Milestones

Birthday milestones are fun when you are turning ten. They are equally fun when you are turning 13, 16, and 21. The fun leaves, and the "ugh" arrives after twenty-one. I cannot recall any 29 year old fist pumping because they are about to turn 30. In addition, I cannot recall the moment in time when you stop wishing that you looked older and begin to wish that you looked younger. These two episodes must coincide and I'm guessing that it all happens around the age of twenty-nine.

Our oldest boy is not nearly as excited to turn 17 as he was to turn 16. Other that becoming legally able to purchase a ticket to an "R" rated movie and reading Seventeen magazine for the first time as an actual 17 year old (him personally, but other girl variety 17 year olds), there aren't many perks which come with seventeen. In fact, those who are seventeen spend the last half of the year telling people that they are almost eighteen. Anticipating the next birthday for six months can't be much fun.

Our other boy turns 12 this year. There are not many perks with that age either. He told me the other day that next year he will really be grown up. Turning thirteen is so much cooler than twelve, unless all of those notorious body changes have you wishing you were eight again.

The youngest of the family turns 10. Now that's a milestone, I'm told. Double digits mean something amazing, I'm just not sure what. Does it mean the exit of adolescence and the entrance to pre teen, or is it simply the exit of those pesky single digits which are associated with preschoolers and blankies? Double digits hang out exclusively with other numbers, and in pairs, and altogether, like a party. Whatever the reason, it's big although we don't have big plans.

Our daughter turns 20 but not until December. She exits her teen years and will enter the age of a 20 something. She will have the option to say "I'm in my 20's" or "I am almost 21." People expect more from a 20 year old. By this time she better be capable of hard boiling an egg and doing a load of laundry along with a whole host of other things otherwise I have failed as a parent. Fifty years ago, 20 year old women were married and had children, and were doing much more that boiling eggs and making sure that the darks and whites didn't mix in the washing machine. I'll take the 21st century expectations over that.

I just turned 50. Milestone yes, but definitely no fist pumping involved. This year I'll settle for raucously celebrating, ten, twelve, seventeen, and twenty, and in addition, thanking God for 50 amazing years and a spectacular husband and family.

Near Death

When I decided to "mix things up" in my exercise routine, attending "Boot Camp" at 6:30 a.m. should not have been one of those options. Had the coffee shop nearby opened at 6:00 a.m. instead of 7:00 a.m. my unwillingness may have diminished more quickly. Six thirty in the morning mixed with no caffeine, sprinkled with 40 degree weather, was the perfect storm. Remembering  the treadmill which was located inside a 70 degree room was taking its toll on my will power.

While mustering every ounce of energy I had, I pulled on my running pants, zipped my jacket and walked to the field house where the boot camp was taking place during a conference I was attending. I was the first to arrive. The instructor gave me some descriptions of the class and filled me in on what I could expect---misery.

Sixty year old lady and her husband were next to arrive and then two young gazelles free of make up and body fat. I surmised that I was first going to die from attempts to keep up with the gazelles and second that I had a good chance of beating out the 60 year olds and coming in 3rd place. Even though this wasn't a race I knew that there would be mental point distribution is one way or another. I had to make my mark quickly and stay in the game. The mental challenge caused me to break into a sweat before we even started.

The class began, and with a hint of pride, I took first place in "jog around the gym." Before I could question whether or not this class had any hopes of challenging my cardio stamina we burst into 30 jumping jacks, another lap, 30 squats and leaps into the air, another lap, 30 push ups, another lap, 30 burpies, another lap, and then 30 high knee marches. By this time I was about to pass out but stopping was not an option. Sixty year old lady and her husband were keeping up without a problem and naturally, the gazelles we leaping and dancing as if this was just an exercise in fun.

When instructed to grab a yoga mat I was certain that the next 30 minutes would be devoted to abdominal work or more push ups that I could fake my way through but when everyone was then issued a medicine ball I knew that the next 30 minutes would perhaps be more painful than the first.

The details of the last 20 minutes are fuzzy. I slipped into unconsciousness several times, lapped water from the drinking fountain like a weary hound dog after an entire day of hunting, and fell exhausted onto my mat for the final 5 minutes of stretching.

The gazelles exited before the final stretching and barely broke a sweat, 60 year old man left but lady stayed, and at then end of the class the instructor had the audacity to ask me if I was okay.

I refueled on guzzles of water and a large coffee, welcomed a hot shower, and popped some ibuprofen anticipating sore muscles. I will never, I repeat never, attempt boot camp again, ever.

Great Expectations

"Expect nothing and you will not be disappointed." If I had reminded myself of that poignant quote I wouldn't be composing this blog post. However, when I returned home from a 5 day writer's conference, our 16 year old acted as though I'd never left. He handed out his last dose of hugs as if he was sharing his final sip of Red Bull after a raucous sleepover; reluctantly and with few words.

He left our short conversation petting the top of my hand as a final sarcastic act of affection. There was no, "How was your trip?" "What did you learn?" "We were lost without you!" or "Please don't ever go on another trip without us!" He simply left the kitchen with no reassurance of a quick return.

The narcissism of a teenager is often overwhelming for a mother who needs a speck of affection after 5 days away. Thankfully, the gift of a 9, 11, and 19 year old who desperately missed their mother and smothered her in hugs and conversation, was enough to soothe the sting of sixteen year old drowning in a moment of self centeredness.

Seconds later our son's friend who thankfully feels comfortable enough to enter the house without knocking, arrived. He was more talkative. He always is. I listened as he talked, making a point to ask very few questions and to take my ironic position as one who should been seen and not heard. The conversation dance is tricky with teens and often difficult to interpret.

Here is how the dance is performed: I listen and don't give much feedback. I don't dare ask a lot of questions. Nodding and feeding them seems to work well. Freshly made cookies really make them talk. I make them forget that I am  there while they engage with each other and I listen while pretending to not. I don't try and fit in, but absorb instead. If I ask too many questions, or try and join the conversation, they roll they eyes and make me feel like a conversation stalker who ought to be arrested. If they decide to let me participate I know that I must sign in on the sheet and wait for my name to be called. The dance isn't open to just anyone. I need a ticket and the ticket can expire at any time and without warning.

The evening ended with our son sitting at the kitchen counter where I was washing the last stack of dishes. He immediately burst into conversation dolling our sacred information regarding his day. I fed him first. While listening, I continued to remind myself of the dance rules being conscience not to over nod or share my opinion. We chatted for 20 minutes, and although he never asked about my trip or told me that I was missed, he accepted my ticket to the conversation, and that alone, was completely unexpected and utterly appreciated.

J-E-L-L-O

In spite of the fact that I lack the credentials and maturity, I have recently volunteered to guide the spiritual minds of 12 seventh grade girls from our church and lead them in a small group. I'm in it for the sleepovers and candy. The wrestling and screaming I could do without.

Since snacking is a must, in addition to the Bible teaching and journaling, I inquired with my 9 year old as to what snack I should bring to our first meeting. In addition to my insatiable sense of humor and fashion know how, I was hoping that my reputable and highly creative snack choice would supersede my age factor and make the girls fall in love with me. The disappointed whispers of "Aw, we got the mom and not the teenager" would die quickly when they saw my snacks hence the need to acquire wisdom in the snack area from one who knows snacks well.

"Jello!" was the first suggestion from our youngest child. Although initially skeptical, I knew that expertise was greater than my negative intuition. "And popcorn?" I suggested hesitantly. I wanted to bring popcorn because the last time I saw red Jello it was cut into smallish cubes and spiked heavily with vodka. It's been a while. Popcorn was a good back up if my cooking skills failed.

My popularity hinged on the Jello so I nervously blended two boxes of strawberry Jello with boiling water and dumped the contents into a large metal bowl. The mass of red goo was impressive but I wondered how much would actually leave the bowl.

Before leaving for my small group I grabbed a large can of whipped cream. At least we could do whipped cream shots straight into our mouths if the Jello was a flop. That's fun.

When I arrived to my small group I slipped the bowl into the kitchen quickly before the girls arrived. I couldn't bear any ensuing negativity prior to delving into God's Word.

The group went well. The stifled outbursts of giggling were reaching their peaks and I knew the snacks would need revealing soon. After prayer I unveiled the Jello. The girls jumped up and down like, well, excited 7th grade girls about to get sugared up and sent home for the aftermath. My snack was a success.

As the girls left, throwing out hugs and thanks I was certain of a three things. The bouncy 13 year old middle schoolers have a small group leader who loves them, is dedicated to their spiritual growth, and currently wears the title, "Queen of awesome snacks."

Not so High Profile

Dog’s smell fear, so trying to ward off any fear fragrance migrating from my pores took more energy than I could muster as my arms were stretched out far enough to be plucked from their sockets from our two dogs. They were tugged toward two barking, tooth showing, hair raised dogs who had escaped from their yard. Our ten pound guy gave his best efforts to ward off the foe but mostly retreated behind the untied sneakers I was trying to keep anchored to the asphalt, and our Labrador mix was in the fight for claws full of fur.

In the throes of my dogie dilemma; taut leashes on the verge of snapping like an aged tree limb and barking so deafening that I had to implement my best lip reading skills, my long blond haired, aviator glasses wearing, tanned, Finnish, and successful neighbor stopped her Lexus convertible to say “hello.” She runs a major women’s shoe company in Los Angeles. Form your mind picture. I’ll wait.

“Did you get the boots?” she whispered covering the mouth piece from her cell phone. “Yes, I cannot wait to wear them. Thank you!” I love cute, free stuff, from neighbors who run shoe companies. “You have a lot of dogs!”  Her sarcasm was followed by a light laugh as she drove away and I laughed too while shoving the escaped convicts back to their cells and trying to maintain my own furry folks.

As I continued our walk, with panting dogs already exhausted from their attempted mugging, I thought about the work that the president of a shoe company does on a daily basis. The trips to Singapore, meetings which include whiteboards and video projectors, catalog design input, lunches wearing A-line skirts and suede stilettos are required, and so much more high profile business lady stuff that I cannot even think. I have never been a high profile business woman hence the lack of knowing what is involved.

I was discouraged for a moment as I thought about my low profile job, where my lunch is brought from home in a dingy green and yellow striped bag, and where trips to the bathroom are the extent of my travel portfolio, however, I do know that whether I am a mom, or a business mogul, God has called me to His position in the workplace.

And although most of us aren't making decisions regarding an upcoming spring line, or executing working lunches which include brioche and steamed clams, we are working for God, doing exactly what He wants us to do, at the exact time that He has called us to do it, even with barking dogs.

My boss is the creator of the universe, and I love my job.

Cigarettes, Glue Sticks, and Pigskin

While my daughter will be avoiding the private huddles of cigarette smokers on junior college campus engaged in conversations smothered with expletives, the youngest will be twisting out their glue sticks to see how far they can "grow" without any breakage. Polar opposite school experiences. That's was in the cards when we decided to have our oldest and youngest child 10 years apart from each other. And while the high schooler won't have glue sticks, he will be teetering from the weight of  balancing football practice, French 2, and wondering if he gets cell coverage in his 4th period class. Back to school sucks.

In spite of  the fact that I am a planner and organizing freak I love the unscheduled freedom brought on by summertime. This is the time when I loathe structure. Breakfast happens at noon, lunch is served near 4:00 and popcorn at 8:00 is the dinner fare. This feels like vacation and I love it.

Soon I will be packing lunches, pushing lazy hands to complete homework assignments, squabbling with teenagers about who gets the car, and suffering through new shoe shopping.

Dear Summer, I will miss you friend.

He Lost

Our boy lost the ASB race for sophomore class president after spending his freshman year as class president. He was a shoe in, or so we thought. He had this one, or so we thought. He had this race in the bag, or so we thought. He campaigned, rallied the vote with signs on sticks, produced a video, and spread the word, only to hear the words, "I'm sorry, you didn't win." He was hurting. I hate when our kids are hurting. Hate it. Since I am a fixer, I want to fix them and make everything better for them. I offered carbonated cold drinks, sweet treats, dinners filled with carbs and protein, and nothing was able to fix the hurt. I knew that only time could cultivate the healing and cover the disappointment. God has something amazing in store for our boy, but this time it doesn't include ASB. I cannot wait to see what God has planned.