Teen Trouble.

"Dad, can I have ten bucks?....Dad?....Dad?....Dad,you never listen to me!"

Frigid Father

"Dad, I've been feeling some tenseness between us..."

Overly Optimistic

My 16 year old was with me as we ran errands the other day. We passed a couple of guys in a parking lot who were mounting their very shiny, pretty motorcycles.

"That's what I'm going to get some day..," my boy proclaimed.

I gave him the stink eye and said,"Oh, please don't..."

"Look how cool they are, and you can get a really great one for not much money."

"But sweetie, they are so dangerous. The money won't matter when you have a head injury or lose a leg."

"No worries," he replied,"I'll wear a helmet so I won't get a head injury and if I lose a leg, no big deal. You get around fine."

Oh great. You try to show your kids how to overcome adversity and instead it warps their sense of reality.

I reallyreallyreallyreally hope he was kidding.

Life Stories

This is another milestone week for our family. Not only are we probably going to survive yet another 'last week of school', our firstborn has purchased her first car. After all those years driving that red and yellow plastic toddler car in circles around the driveway, propelled in Flintstones fashion with her chubby preschooler feet, she has finally moved up to the big time. Life for her moved from juice boxes and nap times to down payments and secured loans overnight. Or at least it feels like overnight to her two shell shocked parents.

This is when it's nice to have at least one child still walking the elementary school hallways. It keeps us from researching nursing homes for ourselves.

It tends to make me very reflective. Technically her childhood is just about over. Her grown up life story starts soon. The part where she gets to make decisions, mostly on her own, and live or die with the consequences, is just around our corner. I can sense it. I can't see it yet, but I can practically smell it. So the bulk of my influence in her life is already branded in her brain. Good and bad, it's there.

For many of the years that we've been raising kids I've carried around a motivating thought. When life stuff happened and we had to react, we had to demonstrate what kind of parents we would be, what kind of world citizens we would be, and what kind of example we would be to our children, I often thought to myself, "How will this play in my child's dorm room story?"

You know, those late nights, piled on the floor of a friend's dorm room, everyone telling how and where 'they grew up'? Telling what their family is like to these new strangers, soon to be best friends. Where they've lived, who their siblings are and what made their family tick. I know those stories are coming. Each of my children will have a different version, a film that plays through the lens of their personalities and birth order. Sam's will be much different from Meredith's just by the nature of the ten years that separate them.

But I had a lot of influence in how those movies played out. Jeff and I got to pick for them, in things as big as when and where we'd move and as small as who they invited to birthday parties. Knowing how college kids can be (I was one not that long ago) I am sure we will be blamed for many things. Some will have been our fault. Some we'll just have to be secure in our parenting and know we did our best. Hopefully, oh hopefully, there will be forgiveness and grace bestowed upon us eventually. Maybe it won't come until they have children themselves, but I keep telling Jeff, 'it will come'.

When childhood memories are thrown around in my own sibling group I have a trunk load to share. But sometimes I wonder how my brain decided to pick this random group. Why do I remember some insignificant events in our upbringing and have no recollection of some of the big moments. Why does my brother remember one specific night in our family's life and I can't remember much of that entire year? What does this mean to my children's memories?

I assume they will store away the stock family stories that seem to be told on an annual basis. The time Isaac got two sets of stitches in his forehead within the same month, just after his third birthday. The time Michael broke his leg on the last day of school one year and then broke his arm three months later on the first day of the new school year. The time Sam surprised us all and just rode off on his new bike sans training wheels, as we all gathered around with video cameras and encouragement, expecting to watch him spend the entire morning learning this new skill. But beyond the stock family stories, what do they carry?

I have made peace with the fact I may never know. I will not be gathered around those pizzas with them as their life stories spill out. I will not be able to confirm or deny the truth to their tales. Resting in the confidence that we did the best we could with what we were given, I will be at home, maybe around a much smaller pizza, shared with their dad.

But I will still thinking about them.

Still loving them.

And still praying that what I've contributed so far to their journey is somehow good enough.

A Family Milestone

This week marks a big milestone in our family. Our third child turns into a teenager, making the total of teens in our house outnumber the number of parents. We will have this house of three teens for just a few years. By the time Sam turns 13, Meredith will be long past the turbulent years. I am pretty sure we will survive.

Although I was pretty scared of teenagers when our kids were preschoolers, I have learned firsthand that teenagers are not generic people. They are the growing up version of these people I have known since birth and have come to love and enjoy. They have their baffling quirks but these are mixed in with reassuring consistent habits that remind me who's really inside that package.

Last year, on his last birthday before the teen years, I wrote an essay for Isaac.(posted on this blog) He has a unique babyhood story and celebrating each new year of his life is a joyful gift. Although he technically turns 13 this week, in honor of my maturing birthday boy, I would like to share with you the essay from last year.

It is called, "A Dozen Years Ago."

A dozen years ago God returned joy to our life.

My mom had died so suddenly and the months after were dark and thick with grief. But a healthy pregnancy came along and slowly, month by month, joy crept back into all the moments of our days.

A dozen years ago a big healthy baby boy dropped into the midwife's hands and let out his first squall. I was so concerned that he might not be healthy my first words were, "why is he purple??" The midwives reassured and within minutes he was tucked into his grateful mommy's arms.

A dozen years ago we brought that sweet baby home to two siblings who tripped over themselves to care for him. Their own real life doll.

A dozen years and six weeks ago that baby got sick. Very sick. We spent day after day in the local hospital, then the children's hospital, waiting for a test that would come back positive and tell us how to cure our boy. There were no answers and hope began to slip away.

A dozen years and eight weeks ago I rocked that baby boy, the one who had brought joy back into my home. In the darkness of a hospital room in the middle of a thunderstorm I wept as we rocked back and forth, his shallow baby breath mixing with the tears that flowed down my face and onto my neck. He was wasting away and there were no answers.

A dozen years and eight weeks ago I wondered, 'will the summer of 1996 be the summer we look back on and say, 'that's the summer we lost the baby' or will we tell it in other ways - 'that's the summer our second boy was sick' ?

I am so thankful we get to celebrate today. Celebrate that a dozen years ago a sweet baby boy came into our family, got very sick, then was given back to us by very smart doctors who never gave up on him.

I celebrate in my heart on June 16th every year. Not just because it is my son's birthday. But because he is the son I almost didn't get to keep. The son I almost lost two years to the day after I stood by my mother's fresh grave. The son whose name means laughter and who's bright spirit radiates through our house.

I am so thankful. So thankful we got him back. So thankful he grows healthier every year. So thankful God dropped him into our family.

A dozen years ago.

Happy birthday, my sweet middle boy. I have no idea what the next five years will bring but I will be thankful for speed bumps caused by teenage hormones. You remind me that every step of life is precious and nothing can be taken for granted. You'll never know how thankful your dad and I were, just a dozen years ago, that smart doctors figured out your ailment and gave you a future. It is your birthday but we got the gift.

Wet Words

Okay, one of my favorite library stories.....we had a book turned in through our 24 hour drop box that was soaking wet. Even the 'due date' card we stick in them was soaked. When we called the woman to say she'd need to be paying for the replacement of said waterlogged book, she confidently reported that it had been that way when she checked it out.

Really? And did the clerk tell you to be sure you kept it in the same condition? It must have been a pain to make sure it stayed just as wet for the whole week she had it checked out.

Comforter Waves

With four kids sometimes you feel like you've pretty much seen it all. Then along comes a new way of looking at the world and it can take you by surprise.

I have seen him do it a few times before but I never realized it was deliberate.

I was making up our king sized bed for the morning. Sam was on the other side of the bed, in the middle of getting dressed. Our bedding is very streamlined. Sheets, pillowcases and two simple comforters. It takes about two minutes to make the bed in the morning. No tucking anything in, no fancy pillows to arrange. If it took longer than two minutes it wouldn't get done.

So I grabbed the edges of the comforter and, with a snap of my wrist, I shook it out so that it would cover the bed evenly. Mid snap, Sam jumped in. He crouched down and dove under the comforter wave.

"Do it again, Mom!" he yelled, his voice muffled by the blankets down filling.

I smiled and again flicked my wrist. He jumped out of the cavern then dove back in, just as the comforter was crashing back down.

We did this over and over, again and again. Such a simple game bringing such delight to my boy.

Who knew that jumping into crashing comforter waves could be so much fun?

Second Grade Victories

My boy had a tough life lesson this week.

When you're in second grade life ain't so bad. When you're the youngest (by far) of four children, life can be pretty darn good. Mom still snuggles you like a baby when fatigue crashes over your worn out body at the end of the day. Big kids let you (sometimes even willingly) tag along on their great long bike rides and hikes through the woods. School stress means reviewing spelling words on the bus ride to school every Friday. The hard stuff hasn't really hit yet.

But just when you don't see it coming, hard life lessons can rear their ugly head. The stuff that breaks your heart and crushes your innocent soul.

Every year the big event in my second grader's life is field day. With fast older brothers (one on the high school track team) he understands the whole concept of a race. He won his kindergarten field day lap around the track when most of the other participants stopped to pick flowers along the way or couldn't figure out what all those bright orange cones were for.

Then first grade rolled around and he thought he was a shoe in once again. Until his shoe fell off. Mid race. Not good. He had to settle for a third place ribbon. Downright humbling.

So this year was important. Redemption and all that. He watched his classmates at recess. He knew who was fast and who wasn't. He studied his competition. He discussed racing strategy with big brother and took timed runs down the street in front of our house. The weeks flew by and he was ready. Ready to claim that blue ribbon once and for all.

It was just frosting on the cake that grandpa and grandma came out to visit from Missouri on the exact right weekend. More witnesses for his big victory.

His class marched on the field on that sunny Monday morning and my boy was ready. He had on his carefully selected running outfit, freshly washed by mom for just this occasion. He had on his tightly laced running shoes. No room for error here.

Finally it was time. He and seven other second grade boys lined up and listened to starting gate instructions. At the word "GO!" he was off.

He darted around the first corner, and then the second, easily the head of the pack. Across the long backfield two other boys started to gain on him. He glanced back, saw their shadows and pushed harder. Still in the lead he headed around the third corner and then the fourth.

But the kid in second was not ready to give up this race. He seemed as determined as my boy and at the fourth turn he made his move. The only problem was, he decided to cut into the lead on the inside and there was no space between my boy and that orange cone.

Feet got tangled, and as time stood still, my boy went down.

He rolled and popped back up. But his momentum was gone. The other boy shot off like a flash and headed for the finish line. Another boy raced after him to get second place. And my boy, after jumping up from his grassy roll, as able to cross that line in third place, still beating the rest of the pack.

But it was not enough. This was supposed to be his race. He made sure his shoes fit well and his body was in shape. He was ready for that blue ribbon. But it was not meant to be.

It was not something my boy had even considered, coming in third. As I approached him on the field a few minutes later I leaned over to hug him and he melted into my chest. Then came the sobs. My serious, grown up big boy had a crushed heart and didn't know what to do with all this emotional pain.

As he heaved as quietly as he could into my chest I whispered into his ear. "You did a great job, sweetie....I'm so proud of you....you were ahead the whole time....you did great....I'm so sorry you got tripped up....but you did so great..."

He finally collected himself and trotted his defeated shoulders over to the field events. A few minutes later, having harnessed all that frustration into a long lunge forward, he broke the school record for second grade standing long jump - by 9 inches. But the long jump was not what he wanted. A blue ribbon wasn't just a blue ribbon. The race was his goal and it was over. It was over and he hadn't won.

I texted all the big kids so that they'd know before they got home. We'd all been encouraging him and rooting for him as he went after this goal. They each encouraged him in their own way once day time activities led us all home.

That night at bedtime I found him buried under the covers of my bed, again sobbing to himself. It was all just too much to handle. It was over. It would be another year before he got another chance. He wasn't done crying out the frustration.

I held him for a bit then Track Star Brother walked into the room and took over. He rubbed Sam's back and gave encouraging words. It was a site that makes all the stress of raising kids worthwhile. Big brother reaching out so lovingly to little bro. By the time he laid his head down to sleep my boy was done. Done grieving for a race that was not to be his.

And as I laid down to go to sleep I realized it was just the beginning. My youngest child had entered the world of big kid disappointments. I could no longer protect him from the yukky stuff in life. I couldn't make it all better. He has to live it. He has to feel it. When it feels good and when it feels downright awful. It's all a part of growing up. And sometimes it really stinks.

Courtesy Chuckle

In that chubby Buddha stage of life, when he could not yet crawl but was so in tune with the world around him it was hard to believe he'd ever lived in my belly, Sam loved to laugh.

Just having one of his older siblings walk through the room was reason enough to shake up his giggle box. If any of them dared stop and be engaging, it added fuel to his fire.

Crossed eyes. Manic jumping up and down making monkey noises. Hiding behind palms smudged with the days' dirt then popping out from behind them with wide eyes. Any of those activities delighted their baby brother.

But sometimes he was not totally amused. I could see in his serious eyes that he appreciated their effort but it just wasn't doing the trick for him that day.

Amusing? Yes. Slightly funny?. Okay, yeah. But deep down gut laugh inducing? Not so much.

Not one to discourage his fan club, Sam developed a humored chuckle. A slight smile crept across his face, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and a little bubble of a giggle rolled out. Not much, just enough.

Just enough to get that big kid to keep trying, digging in their bag of tricks for the next big thing. Not even close to the white water rapids of laughter that spilled from his soul and made everyone within hearing distance stop and smile. (including fellow shoppers at the grocery store) But just enough to say, "Thanks for trying. Not hilarious, but slightly humorous."

It was hard to believe that this baby, with such limited social experience, could come up with such an effective technique for prodding on his daily entertainment staff. I thought it was amazing, ingenious and brilliant.

I lovingly called it his 'courtesy chuckle."

A Library Life

I never intended this blog to be a place for book reviews but one of my favorite life titles is "Reader". I love to read. Mainly non-fiction. Memoirs are high on the list. I love seeing how other people tackle the things life throws at you. With each one I am reminded how we each have such different life histories with such similar life emotions.

I also love books that teach me something. I loved "Garbageland", which explored exactly where our trash goes and if recycling is really worth the effort. In a similar vein I loved "Almost Green", a selection off our "New Books" shelf at the library. It's a story about a regular guy, trying to figure out if those of us with small budgets and complicated lives could really make a dent in helping the planet.

A few years ago I read several by Mary Roach. My favorite was "Stiff", about what happens to our bodies after we die and what medical science does with donated bodies. She's an engaging writer that makes you want to stay up late to finish just one more chapter.

My two all time favorites from last year were "The Middle Place" and "Here If You Need Me". Both are written by honest, funny, smart, women who took some crap that life threw at them and wrote their way through the journey. I loved both of these books so much I bought myself a copy of them after returning my library copies.

The funny thing about non-fiction is that it is very misunderstood. Behind the check out desk at the library I see a lot of variety. From every corner of the library people pick out books that look interesting to them. Some you couldn't pay me to read (smutty paperbacks), others I would never get past the first paragraph ("Astrophysics for the Common Man")

It is not uncommon for patrons to ask if I've read their selections. If I have, I'll comment on them, if I haven't I'll politely answer in the negative. Many of the older women are shocked that I have not read their favorite authors, generally mystery writers or authors with a series of novels. I carefully reveal that I don't read novels. They sometimes look confused. Many think novels are the only thing available to read. If you're a reader, especially of the female type, you read novels. My stock answer, "I mainly read non-fiction" generally ends the discussion.

My favorite reply to this common exchange was a woman who wasn't ready to let it go. She stared at me with a blank face and then said, "Oh, I don't read non-fiction. I don't like science books."

It was my turn for the blank face. There was a line forming behind the woman so I nodded politely and sent her on her way. But in thinking about her answer I was just baffled. Did she really think that the large BACK HALF of our library was all 'science books'?? Unbelievable.

All this leads to my latest non-fiction find, called "Waiter Rant". Loved, loved, loved this book. Not just because it is written by a guy who began his journey blogging about his job, something I can relate to. But because the topic is so universal. We've all had a waiter or been a waiter in our lifetime. His perspectives and observations were amusing, entertaining and enlightening. I was thinking of this book as we tipped our waiter at Cracker Barrel last night, as "date night" drew to a close. I have a feeling his words will come to mind every time I tip from this day forward.

I guess this book was a big deal a few years ago but I missed it back then. I missed his appearance on Oprah and the book tour across the country. But the title captured me as I recently shelved this gem and I couldn't resist adding it to my daily pile of 'take home treasures'. Once I started it, I couldn't put it down.

It made me start to think, and not just about being nicer to those who are in the service industry. It occurred to me that maybe I should blog more about the one thing that takes up a significant chunk of my week, my job.

We have lots of fun stories that circulate amongst the staff. Tales of clueless patrons as well as those who touch our hearts. We often say we are like the sober version of bartenders. We get to know our regulars. Their life stories, their interests, their reading habits.

Most people wouldn't think that working at a library could be all that interesting. But believe me, it can be. If I can find the time in the coming weeks, I'll share with you some of my favorite stories.

A Milestone Birthday

Because I have been making it a habit to post my weekly newspaper columns on this blog too I am making this post. I have to be fair and say it is a revision of a post from this time last year, called "A Dozen Years Ago". I still can't believe this child who we almost didn't get to raise, is turning into a teenager this week. There is no question in my mind, we are blessed.

This week marks a big milestone in our family. Our third child turns into a teenager, making the total of teens in our house outnumber the number of parents. We will have this house of three teens for just a few years. By the time Sam turns 13, Meredith will be long past the turbulent years. I am pretty sure we will survive.

Although I was pretty scared of teenagers when our kids were preschoolers, I have learned firsthand that teenagers are not generic people. They are the growing up version of these people I have known since birth and have come to love and enjoy. They have their baffling quirks but these are mixed in with reassuring consistent habits that remind me who's really inside that package.

Last year, on his last birthday before the teen years, I wrote an essay for Isaac. He has a unique babyhood story and celebrating each new year of life is a joyful gift. Although he technically turns 13 this week, in honor of my maturing birthday boy, I would like to share with you the essay from last year. It is called,

"A Dozen Years Ago."

A dozen years ago God returned joy to our life.

My mom had died so suddenly and the months after were dark and thick with grief. But a healthy pregnancy came along and slowly, month by month, joy crept back into all the moments of our days.

A dozen years ago a big healthy baby boy dropped into the midwife's hands and let out his first squall. I was so concerned that he might not be healthy my first words were, "why is he purple??" The midwives reassured and within minutes he was tucked into his grateful mommy's arms.

A dozen years ago we brought that sweet baby home to two siblings who tripped over themselves to care for him. Their own real life doll.

A dozen years and six weeks ago that baby got sick. Very sick. We spent day after day in the local hospital, then the children's hospital, waiting for a test that would come back positive and tell us how to cure our boy. There were no answers and hope began to slip away.

A dozen years and eight weeks ago I rocked that baby boy, the one who had brought joy back into my home. In the darkness of a hospital room in the middle of a thunderstorm I wept as we rocked back and forth, his shallow baby breath mixing with the tears that flowed down my face and onto my neck. He was wasting away and there were no answers.

A dozen years and eight weeks ago I wondered, 'will the summer of 1996 be the summer we look back on and say, 'that's the summer we lost the baby' or will we tell it in other ways - 'that's the summer our second boy was sick' ?

I am so thankful we get to celebrate today. Celebrate that a dozen years ago a sweet baby boy came into our family, got very sick, then was given back to us by very smart doctors who never gave up on him.

I celebrate in my heart on June 16th every year. Not just because it is my son's birthday. But because he is the son I almost didn't get to keep. The son I almost lost two years to the day after I stood by my mother's fresh grave. The son whose name means laughter and who's bright spirit radiates through our house.

I am so thankful. So thankful we got him back. So thankful he grows healthier every year. So thankful God dropped him into our family.

A dozen years ago.

Happy birthday, my sweet middle boy. I have no idea what the next five years will bring but I will be thankful for speed bumps caused my teenage hormones. You remind me that every step of life is precious and nothing can be taken for granted. You'll never know how thankful your dad and I were, just a dozen years ago, that smart doctors figured out your ailment and gave you a future.

It is your birthday but we got the gift.