The art of letting go

I shattered the windshield of my sister's Datsun 710 with my head when I was in eighth grade.

Some lady in a tank -- er, Station Wagon -- pulled out in front of us as my sister drove me to choir practice. With the exception of some nasty scrapes on my knees and a big, gosh-darn goose-egg on the top of my noggin, I wasn't hurt.

At least, not physically.

Emotionally, it was a little different. My sister and I spent the first few weeks of summer break that year trying not to tense up as we entered major intersections.

She eventually got over it.

Me? Not so much.

As with many other things in life, I've struggled to let go of my strange fear of moving vehicles.

On Sunday -- as my oldest daughter turned 16 and ventured out alone for the first time -- that fear morphed into something so much bigger. Pangs of dread rippled through me while I watched her pull out of the driveway. I probably looked something like this...

This is actually Molly during one of her many
 collick episodes as an infant.

I don't doubt Molly's ability to operate a vehicle (although ...)  But I know one day soon a moving vehicle will start up, back out of the driveway and carry my little girl off to college, off to a life of her own, off to a life where mom's input isn't always wanted or necessary. (Not that it is right now.)

Kitty Forman, a character on That '70s Show, once made a poignant statement about the things we teach our kids. It sits heavily on my heart right now.

She said from the moment our children are born, we're supposed to teach them things -- how to walk and talk, dress themselves, feed themselves, and then one day we wake up and realize that all this time the only thing we're really teaching them is how to leave.

Wow. Before that happens, someone better teach me how to let go.

A descendant of prophets

"I pray that I'll be a blessing to someone."

I think the first time I came across such a statement I was reading a blog by literary agent Rachelle Gardner or Christian author Mary DeMuth.

I never really understood the weight of those words until recently. . .

* * *

"I just talked to mom. The nursing home has called the family and the pastor in. Grandma's not doing well."

My stomach knotted at the words my sister uttered on the phone.

I wasn't surprised. Health-wise, things hadn't looked cheery for Grandma Pearl since suffering from a horrible bout of pneumonia before Christmas. As I hung up the phone that morning and went back to work, I talked myself into denial.

Grandma was going to be fine. For 97 years, she'd found amazing ways to bounce back from some pretty terrible circumstances.

As blessings would have it, that morning was no exception.

Although caregivers at the nursing home had told the family she was unresponsive, when the pastor came in she opened her eyes and asked, "What'd you think? I was dying?"

In reality, Grandma knew her health was failing. I'd be willing to bet she knew she'd just stepped up to that line between life and death -- maybe even stuck her pinky toe across it. But it didn't keep her from cracking a good joke.

That's just the kind of person she was.

Grandma Pearl had a way of making the rough spots in life easy with a smile.

When I went to visit her that night, she didn't linger on sad goodbyes.

"You come and see me again," she said. Her courage didn't waver.

I, on the other hand, walked out of her room and crumbled into my mother's arms. In my heart, I knew it would be the last time I'd talk to her.

A few days later, at Grandma Pearl's funeral, I looked around at the number of people crowded into St. John Church. I marveled at the fact that my 6-year-old niece cried just as hard as me, my 38-year-old cousin and my Grandma's elderly sisters.

The pastor said my great-grandparents were prophets. How else would they have known to give her such a fitting name: Pearl?

I couldn't help but feel blessed that God had granted me the privilege of being the granddaughter of such a courageous and lively woman.

That's when I realized what being a blessing to others truly meant. Now, thanks to Grandma Pearl, it's something I'll pray for everyday.

Writerly Wednesday: It doesn't get any worse than this

It's hard to believe more than 60 days have passed.

In some ways it feels like it's been years since the last time I wrote a true blog post. In other ways, it feels like I've merely blinked.

I'm not exaggerating when I say I've traveled the hardest road of my life during the past nine weeks.

If only I'd quit asking how life could get any worse.

I don't remember the first time that question popped into my head. It was probably about 13 years ago, when I dropped my daughter off at daycare and, as I headed to work, I seriously contemplated missing the turn and disappearing from my life.

It wasn't that I didn't love my daughter and husband. I just didn't love anything about me.

Fortunately, I realized that you can't run away from yourself.

Instead of missing the turn in to work that day, I turned to God and prayed. He led me out of that dark place, right into a job that helped me become a better writer. He led me to a place where I could chase my dream.

And things were good. For awhile. Until the realization of my husband's alcohol addiction and depression settled upon me.

As he went through withdrawal, I started asking myself: "How can it get any worse than this?"

As he struggled through med changes, I thought: "It can't get any worse than this."

And when he was prescribed one med a few years ago that nearly destroyed him, I let myself wonder: "Really? How could it possibly get any worse than this?"

Well, for starters, a new general practitioner's inexperience with bipolar and anxiety disorders could lead him through three med changes in four visits.

That GP could call me at work to tell me she's "worried about Dana."

I could snap at her and say, "I'm worried too. You need to quit screwing with his meds. Don't you realize what that does?"

She could lie to me about the course of treatment she wants to take, and then later have the nerve to write in her notes that I seemed "unconcerned" about my husband's well being.

The situation could actually get so bad I'd have trouble processing my anger several weeks later.

Still, within days I found myself asking: "How could life get any worse?"

Well, my gorgeous teenage daughter could date someone who doesn't respect her boundaries.

A 500-year flood could hit my hometown.

A raging river could rise to within 200 yards of my childhood home.

I could develop such a cynical attitude about writing that my eyes would roll back into my head when an agent would post something on Facebook or Twitter.

I could question whether or not I should let go of the dream I'd been chasing for years.

I could spiritually fall into a place so dark the very existence of God seemed laughable.

Sigh.

Yeah, it got that bad. But I now realize it could have been much, much worse.

I've read that writers aren't supposed to use their blogs as personal diaries.

It could be detrimental to your pursuit of publication.

Guess what? I've decided I don't give a damn.

I'm not bitter (except about the doctor thing). I just realized that I no longer enjoyed writing -- and living -- because I stopped writing and living from the heart.

I realized my heart was dying, and my body was becoming an empty shell.

Believe me. It won't get any worse than that. I won't let it.

It took a long time and I've traveled a long, hard road to bring you the most important (I believe) piece of writerly advice I can give.

That is: You'll go crazy writing what you think other people might want to read and living how you think other people might want you to live. Don't do it. Instead, write what you feel, and don't be afraid to let people see you are real.

Peace and happiness.

A haunting in Nebraska

I have reason to believe my house is haunted.

I haven’t seen any ghostly apparitions floating between bedrooms. Nor have I heard rattling chains or disembodied voices.

But these ghosts have left evidence of their presence. Lights burning in vacant rooms. Dirty dishes cluttering the counter. Newspapers scattered on the table. Clothing strewn about in my children’s rooms. (They especially like my teenager’s room.)

What’s worse is I believe my children have seen these specters and have talked to them. They know their names: “Not Me,” “I Didn’t Do It,” and “I Don’t Know. Don’t Look At Me.”

My youngest told me about the first ghost one afternoon when I walked into the bathroom and found an empty toilet paper roll hanging on the holder.

“Who used all of the toilet paper and didn’t replace the roll?” I asked.

She replied: “Not Me.”

Last summer, I’d frequently come home from work to find an empty Cheetos bag in the living room. My kids couldn't have done this. They know food belongs in the kitchen.

I’d ask: “Who polished off the Cheetos and didn’t throw away the bag?”

They’d answer: “I Didn’t Do It.”

The other day was the last straw. I found hundreds of Legos spread across the living room floor. Now, I remember boxing these Legos up last summer. I couldn’t understand how they got from the attic to the living room floor all by themselves, so I asked my daughter: “How did these Legos get on the floor?”

She replied: “I Don’t Know. Don’t Look At Me.”

So I’m trying to decide. Do I hire a team of paranormal investigators? Or do I bring in the heavy artillery and contact an exorcist?

Blog Chain: Like a good neighbor...

It's blog chain time again.

For this round, Mandy asked:

How do you prioritize? How do you balance paying attention to your writing, critiquing for friends, spending time with your family and earning a living?

This is a kind of a funny question for someone who flies by the seat of her pants. (That would be me.)

I know my answer may not be comfortable for some people to read. Not everyone believes in the same things I do.

That's okay. We all have our own journey.

But since Mandy asked. . .

About 13 years ago, I worked as a pharmacy technician. I hated it. The hours were long. The pay sucked. And, to be quite honest, people are cranky when they're sick. (Not to mention the fact that I picked up every little bug that came along.)

To top all of that off, my situation at home wasn't so great. My husband and I were dirt poor and way too immature to care for an infant properly. It always seemed like I was shoveling to fill one hole only to create another.

I was miserable. There were mornings when, on my way to work, I considered dropping my daughter off at daycare and driving away from my life.

Seriously.

It was that bad.

And then one day, I lost it. As my little girl napped, I sat on the floor of my single-wide trailer and broke my long silence with God. In a nutshell, I told Him I couldn't stand the imbalance in my life anymore. Something needed to change. I didn't know what it was, but I knew I couldn't do it alone.

Of course, as God often does when I speak out loud with Him (as noted here and here), He spoke back.

He told me I should only have two priorities in my life: 1.) Him and 2.) Everything else.

I scoffed. "Geez, God. That's a little self-centered, even for someone who is omnipotent."

His only response was: "Trust me."

That's when I started going with the flow of my life instead of trying to swim against the current. I started listening to that voice inside that told me when to write, when to read, when to crit, when to work, when to push it all aside for the sake of family, and most importantly, when to ask for help.

Oddly enough, less than a month after my conversation with God, I received a job offer from a place where I had applied more than five months earlier. It was a temporary position in the library of a Catholic high school. When that job ended in the spring, my boss -- the principal of the school -- gave a glowing recommendation to the daily newspaper where I now work as a business editor.

Don't get me wrong, I still hit snags. There are times when I get impatient with the speed of my life and push God out of the driver's seat. But the nice thing about crashing now is knowing my assurance provider always has me covered.

Check out what the ever-charming Eric had to say before me. Check out what the colossally creative Christine has to say tomorrow.

So she got me

While sitting in church with my family on Sunday morning, an idea for a new story popped into my head.

When we got home I announced the sudden burst of creative genius that had hit.

My teenager quickly stomped out my pride, however, as she narrowed her eyes and asked: "And why weren't you paying attention to Father?"

Ah, touche, my dear daughter. Touche.

Uncle Al

"I just called to let you know, they put your uncle on the ventilator yesterday," Mom said.

A lump rose in my throat. I thought about Al's ornery smile, how it would creep across his face behind that old tobacco pipe. His quick wit had always made family get-togethers entertaining.

I knew he'd been ill; I could see it in his eyes at Grandma's birthday party in June. Despite the disease slowly suffocating him, he had joked with all of us.

"He has pneumonia," Mom continued, amazing me with her strength. How was she holding back the tears so easily? If this was my sibling, I'd be in pieces.

"What are the chances that he'll pull through this?"

She sighs, carrying the weight of her sorrow through the phone line. "Not good. Even if he does pull through, it will happen again, and it will be worse every time."

I tried to remember my last asthma attack, the pain and frustration I felt last time I had pneumonia, how walking up the stairs left me winded, how the whistle inside my chest kept me from sleeping.

Visions of my grandma at Uncle Al's bedside flittered through my mind. It led to memories of the silent tears that rolled down her cheeks as I stood with her at grandpa's grave nearly a year after he'd passed. I couldn't imagine the pain she must feel now, facing the loss of a son.

I swallowed hard, knowing Mom would break down if I did. (There are few things worse than hearing your Mom cry and not being able to hug her.)

"I don't want to let go of Uncle Al, but I don't want to see him suffer either," I said after several moments of silence.

In my head, I calculated his age, realized he's only two years older than Mom, that he won't get to see any of his grandchildren get married or graduate from high school. It was too much; I had to end the call before I broke down.

I told Mom goodnight and laid the phone in its cradle.

Why does life have to suck so much sometimes?

Influence

There's always something interesting going down on Lynn Rush's blog.
Sometimes she tests your movie trivia. Sometimes she sends you on walks down memory lane. And sometimes she makes you bust a gut laughing at her Friday Funnies.
Yesterday, she blogged about The Noticer Project that began on Michael Hyatt's blog.
The idea is to call out five people who have influenced you in your life as a way to recognize them. (Actually, he calls it a challenge, but I found the only challenge was narrowing it down to five people. So, of course, I cheat a little bit.)
Here are my five biggest influences.
1. Dana Harris. Of course, I'm going to list my husband. I think it would be ridiculous not to acknowledge the influence he's had on my life after being married almost 15 years. My husband has taught me faith and endurance. Often, I find myself envious of the courage he has displayed in the face of his alcohol addiction, and I admire the strength he has shown in lifting that "higher power" down from its pedestal and allowing God to move in its place.
2. Molly Harris. My 14-year-old has taught me patience. The first time I held Molly I didn't feel that warm, fuzzy feeling all new moms are supposed to feel. I believe the feeling in my heart was, "Oh crap ... ready or not, here life comes." For a long time, I felt unworthy to be responsible for something so fragile. I felt ill-equipped to handle 3 a.m. feedings, chronic constipation and unbridled colick. (Here's where Molly reads this, slams her computer shut and says, "Mom? Do you have to talk about my bowel movements on your blog?") I wondered when, oh when, would I feel those warm fuzzies new mom's always talk about. It didn't happen for a long, long time, but when it did, I cried. (And she said, "Geez, mom, you're such a bawl-baby!") :-)
3. Elizabeth Harris. My 7-year-old taught me that not all blessings are expected. Her presence in my life has shown me that accepting the unexpected surprises we are given can have lasting rewards. I had finally established a comfortable groove in my marriage and motherhood when I discovered I was preggers with Boop. Knowing how long it took to find the fuzzies with Molly, I wasn't ready to do the baby-mama thing all over again. But then, when she was only two weeks old, she smiled at me, and despite the fact that she had just peed on me at 2:30 a.m., I knew her and I would get along famously.
4. My sisters: Kim, Kelly, Kristi and my twin cousin, Jill. (Yeah, here's where I start cheating on that five people.) From these four people, I have learned how to laugh at myself (mostly because they spent so much time laughing at me when I was little). When I was two years old, I fell down the stairs in our split-level home and got rolled up in the runner (those plastic rugs with pokies on the bottom). Knowing I was uninjured in the ordeal, my family laughed at the sight of me trapped in that stupid rug. Even though I used to get angry whenever I heard one of them retell this story, I eventually realized how goofy it would have looked. (And how if my parents had had the sense enough to video tape the incident, I'd have won $100,000 on America's Funniest Videos.) And Jill, although she and I only managed to see each other once in a blue moon, the way we found the stupidest things to laugh at (screaming willows -- what is that?) has taught me to always find the humor in dull, depressing or otherwise rotten situations.
5. And lastly, my parents have taught me responsibility. (I'm not quite sure if they'll consider that a compliment or not, though.) Whether it was 110 degrees or four feet of snow, my father rarely missed a day of work. And my mother, who worked full-time up until a few years ago, still managed to find time to raise four daughters, make it to their extracurricular events and do all of the things traditional moms are supposed to do. I never realized how hard that stuff would be until I became a parent and had to put my own interests on the back burner to care for my family.
I'm grateful that each of these people are in my life. It's hard to imagine WHO I would be without you.
Now, who are your five?

What not to say when you see Barney

She sits in the shopping cart, wide-eyed and amused by the commotion of life around her.

Spotting a giant poster of a purple dinosaur hanging from the ceiling, she exclaims: "Holy s**t! Mom, Dad, look! It's Barney!"

The words knock her father back in a fit of laughter. Red with embarrassment, her mother quickly corrects her.

"Molly, I know you heard your Dad using that phrase at home, but little ladies don't talk like that. If you're excited, then you should say, 'Holy Moses!'"

"Holy Noses?"

"No, Molly. Holy Moses."

"Oh, okay."

******************************************

The day care lady grins as Mom walks through the door. It's been a long Monday, but as usual, taking care of a group of three-year-olds has provided some interesting entertainment.

"What's that smirk about?" Mom asks.

Parentheses form around the daycare lady's mouth as the smile grows. "Your daughter shared her wisdom with the other children at snacktime today."

The impression left on Mom's face by Monday's trials deepens. "Oh no. Now what?"

"Well," the daycare lady said. "Molly found it necessary to tell the children: 'You can't say 'Holy s**t.' You have to say 'Holy Moses' because holy s**t is a bad word."


It's hard to believe that was so long ago.

Happy 14th Birthday Boo Bear!

Hard to say goodbye

A note from Kat: You'll have to pardon my absence as of late, I've been under the weather (which sucks when it's only 32 degrees outside).

If anyone has been following me on Facebook, you've probably read that the building where I attended elementary school is being demolished this week.

Since my entire family has grown up as part of this school system and parish (it's a Catholic school), it's been a pretty big deal for us. I did a story for the newspaper where I work; as you can tell by reading that story, the school had a special place in the hearts of many residents of my hometown.

I realized something special writing this story. This realization has made it easier to say goodbye this landmark. Here's what I discovered.

For many years, there were no screens in the windows at the old Sacred Heart School building.

This detail helped set up what I believe was probably one of the meanest (and funniest) pranks in the school’s history.

One warm, sunny day, some students (maybe in my dad’s class, maybe not) hatched a scheme to frighten their teacher – a nun – at the school. While one student went outside and lay on the ground, his classmates stood at the third-floor window, pretending to be horrified when the teacher entered the room.

Their exclamations of, “He fell out the window!” no doubt sent the pulse of this poor, unsuspecting teacher racing. After looking out the window and seeing the student on the ground, the nun took off in a dead sprint out of the room and down the stairs.

Meanwhile, the student’s classmates yelled down that the teacher was coming to his aid and that he should use another door to get back to the classroom.

By the time the nun reached ground level, the “injured” student was nowhere to be found.My dad never told me what kind of punishment these rebel-rousers faced when the nun returned to the classroom and discovered her “injured student” had merely pulled her leg. But he always laughs when he recounts the tale.

I can’t verify his story. Nor can I verify the accuracy of the veritable plethora of stories he told about other pranks. But I don’t doubt that these events could have happened. I spent enough hours in the classrooms at old Sacred Heart daydreaming about how the mechanics of such a practical joke would work.

In fact, I spent a lot of time in those classrooms daydreaming about my future. About how would I define success. Whether or not I would achieve the success I’d defined for myself. Whether or not I’d travel the world.Ironically, I ended up working in a building less than a block away.

Every morning as I came to work, I’d look to the south and remember the good times I had in that building and the friendships I cultivated within the walls of old Sacred Heart.

For the last eleven years, I’ve watched the building that helped so many students construct a strong foundation for their futures slip further into disrepair. It’s been a lot like watching a friend succumb to old age, and as much as I hated to acknowledge it, I knew the day would come when I’d have to say goodbye to my elderly neighbor.

After all, nothing lasts forever.

Well, that’s what I thought until I begn working with several of the school’s alumni on the stories and began to see a pattern.

One graduate, Travis Pinkelman, told me: “I can remember every teacher and priest I had, but Ms. Hammond sticks out as my Kindergarten teacher and how she still remembers every student she has taught. I have ran into her around Norfolk and she will remember everything about me.”

Jim Casey, another graduate, said his memories of Paul the Janitor led to his affinity for Stephen King horror novels.

Sue Fuchtman (Norfolk's mayor) told me she remembers the nun she had as a third-grade teacher that would discipline naughty students by making them kneel on the floor with their nose against the chalkboard.

One of my classmates, Shawn Smith, told me his favorite memories of the building centered on rehearsing for the eighth-grade play, “Medium Rare,” and getting to know classmates outside of a classroom setting in that gym.

And my favorite memory of that school was the unpredictability of Doug Zoucha’s history class.

Slowly, I realized that in one way or another it was the people we met in Sacred Heart’s halls and classrooms (and that itty bitty gymnasium) that made it what it was.

Not the mortar and brick.

It became clear to me – by the number of folks who enthusiastically recounted their favorite memories – that the spirit that made old Sacred Heart such a great place is alive and well. It will continue to live on through the new school, new students and new memories.

Yes, it’s sad to see the end of an era.

I, like many other students who attended school there, wouldn’t trade the time I spent in that old building for anything.Old Sacred Heart will always have a place in Norfolk’s history books.

And you can’t throw history away.

UPDATE: I posted this on my work blog, and this comment was left by a gentleman named Mick Winn: "Regarding the window incident, took place on spring day in 1955.....eight grade class room.Top floor on the left..........perpetrated byLee Quenelle (deceased 1968)The eventual class of '59 will hold their 50thclass reunion this summer in Norfolk, and I'm sure there will be many other memories to reflect on......this class had some bright students and some bold ones too........."

The truth -- in all of its colorful variations

It's been said that the truth will set you free. But that's probably only true if you choose to tell it the first time. My seven-year-old learned this lesson the hard way yesterday.

"Mom, I had a bad day today."

This is what Elizabeth said to me when she climbed into the van yesterday. Little did I know, she would be the one taking me for the ride.

"Oh, really?" I asked "What happened?"

"I had to go to the principal's office," she said. "I have a note you need to sign."

"The principal's office? What for?"

Elizabeth met my question with silence. Several moments later, she said: "I accidentally pushed someone."

"Who?"

"I don't know," she said.

Red flag number one popped up. "How can you not know who you pushed?"

"I don't know," she said, again.

"Well, how did this happen?"

"Well." Elizabeth sighed. "I was walking into the school this morning and someone stepped on my shoestring. I tripped and accidentally pushed someone into the wall."

Red flag lowered. Given that Elizabeth is constantly running around with her shoes untied, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. "They sent you to the principal's office for that? Did you explain to Mrs. L. what happened? And did you apologize to the person you pushed?"

"Yes, Mom!" she said.

Red flag rose again. How could have she apologized if she didn't know who she pushed? I asked her this as we walked from the van to the house.

"Well, it was Caleb. I just forgot earlier," she said.

Skeptically accepting her explanation, I nodded, sat at the kitchen table and asked to see this note I was supposed to sign.

As Elizabeth pulled out the note, her eyes grew like saucers and she turned to me with an I'm-so-innocent-smile. "Mom, when I was writing the note, I accidentally put down that I slammed someone into the wall. I really just accidentally pushed them."

I lifted an eyebrow; red flag number two. "Really? Why don't you let me see the note?"

Taking the paper into my hands, I began scanning the note and feeling like the bull before a matador as the red flags really start flying. (Well, there was a lot of bull in my kitchen anyway.)

"Dear Mom and Dad: I lost my first recess today because I was caught slamming people up against the wall. We didn't stop the first time we were told, and so we had to go to the principal's office. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Elizabeth"

I lowered the paper and looked squarely at my angelic seven-year-old.

"Elizabeth, this says you were slamming people against the wall, and that you didn't stop after the first time. Would you like to tell me the truth before I get upset?"

Her eyes rolled, and she grunted. "Ugh, OK." If I remember correctly, this is where the waterworks started, too. "Mom, Caleb was being mean to me and pushing me, and he wouldn't stop. So, I finally got angry with him and pushed him back and the teacher caught us."

A fight with a boy? Now, that I could believe, but the crocodile tears wouldn't let me ignore the red flags littering the playing field. "Well, did you explain that to the principal?"

"Yes." More waterworks.

"And you still lost your recess?"

"Yes." The kitchen began flooding with tears.

Nodding in sympathetic understanding, I patted her knee and said: "Now, Elizabeth, I believe you now, but you know I'm having a lot of trouble believing you because you lied to me the first time instead of telling me the truth. Do you understand that? And are you telling me the complete truth now?"

She wiped away the crocodile tears and nodded. "Yes, Momma."

"Okay, then. Get me a pen and I'll sign your letter."

Immediately, the waterworks dammed. She hopped off of her chair and skipped to the drawer. And another red flag flew: She was entirely too relieved.

"Elizabeth, while you're over there will you bring me the telephone and phone book. I need to call your principal to make sure I'm getting the full story."

Oh, the horror! Unfortunately for Elizabeth, she knew putting up a fight would lead to bigger trouble. So, she brought me the phone, the phone book and a pen.

I discovered at that moment that the dial tone of the telephone can produce the truth in a matter of seconds: "Fine Mom! Me and Kiley and Caleb and another boy were pushing and slamming each other into the wall. It was just a game, but we got into trouble anyway because we didn't stop when the teacher told us to stop."

The whole story emerged just as Mrs. L. greeted me from the other end of the phone. In less than five minutes, Mrs. L. confirmed Elizabeth's final version of the story as truth and thanked me for taking the time to check it out.

Suffice it to say, Elizabeth is grounded for awhile.

Epilogue: Elizabeth's best friend, Kiley, was involved in this fiasco, too. Kiley's dad happens to be my husband's boss. As it turns out, she didn't quite deliver the whole story to her parents either. Elizabeth knew my husband planned to ask her folks about it this morning and begged me to let her call Kiley last night. (But alas, she's grounded from the phone.) I bet it's been a long day of worry for Kiley.

A gift from the heart

Every little girl wants a pony for Christmas.

After visiting my cousin in Kansas over the Thanksgiving holiday one year, my desire for a pony grew to monumental proportions.

Granted, the one I wanted didn't have fur and it wouldn't carry me through a sunny meadow. The pony on my wish list needed to a have a base and springs and be able to provide hours and hours of bouncy entertainment.

I wrote letters to Santa. I told my mom and dad. I scanned the Sears toy catalog. Like the Ralphie on "A Christmas Story" lusting after that Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle, I told everyone I knew about the spring horse I wanted Santa to bring me.

I made sure I was on my best behavior so Santa had no reason not to bring me that horse.

That Christmas, I attended midnight Mass with my parents and sisters. Returning home, I knew Santa had visited. He always came while we were at church.

I climbed to the top step in our split-level home and peered around the stub wall to see if there was a package under the tree that might have even remotely had the same shape as a spring horse.

Glory of Glories! It wasn't even wrapped!

It didn't even matter that I had other presents beneath that tree. I hopped onto that spring horse and rode off into the sunrise (since it was nearing dawn before I finally settled down enough to sleep). I played with that horse day-in, day-out for months.

I never thought anyone would ever top the delight I felt that Christmas eve.

But somehow my mother managed to this year. Before my family's Christmas get-together on Saturday, my mother had warned me and my sisters that she wasn't going all-out on gifts this year.

When I opened the large gift bag she brought for me, I couldn't believe my eyes. Before my grandmother died 20 years ago, she had begun sewing butterfly patches for quilts. Lung and bone cancer took her from us before she could finish them.

This past year, my mom finished those quilts and gave them to my sisters and I for gifts.

I've spent the last 36 hours wrapped in the warmth of memories of my grandmother and gratitude for my mom for giving us such a wonderful gift.

And with temperatures well below 0, it's much-needed warmth.

What has been your most memorable Christmas gift?

Yes, Elizabeth, there is a Santa Claus

It’s the beginning of the end, but I don’t want to face it.

I’m in denial.

I refuse to acknowledge that after this year, Christmas as I know it will never be the same.

After this year, Santa Claus will no longer be a magical elf who sneaks into everyone’s house on December 24 to leave shiny packages for good boys and girls and lumps of coal for the ones on the naughty list. His luster will be lost in the reality that he’s a made-up character who simply adds mystique to the holidays.

After this year, my seven-year-old will no longer believe Santa Claus is real.

The questions about his existence began last year: “How does Santa fit all of those packages on one sleigh when we can barely fit ours under the tree?”

They were followed up with doubt about the Easter bunny: How could one bunny carry all of that candy?

Questions about Santa Claus began again over the weekend as we decorated the tree: How does Santa fit down our chimney?

Call it selfishness on my part, but I will continue to make up answers until this holiday season is over.

Why?

Because I remember how the holidays lost their luster after I learned my parents, not a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer, delivered all of those packages. Christmas didn’t take on that magical feel again I realized the true meaning of the season. (But that’s another story.)

After Christmas this year, I will wait until my daughter, Elizabeth, starts asking questions, and even then I will ask her if she really wants to know the truth. That’s how my husband and I broke the news to our oldest, Molly.

Sitting in McDonald’s one day in January several years ago, Molly’s skepticism over Santa overwhelmed her, and she pointedly asked, “Does Santa really exist?”

“Do you really want to know?” I asked her.

When she nodded, I told her that her father and I placed the gifts under the tree at Christmas and the candy in her basket at Easter, but Santa Claus and the Easter bunny stood for good will in the hearts of mankind.

I’ll never forget the sadness in her eyes, how the grimace contorted her face as she said, “You mean, the Easter bunny isn’t real either?”

Christmas has never been the same for her since then either. I’m certain that’s why she protects her sister from the real secret of Santa Claus and helps us perpetuate the myth of the magical elf by continuously telling her little sister, “Yes, Elizabeth, there is a Santa Claus.”

* * *

How did you find out about the secret of Santa Claus? Let me know in the comments!

Meat always comes first

Eating disorders run in my family.

My father has one. My mother has one.

Thank goodness they're not the same disorder, or my sisters and I would be screwed by that dominant weird eating gene.

I first recognized my father's eating disorder at a young age: He puts only one item on his plate at a time.

My three sisters and I would gather around the table for a nice meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn and marvel at how my father would fill his plate with one item and finish it before starting another.


The meat always came first. He'd gobble it down, and then plop down a large spoonful of mashed potatoes. The vegetables always followed.
Intermingling of foods was an abomination.
I never asked him why, but I'm sure my mom has had this conversation with him before. Here's how it plays out in my head:

Dad: "You can't mix the corn with the meat."
Mom: "Why not? They all get mixed together in your stomach anyway."
Dad: "But I don't have tastebuds in my stomach."

I don't really consider my father's eating disorder a life-threatening dilemma.



My mother's eating disorder, on the other hand, may get her into trouble. It rears its ugly head during dessert after a holiday dinner. She'll serve up a piece of pie or cake or (insert the specialty sweet here) and reclaim her seat at the table.

But before she eats, she grabs a piece of meat -- ham, turkey, meatloaf, nothing is sacred really -- to eat with it. She claims she can't eat dessert without meat. (Is anyone thinking of a Pink Floyd song right now? How can you have any pudding if you can't eat your meat?) She blames her Dutch heritage. My sisters and I say the Dutch would disown her if they knew she blamed them for such peculiar behavior(especially since she's only 0.00009 percent Dutch.)


I don't doubt, however, that the eating disorders with which my parents are afflicted are hereditary.

I've been told my paternal grandfather used to compartmentalize his food like my dad does.

And holidays with my mom's side of the family is like watching an episode of Fear Factor. No dessert is safe from the unholy union with meat.


And people wonder why I'm obsessive-compulsive.


With the season fast approaching, I've begun preparing myself for the quirks in family holiday dinners. Luckily, my parents, sisters and extended family are comfortable enough to laugh at our own oddities and the poking fun is done on an equal opportunity basis. So, it's actually kind of fun.


Tell me about your holiday dinners.

When baby teeth meet Laffy Taffy

I learned a valuable lesson Wednesday night: Don't give a 7-year-old Laffy Taffy.

At the grocery store Wednesday night, my daughter asked if she could have some Laffy Taffy.

I told her I didn't see a problem with it.

Oh, if only I had the gift of foresight!

I bought her a strip of the candy, took her home and carried my groceries into the house. My daughter walked outside to retrieve her bookbag from the van while I put my purchases away.

The conversation I carried on with my husband came to an immediate halt, however, when I heard my little girl screaming bloody murder. She ran back into the house with her Laffy Taffy in one hand and blood and drool dribbling down her chin.

Her front tooth -- which hadn't been real loose, but had started to wiggle its way out -- hung from her gums by a single thread of tissue. My daughter sunk her teeth so far into the Laffy Taffy, she almost pulled the tooth out of her mouth.

I quickly jumped into "MotherMode" and soaked a washcloth in cold water and told her to keep it in her mouth.

Blood continued to drip everywhere.

"We can't leave that tooth in there," I told my husband. "But I can't pull it out."

I'd already pulled two of my little girls loose teeth, I couldn't do another one. It just grossed me out too much.

So, my husband went into the bathroom to wash his hands while I comforted my daughter and asked her if I could see the damage.

Now, I'm a messer. I can't help but mess with things that are probably best left alone. In this case, however, it worked out.

All I had to do was touch my daughter's tooth and it dropped into my hand -- no pain, no crying, no fuss.

By the time my husband returned to us from the bathroom, I held the tooth in my hand and my daughter was proudly displaying her toothless mouth in a tearful smile.

She finished her Laffy Taffy last night without incident.

Birthmark

It’s hard to believe almost seven years have passed.
It’s also difficult to admit that the most beautiful events in my life have been marred by some of the ugliest acts of humanity.
Last Friday, my youngest daughter celebrated her seventh birthday, and as the gleeful squeals of second graders filled my home, I thought about the worry I felt for my baby's future when she was just 13 days old.
The day started like any other – we dropped her sister off at school and made a quick trip to Wal-Mart to pick up more diapers, but when I turned on the radio during the drive home, the news reports brought an ominous black cloud over that gorgeous day.
It hasn’t lifted since.
By the time I turned on the television at home, debris from one tower clouded the streets of Manhattan and the speculation on the death toll reached close to around 40,000 – at worst. By the time I fed my newborn, changed her diaper and put her down for her morning nap, another tower had fallen and the Pentagon had been struck, as well. By the time she awoke from her nap, a plane crashed in a Pennsylvania field and the rest of the flights in the United States had been grounded.
My sister called me to make sure I knew about the tragedy unfolding. My mother called to tell me my aunt – who traveled to Washington D.C. with a group from her work – was OK. And my cousin called to cry with me as I asked: Why this? Why now?
My mind drifted back to 16 days after the birth of my 13-year-old daughter, when on my way home from a trip to the grocery store, I learned about the terrorist attack on the Alfred P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City.
Images of the firefighter carrying the lifeless body of 1-year-old Baylee Almon from the wreckage in Oklahoma City still resonated in my mind. Now, it coupled with the ghastly scenes of crashing planes, falling towers and panic, leaving a nauseating rock in the pit of my stomach.
I struggled with the decision of whether or not to pull my oldest from classes but eventually let her finish the day in the most normal fashion possible. By the time my husband returned from work at 6 p.m., the finger of blame had been pointed at terrorists from the Middle East and rumors of war created lines – 10 cars deep in some places – at area gas stations.
Into what kind of world had I brought these innocent children?
Never knowing a world without terror alerts, my baby can't gauge the difference between the world before Sept. 11, 2001 and the world afterward. But I think my oldest, my 13-year-old, understands my hypervigilance. I think she knows I live in fear of the day the other shoe will drop.
Together, she and I have watched the movie “Schindler’s List,” and discussed how easily power is abused, how quickly freedoms are taken away, how evil can destroy hope, and how the world can change in a single day.
I pray everyday they never suffer anymore from the effects of terrorism than I have, and I hope their future is as bright and happy as the gleeful squeals I heard at that party.

Proof

A friend of mine once told me everything we endure as humans is either God sent or God used. I believe her. I have proof.

One night two summers ago, I sat in the garage at my house talking to a different friend about how God used the experiences with the deaths of my paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather to teach me something about myself. (I blogged about the experience here.) The friend told me I was really lucky to have such insight on how quickly God worked in my life even though it took 10 years.

"Many people wait a lifetime for hindsight to become so clear . . . for the bad things that happen to us to have a purpose," he said.

Little did he know, God was about to work that miracle on him, too.

Months earlier, he had been in a serious car crash that broke his back. After a night of partying, he lost control at a high speed on a patch of ice on a desolate stretch of highway. His car rolled, but luckily, his amp -- a very heavy projectile at that point -- stayed in the back seat. He could have been killed.

Instead, he spent time in the hospital recovering, and when he finished, his friendship with my husband and I solidified through music. The night I told him about my grandparents, he confronted me about my husband's drinking. Because of the accident he endured, he brought up his concerns about my husband's safety when he drank and drove. Essentially, he removed the blinders from my eyes and allowed me to see my husband's problem. Before that, I'd been an enabler.

Without that conversation, I wouldn't have intervened with my husband's drinking. Without the accident our friend endured, he wouldn't have brought it up.

When I pointed this fact out to him several months later, he looked at me like I'd socked him in the stomach. Not steady in his own faith walk yet, I'm not sure he believed the providence of what occurred or whether he just chocked it up to coincidence.

To me, however, it was proof .

Denial ... a mother's best friend

I have a 13-year-old daughter.

I know I'm biased, but she's quite beautiful. She's turned the heads of many young men already.

I'm scared to death.

She and I have a very open relationship. We talk about a lot of things. Last fall, she and I ended up learning the same things in our health classes at the same time. As a college course, my chapter on the reproductive system was much more descriptive than the one in her seventh-grade book.

Studying such a topic at the same time opened a lot of doors for me to give her the talk. She asked questions; I answered openly. I thought I hit the jackpot when I completely grossed her out by letting her peruse my text book. (I think it was the picture of the uncircumsized penis she stumbled across. Come to think of it, it kinda grossed me out, too.)

Last night, she started asking questions again. Sports season is coming up, and since she runs cross country for her school, she needs to have a physical. She feared that meant she would have to endure the girl physical this time, too.

"No dear," I told her. "Pap tests aren't necessary until you either turn 18 or until you lose your virginity."

"Why do you think I would tell you if I lost my virginity?" Her ornery smile allowed me to believe she was only testing her limits. I'm comfortable believing this; she's a terrible liar and even worse at keeping secrets.

"You'd better tell me," I warned. "You haven't been vaccinated with Guardasil, so your chances of catching human papaloma virus and developing cervical cancer are greatly increased if you have sex. You need to get that shot before your hormones run off with you."

"Oh," she said. Her fingers pensively tapped her bottom lip. She thought about turning away, but quickly looked back at me. "What do they do during those pap tests?"

I explained. In excrutiating detail, I explained what happens, but she stopped me just after I reached the part about the swab.

"Nevermind," she said, tossing her hands in the air and walking away. "I'm joining the convent."

Atta girl, I thought. Atta girl.

Year 14 and counting

Next week will mark 14 years. My how time flies when you're having fun!



Dana and I will celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary next week. I'm devoting today's post to the thoughts that ran through my head during our firsts.

The first time we met, he sat on the brick terrace landscaping outside our college's music hall with a white Gibson guitar in his grip. I remembered thinking someone better cut the excess ends from those strings before it puts an eye out. (My mom worked for an eye doctor for 30 years -- all of my thoughts are in relation to eye safety.) He said, "So, you can sing, huh?" I said yeah. He said, "So, you wanna be in a band?"

Oh, a long-haired, guitar-playing, tattoo-having, earring-sporting college boy! Just what I always wanted.

The first time I told my mother I met someone (in reference to Dana). She said, "Is he Catholic?" (This question is incredibly hilarious coming from her because she's a former Lutheran whose family members nearly disowned her for marrying my Catholic dad back in 1963.) I said, "He sure is. He's also go long hair, an earring, a tattoo and he plays guitar." She said with dismay, "Oh, Kathryn."



The first time I kissed him. We were looking at the stars above Lewis & Clark Lake and I remembered thinking, "Well, here goes. Might as well get it over with." It was that thought exactly, but I can't remember what it I was trying to get over with. Maybe I knew then already that I was about to lose my heart, so it was just time to surrender.

The first time we talked marriage: It wasn't the romantic setting most girls dream of. I had grown tired of paying rent and was in the process of moving back into my mom & dad's home in an effort to become a more mature human being. He said, "So, you wanna get married?" I shrugged and said, "Okay."

The first time we found out we were pregnant: We had only been married for eight weeks and couldn't wait to get started with our lives together. That included having children. We celebrated by going out to eat, and I puked for the next nine months.

The first time we fought was the first indication he had a drinking problem that would almost end our marriage several year later. I buried my head in the sand until a friend later pointed it out to me, but that's another blog.

The first time we bought a car together he was so mad at me because I spent $8,000 on a POS Neon that would never last. That was 1998. We still own the only Neon in the world with 158,000 miles (and counting) on it.

The first time we saw our youngest daughter, we looked at each other and said: Wow, it's a girl. We weren't expecting that! and that was quickly followed by, Wow! She has red hair. Where'd that come from?

The first time we stepped foot into the house in which we decided to raise our family he fell in love with it; I thought Lord this is a lot of work for this much money. We still live in the money pit, but it has comfortable character. My only complaint about it now is that its 15 miles from work and gas prices are outrageous.



The first time my husband told me he had accepted Christ as his savior and was finally ready to be confirmed I was elated. I still swear I felt the presence of his deceased grandmother at Mass with us that night. She was crying tears of happiness that he'd finally come to the Lord.

The first time he promised to quit drinking for me and the girls was the last time he ever touched a drink. I respect him and love him so much for having the discipline to abide by that huge sacrifice for himself and for us.

The first time I saw him with short hair I thought: DANG! I'm married to a hottie!

The first time he bought a welder to work on the car he's restoring, he acted like a little kid with a new toy ...wait, he's still acting like a little kid with a new toy because of that thing.



The first time I had a notion of my own aging was when I looked at Dana and saw the gray hairs starting to form in his mustache and subtle sideburns. I thought, Wow, it's going to be great growing old with this guy.

And I still think that.

Words: A thing you joke with

This is my 6-year-old daughter. We call her Boop -- a nickname she earned when she was still a baby.

Let me tell you about my little Boop. I'm certain she's preparing for the 12th annual Great American Comedy Festival competition in Johnny Carson's hometown of Norfolk, Nebraska.

(I say 12th annual because she's only six and the festival just had its inaugural kickoff last week. It gives her plenty of time to develop her monologue.)

She's a comedian, you see.

I'm not just saying this from the standpoint of a proud mother who thinks her daughter is the cutest thing either. My Boop really is a comedian.

Her comedic forte is vocabulary. She makes up words and names for things people like you and I would never think to identify.

For instance, during a leg wrestling match with her 13-year-old sister, Boop's foot slipped and cracked her older sister in the crotch. Without missing a beat, my 6-year-old released an evil laugh and said, "Ha! I State Patrolled you! I win."

So, there you have it. When a guy gets kicked in the crotch, it's called getting racked. When a girl gets kicked in the crotch, it's called a state patrol. That's according to my Boop anyway.

Boop has also taken it upon herself to break down wedgies into categories. In her world, there is now a description for the various sorts of wedgies.

For example, a wedgie in which the hem of someone's underwear is pulled so high it can touch the back of their head is called a Texas Wedgie. I guess, all things great in size come from Texas, right?

A wedgie administered from the front side also has a name. Boop calls a wedgie of this variety of Frotler. Let's just hope no one tries to administer the Texas Frotler. That might have devastating residual effects.

I tried to tally her comedic efforts up to summer boredom, but she's been coming up with quirky things like this her entire life. I can't wait to see what else comes out of her mouth.

I'll keep you posted.