-up-ness, a stage when stuffed cats are no longer essential travel companions, are no longer necessary to battle the forces of evil, and no longer offer some sort of magical protection in a dark bedroom or hotel room? I needed to know.

Me (casually): "So, is Tangles going?"
Huckle (shrugging but looking at me closely, as if my answer really mattered to him): "I dunno. Should he?"
Me: "Well, I think he should. He's been so many places already..."

Huckle didn't say more and neither did I. But, when he came back from the retreat, tired and happy, and I pulled the dirty clothes from the duffle bag, you can imagine my joy at seeing Tangles deep in the bowels of the duffle bag, complete with his little hand-stitched sleeping pouch.

There's plenty of time to grow up, dear Huckle, my precious son. Plenty of time.

Why I'm Praying for a Huge Snowstorm This Weekend

Our area has been getting pounded by snowstorms lately.

Case in point: School was cancelled on Monday, delayed 90 minutes on Tuesday, then cancelled again today (Wednesday). 

And now another big storm -- possibly the biggest yet -- is expected to hit this weekend.

That would the third this week in a region where the usual snow drama goes like this: (1) BIG hype about a HUGE snowstorm (2) leads to ridiculous lines at the grocery store and gas stations, (3) followed by a dusting of 1-3 inches of snow (4) that melts away within three days, (5) and then everyone makes French toast with their stockpile of eggs, milk, and bread.

Then again, this is also an area that has survived some major hurricane drama in the last few years, so preparedness is a virtue. I can't hear these apocalyptic forecasts without my heart racing and my mind picturing days without power and trees falling through the roof, somehow ending up in a dark, dystopian, Hunger Games-like scenario.

So why am I praying for a big snowstorm this weekend? 

Because it would solve -- or at least postpone -- my latest ethical dilemma. It goes like this:

Husband and I grew up in Christian families that took Sundays seriously. Sunday was a day of rest, a day set aside to worship God. We went to church (twice each Sunday, in fact) and that was about all that happened all day. My parents wouldn't take us anywhere that required others to work, even volunteer work: not to the mall or the pool or even to weekend basketball tournaments in which our Christian school participated.

You can imagine how unpopular this was with my sisters and me, especially when our junior high basketball teammates were outraged that we disappeared on Sundays.
"I know, isn't it stupid?" I'd say to my friends. "I'm not going to do that when I'm a parent."

Well, guess what. Now I'm a parent, and I see what my parents were doing. They were following the Fourth Commandment:

Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns. For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy. (Exodus 20:8-11)

Now I get it. They weren't being legalistic or lazy or unfair, they were following a mandate important enough to be one of only Ten Commandments, up there with do not murder, do not steal, do not commit adultery, and all those other "big ones."

By not allowing us to play in Sunday basketball tournaments, my parents were demonstrating to us that God comes first, even if it means sacrifice. And, really, that's not even much of a sacrifice in the big scheme of life.

So far Husband and I have managed to get away without our kids making Sunday sacrifices. Neither Huckle nor Sally plays on teams with weekend games, so it's been a non-issue.

Well, that's not entirely true. Huckle takes tae kwon do lessons and needs to participate in tournaments. We did allow him to be in a Sunday afternoon tournament once, because it didn't interfere with our church attendance. That was our compromise. And, I told myself, it was only once. Then again, our Sunday afternoons look a lot like Saturday afternoons sometimes -- a quick trip to the pharmacy or grocery store, if needed. So I guess the real compromise is that we've set apart Sunday mornings, not Sundays.

Meanwhile, Huckle has been working hard for more than a year to earn his senior red belt, the rank right below black belt. It's been a long haul with lots of hauling:  me hauling Huckle to classes three times a week, Huckle hauling a big bag of gear and pine boards to practice breaking, Husband hauling out the virtual checkbook to pay the exorbitant monthly fee.

And now the long-awaited testing date is about to arrive -- the day Huckle tries to qualify for his senior red belt... And... And the school announced it will be held this coming Sunday morning.

So I went to the karate staff and explained our problem. I asked if we could do the make-up testing date to avoid missing Sunday worship. The office staff initially said yes but then spoke with the owner (a nice Catholic man, by the way). Who said no. He said it's too complicated to have those at the senior levels test outside the actual testing day.

The administrator, seeing that I was upset, added, "But there's a chance the Sunday test will be postponed due to this storm they keep talking about on the news. In that case, the test will be held next Wednesday or Thursday."

I reluctantly signed Huckle up for the 10am test. He's worked hard for months to qualify for this test, and I respect that. But I don't feel good about it. At. All.

• I feel like a sell-out, compromising my most important value -- putting God first -- for a kid activity. 
• I feel indignant about a facility that makes my kid repeat their Five Tenets every class -- Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-control, Indomitable Spirit -- expects me to violate my own tenet so my kid can participate. (Integrity, indeed!)
• And, most of all, I feel angry at myself for not being too weak to do what my conscience tells me is the right thing, the difficult thing, the sacrificial thing.(Indomitable Spirit, indeed!)

And that's why I'm praying for a huge snowstorm this weekend. 

UPDATE:
Okay, so the storm manifested as a light snow sprinkle, and the tae kwon do testing took place that Sunday morning. Husband took Huckle to the event, while I -- and here's some irony for you -- cut bagels and brewed coffee in the church kitchen before the service. As I worked, I confided in a friend, who gave a thoughtful response. He pointed out that my children will learn from seeing the efforts I take to keep Sunday holy and from the heartache I feel when Sunday is compromised. These times are opportunities to talk together about how we don't want it this way or like it this way. But Sunday worship, like everything else in life, is tainted and broken and in need of redemption -- like my heart when it feels bitter about Sabbath encroachments.

Life doesn't fit into the neat little boxes on our calendar. It spills over from to the next. But still. That day made me realize I need to stop praying for a blizzard to solve my dilemma for me. I need to put thought and prayer into what it means to keep the Sabbath holy. Is it an amorphous-theoretical-virtual thing, all about setting apart my heart for worship? Or is it a concrete-literal thing, about setting aside an actual day, a full day, and calling it God's? I need to pray for guidance, not snow.