This one guy I know . . .

When I was twenty, I decided I would probably not get married. 

It wasn't that I don't like guys, I just didn't see most guys as marriage and commitment material. While some of my gal friends would be ogling at the eye candy, I was seeing Mr. Unreliable under that six-pack and chiseled jaw. 

Perhaps some of it had to do with nursing school, and knowing that even the best bodies succumb to the wisdom advice of wrinkles; the strongest arms decide that it's better to be able to wave the bat-wings at one's best friend instead of hefting weights until those biceps are shiny. 

Besides. 

I'm not the easiest person to live with. You can ask my sister, whom I shared a room with for most of my growing up; or my cousin, whom I challenged for the alpha-bitch status every time our parents got together to try to have an adult conversation. (I can say that because she is now one of the three people who I tell my secrets to.)

Or you can ask this one guy I know.

The truth is, he makes my world go 'round.

He cooks almost every night, and usually ends up cleaning up, too. He makes sure the house is clean when we have guests coming over. He makes sure we all have clean underpants when I get lazy. He is starting to get gray at the temples, which is distinguished-looking, and he looks best when his hair is all mussed first thing in the morning--especially if he is holding one of the kids.

There are only about three things he can't do:

1. Sing

Just trust me.

2. Drive slowly

to anywhere in town. He does ok on the open road.

 

3. Be diplomatic

He will tell it like it is. Especially if you are being an idiot.

Other than that, he can literally do anything. He's better at changing diapers, getting a crying baby to sleep, cooking, making excellent adult beverages, gardening, decorating, yard work, fixing things, putting Transformers back together--just to name a few--than I will ever be.

Mom once told me, "Lisa, when you find Mr. Right, you'll be engaged long enough to order the flowers. Maybe."

She knows me well. 

When Clay and I met, I told him I wasn't interested and, while I was happy to comply with being a climbing partner, dating was O-U-T. Once I finally conceded that maybe I kinda sorta could be persuaded to be a little bit interested, we dated for three whole months.

Then I asked him (Yes. I asked him. You read correctly.) to marry me, and the rest is history. 

I love this guy. 

 

KOA Dave

This is the fire truck that KOA Dave bought a couple years back in Washington State. He drove it, in the middle of winter, back to his KOA in Gunnison, CO. It's top speed is about 50 mph, and it gets--at best--about 8 miles to the gallon.

Every summer we spend a few weekends at the Gunnison KOA. People look at us like we're crazy--after all, a KOA in the coldest town in the state doesn't exactly sound like a destination vacation.

However, KOA DAVE ROCKS.

When we arrive, we can count on Dave showing up in his golf cart and taking all the kids on an adventure within an hour. This may be helping to feed the animals (two goats, a sheep, chickens and a massive cow named Norman), visiting the summer residents for cookies, a trip to the store on the house, or going to get the fire truck and being the first kids on board for the 'parade'.

This old fire truck has found new life as a main attraction for kids of all ages when Dave fires it up every afternoon on the weekends, collects all the kids in the campground, and drives around with the siren and horn blaring. This is typically followed by a grand finale of launching items (his favorite are cabbage patch dolls) into the pond on a giant trebuchet.

Dave and his son, Michael (who is the year-round resident who keeps the place spotless and running) are the good neighbors you can borrow a heater, a drill, a cup of sugar (or coffee or beer) or a few eggs from any time. They know even the dogs by name.

Last weekend, strong winds ruined the tent of a family one afternoon early in the weekend. When Dave found out they were packing up and planning to leave early because there were no cabins open, he pulled in his motor home to the only empty spot in the campground, hooked it up and gave them room and board for the rest of the weekend. "No one leaves early!" he said.

This is truly a place where we can kick back and relax. The kids are safe and happy. The food is good. The beer is better. The company is excellent. Dave sets the tone for everyone to feel genuinely comfortable and tolerant and happy and peaceable the whole weekend.

It's a KOA. I don't care--it's a real vacation.


 

Joyfully Exceptional

 

 Twice Exceptional. 

This is the label he carries in his 504 file at school. He has areas in which he has demonstrated abilities far beyond what is average, while also having difficulty to a much greater degree than is average in other areas. And as much as I dislike the word "label", I do like the term: Twice Exceptional. 

I first heard this when expressing my frustration and helplessness at helping him learn self-awareness, and how to function in a school classroom, and how to respond to the everyday ups and downs of life to my very wise and very smart and very grounded and very real cousin-more-like-a-sister. 

It means that he is:

exceptionally smart

exceptionally creative

exceptionally sensitive

exceptionally nostalgic

exceptionally gifted 

exceptionally impressionable

exceptionally unaware

exceptionally exceptional.

It means that many times any action or emotion or decision or strength or weakness does not fit within what many would consider average. All of those things, for him, happen at the extreme ends of the spectrum. when he is happy, he is bouncing-off-the-walls, dancing-in-the-rain, yelling-with-abandon happy. And when he is sad, he is despondent, often quite vocally so.

Being a parent to this is--exceptional. 

He is our first, so we didn't know any better until second came along, though in hindsight there were signs we should've seen. Like speaking his own language by the time he was 8 months old, complete with hand gestures, facial expressions, intonation and laughter. Like recognizing routes and locations as a two-year-old that we'd only visited a few times. Like being able to sing almost any tune after hearing it only once. Like being completely unaware of time, or able to follow multi-step instructions, or being able to objectively process a story. Like being able to pick up on the moral of the story, but unable to pick out the plot. Like saying things that make people stop and think, "oh, I never thought of it like that before."

This child sees the world differently.

When I think about the most amazing people I have ever met, the ones who make their mark on the world, I try to imagine what they were like as children. Think about it. The people who make big discoveries and big inventions and big changes and big impressions were probably odd kids.

I bet none of them were "average". I bet none of them helped their district's state standardized test scores. Don't get me started. 

I bet they were exceptional, because that's why they have the ability to stand out and make a difference. 

It's not easy. It's not the average parenting experience. It's not predictable or comfortable or boring--oh, so not boring. Scroll though my facebook posts for a glimpse into daily life.

Joyfully

    Exceptional.     

once upon a summer

In the midst of the transition between school ending and summer vacation beginning, we seem to have developed a tradition of sorts. Not on purpose . . . it sort of just happened. (I'm inclined to think those are the best traditions, after all.)

Every year, on the day after Easter, we make the local circuit of grocery stores and convenience/pharmacy stores and buy out all the Peeps that are now on clearance. All.

And then, as soon as the daily wind dies down to a breeze, we succumb to the intoxication of a campfire in our backyard fire pit.

And the Peeps get roasted.

If you've never tried it, these little pink and yellow birdies make the best. s'mores. ever. When roasted just right, the sugar dusted on the outside becomes caramelized.

Personally, I like mine with cinnamon grahams and peanut butter cups. 

And some of us just like to stuff as much chocolate in our faces as possible before we get caught.

I broke my hand on Thursday. I wish I had a fancy story about fending off bank robbers or protecting children from rabid ogres or something. But, I don't. 


I slipped on our carpeted stairs and fell down them like a two year old. Only I'm not made of rubber anymore like I was when I was 2. And I'm sure I was less graceful and made a lot more noise. 

 It's a bad-ish break that will likely need to be pinned; it means that changing diapers and typing takes longer than usual, and that I can't ride my mountain bike for about 6 weeks. But that's all. 

Last night I had a conversation with my eldest son that went something like this:

"Mom, I'm sorry you broke your hand."
"Thanks, honey. That's a sweet thing to say and makes me feel better. But it could be a lot worse."
"Yeah, like if you fell into an active volcano."


Blink. 


OK. Yes, that probably would be worse. It would be quick and painless, but worse. It wasn't where my mind was going.


I work with people who are in the process of getting diagnosed with cancer. In my job, I help navigate them through the first few appointments after they hear, "we've seen something we want to investigate further." I'm often sitting with them the first time they hear 'the "C" word'. One of my responsibilities is to anticipate what their needs will be and get them matched with a variety of resources. For example, an elderly person who lives alone and depends on a social security check may need help with transportation and affording medication.


This week, I met with a family. Three lovely young children he stays home with while she works full time. His malignancy is not only very unusual but also in an incredibly difficult place to access surgically. He is one of the very rare people I see who probably will have to travel outside of the state for his treatment. So on top of the complex logistics of arranging urgent consultations with out-of-state experts, I'm thinking about childcare arrangements, her job, the healthcare benefits she carries for the family (and the out-of-network coverage I will be attempting to mediate), travel costs, lodging arrangements and costs--and all while they really just want to be together and maintain a level of normalcy with the kids for as long as he has. 


Even I'm overwhelmed. There is an ache for people like that I can't even describe because it's so spiritually visceral. Some people call it 'survivor's guilt', but it's even more profound than that.


So, a hand is nothing. Even if it doesn't heal exactly right. In the meantime I'll wear the discomfort and inconvenience as a reminder of how much I have to be thankful for, and pray that his & his family's needs are met in glorious ways, miraculous ways. 


And I'll avoid any and all active volcanoes.
 

Moms

This is my mom and my youngest, Gracie, working on a puzzle together when we were at a cabin for the holidays.

I know I am extremely lucky, for a lot of reasons. The fact that we live close enough for my kids to know how to get to Grandma's house and where she keeps the best chocolate and which box has the bat costume dress-up clothes and which flowers they are allowed to pick in the summer time says how fortunate we are. When Gracie first started attaching names to people, she called my mom "Grama Candy". She knew where to go for sweets she wasn't allowed to have often at home.

There are a lot of things I learned from my mom. There are a lot (more than I'd like to admit sometimes) of ways I'm very much like her. I am also fortunate enough to have known both my grandmas well enough to know what traits I got from them as well.

I know my mom says that there are many things she would've done differently as a mom if she knew then what she knows now. I know that, by her saying that, I think there is a lot of hope for me and my mothering skills. I know there are many times I call her or think about how she does things when I'm faced with a particular problem (especially if it's in the kitchen). I know that pictures like this are my favorite because I remember sitting like that with her when I was that size and I remember what her voice sounded like and what she smelled like, and I know I don't ever want to forget that. I know that I want to give my kids every opportunity to have moments like that with her--and with me. I'm glad that there are a lot (more than I'd like to admit sometimes) of ways I'm very much like her.

But I still gave her a magnet today with a picture of a woman looking at her backside in a mirror saying, "How did my mom's butt get back there?"

When I Grow Up

There is something magical about . . .

Hmmmm. I typed that sentence about 5 hours ago. I have no idea where I was going with it. I was probably enjoying my first cup of coffee of the day, looking out at the (very rare) soft rain falling on the five different kinds of basil and seven different kinds of tomatoes we planted in the garden yesterday.

Was I thinking about those things? Or was I predicting the other magic that would happen today? Such as arguing with my almost-five-year-old about why it's not, actually, my fault that he hurt himself walking head-first on his hands down the stairs. Or looking at my very, very, very (VERY) independent 18-month-old's lip again to see if she bit through it or just almost through it when she fell off a bench yesterday. Or glancing in the mirror and realizing that I look EXACTLY like I did about three minutes after I got up this morning.

I recall, at some point earlier in the day, being rather thankful that I can still access complete episodes of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood online at PBSkids.org. I've decided that if I can strive to be that calm every day--in spite of myself--I will have been successful that day. I had a roommate in college who worked on the actual set, with Fred Rogers himself, when those were taped. She said that his calming effect made it one of the best places she has ever worked. She said that when he spoke, everyone listened, because when he listened, he listened completely.

How often do I do that? Listen completely. Even to myself.

Perhaps the magic is in little kids, who do everything completely. If they are playing, they are playing completely. If they are telling a story about the dragon that visited the moths in the window last night and THAT's why I wet the bed because I couldn't get up to go pee, they are telling it completely. When they are ignoring their parents, they are ignoring us COMPLETELY.

Maybe that's why Jesus spoke so highly of children in general. Kids have this pure perception of God, and of who God is, that is so unaffected by reality and -ology. They have no need to explain to us adults. They know we are ignorant--completely--about such obvious and basic things as to whom our souls really belong.

I've started teaching the pre-school Sunday School class. "Teaching", in my case, being a completely loose term. If you feel strongly about your kids learning the language of church, don't bring them to me. I have nothing to teach these kids, really. Sometimes I go through an entire class without using church-speak (those empty words we use to compartmentalize the language our souls know implicitly). They are verbal enough to tell me in unadulterated language how it is, but are still connected. They haven't been smeared by the grown-up versions of reality.

I keep thinking that when I grow up I'll have it together. I'll know more, be more efficient, more effective, more intelligent. But the honest truth is that when I grow up, I want to be three again. Completely.