My Dad

I had a charmed childhood.  I was the middle child, first born daughter and my mom used to say I was just a twinkle in my daddy's eye until I appeared, then I was the apple of his eye.

I loved my dad so much and wanted him to approve of me.  He was an engineer for the Army Corp of Engineers for the US Government and inspected dams.  He called himself a "damn Engineer".  He also had the nickname of tricky Dick especially during the Nixon era.  He was funny, he was kind, he was so incredibly smart and he loved technology.  He would talk about what the future would bring and I know he'd LOVE everything that's come on the scene since 1975, much of which he predicted would happen.

I'll never forget the first time he brought home a calculator and told us it would cost $500 to purchase. The very item that you can now pick up at a dollar store.  He also brought home a newfangled machine that he inserted our corded phone into and he told me about how it connected to a "computer" that was as big as our house via our phone line and held a bunch of information.  He also told me someday we'd have one in our home and it wouldn't take an entire room. He was right.  He was often right.

He valued education and when we drove to our cabin from Maryland to Idaho each year we would travel via Moscow and he and my mom would announce "This is where you kids will go to college."  3 out of five of us attend the U of I and of those 3, two graduated from there.  Thanks Dad.

When he looked at my grades, he would ask me, "Are you proud of your grades, did you do your best?" And if I answered yes, he blessed my effort.  If I said no, we had a talk about working harder and he'd ask where I needed help.  I hated when he helped me with math because I just wanted him to tell me the answer and that never happened.  He made me think.  It was tedious and hard and when I got it I felt really good, but I still wished he'd just tell me.

We traveled from Maryland to Idaho every summer in a car with 5 kids, two parents and two dogs. It took us a week one way there and one way back.  That left us 3 weeks at the cabin in Coeur d' Alene, our families favorite place on earth. These trips were trying for my dad sometimes.  He would occasionally announce, "Do I have to stop the car?" or worse, "Do I have to take off my belt?"  And sometimes both things would happen and we'd be subdued into silence for an hour or so.  The instigators were normally my sister Sue or my brother Dave...

On these trips my favorite place to sit was in the middle between my mom and dad and I would pour him coffee from his thermos to keep him awake and driving for hours on end.  I loved that job.

I only remember one time that he got truly mad at me and it was when I was about 15 and I was so frustrated with my mom that I called her a bitch.  He stormed down the hallway that I had stomped down and got in my face and said, "Don't you ever, ever call your mother that word!!"  I never did again.  It scared me because he wasn't an angry person (unless locked in a car with 5 kids for 5 days) and I think that last year he was alive he didn't feel good.

My mom would make him breakfast every morning because her mother told her that's what a wife does. It was truly the only time they had together each day.  He carpooled to downtown Washington D.C. which meant getting up early to make it in time and even earlier if it was his week to drive.  My mom never complained because I think she really treasured this time with just him.  It was long before we all got up to go to school.

When he arrived home, shortly after my mother had finished her piano lessons, she would meet him at the top of the stairs wearing her apron she used while cooking, often in either a dress or bell bottoms that she'd sewed, and she'd have a 7 and 7 in her hand on the rocks for both of them.  My dad would kiss her, then ask where we were, and walk around and hug each of us...then he'd sit with my mom and have that drink before dinner.

He finally quit smoking long after we'd used markers to write "smoking kills" and "smoking is bad for your health" all over his Lucky Strikes.  He was so mad about that because he had to run out and buy more, but not long after his doctor told him to start smoking filtered, light cigarettes.  He tried to quit, but alas, never did.  He also was told to stop eating eggs so the eggbeaters appeared on the scene as a staple in our fridge.  He never ate a regular egg again.

I turned 16, I liked boys, but I would never have taken one home because I was afraid of what my dad would say. When I was little he would sit me on his lap and say, "Someday I'll have to cut a hole in the floor so your legs can dangle down."  He meant that no matter how old I was I would always be his little girl and sit on his lap.  He also said he'd need to get the shotgun out because all the boys would be knocking down our doors.  I had mixed feelings about moving from little girl to growing up girl.  I never had to really face that piece which was a silver lining in this whole story.

He marveled at how tall I was getting and made me feel good about it by telling me that I could be a Rockette someday because they all had to be six feet tall and hopefully I'd make it.

I remember someone telling me years ago that our bodies have muscle memory and that days we experience trauma we will possibly feel forever in ways we don't wish to.  That day might be a day of surgery, or the day you signed your divorce agreement, or as for me, the day my dad died.

I was only 16.  In high school and I thought I was so grown up.  I was beginning to separate from my parents and had a carefree existence.  On October 28, 1975 I woke up to sounds that resembled laughs, but as I got more awake, I realized it was quiet sobs.  I heard my brothers' voices and they were also quietly choking out words I couldn't hear.

I steeled myself to go into the kitchen, took one look at my moms face and I knew.  I knew he was gone. He was supposed to come home that day.  He had a mild heart attack and had spent a week in the hospital and I had only visited him 12 short hours before.

Our last conversation was in the hospital.  I went after church with my mom to visit him and told him the battery on the Karman Ghia had died and I needed him to come home and fix it.  He explained how to do it and I barely listened and reiterated that he could just do it tomorrow when he came home.  He looked at me very seriously and said, "I won't always be there to help you charge your battery so you should learn how."  I was angry.  I denied that he wouldn't always be there.  I tried to not listen to his words, but I heard him.  I hugged and kissed him goodbye and he told me how much he loved me and I told him how much I loved him and how I couldn't wait until he got home.

After finding out my father had died in the early morning I went back to bed, my mom tucked me back in with tears in her eyes and I sobbed aloud for several minutes.  I recall thinking, "whew, I'm glad I got that out of my system, that's the last time that'll happen."  I was wrong.  I was horribly wrong.  It would happen that day at least a dozen more times.  And every day after for at least a year, several times. But as I started to fall asleep again, I felt his presence. My dad was in the room.  As a parent I know he was sick about what had happened.  I know he must have been so worried about my mom and all of us and I don't think he wanted to leave.

I changed.  I wouldn't wear makeup, I tied my hair in a pony tail each day and I scoffed at the frivolous nature of my peers.  I wrote for my creative writing class and made my teacher cry continuously as I poured out my aching heart.  I met a boy in art class who sidled over to me one day and sat next to me. One day he quietly said, "My dad died six months ago."  Enough said, we were inseparable for the next 2 years.

Grief is a tough taskmaster.  People would be talking and I would just want to scream, "Why are you talking about such inane things when my heart is literally broken?"  I felt 100 years old. My life was irrevocably shattered in a moment.  I didn't know how to put the pieces back together.  I began having dreams that our house was on fire and that I was responsible for getting everyone out.  I took on much more than any 16 year old should.  My brothers moved west in the first year and I became my moms confidant which led to my launch into adulthood in a jarring and painful way.

My family changed.  That's the hardest part.  There are chapters of our lives that are hard to revisit and the ways we changed as a former group of happy people was and is often heartbreaking to examine.

There was this brief time the day he died, about one hour early in the morning, when my two brothers, my two sisters and my mom and myself all were awake and we were the only ones who knew my dad was gone.  We sat huddled in the living room, laughing, crying, hugging, hoping for the best.

My dad was there too, we could all feel him.  From that moment on our lives changed forever as the world and reality crashed in.  Sometimes I wish I could go back to that one brief hour filled with so much hope for a future that hadn't yet unfolded.

Today is the anniversary of that day.  Every year I head into October thinking this is the last time I will feel the horror of that day in the core of my being....and every year I still do.

On October 28th every year I am 16 again. I am that little girl that wishes she could sit on her dad's lap one more time, that wasn't grown up even though she was trying to be, that wishes he'd walked me down the aisle when I got married (both times), that wishes he'd held his grandchildren and that wishes our family had never changed.

I once told my best friend that I'd rather have had my dad for 16 years than a crappy dad for a lifetime, but that's probably not true.

If you're a dad, take care of yourself for your kids sake.

If you have a dad, hug him, no matter what he's like and let him know you love him.

If you have a husband, support him as a father.

If you've lost someone you love, I'm sorry.  I promise it gets better.  Maybe not easier, but better, and if it's just for that one day that you long for the clock to rewind itself, then it's progress.

I love you dad, and you'll be happy to know I learned how to charge my own battery on that old Karman Ghia but I think you would be proud of me now for a million other reasons....

See you in my dreams Daddy.

My mom and dad a few months before his heart attack.

My mom made us do a family picture before "anyone else died."  This was about two months after and Rick showed up with a horrible hangover, hence the special word bubble in my scrapbook for him.  I think he felt like he was going to die that day!
Left to right top row:  Dave 18, Me 16 (still no makeup but I didn't do the ponytail to make my mom happy), Sue 14,
Left to right bottom row: Rick who turned 20 just 4 days after my dad died, my mom 45 and Jeanine who turned 13 a few weeks after his death.

Time with Grandma: Dementia or Delight?

My Grandmother was an amazing women who died at the age of 94.  She was one of the most intriguing women I knew growing up and for me her stories began with a trip to the Wild, Wild West as a "not-so-young" single person who came to Idaho to find a real man!

She and two of her friends arrived on the train one summer to spend a year teaching at the elementary school in Idaho and couldn't wait to ride horses, shoot guns and meet men...which they certainly did.

My grandma stood about 5' 2" tall at best and when she met my handsome, 6' 2" tall grandpa she was smitten by the way he taught her how to shoot a gun and his gentle cowboy ways.  My favorite picture of them is her with a shotgun and him with a tin can on his head and both of them an unusual 32 years old and unhitched.

My grandpa had 10 older sisters so he was a quiet sort.  He'd learned to keep his mouth shut and to bide his time.  When his soul mate, Emily left Idaho and rode on the train back to Philly his heart went with her.  It wasn't long before he wrote her and said he was coming to visit.  Her mother was all atwitter hoping this might be "the one" for her spinster daughter.

John & Emily Pratt at their wedding

John Pratt showed up and Emily's Dad and brother were so taken with him that they played cards every day for the first three days and kept him rather busy entertaining them.  When my great-grandma asked how it was going, Emily confessed that she'd not had a moment alone with John because of the male members of her family.  That next night, after dinner...everyone disappeared.  A few short days later they were married and I still have her silk, dark blue dress she wore on that day.  A short honeymoon followed and Emily stayed behind to finish her term at the school she taught at before moving west.

John returned on the train and it was announced that he was now married.  It wasn't long before everyone knew he and Emily were expecting a child.  When she finally came to Idaho she was well along into her first pregnancy and picked up the phone to hear on the party-line someone doubting that the child was John's.  She was devastated.

She got down on her knees everyday and prayed her baby would not come a day too soon.  The gossip mongers had her feeling scared, worried and ashamed instead of feeling the simple joy of a firstborn coming into the world.

My Uncle arrived on his due date...exactly nine months from the day his parents married.  Gossip mongers were hushed and all was well.

My grandparents went on to have two other children, the youngest being my mother.  They lived a happy and full life on a farm and later in the city. Emily was many things, a great mother, great wife, great friend.  She played the piano by ear and if you hummed a song she would pick it up by ear in the key you were humming.  She was incredible.  She had a hearty laugh, a ribald sense of humor and a hug that went on for days.  She loved my grandpa and when he died it was awful.  I'd never seen my mother cry before that day and certainly had never seen my stoic grandma cry.  I was 9.

About ten years later we celebrated her 80th birthday and she had a mild stroke at her party.  It was almost undetectable until her memory suffered.  It was downhill from there, in the sense that her short term memory loss was such that she couldn't remember if she'd eaten, indicating hunger shortly after completing a meal.

When I returned from college as a young married person I couldn't find a teaching job right away and my mom asked me if I would go and care for my grandma, to give her a bath and do her hair and give her a perm every few months.  I agreed, as I adored my time with her and while my Uncle was living with her, it was girl time she enjoyed!  My mom was working full time and couldn't do it, so it was a special joy for me.

Sometime during our time together I found out I was expecting my first child.  We had decided not to tell anyone until I was well past 3 months as my own mother had experienced losses and I feared I would also.  One day I told Grandma and we giggled with girly joy and talked about what his/her name would be and all of our hopes and dreams for him.

The next week when I returned I again told Grandma my joyful news.

Once again, she reacted as if it was the first time she'd heard this wonderful news.

I can't begin to count the times I had this experience with my Grandma before my firstborn finally arrived.  But I never got tired of it.

I wasn't telling anyone else, so I went for my weekly visit to share my news and to get the same, wonderful, excited reaction that I so loved.  It's one of my favorite set of moments with my grandmother.  Everyone else heard that story once, but she...she heard it probably 20 times and each time it was a celebration. Each time it was filled with the same excitement and surprise.

Each time she hugged me and exclaimed her utter joy for my fortune!

You see besides having dementia, my Grandmother was blind, so she couldn't see my swelling belly to give her visual cues.  She only had her then failing brain to hold onto what she knew.  Toward the end of the nine months she started asking on occasion, "Now remind me, who is pregnant?" and we'd share the wonderful news again.  Her impending great grandchild was becoming a long term memory even before he arrived.

Aunt Jeanine, Grandma Lilli and Great Grandma Emily

Grandma got to hold that little baby and when she held him for the first time I saw that young little mother (33 to be exact) holding her firstborn, cooing over his arrival and praising him for arriving "on time".  I saw a woman who had lived a long and happy life, some of it in the dark and some of it without daily memories to sustain her and my heart swelled with gratitude that I could call her one of my own.

She wasn't around much longer, and never met any of my other children.  But Emily lives on.  In my memories, in my heart, in my laughter, in my mother's and my fingers on the piano, in my daughter named after her, in my longing for those moments sharing my greatest joy again.

It was a secret delight we shared made possible by dementia.  One that I will hopefully one day never forget, but if I do...I will rely on my people to remind me of it...often and at minimum weekly, when they come to do my hair and share their moment of joy with me, over and over again so I too can delight in their stories each and every time I hear them, as if for the first time.

Thanks Gram...love you so much.

Conversating with Susie

I'm a firm believer in conversations.  I think it brings us together and is the glue of our relationships.  In the words of Sam to Diane on Cheers, "I like to conversate."

Every day I have opportunities to conversate with many people very important to me. Today was no different. I talked with my husband and luckily all three of my kids, two of them in person!  It was a stellar day for conversations with my immediate family.

I also was able to talk with my mom and my youngest sister which while pretty standard is always a fulfilling part of my conversations each day.  My mom is 83, so how many more of these conversations will we have?  One never really knows.  Having lost my dad at the tender age of 16, I know not to take these conversations for granted.

I talked with my staff and teachers today on several fronts, on several topics and in several different ways.  How they delight me with their intelligence and passion for our mission.  I talked with parents served by our program and felt the passion rise in me as I heard their needs expressed so vividly.

I talked with one of our preschoolers about his art project and how he was going to give his painstaking gift to his grandma and why and to my two year old friend who got her first potty sticker.

I talked with my career coach and my mentor who guided me beyond myself and my worries and my fears and led me to places I know I need to go and need to grow.

I talked with my passionate board members who dismay me every day with their love for what we do and their willingness to seek better ways of doing it.

I talked with the internet guy about repairing our slow internet and while it wasn't my favorite conversation he promised to help me, so he's my new best friend.

I had a deep, abiding, conversation with one of my closest friends about life, love and happiness which ended in hugs and prayers for each others intentions.

But my final conversation of the day, the one that was the time best spent, was with my sister only two years younger than me.  You see, this conversation is different from all the others.  When I call Susie it is a return call because she has tried to call me twice already about this.  Once last night, and once today and has been put off too often and needs to tell me about the movie she watched last night.

When we first get on the phone she initially informs me about the weather report for the next seven days.  All of which she lists, then gives me the details...followed by her recommendations for the children, i.e., "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday the weather will be sunny and nice, so tell the teachers the little kids can go outside, but Friday, Saturday, Sunday the weather will be cold and rainy so let the teachers know the kids need to play inside."

I am then asked for a full report every few days about what the teachers said when I told them what the kids could do.

You see even though my sister is only two years younger than me she is eternally about the age of six. This means that sometimes I am short on time or patience and I find myself doing several other things besides listening to her report when she calls. But tonight was different.  I was alone in my car and I was so glad I called.

Susie told me about a movie she watched.  A home movie...one where many of our family members who once were alive and are now gone, were in the movie.  She told me everything they said and everything that happened in the movie and before I knew it I was transported back into time and could see us all at the lake, perched on the edge of the dock, playing "King of the Dock" pretending to be knocked in by her and the incredible joy that brought her and us!

Before I knew it we were giggling like little girls again and I was suddenly eight years old and she, her eternal six, and we were just sisters having fun laughing at our combined family antics that were the mainstay of our childhood.  I was a little girl again and the time travel was genuine.

How many of us are lucky enough to have someone who reminds us so clearly of who we were when we were young?  I've known Susie all of my life and don't remember a time that she hasn't represented our childhood.  This is different from our siblings or childhood friends, this is truly someone who still sees the world through the eyes of a six year old and always will.

I had a lot of really wonderful, life changing conversations today with people I love, people I admire, people I adore and people I treasure.

But the best conversation I had today was with Susie, who reminded me of where I came from, who I was and what's really important in life....good weather and conversating with those we love.

Letting Go of Baby

In my work with families over the past 24 years one thing that never gets easier is watching parents leave their child for the first time.

It is both heart breaking and exciting as we know that the process will eventually lead to a wonderful outcome for both of them.

I will never forget the couple that dropped off their baby and then said they were going to lunch for an hour and would be back.  We always recommend that parents practice a bit before they have to go back to work so they are more comfortable.  We know a newborn will be fine, but it's mom and dad we worry about in the first nine month until separation anxiety emerges for the baby.

This couple bravely came in and dropped off their little girl and left the center with a brave face after double checking that we had their phone numbers tattooed on our arms.  They ventured out toward their car parked in front and stood not ten feet from the front door embracing each other, visibly crying....

This lasted the entire hour they were to be gone...going to lunch...their first attempt at leaving their little one.  They never got further than the parking area outside my office.

When I first opened my blinds and saw them I felt as if I was spying on a very personal moment and shut my blinds immediately so they could have their moment.  My eyes welled up with tears (I'm a sympathy crier) but also because I could remember how I felt the first time I left my firstborn.  To this day nothing can bring me to tears like that moment.

About 30 minutes later I "checked in" by rotating the blinds just a little and there they stood still embracing but now talking and bravely smiling through their tears.  They hadn't moved a foot.  I quickly shut the blinds before they saw me.

Approximately 25 minutes later I peered through the blinds and there they were.  Still talking but now not needing to embrace and they were clearly excited that they had entrusted us with their child for an entire hour even though they hadn't moved more than 50 feet away from her for the entire hour they were "gone."

We never at any moment intimated that we knew they never really left because it was a BIG moment for them and in their minds they had left their baby and it was harrowing.

One of my favorite sayings after 24 years of doing my job is to say "The anticipation of you leaving is way worse than the actual leaving."  When children do begin to realize that parents still exist even when they no longer are visible is when children begin the process of objecting to being separated from parents.  This phase is called separation anxiety.

They will cry when the parent pulls up in front of the center.

They will cry when handed off to a favorite teacher.

They will cry during every transition throughout the day.

They will WAIL when their parents arrive as if to say, "What were you thinking leaving me here with these people?"

Parents often want to stick around because they think it will help when really it's often harder on kids for parents to linger.  In the case of the infant mentioned above, it didn't matter..  Parents close by or far away don't matter to a child whose needs are being met by a loving caregiver.  It's the older children that struggle with separation that we worry about.

You see, the anticipation of being separated is so much worse than the reality.  When parents stick around too long those little ones just keep crying until the parent finally leaves then they can get settled in and they do great.  It's hard for parents to believe since they aren't here to see the immediate results.

Children are smart and they know that if they continue to cry their parent might stay longer thereby prolonging the inevitable, but parent and child alike are strung out by the time they separate, oftentimes with both of them in tears.

I've seen it daily. I've seen it for 24 years.  I know that the anticipation of saying goodbye is way worse than the actual goodbye, but I hope you know that doesn't mean I'm not immune to it myself.

My youngest went off to college last month.  The anticipation of her leaving was brutal.  She is my baby after all which means my life is changing in real and dramatic ways, plus I really, really like this girl. We have fun, she has been the center of my life for the past 18 years and while I've had enough experience letting go of the other 2, she is special because she is her.  If you have more than one you know just what I mean.

I repeat.  The anticipation of her leaving was brutal.  My imagination took me places that I'd never thought it could and my focus became the actual day I would say goodbye and drive away from her. God I hate that day.  Having done it twice before I knew how painful it was and no matter what else happened I knew it wasn't going to be easy.

And then the day came.  When that day came she was happy.  She was thrilled with her sorority pick, she was confident and excited to begin her new life.  It was hard to be sad!

On that parting day, as it turned out, she walked away from us to go and get her pictures done and she held on a little longer than usual but was content to say her goodbyes.  We finished eating our lunch then decided to drive by one more time by her new house, to essentially torture ourselves before the six hour drive home without her.

As we slowly drifted by and she and her 60 new "sisters" were situated out front for their pledge day picture she saw us.  Then she did what only she would do....

She flipped us off.  It was as if to say, "How dare you remind me of you again after I walked away."  "How dare you take pictures of me and risk that someone might spy you and ask me who you are."  "How dare you."

Then just as suddenly she began blowing us kisses...over and over again until we drove out of sight.  It was so HER.  It was not what my proper first or perfect second child would've done, it was what the baby did and it was perfect.  It was just what we needed to leave and let her be her in her new place.

Did I cry?  Hell yes.  Did I cry as much as I did the first 2 times.  Hell no.  I know she'll be back, just like they were and I know when she comes back it'll be even better.

I've been that parent standing outside of a childcare office and I've been that parent saying a final goodbye to a young woman ready to embark on her own adventures, and now I'm that parent that gets to reconnect with her husband again and take on new adventures that have been put off for awhile.

The anticipation of separation is so much worse than the reality.  Knowing this, preaching this, seeing this daily one would naturally think it would be easier for me.

Nope.

Fear of Change is the fear of loss

Today I read a quote that cut to the heart of what my life is about right now:

People don't fear change, they fear loss.    UCLA Staff and Counseling Center

I have to be honest in that I really am okay with change as a general rule however I resist it just like everyone else sometimes and this statement resonates with me as to why that is.

I have many changes coming my way in the ensuing months including my baby of the family going off to college, my job responsibilities changing with me giving up some things I love to do (to take on things that aren't necessarily my favorite), family changes that require a lot of attention on my part as a guardian for my disabled sister and oh....did I mention my baby girl going off to college?

 I'm not losing my baby but I am letting go of her daily presence in my physical life.  That hurts. That person that came from my body that slowly and gradually made her own way to the point that she can stand on her own  is now venturing out into the world.  While this is as it should be, it will still be hard to face that moment when it arrives. I'm ready, she's ready, but is the world ready for us without each other everyday?  We'll see.  I'm feeling the inevitable approach of that loss.

My work life is changing at the same time. Why these things don't just happen one event at a time, I'll never know.  Meeting the parents and families that we serve has been vital to me being able to love this organization and what we stand for at Giraffe Laugh.  Removing myself from that process a bit by giving up being a site director is a loss that I know I will alternately revel in and regret to some degree.  

Getting to know their little personalities and their stories from the get-go and having a relationship with each of them will be harder for me to connect the dots so I'm working on how to be sure I still get those stories and opportunities to fall in love with people.  To know someone's story is to love them.  I will miss knowing it first hand and that loss is scaring me.  

The change to allow different leadership to emerge while lightening my load does not scare me at all, so it WILL be a good trade-off, it's just harder to see on this side of the process.

My sister Sue who is disabled and was mistreated by the agency that was charged with "caring" for her is now being situated from her group home, to my mom's home to a home with my younger sister.  While it's all very exciting and a new beginning, again, it's a new beginning and going through the story of her abuse at their hands has been difficult at best.  I fear the loss of my younger sisters chance at a life different from what it will be now and with that goes some guilt.  She says it's a life she wants and that she will cherish so I have to trust that she is right.  

Not everyone wants what I think they should want.  Not everyone believes that I know best and that if they just relaxed and did what I told them they'd be better off!!  Not everyone fears the same losses that I fear.  

Learning to navigate new territory over the next few months will take some strength and while I will be grieving some of my losses I will immerse myself in gratefulness that I have people and things to "lose".  

I can't imagine my life without any of these current challenges.  These challenges really are gains, not losses and I'm learning to perceive my losses as actual gains that someday I will divest myself of with the same resistance and regret that I feel now....that's how I'll know I did it right.

Kids are a Risky Business

I am a firm believer that ALL kids are kids at risk.  No matter what sort of household you come from the possibility exists that you might experience toxic stress of some sort throughout your childhood that can result in a poorer outcome than if you didn't....and  we have no control over that stress as children.

In my 27 years of being lucky enough to be a part of many families lives I've met countless families raising children that experienced toxic stress such as homelessness, drug or alcohol abuse, domestic violence, poor nutrition, limited brain stimulation, hunger, poverty, death in the family and sometimes a combination of several of these.  Young children's brains develop differently when toxic stress is experienced and almost comes to virtual standstill in terms of development.  

Watching it happen is heartbreaking.  
 
We cared for the son of a former prostitute that we eventually reported for child abuse.  

We cared for the daughter of the meth addict that came close to death due to an elective surgery.  

We cared for the daughter of the heroin addict who got her act together and made their lives special and she is now in college. 

 We cared for several kids whose dads landed in jail off and on throughout their young lives yet some of them were able to be insulated from the chaos around their lives and have recovered nicely, some of them not.

We cared for the families with children with special needs who were hungry, not because they had special needs but because they didn't have enough money for food.

We cared for the families with foster children who experienced unspeakable physical & mental abuse as little people inflicted by their own mothers and fathers.

We cared for the little girl who was sexually abused by her step-father and other males in the house. There was more than one of these little girls and boys.

We cared for the homeless children who never got enough sleep at the shelter and were rarely bathed.

We cared for the special needs child who's mom didn't know she had a special need until we told her.

We cared for the baby who's mom was experiencing postpartum depression. 

We cared for the sons of a single mother that lost her battle to cancer.

We cared for the children that had to learn to live in a new home frequently due to divorce or general chaos in their parents' lives.

We cared for the girl who needed thousands of dollars in dental care but couldn't get it as her parents had no dental insurance.

We cared for the little boy who only had one pair of socks that he wore every day.

We cared for the little boy who's blanket smelled like a meth lab.

We cared for the babies of teen mothers who can lack emotional strength and maturity necessary to raise an infant as a separate being.

Sometimes parents don't have a clue about what is happening and one cannot tell them because for the most part there is very little they can do in the moment except fix their life and that of their child's one day at a time as solutions and information is obtained.

Therefore our job is to support the family through difficult times, focus on the child and their intense and unspoken needs, connect the parent with needed services and wait and watch.

The hardest part is letting go.  

They often move on from us due to the endless chaos in their lives, but for that short time, we do our best to impact in whatever ways are possible...then we have to learn to let go.

That's the part I hate.  That's the part that keeps me praying.  That's the part that is the hardest.

But sometimes, we make a difference.  Sometimes those kids and their parents overcome seemingly insurmountable problems in their lives and achieve a life of normalcy where the child thrives and so do the parents.  We don't always have a key part in helping that happen but more often than not, we do.

These real life examples all didn't happen to low-income families.  They didn't happen to just people without a college education.  They didn't happen to unlucky or undeserving folks.  They happened to people just like you or me.

There are no guarantees when a baby enters this world that if born into the right circumstances their lives will turn out better.  There are statistics that support this theory however there are no guarantees.  

Kids are a risky business and even with it's continual challenges I'm glad it's my business and that I get to be a part of reducing that risk even if only for one child.

"We ourselves feel that what we are doing is a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop."  Mother Teresa  

Little Women

Little Women was always one of my favorite stories. 

This week I was fortunate to attend an event that honored 50 women in my community that have impacted our world in awe and inspiring ways.  I'm guessing they had wonderful female role models in their lives.

As a young woman I was encouraged to be anything I wanted to be.  My Dad was an engineer and my mom graduated from a University in Music education and thought that all women could not only perform but also work while raising children,  She "worked" from home on her piano from 3-6 with kids after school teaching piano (her favorite instrument) while we played and got into mounds of trouble.

So my first lady impression was of a mom that not only had 5 kids, but also played the organ at church every Sunday (which none of the other moms did) wore fabulous dresses and hats, laughed a lot and made me laugh, played with us while caring for our sister with special needs and made my dad the happiest man on earth all while teaching every kid or adult that sook her out how to play the piano.

 I remember being jealous sometimes when they would show up because that meant I had to somehow fade into the back ground and disappear and literally not need anything.  After watching a few commercials about a new chewing gum that could cover up the smell of a woman eating a raw onion I asked my mom during a piano lesson if I could eat an onion.

She dismissed the question with a quick, "Sure, now go to the basement to play" answer which I took as a complete sign of support for this clever idea.  I then grabbed a Walla Walla onion and took it downstairs and proceeded to eat as much of it as I could manage at the ripe old age of 4. 

When my mom finished her piano lesson she summoned us and I appeared happily claiming that I had eaten an onion and asked if she had the "magic gum" that would make my breath smell better.

My brothers were nearby as always and made sure I understood how bad my breath was which to my surprise my mom was equally dismayed by.  She asked why I'd eaten the onion and when I told her it was just like the gum commercial she looked at me quizzically and ushered me to the bathroom to use my toothbrush before it was in her words, "too late!!!"

That balance of children and career was probably made harder by the antics of five kids doing whatever they wanted while she was painstakingly teaching people a skill that doesn't come natural to most.  The onion eating is only the tip of the iceberg!  I could go on and on and on but this is a great example of the type of thing we'd do while we knew that mom's eyes were focused elsewhere and  no one was truly responsible for our actions.

Was my mom a true career person or was she just a poser-stay-at-home-pretending-to-work-mom?

My mom was a career person within the boundaries of her family life raising five kids with a husband who made enough that she didn't really have to work, but enjoyed working enough that she didn't give up what she loved, which was teaching people (people other than just her children) how to love and appreciate music by learning to play it, create it and share it with others.

She should've been honored among those 50 ladies at some point in time but they didn't do things like that 50 years ago.  50 years ago women weren't expected to accomplish a lot outside of their homes.  They were expected to make a husband happy, keep their mouths shut and to raise a passel of kids that would do their spouse proud.

I think my mom did all those things and more.  I am glad for her example of a woman who can have it all and how that's impacted my life.  She was forced into "having it all" when my dad died suddenly when I was only 16 and she was in her early 40's.  Her ability to earn money to support a family of six meant she struggled...a lot.  However she wasn't nearly as lost as others we knew who had lost their primary bread winner because she had confidence in who she was and that she could do anything it took.

She also knew she didn't have a choice.  She had 5 other faces counting on her to make it better so she did.

She deserves a woman of the year award again, and again and again.  But mostly she just deserves a thanks for not only giving us plenty of fun memories of what we'd get into during piano lessons, but for teaching so many people to play piano, supporting a family of six alone and for showing us that women can have it all and even when they make mistakes they can do it all.

She taught her little women and her little men that women are special....and for that I am grateful.

but most of all I am proud to say....she taught me I could have it all and because of that I was able to have it all.

Love: Choice or Ability?

"Love is not a choice, it's an ability."  Name that movie. 

It's one of my favorite lines but it's also a bunch of malarky.  I believe that we are all born with the capacity to love beyond belief but that things can go haywire and we're left broken and confused about how to love or what love really is.

It's a big club we belong to.  I'm not sure I know anyone that truly knows what love is all about other than Mother Teresa. I think some people are a little bit better at it than others, perhaps because they had good examples but even people from the same family seem to have different abilities (okay, there it is again.)

People, namely children, can't even see beyond themselves because they are the center of the universe until they are about 3 or 4. They have to be taught to think of others and to consider their actions in the world. 

My first real act of love that I can remember is when my mom was in the hospital and my dad found himself alone at home with 5 kids.  My brothers went to school and my sisters were taking a nap so I had much coveted alone time with my charming father.  He suggested we eat lunch and included me in the process.

I stood almost at eye level with the cupboard he opened full of canned goods (lower cupboard mind you) and he asked me which soup I wanted.  I wonder if he thought I could read or he just thought I'd recognize the can??  When I pointed to one, he said are you sure?  I wasn't sure at all I was just drawn to the label for some reason. 

He let me stand on a chair watching the pot boil next to him while he prepared our lunch.  Then he lovingly poured it out into a bowl and as an afterthought included some saltines to the mix.  The look of anticipation on his face was so endearing as I took my first sip. 

My first bowl of cream of mushroom soup as a pre 4 year old was an act of love.  Like any little kid I hated it.  It was the first time I had my dad all to myself that I can recall and I was not going to reveal that this meal was a failure....so I plodded away, soaking it up with the tastier saltines and pretended I liked it beause what I really liked was him and having this special time together.

I was priveleged enough to see this same phenomenon when my son, Alex who was an avid brussel sprouts lover, so much so that he helped me plant and grow them in our very first garden, eat our first harvest.  After several weeks of watching them grow the long awaited moment came.  To this point we'd only ever had frozen brussel sprouts slathered in butter, grown by farmers that evidently knew what they were doing.

He was barely 4 years old.  I cooked them up and slathered them in butter and salt and we excitedly sat down and took our first bite.  His look of anticipation had to have matched mine as we prepared to be wowed!

Slowly savoring that first mouthful with joyful noises we both were horrified to discover that they were incredibly bitter and tough and not at all like the ones we were used to.  His face crumbled in disappointment while his mouth puckered up and he shuddered. I said, "They're not very good are they?"

He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and said, "They're okay mom, dont' worry, I'm just not very hungry."  A little tear escaped his eye.  And there it was.  That same moment.  That same act of love. 

Wanting so badly to share a special moment with our parent and having that moment flop. He knew I would be sad that he didn't like the brussel sprouts we'd painstakingly grown together, so he tried to mask his extreme dislike.

Was he born with an ability to love greater than anyone elses, was I?  Or did we learn somehwere along the way that we can make choices that show we love others.  We can put ourselves in someone elses shoes and have compassion for them.  We can show our love through sacrifice because maybe that's how love was demonstrated to us. 

Have you ever read the book, The 5 Love Languages?  If not, you might take a look.  What I've learned about it is that I want Acts of Love.  I want people to show me they love me, not tell me.  I trust actions more than words.  As a result I've been speaking that language all of my life, from my first memory of love forward. 

Is love a choice or an ability?  Perhaps it's both.  Growing up truly feeling loved has got to be key to being able to not only learn to receive it but to give it.  I was lucky.  I knew I was loved.  My parents were demonstrative and told me often and if they didn't they told me through their actions enough that I was secure in that knowledge.

I now know that my dad knew I didn't like the soup.  Not because he's around to tell me that anymore but because I am a parent and I know he knew every expression of my barely 4 year old face that hadn't learned to mask feelings yet and must have been able to read my thoughts in a way only a daddy can.

I wonder if he was as delighted by my denial that it was okay as I was by Alex's.  My guess is yes.  I'm guessing he knew I loved him.

The quote from the movie:???..... Dan in Real Life  I'll let you decide if love is a choice or an ability and in the meantime I hope your Valentines Day is filled with people you love speaking your "love language" and that you choose to be able to love them in return.

Parenting and Math are hard!!

I went to college to become a teacher.  I dabbled in other things like design because I was good at it but eventually my desire to work with kids and impact lives in a classroom prevailed so the college of education got me.  Admittedly part of that decision could've stemmed from the fact that I struggled with math and I only had to take a methods course in Elementary Education to learn how to teach math, a subject I knew very little about.

Regardless, my image of myself as a teacher who would have fun summer days with my then imaginary children seemed ideal.  It resonated well with my potential husband too, so a teacher I became. 

Shortly after getting married in college and graduating we moved to Boise and a teaching job was no where to be found. I was told the market was saturated and I should have gone into nursing.  Ugh!  Who wants to be a nurse?  Blood, poop, urine, illness, vomiting, crying (not to mention all that math!)

So after several months doing temporary types of clerical work we decided to start a family before a career.  My husbands career was progressing nicely and so our first baby showed up, a bouncing baby boy about a year later.

When I held that little man I suddenly shared something with, I'm guessing, the majority of the population with a newborn.  It's that feeling that there is absolutely NO ONE in this world who can take better care of him than ME!   

In many ways I was right.  But then so are all the other moms and dads that think that.  What it meant was that there is no one in this world that can possibly love them more or sacrifice more for that little person than their parents.  It provided me with an entirely new perspective on this business of childcare and preschool and a deep respect for those that had to use it despite this feeling that I now knew they all must be experiencing.

Fast forward through some times that we'll come back to eventually, but when I found myself needing a job, really needing a job to support myself, I worked at a childcare for the sole reason that I didn't want to or couldn't leave my 2 year old son.  I thought that I'd only do it for awhile.  I would grace this industry with my presence and education beyond what was needed and do myself a favor in the process.

heh heh heh...it's funny how life has a way of humbling us without notice.

Amidst the laughter, tears, blood, illness, fun, parents, volunteers, vomiting, staff, owners, urine, poop, tricycles and yes math as an administrator I found myself and my path alongside my son and consecutive 2 daughters, and those dreamy summers I'd envisioned never materialized.

That was over 27 years ago and hundreds and hundreds of children and families ago.  A few of those children now bring their children to one of our facilities.  It's been a privilege and a joy and here is where I've decided it's time to share some of the incredible stories of this journey. 

Parenting is hard.  It's made harder when we have to do it alone or in a vacuum with our significant other.  It is equal parts joy, fear and anguish. Some people make it look easy and it simply isn't.  

The incredible things I've learned from my parents, other parents, all of the amazing teachers I've worked with, my incredible volunteers and board members and raising my own family all contribute to the possibility that I might actually know something that might be of use to other parents.  

That all adds up to an equation, that computes to a sum, that in all probability leads to a formula for success, at minimum, a fraction of the time.  

And you thought my math hadn't improved in all these years. 

A Career is born

It was 1959 and my heavily drugged mother yelled out in the delivery room, “Thank God it’s a girl, I’m so sick of looking at penises!”  No self-respecting, pillbox hat wearing, Catholic mother in a Catholic hospital would yell out such a thing, but I was baby number 4, number 3 that survived childbirth and the first born girl.  I was a treasure she’d long awaited and the star of the family for a few short years.

 

About two years later my sister Susie arrived and on her heels Jeanine. The intruders are pictured above, I'm snuggled up next to my mom.  My princess crown slipped slightly as the sheer numbers increased but also because Susie had some special needs that my parents were alternately denying and embracing as parents do when faced with a cognitive disability.

My favorite activity with my parents remained sitting on their laps having them read me a book.  I’d evidently spent a fair amount of time doing this early on when I was the reigning princess that I never forgot how incredibly satisfying those moments were.  They became more and more rare as time went on and I can recall how sad I was about that at the ripe old age of about 3.

It seems like I spent eons watching my brothers leave for school, with me begging to be able to go, while my mom reassured me that I would be next…and best of all when I got there I would learn to read.  I was ecstatic. 

No more would I have to wait for someone to read me a book. 

I would have the special power to decode those exotic symbols that took me to places I’d never been, about people I’d never met, about experiences I never had.  I couldn’t imagine a greater power of any kind.

Fast forward an eternity later and I am finally standing in my first classroom at my Catholic school a little nervous about the nun whose veil hung to the floor as she quietly swooshed through the classroom of 25 eager 1^st graders.  She had us line up in the front of the classroom where we could clearly see the large alphabet hung above the blackboard.  She went down the line and pointed with her wooden pointer to each letter and then to one of us standing in that row to say the letter aloud.  The smell of fear suddenly overpowered the lovely first day smell of new crayons and freshly starched uniforms.

As my turn approached not only was I shaking in my newly purchased black and white saddle shoes, but as was my way, I wanted to throw up or pee my pants.  I did not know any of the letters and slowly watched as it got closer and closer to me being called upon.  Mortified I muttered a letter that someone had said a few try’s back and she kindly corrected me (thank GOD for her) and moved beyond me.

We performed a similar exercise with addition and as I heard people’s answers to her equations I searched through my limited data bank for patterns to help me when my name was called.  Again, I failed miserably (in my mind) as she gently told me the answer.  I know there were others that didn’t know the answers too, but on that day, in my mind, it was just me. 

I was furious when I arrived home even after walking the mile trek, all uphill of course.  I stormed in and announced, “I didn’t learn how to read today!!  I’m not going back!”  I tried to cover my shame with anger and vowed not to return. 

My mother took me into her arms and told me it takes a very long time to learn to read and that today was just a start.  I cried.  I told her why I was crying…because no one ever read me books anymore and all I wanted out of this school thing was to learn to read books. 

Through my hiccupped explanation she quietly listened and when I was done, she took a moment that I’m sure she could barely spare, sat me down on her lap, and read me a book.  She patiently pointed out letters and helped me begin to decode my first book.

My soul soared.

My job today is all around making sure no little person goes into school on the first day ecstatic to learn, and exits defeated at how little they know.  The early years are crucial to a child’s future success in school and the more information they have in their arsenal that first day, the more confident learner they are.  Studies show they actually are more likely to finish school, go beyond high school, and contribute to society in meaningful ways.

I hope it’s obvious that I did learn to decode just a little and that I can now scrap with the rest of them as I wrangle with words to explain why this is important.  My life’s work has been to create places for children and their parents from which to launch into kindergarten and beyond.

It may not seem so lofty,

but for a quivering little girl in saddle shoes,

it would have meant the world to have known just that one letter.

9 Months Pregnant

I've always said that at nine months pregnant no woman begs to be pregnant a little bit longer.  I was reluctant to have my first baby knowing that as soon as he entered the world exposed to it's many mysteries that his pain would become my pain, however, the pain he was causing my body, mind and soul at that point was so worth the swap. It was natures way of helping me separate and be ready for our individual selves to emerge.

When a child turns 18 it's not much different.  More about that later.

When I was a little girl, I had the mumps and my nieghbor brought me a Barbie house made out of cardboard with a cleverly built in elevator.  I was in heaven.  It was at that time that I wished for a little family that I could put in that house and make safe and sound with no pain or illness.  My quest for children of my own came early and stemmed from my happy childhood, my engaging siblings and my great parents. Family memories abound.

I grew up in Washington in a big family with 4 other siblings and two fun-loving parents who loved each other.  I was fortunate to have two sets of grandparents, a weekly trip to church each Sunday, private school, a great neighborhood and small town fun with fields to play in.  This was all before color TV, PC's and cell phones.  Simpler times, but no less complicated in it's own way.

We moved to the East Coast, I learned about other people, other times through historical places and about myself, then I came to Idaho to go to school.  I met my husband of 30+ on and off years and got pregnant for the first time at 24, a mere 3 years after getting married.

At this time,  some 29 or so odd years later, I am again 9 months pregnant with my 18 year old "baby".  I am comfortable with this space as I've been here twice before and experience brings it's comforts.  I don't really WISH for it to be OVER however I know we are both at a point that we are preparing to let go of the relationship we've known thus far and ready to move forward with an independance that is both necessary and inevitable, despite our probably collective misgivings.

I am once again at that point that I was when my first was born and the nurse brought him to my room.  I remember hearing him cry and realizing for the first time that everything that happend to him would now happen to me.  I felt overwhelmingly vulnerable and scared of what those things might be and I wanted to shield us both from the inevitable hurt that was bound to occur over our lifetimes that were undeniably interwoven.

I knew somewhere deep that I would also have many opportunities to rejoice in his happiness as well, but I was more afraid of the pain. At that moment I wanted those 9 months back and to have him safe in the womb with only the anticipation of what could be and all of it's many fantasies of lovely things to look forward to instead of the stark reality of life on earth.

It is no different now, with my third, a girl who will soon launch into the world as a young adult.  The discomfort of these last few months lead to an eventual letting go that is necessary for us to be able to cut that cord and get on with the business of growing up and moving on...but it's hard.  It's painful and it makes me want to grab her back and start from the beginning again to make sure we haven't missed anything important along the way.

It makes me alternately happy for us both but so very sad to see this chapter of our lives closing.  I wouldn't have it any other way and because I have the insight of letting two others go it feels like it might be okay, but....

She is the baby.  I came home tonight to an empty house, as my husband travels, with only a bunny rabbit to greet me and I sense an empty space that will, in a few short months, need to be filled with something other than her.  It is different.  This chapter feels like it's the closing of a very vital and important part of my being that began with a little cardboard structure with an elevator. 

I am going to hop on that elevator and see where it takes me....I am both scared and excited but this is natures way and if there is anything I try hard to respect, it is natures way.

I only hope nature goes easy on us as we approach our final months before the great launch into the world....