What a Decade Has Done For This Amputee

Ten years ago I was craving information. I had been pondering the idea of having my deformed foot cut off and getting a prosthetic limb for a couple of decades already, but information was hard to come by on such a specific topic. There were no books in the library, about amputation or the lives of amputees.  

Those were the days before the internet had filled out. It was mostly full of dial up email communications and basic websites set up by forward thinking companies, for advertisement purposes.

Then, a decade ago, things started to change. We got our first high(er) speed internet service and I was hooked. Suddenly I could dissect the extensive information that the ACA (Amputee Coalition of America) had posted online. I could read stories about amputees and find pictures of the newest prosthetic limbs.

This led me to websites like Hanger, a major prosthetic provider. On their sites I found more extensive pictures about the hardware I'd be wearing if I made this choice. I visited several Hanger local offices, after being encouraged by what I saw online, and held in my hand the metal foot that might give me more mobility.

One night I stumbled upon a story on the ACA website about a man who had chosen to have his foot cut off. He'd had a bad ankle injury that would never heal and he decided a prosthetic foot would give him a better chance at an active life. The 25 year old was now walking beaches with his wife, and learning how to run.

I was astonished. Until that moment I had never heard of another person who would choose to have their foot amputated. This guy had made the decision I had thought about for years, and he wasn't crazy. In fact, he got a better life afterward. Finding his story on the internet put fuel on my fire.

A year later I had my surgery. And now, almost ten years later, I'm still enjoying a newer version of that same metal foot I held in my hand a decade ago. At the time of my surgery I knew that if prosthetic technology never advanced one bit in the years to come, I'd be happy with where it was in 2004. But it has advanced. In so many exciting ways. Today I wear a foot that wasn't even designed five years ago.

The running (Cheetah) legs that you see on Paralymic athletes was just being tested in 2004. I now have amputee friends, casual athletes, who use them for their daily runs. There are mechanical knees and ankles that can memorize your gait and replicate it, to make a more natural walking pattern. If you enjoy a hobby, there are amazing options in attachments you can attach to the end of your artificial limb. The world of prosthetic options has exploded and will continue to grow in the years to come.

But it's not just the hardware that has changed. Attitudes have changed. When I was a kid, an amputee was a person who most likely used a wheelchair. They were old men who had been in a war and come home with a few less limbs. They were not people we saw very often and they were most certainly not people who would jog around our neighborhoods or show up on our TV screens.

I visit many amputee internet boards. I hear stories about what it was like to be an amputee before 2004.  I've read books about people my age, who grew up with wooden legs...literally legs made of wood. The world was a different place for those amputees, and not just in the hardware they strapped on every morning.

In the ten years since I've joined their club, public attitudes have changed. I don't hesitate to wear shorts in public. I've never had a negative comment about my prosthetic leg. In fact, I've had the opposite reaction. People are fascinated by my hardware. Little children might squat behind me in the grocery store line (a common occurrence), but it's not because they see me as a cripple. It's because they want to figure out how my metal ankle works. They want to see my 'robot' leg.

My co-workers are not afraid to ask about my limb, and listen with interest as I tell them how much it's changed my life for the better. No one sees me as 'less than'. They see me as differently abled.

I will forever be grateful that the climate of acceptance has washed over the amputee community in the years since I made my difficult choice. I'm grateful that, with new options in hardware, younger amputees have come out of hiding and bravely mixed in with the public, demonstrating how we are just normal people who happen to get around on metal limbs.

I'm grateful for the adaptive athletic organizations that have popped up in the last decade, and encouraged amputees to get off the couch and get back to their active lives. I'm grateful for amputee support sites, which have been flooded with new members once the internet caught up to our needs. Interacting with other active amputees inspired those who thought they were alone in their journey.

Tthe news about newly injured young military folks, who were getting their lives back after amputations, and videos showing little kids using new prosthetics to run across the playground, changed people's attitudes. The more they saw how normal an amputee is, the more amputees were accepted back into the able bodied world.

Everyone has their own opinion about the court case surrounding one of the most famous amputee athletes. Whether or not Oscar Pistorius is found guilty of a terrible crime, he has changed the world of amputee perception. By qualifying to run, on his two prosthetic legs, in the able bodied Olympics, he became a symbol to all amputees, especially amputee children, of what could be accomplished on metal legs. He changed how the world looks at us.

I'm still astonished when I see amputees represented positively on television. Both AmyPurdy and Sarah Reinertsen competed in the Amazing Race. Chad Crittenden held his own on Survivor. A main character on Grey's Anatomy is an amputee. Luke, a character on the popular sitcom Modern Family, casually tells his sister that it wouldn't be a big deal if he lost his leg, because then he could get one of those 'cool running legs'. A revealing episode of House informed us that Dr. House, who limps through the series with a bad leg, wishes he'd had his leg amputated when he'd has his medical crisis. He wishes he'd had the courage to amputate. That's a new way of thinking and I'm thrilled to see it on my TV.

My 'ampuversary' is a few months away. On January 12, 2004, I will celebrate a decade of new mobility. A decade is a long time. Long enough for me to feel totally comfortable in my amputee life. It quickly became a non issue in our house. My four children have grown up seeing their mom do everything else other mommies do and the fact I click on a leg in the morning seems very normal to them. Their friends have cycled through the house, in the three different states we've lived in the past ten years, and not one of them saw my amputee status as anything more than fascinating.

Attitudes have changed and this new generation is growing up with new ideas. In the next decade amputees will continue to be out there, mixed into the able bodied world. We no longer hide behind long pants or stay home when adventure calls. I'll celebrate my anniversary with a grateful heart. I'm so incredibly grateful to be a part of a community of amazing people, and grateful I get to be a part of an exciting new world.

Rediscovering Utah

Say the word 'Utah' and it brings up different images to different people. Some will think of the world famous powdery snow that makes Utah a top skiing destination. Red rock arches will come to mind for others. Some will think of the miles and miles of salt flats that are used to race some of the fastest cars in the world. And, of course, there will always be the lingering stereo types of families with multiple wives because of the concentrated presence of the Mormon church. But when I think of Utah, I think of people.

We were living in Washington D.C. back in 2003, when we found out hubby's job would be taking us to that Western state. The internet was not old enough to give us many visuals but we found a few books in the local library and decided that if this new state were half as beautiful as it seemed to be, we were game for the cross country relocation.

When we arrived, on a sunny day in August of 2003, Park City was one of the first towns we experienced. It's just as stunning as it had been represented to us in Hollywood movies. Then we made our way down to Salt Lake City, rounding that curve in the highway as it meanders down the mountain and weaves into the valley, we were once again left breathless at our good fortune, to be moving to such a visually stunning location.

Within weeks we were settled into a comfortable house just west of Salt Lake City, in a town called Stansbury. Mountains surrounded the valley we lived in, and the immense great Salt Lake bordered our views to the north. As we enjoyed the beauty all around us we had no idea that it wasn't physical attributes that would make us fall in love with Utah completely. It would be the people we met and had relationships with that would seal the deal.

For three years we called Utah home. We grew to know and love a wide circle of new friends, who quickly turned into the kind of people who are lifetime friends. When it was time to move on, this time to New York, it was a gut wrenching goodbye.

Now we're living in the West once again. This time we made it only as far as Colorado. We've finally settled in enough that we had the time to head over to our old stomping grounds, and catch up with our old Utah friends. It's been seven years since we'd been there. Seven years since we'd sat around fire pits late into the night, sharing laughs and heart felt life stories. We were ready to hug those familiar friends and catch up on all that has happened in the years we've been gone.

It all went by way too quickly, as truly special trips always do. I took a million pictures and we laughed a million laughs. I don't think I stopped smiling all weekend.

It was surreal to see their kids. I know my kids have grown, but it's easy to forget that theirs have too. I've been the one buying all those groceries, as our 17 year old grew to be six and a half feet tall. He was a fourth grader when we left Utah. Those friends remember him as being a skinny little boy who loved to ride a scooter down the street. He's now a high schooler, taller than most of his teachers, with a set of car keys in his pocket. It's strange for them to see this 'new' kid, as he ducks his head to get through their front door frame.

But it's just as strange for me to see their baby girl, who is now at the end of her elementary school years. She was still gestating in her mama's belly when I first 'met' her. Since her mama lived right across the street from me, and became one of my favorite people on the planet, I knew this baby girl from the day she was born. My school aged kids spent our hanging out times hauling her around on their hips. Even my boys passed her around, like she was our mascot baby. She took her first steps on the sidewalk between our houses, toddling from the hands of my middle school daughter, to her mama's waiting arms. This baby girl wasn't supposed to grow up so fast. But there she was, that same bright smile, but this time on an older kid's body.

But, as it always is with those magical lifetime friends, the second the front door opened, we were back to being just 'us'. We were the same couples we'd been on the day we pulled out of our driveway, headed off to New York. They were the same hilarious, fun, true blue friends we'd left behind. It was as if seven years had not even passed. If you didn't let yourself look at the tall kids who surrounded us, it would be easy to believe it had only been a few weeks since we'd last seen each other.

Before nightfall the fire pit had been made. The kids had easily mingled into a pack again and entertained themselves without any adult guidance for the rest of the night. It was like stepping into a time machine, looking across the crackling fire at those familiar faces I'd missed so much. The conversation flowed easily, as we once again bonded over parenting stories, this time not so much revolving around potty training and elementary school science fairs, but more focused on worries about the dating lives of high schoolers and the woes of empty nests.

The next day we reluctantly left that driveway once again, this time promising to be back in much less than seven years. We headed back to our old street, looked at our old house, and each shared our most vivid memories. Since my youngest was a preschooler when we moved away from Utah, we re-introduced him to places that he'd spent his days. The skate park where he rode his little red bike we called 'the clown bike'. The lake house where he'd hunted for Easter eggs. The church building where he'd been surrounded by people who loved  and encouraged him. The endless sidewalks he'd traveled with big brothers, on scooters and bikes.

We ended up at another house, this one still occupied by another family we grew to love deeply. Their kids are the ages of our older children, so they are parenting young adults now too. The kids we remember were still navigating high school hallways. Through the magic of facebook I've kept in touch with some of these new adult/kids and it was great to hug them in person, see those smiles I remembered so well. We spent the afternoon catching up with them. When it was time to leave, our kids were begging us to stay 'just a little longer'. It's easy to see why this family meant so much to us. They fit us in such a nice way.

We will go back. Now that we're more settled in our new home state of Colorado, and we were reminded that it's only a 8 hour drive to get to our old stomping grounds, we will go back. I'm thrilled that my children will have the chance to rekindle special friendships. For adults it's easier to step back into quality relationships from the past. Sometimes it's not so easy for kids, who left the old place as not fully developed people. But it's nice to see they still fit with our old friends. And they will stop being referred to as 'those people we used to know in Utah' and now, once again, be referred to as 'our friends, the Motts.'

Life is short and life is long. Seven years can change a lot. Children become totally different people in seven years. But seven years is not too long. It's not long enough to let us forget how nice it is to be surrounded by good people. It's long enough to make us realize just how much a good friendship is worth. And just how deep a friendship can run. 

Consistent Contentment

It was a bright, blue sky day, as it usually is in my new home state of Colorado. We were driving down I-25, headed to Colorado Springs. For two weeks we'd hosted a teenager from Brazil and most of what we'd shown him 'of America' had involved driving the winding mountain roads around our house. We figured it was time to show him some other parts of Colorado, including the majestic red rocks at the Garden of the Gods. As a bonus, my 9 year old nephew had just arrived to visit from San Francisco. Climbing on rocks was the perfect plan for a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Traffic was consistent but not thick. Hubby was at the wheel, lost in his own thoughts. The valley was spread out around us, with mountain ranges and large hills surrounding it. We'd actually made it out of the driveway on time and all six inhabitants of our Suburban were content.

In fact, not only were the four kids I was hauling south content, my two kids who were not in the truck were also content. This is a fact that is not to be taken lightly. When you are the mother to four children, there is rarely a time that all four are in a good place at the same time. Especially when the teen and young adult years hit. It's almost as if they take turns having their life hiccups and once one is solved, the next pops up right on time.

But on this day, this oh so rare magical day, all of my kids were in a good place.

My oldest was off exploring in Houston. Her plans to move to the state where she would never have to clear snow off her car were almost complete. Serious health problems had forced my legal adult girl to move back home. It was not a comfortable plan, but a necessary one. We'd spent the past months getting the right medicines and seeing the right doctors, so she could finally fly from the nest for good. The thought of living in a year- round warm state kept her plugging through a job in our hometown that she didn't like and saving every penny she earned. This weekend she had flown down to see old friends and do some scouting for her soon to be new life.

Her brother, the oldest of her three male siblings, was off on his own adventures too. Just that morning I'd seen new pictures of him on Facebook, surrounded by the guys in his Army unit, all grinning in that way that says 'watch out world, here we come'. There were hard days of training but the fact that training involved throwing grenades and driving tanks kept it all in perspective for him. His calls home were mostly upbeat and positive. He was carving his place in the world and the options laid out in front of him were endless.

My middle boy, now a tall 17 year old who dwarfs his father and me (and we're pretty tall people ourselves) was in the seat right behind me, plugged into his music. I treasure the moments I share with him, when he's not at work or out with friends, and still adore his company as much as I did when he was six years old and still fit in my lap.

My littlest guy was tucked into the third row, in the very back of the Suburban, a smile spread across his face because his best friend had finally arrived for a visit. His cousin, Soul, may live 600 miles away but the second they see each other, they fall into an easy sync. Sam and Soul, the cousin twins. The day would be twice as fun for my Sam, just because one of his favorite people on the planet was enjoying it with him.

I had headphones on too. I was listening to the soothing voice of Tim McGraw, who reminded me in song after song, of how lucky I am  How life is short. How every good thing in my life, no matter how small, is a gift. His music flooded into my ears as I took in the gorgeous scenery outside my window and felt a peace in my soul that all my chickies were in a good place on this day.

It brought me back to a conversation I'd had with Sam just a few days earlier. We'd driven to the airport together, just the two of us. He was so excited to see his cousin that he wanted to be the first one Soul saw when he stepped off the plane. The hour long drive gave us a good chance to have an uninterrupted talk.

The topic of money came up. Our visitor from Brazil comes from a family who has a much bigger bank account than ours. He would never flaunt it, but it's just a reality of life. The big ticket items that Sam puts on a Christmas list were being purchased by our friend because the price in our country was much lower than the ones he could find at home. This provided the perfect segue into a discussion about economics, inflation and the consistency of pricing in a capitalist society. 

And then it led into a bit of dreaming and wishing on part of my son. I agreed with him that it would be nice to have a fat bank account. It would be nice to buy fun things all year round, and have the best of the electronics that he pores over every time we shop at Target. And this conversation led to the most important chat we had that day.

I reminded him that as much as he fantasized about owning expensive toys, and the life that our Brazilian friend leads, half the kids in the world fantasized about his life. Half the kids in the world are jealous of him, and wonder what it's like to not only have consistent food on his table, but to have a wide variety and many treats mixed in. Half the kids in the world own less than a drawer full of clothes they can call their own. Half the kids in the world wonder what it's like to go to bed comfortable, warm, safe and loved by two healthy parents in a stable relationship. 

He's one blessed boy.

And this is what I felt, on that drive to Colorado Springs. Blessed. Our life has not been easy. We've had more than our share of medical issues and our bank account has never been at a place you'd call 'fat'. But we're surrounded by people who love us. Our cup overflows with family that adore our kids, have their own stable lives, and are great examples to our children about what fun, hard working grown ups look like.

We were on the highway in a reliable vehicle that fit all six of the tall people we'd crammed inside. We were able to fill up that vehicle with gas so that we could have a fun day exploring more of our beautiful world. There would be hikes and laughs and jokes told and priceless memories made that day. All four of my kids, and both of our visitors, were happy and content.

I could not ask for more.

Update:

This was the post that swirled around my head for two days until I could find the time to write it all out. And in that brief 48 hour spell, I lost my sense of peace and contentment. By Monday, two of my four children were struggling once again.

My middle boy was tired and grumpy as I drove him to his job that morning. Working forty hours a week is fun for the bank account but not so fun for the social life. It's far enough into the summer that the novelty of having his first job has worn off and now it's hard to set that alarm every night and face another day.

And an even bigger issue, my daughter, the one who was ready to launch into the great big world (finally) had the biggest seizure yet. It's been almost a full year since her last seizure. We thought we had figured out the exact right dose of medication. But I guess not. On her last day of visiting in Houston her body gave in to a break through seizure.

Now we're back to seeing specialists, running tests, figuring out what this means to her plans to move, and helping her just recover from a pretty violent attack on her body. Today she feels like she's been hit head on by a Mack truck. My girl is not at peace so her mama cannot find peace either.

Which I guess is why that moment I captured while driving to Colorado Springs is so much more poignant. The task of raising teens and young adults is a tough one. So many things can go wrong, things that affect every day of their futures. With health issues thrown in the mix, things just get more complicated and heart wrenching. For that hour and a half, even for most of that day, when I was surrounded by these people I love, and everyone was happy, I'm glad I took the time to treasure it. 

Because it all can change in the blink of an eye.

A Personal War

Today is the tenth anniversary of the American invasion of Iraq.  I was just a little girl when Vietnam was the war that covered the fronts of newspapers. I was in kindergarten when our neighborhood welcomed home my friend's dad, who had been a prisoner of war. It made an impression on me, but only to the level of six year old understanding.

Iraq is the first war I encountered as a grown up. The first war I had to judge and support, or oppose, while I was a mom, raising my own little children. I could see the implications of war with adult eyes, and it was much more intimidating.

And today, as I scroll through many links to essays in my facebook feed, posted by friends who approved, and friends who did not, I feel that war with a deeper understanding. My own son, that little boy who grew up hearing stories of American soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, now wears the Army uniform himself.

Four days ago he graduated from boot camp. Yesterday he started his intense Cavalry Scout training. The Army may be just a stepping stone to his future, or he may stay for his career. But either way, he is in the ranks today, eligible to be shipped out to dangerous lands by this time next year. The word 'war' has a new meaning to his mama.

Several people have asked me how I can be so enthusiastic about his life choice, considering his life could be threatened in a very real way. And I understand that question. But I also understand my boy.

He is a leader. He has grown up being the ring leader to two little brothers, and peace maker between our pack of boys and their older sister. He joined his high school track team, which had taken a deep hit by losing a beloved coach the year before, and by his senior year he had rallied them into a winning team, once again. Even last summer, as he waited for his leave date, he became instant camp counselor to younger cousins who came to spend some time with us. He led them on adventures in the woods, teaching them to catch fish with their hands, then bring them home and cook them on the backyard grill. My boy is thriving in an environment that calls on leadership skills.

The more my husband and I tell the people around us that our son is now serving, the more we are encouraged by their responses. We are fortunate that we live in a time where military service is respected and appreciated. I don't have to defend my son's choice, like the mothers of Vietnam soldiers so often did. My husband quickly found that he is surrounded at work by military veterans. The service is a starting off place for many successful people, it seems. The life and leadership skills my son learns will stay with him for the rest of his life, no matter what path he chooses.

But what about the danger,  you ask? What about the fact that he might be killed before he gets a chance to live that long, productive life? What about the fact he could lose a limb or be permanently injured before he leaves the service? I'm his mom. The woman who has adored him since the day I found out he was on the way to join the human race. Of course I've spent many days, nights, and long car rides pondering those questions.

And here's my honest answer. I have to let it go

.

It's a choice he made. He was in college, and called us to say he was ready to get his feet wet NOW. He was not happy writing more English papers and doing more math equations. He wanted to make a different choice. He was over 18. He could sign any enlistment paper he wanted. Sure, he called us and asked for advice. He even listened to our concerns with sincerity. But ultimately, it's his life. His choice.

I know he will be in danger. I know he is in more danger during his training than he would be sitting in a college classroom right now. The story at the top of my news feed today was of 9 Marines who were killed yesterday. In the United States. During a training exercise. I will not lie and say I didn't choke up a bit when I read the headline, then the story. It's inevitable. But this is when my new pep talk starts.

Much like the pep talk I give myself when my precious husband climbs on yet another jet to fly somewhere for work, I remind myself that every day soldiers train, every day planes take off, every day teens climb behind the wheel, and millions of times nothing happens. Millions of times they come out the other side unharmed. Millions of travelers arrive at their destination with their biggest problem being a lost suitcase. Millions of times young men and women strap on those boots, throw that rifle over their shoulder, and head off to another day of training, even another day of war, and survive.

Yes, it could happen to my son. I am not immune to life tragedy. I read the profiles of young men and women we've lost and wonder how each one of them could have been 'the best'. Isn't it true, that every young person you read about, who lost their life, seems to be that kid who everyone loved, and that kid who had such a bright future? 

There's a reason for that. Because every 'kid' is someone's baby. Just like Michael will always be my baby.  But I can't justify forcing my son to not take a path he believes in because of my own fears. I can't coddle him and protect him to the point of extinguishing his drive, the same drive that will make him a great leader in the adult world.

I have to be honest and tell you that my son is the least afraid of losing a limb. Having grown up with an amputee mom who lives a pretty normal life, and seeing the people she knows who live extraordinary lives, my son's attitude toward amputation is a bit cavalier for my comfort. He literally said to me one day, "It wouldn't be that terrible to lose a leg...you only have one and you do just fine!" We were discussing the dangers of motorcycles at the time and as much as I wanted to be honored that he saw me as a 'normal' mom, I had to work hard to bring him back to the reality that keeping his own two healthy limbs was highly preferred.

My son is strong. My son is smart. He is being trained very thoroughly for the job he will be asked to perform. He has confidence and is properly equipped.

Yes, I worry. If I ever let myself dwell on the thousands of soldiers we've lost in the war overseas, or even the soldiers who have died in training, I can get pretty worked up. But then I remind myself of the reality. My son is serving a country he loves. He will charge into life and face it's challenges, whether I worry or not. And I will love him and support him, no matter what the outcome.

All I can truly do to help him right now is those two simple things. Love and support him. 

Send him letters from home, filled with stories of the crazy things his brothers are up to. Include a few pictures of our latest adventures.  Be available when he has a rare chance to give us a call and try not to cry when I hear his precious voice. Remind him how proud we are of him, and how many people are behind him.

My son is in the Army. And I could not be more proud.

Invisible Fame

I got the news as an afterthought. Sam's drum instructor had emailed me about a lesson related matter and at the end of his message added "by the way, I'm playing with a band at Little Bear tonight."

I love going to Little Bear. It's an old biker bar, set in the middle of our historic mountain town in Colorado. You can almost always find live music there. Local musicians often grace the stage. Sometimes they're really talented. Sometimes you just have to appreciate their deep passion for music.

I love any excuse to head to Little Bear. Every visiting relative and friend gets dragged down the street to spend some time there with us. The pizza specials mid week draw us to its old wooden front porch, a cheap way to watch live music and fill up teen boys.

There was no doubt we'd go see Dean play with his band at Little Bear. The hiccup we hadn't counted on was the fact that after 8 pm they don't allow anyone under age 21. Our normal visiting time was before the later crowed rolled in. It hadn't occurred to me that my middle schooler, who spent a lot of time at Little Bear, would not be allowed in.

The kind bouncer at the front door let the holiday spirit rule his decision and let us in 'for just a few songs', once he heard that Dean was Sam's teacher, and we were there to see him play live. We stood to the side and watched the band rock out a few classic rock tunes. Sam got to see this guy who is usually giving him instruction, as he got lost in his own element.

He got to see what the end result of all those Tuesday afternoon lessons could lead to some day.

It was time to leave. We'd seen our 'couple of songs' and we didn't want to outstay our welcome at a place we frequent. We filed out the big old wooden front door and gathered on the huge front porch, covered in Christmas lights. It seemed such a shame to leave, when such an amazing band was on stage.

I asked Michael if he'd mind taking Sam home and come back later to pick up me and Jeff. It was the perfect chance for a spur of the moment date night. My agreeable  boy was fine with the plan and quickly added, "But mom...you HAVE to do me a favor!"  

I was surprised by the excitement coming from my normally stoic boy. "The guy from Burn Notice is in there! He walked right by us! Could you please get a picture of him for me?" This request, coming from a kid who is normally irritated at mom's eagerness to take photos.

Michael is not easily impressed. He doesn't excite easily. But this was the guy who starred in a show he religiously watched with his best friend in New York, before we moved out to Colorado last year. It was one of the few shows he invested his time in, and he could hardly believe the guy had just walked by us as we casually stood around in Little Bear, watching Sam's drum teacher play in a band.

Jeff and I made our way back in, paying the cover charge as legitimate guests this time, and found a table near the stage. Behind Jeff's head I could see the guy, sitting at a table with friends. He looked like a regular guy. A guy I'd pass in Safeway and not realize he was the guy.  But this guy meant something to my boy...no, to my young adult son, who was days away from leaving to start his grown up life in the military. The guy suddenly mattered to me too.

The venue was intimate. Maybe two dozen people filled the tables and bar around us. I just didn't have the heart to bother this poor guy, who apparently was on break from filming and trying to enjoy a night out with friends. I've met celebrities before, and know that most of them are pretty gracious when it comes to fans approaching them in public. But this just felt wrong. I wanted the guy to have a night out, enjoying a rocking band at Little Bear, without some old woman harassing him for a picture.

So I did the cheater thing. I pretended to take a picture of Jeff, catching the guy in the background. It was dark. There was NO way I was going to use a flash. It's the best I could do. You can see from the picture that one of the guy's buddies was on to my game. But I'd love to tell Buddy that it was just a quick picture. And ultimately I was trying to leave his friend in peace.

After my cheater picture I sat back and enjoyed the show. I watched four guys, who live in my town, pour their hearts and souls onto that stage. During the first break  Dean came out from behind the drum set and sat at our table, telling us funny stories about his years traveling in bands. He told us about his fellow musicians on the stage, and how talented they all were. The kid playing electric guitar was in his early 20s, getting a college degree and playing band gigs in his free time, but had talent that was unbelievable. 

Then suddenly it was time for Dean to crawl back behind those drums and start the next set.

And as they rolled into their first song I started to wonder about fame. Much like the line from the movie Notting Hill, I believe celebrity is really nothing. You know, in that scene where Julia Roberts is cowering in Hugh Grant's book store saying, "I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her"? In that same scene she also says something like, "The fame thing. You know it's not real."

 It's something that's discussed and analyzed but doesn't really have bones. It only exists in perception.

What is it that makes the man sitting behind us at Little Bear, hunkered in a dark corner so he's not spotted by crazy fans like me, matter more than the 24 year old kid playing his heart out on the stage in front of me? There is immense talent in both men. One has his face on billboards and television commercials, the other will pack away his guitar after this show and head back to college classes. No one will apologetically ask for his picture.

I work in a public venue. I greet people as they come into our local Rec Center to work out or take fitness classes. Sometimes I play a game where I pretend that each person approaching my desk is a 'celebrity'. I treat them like the world has bestowed this invisible blessing on them and the paparazzi are waiting just outside our doors, hoping to catch them sweaty and rumpled after their latest fitness endeavor. Because it really is just a way of approaching the people you come across in the world.

The magazines and newspapers are somehow in charge of telling us who deserves to be showered with respect and extra favor. Sure, many celebrities are immensely talented. But so are many of the people you pass every day. You just haven't been shown their talent in a Hollywood way.

This week, through a casual conversation, I learned that one of our gymnastic instructors at work is a professional artist. Some day he hopes to make his living creating art, and do gymnastics as a hobby, not the other way around. I thought about that conversation for several days. It made me wonder how many other invisible celebrities I am surrounded by every day. 

Then I happened to share some space with a guy who even my hard to impress son was in awe of. And in the same night I was moved by some music played by some guys who may never grace the cover of Rolling Stone. And it all came together.

Talent and passion are not things we can measure and place definite value. Networks of powerful people are in charge of deciding who we adore and idolize and dream of meeting. When, in reality, there are people all around us who deserve respect and awe. The woman standing in line at the grocery store who paints amazing landscapes. The man pumping gas next to you, who takes breathtaking photos of his grandchildren. The shaggy headed teenager who can write poems that would make you weep.

And, oh yeah, that kid standing front and center on the stage at the local bar, caressing the neck of that guitar like he has legions of fans waiting just outside the front door.

Unexpected Perfect Day

It turned out to be one of those really amazing days that sneaks up on you. 

I got up early, got Sam off to the school bus, saw Jeff off to work, then sat down at the computer to catch up on writing, facebook and email. I got a few things done then suddenly remembered I had signed up for CPR training at work that morning. They were meeting in less than a half an hour.

I quickly dressed then rushed off, down snow covered roads, then icy sidewalks, bursting into the warehouse classroom with just a few minutes to spare. Looking around, I realized I was by far the oldest one there. The room was full of life guards and ice rink employees, all kids who were my son's age. I sat down in the back row, filling one of the last empty chairs. I wondered which of those teens was going to roll their eyes when they were forced to pair up with the lone old lady. Then, suddenly, three more people came through the door. All older than me. My day turned on a dime.

Through the next three hours I once again practiced pressing on the chest of the large stiff mannequin who has fewer lower limbs than I do. And I made new friends. I got to know the director of our Rec Center Play School a bit better and found out one of the senior aerobics instructors is actually my neighbor. She's a lovely woman I hope to know better in the future. I glided over those ice covered sidewalks, back to my car, with a smile on my face.

It was a bright sunny day, the kind that makes Colorado the tourist's dream. 

I drove to Wal-Mart to pick up a few groceries and some last minute gifts for my children, taking the time to appreciate the mountain views that border my every day roads. Every year I find myself putting off buying our family presents until all the long distance boxes are mailed and holiday cards stamped. It felt good, and mothering, to finally bring home treasures for my own babies.

As soon as the pile of bags were unpacked and hidden until wrapping could commence, I jumped back in the car and headed to the Middle School. Sam's sixth grade band was playing a small holiday concert in the lobby of their school. I stood, with Jeff by my side, as we soaked in the fun of holiday music played by energetic 12 year olds. I took only a bit of video, when my percussionist boy started having just a bit too much fun with the maracas in their rendition of Jingle Bells.

Michael, who had been down in Denver, making last preparations for his leave to boot camp next week, surprised us all, as he walked through the school doors. His meetings had wrapped up early. The smile on his little brother's face, as big brother offered to take him out for a milk shake, just the two of them, was enough to make my whole day.

Jeff and I headed off for home, having some nice, uninterrupted adult conversation. He settled in with a library book (a rare treat for him) as I cut up tomatoes and onions and spread the counter with a Mexican feast. 

A short time later, the boys came home, full from milkshakes but hungry for 'real food'. Isaac had shown up, home from skating on our local town lake, and we all gathered in front of the big family TV with our plates piled high with nachos, tacos and enchiladas.

For an hour and a half we laughed at scenes we've seen hundreds of times - we had our traditional viewing of the movie Christmas Vacation. Michael, now an adult himself, saw things he'd never seen before, with new grown up eyes. Sam saw silly things he'd forgotten about from last year. That movie, once again, brought our family new belly laughs and new memories.

And then, because the day had not been perfect enough, a few hours later we headed to our little mountain downtown. Sam's drum instructor was playing with a band at Little Bear Saloon, the biker bar that is our favorite family gathering place. On its tiny stage, the drummer's spot literally built with milk crates, with random bras draped by the dozens in the rafters over the band's heads, my boy got to see his instructor in his element. The same crazy guy he meets with every week, now under spot lights, lost in the rhythms of some classic rock songs.

The bouncer was nice, letting our 12 year old in for just a few songs, when the policy was no one under 21 after 8 pm. We all filed out after two songs but I wasn't ready to leave. Michael agreed to take Sam home, and come pick up the old people later, so that Jeff and I could steal an unexpected date night.

We popped back in the door, paid the cover fee this time, and found a table not far from the stage. For the next four hours we got to be us again, just a couple of crazy college kids who have big dreams they hope to live out together. It was easy to forget the house full of kids and responsibilities that waited for us once the clock passed midnight. The band was great, the Dr. Pepper was a perfect mix. My musician husband listened with different ears than his musically challenged wife, but we both enjoyed the music in our own way. 

It was gravy on the day, that Sam's drum instructor, who I now consider a new local friend, came over to our table at every break, and shared funny, interesting stories with us about his long history with all kinds of music and bands.

It all ended as the place cleared out and we, alone, watched the last song the band cranked out. It's a whole different experience to have a band personally interacting with you, playing a private concert in a public venue, at just after midnight on a Friday night.

We stepped out onto the old wooden porch to wait for Michael's taxi service. We could see down the short block that makes up our tiny historic town, to the bank clock that read 10 degrees. A red fox dashed across the parking lot across the street, disappearing over the snow bank that led him back to the woods. And then our warm minivan drove up.

The night was over. The day that started out in that oh so ordinary way was winding down. A half an hour later I was snuggled under a pile of warm blankets, drifting off to sleep. 

So incredibly thankful that sometimes the best days of your life creep up on you without warning.

Finding Peace in Sadness

The recent shootings in CT will bring back painful memories to many people. Hundreds of people in Aurora Colorado, just down the hill from my home, will have flashbacks as they relive the horror of the night their movie theater was terrorized, and their friends and neighbors lost their lives. Farther south in my state, many families in Columbine will once again relive the horror of their own high school massacre, 13 years ago, and remember the ones they lost that day. Many others will carry the trauma of their experiences with them for the rest of their days.

Like most moms across the country, I couldn't control the tears when I heard about the room full of kindergartners who died yesterday. It's really too much for a brain to comprehend and my heart goes out to that community, who will be in the process of burying their loved ones for weeks to come. When your child dies, it's already a nightmare. When you have to arrange your child's funeral around those of 17 of her classmates, it's too awful for words.

But the moment I really lost it, the picture that struck my heart with physical pain, was the picture that showed up on the front page of my Denver Post today. I briefly saw it on the news reports yesterday but never let my eye rest on it. It's a picture of a line of children, hands on each other's shoulders, being led across the parking lot by a very calm and composed police officer. Their teachers follow behind, getting directions from another officer. A little girl in a blue shirt seems to be weeping, lost in the anguish of the situation.

This picture hit me so deeply because it took me back to a time when a gun in the community rocked my own world and put my children at risk. We had just moved to the Washington D.C. area and were settling in nicely when the sniper started shooting. For three weeks we heard constant reports about who had been shot and where they thought he might be headed next. Several locations were very close to our house.

We locked ourselves inside, ordering groceries to be delivered, paying the delivery man an extra tip for risking his life. Doctor's appointments were cancelled. There was no fort building in the back yard, which faced the woods. Every errand that was necessary found me sitting at stop lights, eyeing the perimeter, watching for any spot a sniper could be hiding.

But the hardest part of the equation was keeping my children safe. At the time, my children were 10, 9, 6 and almost 2. Three of them attended school. Not knowing how long the sniper attacks would last, they couldn't be kept home from school. Instead we had to adapt. I made them wait until the bus showed up on our street, then let them make a dash for its wide doors. Once they got home, we found indoor games to play, and tried not to let them see the TV news, with the latest report of the sniper's last kill.

In a parent-teacher conference that fall my son's teacher told me something that made me weep when I got home. She told us that she was doing all she could to keep our son safe. His class met in a trailer that required an outside walk to get to the main school. Their playground was surrounded by woods, which officials were telling us was the sniper's favorite hiding place. My son's teacher was a first year teacher and her greatest fear was that one of her kids would be hurt while under her care. She took her job very seriously. So, it turns out, every time she was required to take them on the 30 yard walk from their classroom to the main building, she'd made up a game they could play.

It was called 'Dance Club'. Once in their orderly line, their teacher told them that to get across the courtyard they were all required to bob and weave and do their best dance moves. She presented it like a fun, silly game, to get their wiggles out. In reality she was doing her best to keep them from being shot in the head.

One of the other tips we were getting from officials was 'not to be a good target'. Never stand still outdoors, especially near wooded areas. I later learned my husband often 'danced' around while waiting on his subway platform at certain stations. He never stood still, and most of the commuters around him did the same.

On the ride home from school that day I couldn't stop picturing the line of 9 year olds, my son in the middle, dodging and weaving, every time they had to make the short hike to the lunchroom and music class. The scene that most likely resembled the picture on the front of my newspaper today. And I could almost sense the way their pretty young teacher held her breath, until the last one ducked into the school's back door. 

It reminded me of the pressure she was under to keep a whole classroom of children safe. I sat at home, worried about their safety under my care, thankful when they were 'safe' at school, not taking into account what it took to keep them safe at school. My son's teacher, fresh out of college and eager to make her mark in the world, had the lives and futures of 28 young children on her shoulders every single day. If something happened to one of her students, she would be living with it for the rest of her life.

Throw in a sniper who just might be setting up his gun in the woods behind her classroom and I have to wonder if she ever slept more than two hours during that three week period.

I went home from that teacher conference and wept. I wept for my babies, who deserved to live in a world where they could go outside to play and not fear being executed. I  wept for a school full of professionals who took my child's safety very seriously. Teachers, many with children of their own to worry about, who go to school every day and not only worry about each child's academic level, but is ready to defend his life if necessary. And I wept with gratitude for my son's teacher, who not only made up a clever diversion that could have saved his life, but presented it to him as a game, so he never even knew he was in danger.

Way too many lives were lost yesterday. Teachers, school professionals, and way too many little children who were still counting down the days to Santa's visit. 

But the professionals in that school did everything they could to protect every single life they could. I wouldn't be surprised if we find out soon that individual adults lost their lives solely because they were trying to save the lives of those around them.

Whoever turned on the intercom, so that every teacher, in every classroom, could know there was evil inside the school walls and do whatever they had to, to protect their students, saved countless more lives. The death toll, as horrific as it is, could have been higher.

This is why I will not be afraid to send my children back to school on Monday. Because I know I am sending them into a place filled with teachers and staff who would do anything they had to, to keep them safe. We can talk about making new security rules, installing metal detectors, having more safety meetings...but when it comes down to facts, I believe in the adults who surround my sons when they are in school, and know they care about more than what his GPA happens to be.

There will be another school shooting in the future. That's the reality of this world we live in. It might be soon, it might be in five years. But the odds that my child will be in that school are slim. If I really think about the odds of my child being killed in school, the statistics tell me to worry more about their car ride home from school. If I pair the odds of them being shot by a lone gunman with the fact that they are immersed in a protective environment when they enter those school hallways, I can send them to school with peace in my heart.

Our family has personally felt the terror of a bad guy's gun in our community. Every story of another shooting will touch us deeply. But what I can do today, to keep myself from sitting in another pile of tears, is to pray for the grieving families, maybe send a little more money to the Red Cross, and say a second prayer of thanks, for the teachers who saved lives yesterday and the teachers who would save my sons' lives in an instant, if they were called to action.