What I now know about dealing with 12 and 13 year old girls . . .

Excuse the unplanned hiatus from the blog.  I appreciate your patience.  A stomach flu that slowly and systematically snuck its way through our family and a couple of epic birthday parties got me a bit off track.  Perhaps I'm always a bit off track - thus the blog!

Whatever the case, I'm delighted to be at it again.

We are in a confusing era at our house.  Things don't seem quite as cut and dry as they once did.

When a diaper is dirty, it's relatively obvious.  When someone is crying, you can bet there is a problem. When a baby throws up, it's time to stop feeding.  You get the point.

None of that applies to dealing with preteens, though.  None of that helps at all.  There is nothing - nothing, whatsoever - that is clear in these 'tween years.  There are no rules.  There is no facial expression that alerts a parent to an approaching problem.  There is no omen as to mood shifts.   There are no signals.  There are no rulebooks.  It does not make sense!

 



The children we once knew have left the building.  I hope they return.  I really liked them!

My short span of 'tween parenting has left me sure of one thing;  it's impossible to believe I acted this way.  Thank goodness I never jumped from one pole to the other in micro-miliseconds.  Whew.

Child-rearing does, indeed, take a village.  I love the village concept and I'm a card carrying believer.  We must help each other through these wilderness years.

And so, my friends, I hope this helps.  I offer you this - what I now know about parenting 'tweens:

























The end.

List 38 - Nike Shorts, Duffel Bags and What I wish I could tell my girls and all the rest of them . . .

We've entered a new era here in the Graham world.  It's not new to the rest of the world.  Young people have been going through it for ages.  I went through it.  You probably went through it.  We all know about it.  I would argue that it's getting worse by the day, but it is definitely not new.

We are deep into what we 'have to have' and what we 'just love so much' and 'what everybody gets' and so on and so on and so on.  I'm trying to be somewhat logical about it all.  I really am.  I'm trying to mother my children, want what's really best for them and leave them with some small sense that I am not actually the least withit human on the planet.  It's hard.

I'm trying to remember that feeling I had in the fourth grade one Saturday afternoon when I looked down at my feet and realized that I was looking at the coolest scene in the history of the world - I FINALLY had blue striped Adidas and the coolest footies with bright blue pom poms.  Just thinking about how amazing I was swells my head even to this day, but I digress . . .

Truth is, it is sickening to watch when our children stop thinking as individuals and begin 'liking' and 'loving' and 'wanting' and 'needing' in swarms of a hundred.  It's disheartening.  It's scary.  It leaves a Mama feeling like she didn't do a good enough job on the You Are Special push.

We've never been much on Christmas lists.  The kids might write a letter at school to practice handwriting, but we've never gone by a strict list of exactly what to provide for Christmas morning happiness.  I grew up that way, and I've loved continuing it.  Shopping for the kids has been creative and fun.  We've wondered and considered and loved the times when a complete surprise was a hit.

That's over now.  On one level, I understand.  I get it that my girls are older, that they have a more discerning palette about what they wear and they are making more decisions on their own.  But that's just it it - these exact lists about precisely what they want have left their own brains completely out of it!  I'm almost certain that I could have exchanged their requests with any of their friends and found the same things.

Creativity?  Fun?  Thinking for yourself?  Surprises?  Bah, humbug!  They all want the same thing.

I know, I know, I need to chill out about it.  But it's not the wanting it that bothers me; it's their feeling that they MUST have it that leaves me feeling raw.  I'm delighted when they get a present they love.  I want them to feel as cool as I knew I was when I looked down and had those gorgeous Adidas staring back up at me.  I just wish they knew that the Nike shorts and the Vera Bradley duffel bags and the perfect phone case and on and on and on have absolutely nothing at all to do with what makes them completely amazing.  I just wish they knew.

I wish I could tell every young girl:

1. The Vera Bradley bag is cute and colorful, but the unforgettable thing is the look on your face when you board the bus for the church ski trip or come home excited after a fun spend the night party.
2. The iphone case looks great, but it doesn't compare to the sweet glimmer you get in your eye when you know you are being funny.
3. The Nike shorts are fine but what's awesome is how hard you worked to tackle something difficult and made it!
4. The perfect backpack has nothing to do with how gorgeous you are walking down the hall at school after you've just said something to make your friend's day.
5. The bright orange tennis shoes are awesome, but they are paled by the look on your face when you know, deep inside,  that you have just given everything you have to help your team.
6. The real reason that people are staring is not because you just spent two hours straightening your amazingly beautiful curly hair;  it's because you just sang like an angel.
7. The real people in the world aren't looking at your Uggs, for they are concentrating on your gorgeous smile.
8. What you use to pull back your hair doesn't matter in the least; we see the sheer beauty in your face when you are concentrating on building your brain or solving a problem.
9. When we look at a group of you, we don't concentrate on what you're wearing; we see each of your faces and pray for the day when each of you will KNOW that we love the ways that you all are different.
10. You're bigger and brighter and better than the best name brand item you own . . . you are precious and smart and talented and beautiful, and we can't wait for you to love what you bring into this starving world as much as we do!

The Wednesday Pop - Vol.4 . . . Leaving on a Jet Plane

I've been thinking a lot lately about traveling.

Travelers are headed here to us, and I'm soon to leave on a trip myself.  All of that has got me thinking about the yearning so many of us have, way deep inside, to find out a bit about how the other guy lives.  Our dear Irish family, the Quinlivans, are en route here, as I write this post.  (You can read more about them in The First Day of a Trip that Started in 1985 .)  I'm eternally grateful for that yearning I have, and I owe a good deal of it to my family.

I have travelers in my blood on both sides, and I've always reveled in the tales of far away places (or even the stories of places close by).  I've always appreciated the call to see new horizons, to hear other voices and to get a glimpse at how another life-liver lives his life.  Both of my grandmothers modeled this - they both traveled whenever they could, and I can recall that long ago I decided that retirement (if it meant I got to go all of those places) sounded mighty good!  In my mind I carry separate pictures of  each grandmother boarding buses and planes and trains and giggling all the way with fellow travelers.  I like those pictures.

My mother was a seeker, too, and spent her final days living out her questions in her beloved England.  (If you are new to the blog, you can read about her here:  A Few More Things about Mary George .)

I've always thought my maternal grandfather, Papa, was one of the smartest men I've ever known, but we differed greatly on our ideas about travel.  He believed he could find out what he needed to know in books, and I debated that one had to see it, feel it, live it.  We finally agreed to disagree (but I always sort of felt that he understood my point more than he let on.)

And so, it seems, I came by this travel bug honestly.  I'm thankful for that.  I thank my Dad, though, for so many of the ways that he showed me how important it was to know how another lived.  He showed me countless times that it was vital to search for answers, meet the other person, and see with new eyes.  I've always been thankful for his passing that down; but, as a parent, I've begun to see something more that I appreciate.

Buying plane tickets, signing up for a trip, and packing bags for one's own trip is awesome - it's exciting, it's full of great moments of anticipation and it's relatively easy.  I've come to see that what's much harder is watching, even encouraging, another to take bold steps.  That is HARD . . . especially when the other is your child!

So today, I look back with thanks and admiration on the many times and various ways that Pop encouraged, empowered, financially backed, pushed and allowed me to take the trips I needed to take, both large and small.  I thank him for having the wisdom to show me how big the world is, both in the excitement of big travels and the small amazements of hiking through the gardens down the street.  He opened my eyes, continuously, and he models still a life of learning.  All of that is amazing.

I'm more amazed now, though, in the strength that it must have taken to allow some of the trips, near and far, that I needed to take.  How hard it must have been to hold back words of worry and offer a voice of encouragement.  I realize now that it's sometimes scary enough to let your child go to the bathroom alone, much less board a plane to another country!  I fear the thought of watching my own children back out of the driveway, and I shudder to imagine how it must have felt as Jodi and I traveled through the teenage years.

The point is . . . he was bigger than his fear.  I appreciate that, and I hope I can live to emulate it.  I hope I'll remember the gifts on the way for my children when I see them drive off, giggling on the way to a football game across town or embarking on a trip that looks downright useless to me.  I hope I'll remember the many ways that Dad has seen me off, with confidence and good wishes and excitement.  It's a tall order!

So, thanks, Dad, for these traveling moments (just to name a few):

• when you loaned me your Easter Egg blue Volvo to drive to Florida with a car full of giggling girls.
• when you dropped me off in the middle of the Pocono Mountains to be a counselor at a Jewish Summer Camp, when neither one of us was even sure we could understand the accents!
• when you walked from one end of Manhattan to the other, allowing me questions and observations and dawdling, as we looked at things you had seen tons of times.
• when you planned countless weekend trips to see little pieces of other places, other ways of doing things and bountiful nature.
• when you somehow mustered a confident smile to see me off to Bonaire, by myself, to learn to SCUBA after the hardest year of my life.
• when you watched in what must have been complete shock as I explained to you why it made perfect sense for adult me to go to Africa for six weeks by myself, in what was the trip of a lifetime.  
• when you walked beside me through new places, in our own town or new ones, and explored with me.

I see now a speck of how hard it must be to watch your child go into unchartered waters, to excel or fail, to explore and learn.  I see now what I put you through!  Thank you, thank you, thank you, though, that you allowed me the chances and gave me the practice.  

Lord, please help me do the same for my children.  Help me to love them enough to give them wings - and not just allow them to fly, but encourage them, even in my fear.  Here's hoping I can muster the strength you have shown and show now.  Help me to instill in them the desire to see how others live, to imagine how others may see things and to wonder.  

Thank you, Dad, for the sense of wonder.

I wish I could do this . . .

                                     

Recently, I was thinking about how I never leave a shoot without learning a few lessons.  Really!  And most of the time they are helpful lessons about living, making choices, attitudes and raising kids.  I'm thankful.

This shoot taught me a lot.  Aside from being completely and utterly astounded at this awesome, incredible, X-games'ish' talent, I learned much about intentional living.

This was to be the last full summer with everyone at home, so it was the perfect time to capture some moments.  The weather was definitely not on our side, but hanging out with this fine family was a reminder of how important it is to live as we wish.  I loved seeing their place at the lake and hearing the stories about making the switch from town to lake life.  It made so much sense!  They loved the lake.  They were happy at the lake.  They were always at the lake.  Why not move there?

Maybe we can't all pick up and move to the coolest water source around, but there are tips for us here.  This summer, as we were making our move, I thought a lot about this family.  I remembered about the need to do more of what brings joy and less of what scrunches up my shoulders.

I don't have it all figured out.  I'm assuming this is one of those lessons that I might keep being taught, but I've got new pictures in my mind's eye of an amazing young man flying through the air and a family enjoying each other even more, as they do what they love.

Thanks for that, friends.

Click here to see our whole session:

Masseys at the lake

How do summer camp and laundry go together? I'll explain . . .

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Lately I keep remembering a story from long ago.  I guess people’s tales from summer camp adventures is part of it.  I think my stage of parenting has me remembering, too.  Tim and I are constantly trying to ‘refigure’ what we are doing right and what needs amending.  I’m often wondering about ways that I could be more effective as a parent, about ways that I can be better at helping my kids take on something that will serve them well for the rest of their lives.  

I had awesome parents.  They were smart and interesting and fun.  They, too, were consistently wondering about ways to aide my sister and I in growing into the amazing individuals we have become.  (Smile).   

My mother, the teacher, and my father, the marriage and family therapist, thought hard about the right things to do.  Most of them worked out swimmingly.  Every now and then, though, there was a bit of a backfire.

This story is too good.  It’s too good not to be told:

At one point (just fine for my younger sister and twenty years too early for me) my parents decided that it would be beneficial for the two of us to take on more responsibility.  It was time for us to do more around the house; time to learn a life skill.  

Somewhere in late elementary school or early middle school, we were introduced to the lovely steps of laundering clothes.  Jodi and I went through a short training, our folks practiced with us, and then we were to do our own laundry.  Sounds do-able, huh?

It worked perfectly for Jodi, my younger sister by eighteen months.  Her clothes were done on a regular schedule (even though she had to use a little stool to reach all of the way into the washer).  She neatly kept a ‘white’ pile and a pile of ‘colored’ clothes.  She swiftly swooped in the second her wash cycle was finished to lovingly transfer her clothes to the dryer.  You must know, she folded them right from the dryer, into perfect, store-quality stacks.  It was a beautiful thing.  

My laundering system was not lovely.  There was no system.  I probably still owe her money from the times I tried to purchase her services as a washer woman.  When I was left to my own devices, however, it was not a pretty sight.  I waited until I was out of every bit of clothing that I could wear and I loaded my arms to their capacity to head to the laundry room.  Once there, I crammed the entire mass into the washer, with no concern whatsoever to the color or material.  I remember a few times that I had to be called to the laundry room because the washer couldn’t actually wash clothes when they were piled too tightly to allow the spinner to rotate.  Ughh . . . details.

Many of my favorite clothes quickly turned pink and the rest became Barbie clothes.  Apparently, I had missed the part of discussion about cottons, hot water, etc.  Things are not much better now, but I’ve managed to keep most of my family’s wardrobe the original size and color.

Jodi, ohhhh Jodi, she was the laundress extraordinaire.  She was meant for the task and she did it well.  

The fun part of the story came when she went away to summer camp a few months after our new routine.  She went to a camp near our home, and she was to stay two weeks.  Midway during the camp, families were allowed to come to camp for a visit.  

The parents of children who lived nearby would gather the soiled laundry from the first week, wash it quickly and then deliver it back to ready their children for the second week.  My parents and I could not wait to get to the camp and see Jodi on Parent’s Day.  We were excited to see her cabin, meet her new friends and hear about all of her adventures.  

I remember it well.  We arrived at the camp, families and campers strewn out all around, in the cabins and out.  It was a happy day.  We located Jodi’s cabin and met her counselors.  We talked about where we should go to dinner, and then my Mom asked Jodi to grab her laundry.  (Here’s where the plan goes awry.)

Jodi looked up proudly, smiled and stated, “Oh, my friend’s Mom took it home to wash it for me.”  

“What?”, my mother asked.  “Why?”

“Well, she was so sweet . . . I explained to her that you didn’t do my laundry, and she felt sorry for me.  She said she’d do it.”

Suffice it to say that we didn’t spend too much time at the camp that day.  We didn’t hang around to meet the nice laundry lady, and Mom just hoped and prayed the woman never learned her name.  

All of this remembering has me wondering which of my plans will come back to haunt me!

List 21 - Ten Reasons Your First Car Wasn't as Good as Mine

People, I hate to brag, but I think I will.  Sometimes it can't be helped.  I regret to make you sad about your first car, but it has to be done.

Here are the reasons my first car was better than yours:

1.  The first is easy - my uncle Mickey GAVE it to me!  Really.  Imagine the surprise as we finished a lunch at my grandmother's and he tossed me a set of keys and told me to run upstairs.  It was a moment.  In case you're wondering, I'll inform you that the song that was playing on the radio when I started it was 'I'll be Working my Way Back to You' by the Spinners.

2.  It was a Pinto.  You heard that right, folks, a Pinto.  I did not have a Gremlin or a Pacer.  I had a Pinto.

  

3.  My car had many nicknames, the most formidable being The Murph-Mobile.

4.  The Pinto was blue and it was multi-colored, simultaneously.  You don't understand that?  I'll explain.  When I received the car, it was blue - sort of a royal blue.  The fun part came during the car washes, though.  Each time I washed the car, new colors were revealed.  Apparently, the car had endured many color changes.  And, though I left a tremendous mess in the bottom of car washes all over Athens, Georgia, seeing the revealed new colors was quite a rush!  If memory serves me correctly, the Murphmobile had lived as red, silver, gray and black. 

5.  My car was a teaching tool.  I cannot guess at the number of people who learned how to drive a stick-shift in it.  And, it was open to everyone.  Many times, my friends from the other lunch period would borrow her to go out on some adventure or another.  It would always be safely back in its parking place behind Cedar Shoals High School when it was time for B Lunch, ready for me and the next group.  

6.  It was the perfect canvas for tempra paints, making it the obvious choice for various projects.  There were many, but leading the homecoming parade of 1981 was our crowning glory.  

7.  It was an all-terrain vehicle.  The Ford manufacturers may not have intentionally planned it that way, but we easily made the Pinto somewhat amphibious.  It spent hours and hours in the woods, fields, creeks, trails, and off-road adventures in the un-chartered areas between Cedar Creek (my neighborhood) and our high school.  I remember a couple of particular times when it was difficult to explain the weeds, reeds, red clay, roots, and debris that had clung underneath the car.  

8.  The Murphmobile had a dynamite sound system, but the operator had to be trained in its operation.  In order for the radio/tape player to work, the driver had to have the clutch in.  

9.  Oddly enough, one did not have to press the clutch to switch gears.  (So, it was a bit of a toss-up.  Feeling lazy?  No need for the clutch.  Wanting tunes?  Step on the clutch.)  

10.  The Pinto was open-air in its own way, which allowed me to keep an eye on the road in ways others just couldn't do.  Just to the right of the sturdy middle console, on the floor of the passenger side, was a small hole.  Upon being gifted with the car I don't remember the hole.  Upon letting go of the car a few years later, it was pushing the size of a cantaloupe.  

11.  I realize the title of this post was "Ten Reasons" so this Number 11 is thrown in for the readers who stay with me this long.  I'm hoping my Dad does not.  (I know I'm forty eight, but I'm afraid he'll read this and we'll still have to have a little talk.)   This was one of the best things about the car and this is one of the reasons that I'm happy they don't exist anymore so that my children won't have one.   The original design of the Pinto, with it's long two front doors, large hatch-back and sloping back window lent itself to an after-school activity like no other.  One could stand on the back fender, lay complete body over the car, reach arms to the side and grasp the inside of each side's window to hold on.  With a friend stretched atop the entirety of the steel magnificence, the driver could send the holder-onner on a ride unlike any other in the world.  

There they are, friends.  I assume I've left you no doubts that my original point is true.  I'm sorry for you all.  You may have been like those I grew up with - you may maneuvered around in a smoky gray Camaro 280-Z or a trusty Mustang or a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle or a shimmery Monte Carlo.  I'm sorry if you did.  I had pals with the same problems.  

It was the first few years of the amazing eighties, and I was the one with the '71 Pinto.  I drove it most, but it sort of belonged to all of us.  

My mind travels off and wonders about the ole' Murphmobile every so often.  I pray it's resting on a hill, surrounded by big shady oak trees, sweet singing song birds and colorful wildflowers blowing in the warm winds.  The Murph was generous, so I'm sure she has donated organs by this time, and it's time for a nice long rest.  She gave us adventures like no others, ran out of gas on Gaines School Road more times than I can remember and took my friends and I everywhere we needed to go, with a style like no one else's.  

God bless my Pinto, my Uncle Mickey and my parents!  Those were good times.

The Road to the Mexican Restaurant . . .

As I said yesterday, no matter how many times I learn, I should never allow myself to think "Wow, I am just awesome at this parenting stuff!"  But, alas, it happened again a few days ago.

Here is the deal.  We were having a wonderful Saturday.  Tim and I had promised ourselves and each other that we would make sure that getting outside and getting some exercise was the main goal of the day.  It was a beautiful one, the temperature was just right and there were no excuses not to get the kids out to enjoy it (or to at least get them out and explain to them that they were enjoying it).  Stuff got in the way, though, as it is apt to do when there is a house full of kids around.  A bunch of nice of kids ended up at our house and everybody was having a ball.  We decided to put off our family field trip to bike or hike or whatever.

We were feeling laid-back and allowing the house to be trashed, screaming kids to run through and lots of kitchen items to be whisked 'secretly' from the house to be used for things I'm not sure I want to know about.  It was a good day.  I worked on some editing, Tim worked on his sermon and small people of various sizes and sexes ran back and forth.  We finally reached that point that it becomes quite clear that to keep the day a good memory, the children must be put back in their own homes.  You know the moment - they can't stop fussing, everyone is speaking in a high-pitched animal-like whine, they can't stand the look of each other and they are begging to spend the night together - THAT moment.

Being the perfect parent that I was at the time, I offered to take everyone home in the back of the truck.  (In this time of fear, vigilance, rules, etc., a ride in the back of the truck through our neighborhood is the closest thing we can offer to the care-free fun of our own childhoods.)  My offer was enthusiastically accepted and the gang of mostly boys piled in for the ride.  They alternated between smile and tired whine on the ride home, were dropped off dirty and smelly in the driveways of their houses, and I returned home with just my own.  That's when I, in my infinite wisdom, concocted the way to save our early morning promise of 'getting the family outside together to exercise and enjoy the day.'

I got home and excitedly offered Tim my plan.  In his usual willingness to indulge me and my wishes, he agreed.  We would walk together, as a happy family, to 'the Mexican restaurant' near our house.  It would be wonderful.  We would laugh and hold hands and soak in the springtime air.  We would get our exercise and we would be together on an itty bitty journey of magic memory making.

This restaurant is very close to us.  As the crow flies, it isn't even a mile.  As the crow flies.  As the crow flies.  As the crow flies.

As the family walks, it is not as simple.  Though I often pretend it is not so, our home backs up to a very busy road.  The street has four names, none of which help make it sound any less busy; and the worst of which is 'The By-Pass.'  It's not the kind of road along which you often see your neighbors walking.  I had saved the day already, though.  On our truck ride of happiness, I had spotted what I knew to be a secret and nicely cleared path, which would grant us easy walking straight to the restaurant.  It would be wonderful.

This new path I noticed, would allow us to stroll gaily through our neighborhood, through the wooded beauty beyond and spit us out on this 'by-pass' for just a split second walk to the chips and salsa of our dreams.  It was all worked out.  Tim and I were ready to go, but for the chore (which neither of us offered) of telling our children.  Somehow, we knew, we knew in that way only a parent knows, that these precious little offspring of ours were not going to jump for joy at this idyllic offering of love and open air.

We told them.  It did not go well.  We did the best we could, we forged ahead and we reveled in the fact that two of the three faked happiness about the whole idea.  We found matching lace up shoes for all five of us (this is harder than it may sound), we gave Sadie a treat and we headed off to familial bliss.

The neighborhood portion of the trip was just fine.  Harry found a Louisville Slugger bat he had lost six months ago in a friend's yard, we enjoyed catching up and the bug spray we had force-sprayed upon the children worked.  And then, more quickly than I had remembered, we came upon this new miracle trail I had spotted.  "Hmmmmm," I thought, as it didn't seem to be headed off in the trajectory we needed to cut off the by-pass.  It was our only hope, so we trotted along.  I prayed, desperately hoped, that the direction it appeared to be going was not actually the direction it WAS going.  I was wrong.

In approximately nine seconds we had come to the end of the miracle trail.  It had spit us out on the by-pass, about fifty yards from our neighborhood entrance and not the quarter mile down the road that I had worked out in my brilliant mind.

Hmmmm.  Folks weren't as happy then as I had hoped.  Tim and one child cheerfully headed off along the unkempt shoulder of this busy road, and the rest of us followed.  It was not pretty.

One child marched in a fear of being spotted by anyone, mortified about walking along among the debris.  It wasn't a smooth walk, as the littered cans, broken glass and road-kill forced a jagged course. The front two made a lot of ground quickly, as I fell farther and farther behind with the child who cannot walk and talk at the same time.  The child who feared being spotted walked angrily along in the middle, fifty feet from the front two or the two of us in the back.

I was fortunate to be walking with a happy child, but one who needed to stop and smell the . . .  well, stop and smell stuff.  We wondered about things.  We wondered how things had gotten there, why people litter, how each of the fried creatures on the road's edge had met their death and any number of other items.  We did not move fast.  Cars whirred by us and our conversation was muffled.  So then, of course, we had to stop and start it again.  We had a swell visit, we did, as the rest of the thirty or so thousand of our town passed us.  Sometimes we had to go way down in the grassy brush to head off an impediment and sometimes we had to hold hands and walk closer to the tarmac of doom.  There were no birds whistling happily in the sky at this point; or if they were there, we could not hear them.

Way up ahead I witnessed two of the family turn into the safety of the restaurant parking lot.  They had reached the summit; now just three of us to go.  Eventually the lone child in the center veered in, safe and still as overjoyed as ever.  The last two of us, though, took our time.  We had things to discuss, stuff to wonder about and piles of once-living things to investigate.  It took a while.

Finally, all five of us were safe.  We had made it.  We hadn't actually heard a word each other had said the majority of the stroll, but we were there.  We joined the throngs of folks who had taken the easy way out and simply arrived in their heaps of metal and fiberglass.  Bless their hearts.

The waitress asked if we'd like to sit inside or out, and I overtook the wishes of the other four and yelled out for a table outside, overlooking the beautiful bypass we had just enjoyed, up close and personal.  It was pleasant sitting outside, and luckily everyone agreed.  Dinner was ordered and folks were happy.   Everything tasted just right and the sun set silently over the East Newton skies.

Mid-bite of some morsel of deliciousness I realized something that was not a happy thought.  It was dark.  Dark.  Dark, like when you can't see where you are walking.  Dark.

We began to consider our options.  Should we call a friend, get a ride and suffer the laughter that would ensue?  Normally, it is impossible to eat at this particular restaurant without seeing friends or acquaintances at at least four of the six closest tables; this night, however, the place seemed to be inhabited by only strangers from afar.  They were not our friends.  They were outsiders, taking the places of familiar faces.  They were no help.

Eventually, Tim decided he would walk back along, fetch the car and come back to retrieve us - our knight in shining mini-van.  Harry couldn't pass up that adventure, and went along.  And that was when sheer, pure bliss came over the faces of the girls.  That was the moment of the whole debacle they loved the most!  The eased up, enjoyed the last few bites of Mexican vittles and everything from then on was lovely.  They were safe, relieved of the embarrassment of the walk of doom; saved from the immense effort that would have been needed to scale the embankments of grossness.

Somehow it all worked out.  I guess.  It was not the moment of shining parenting perfection I had envisioned hours before, but we were all safely home.  We had walked.  We had been outside.  We had eaten dinner.  And, through thick, thin and road-kill, we had done it all together.

Parenting perfection . . .

Every now and then, things are just wonderful.  You know what I mean.  The sun is shining (it always is when you have this feeling), the little folks in your home are not killing each other at that exact moment and for no particular reason, you just think you're a swell parent.   Usually (as in any other arena when you begin to think too highly of yourself) one, two or three children burst your bubble and send you plummeting back to earth - but for that moment, that one shining moment, your home could be on a television show.

I remember one day a few years ago when I began to have those magic thoughts inside (Deana, Deana, Deana, you are really a great one.  You are THE mother today; these children are so, so lucky.)  I should know by this point that the immediate second that I think anything like that, I should STOP - I will soon be shown it untrue.  But, alas, we go with it.  For one fleeting particle of time, we relish the thought that we might be doing some wonderful things and our children just might not parade their childhood years in front of God and everybody on the Oprah equivalent of their day.

On this particular day, my children each had a friend or two over.  I had cleaned off (well, used a one-armed swipe to slide the stuff into a large bag) the kitchen island.  I had introduced those poor souls (who had never known the thrill of victory) to the sheer joys of shaving cream.  I was changing their lives, one pile of cheap sudsy cream at a time.   The babes giggled as they created masterpieces of mountains and flowers, they tossed blobs of the slimy mess onto each other, and I - oh great I in my laid-backness just giggled happily.  It was an illustration for all of you, from me, the great one.

With a smooth segue from shaving cream to pizza fixings, we cheerfully cleansed the artful island to make room for our next adventure in fun moments.  Out came all of the ingredients of a tasty pizza - whatever you could dream of - all in little bitty bowls to make it even more precious.  The children were delighted.  One little dab of shaving cream on each bitty turned up nose and a plop of pizza sauce upon every chubby cheek.  Each child stood happily on a chair, enabling them to reach all of the needed parts of their own pizza extraordinaire.  It was surely a moment they would never forget.  It was beautiful.  I pitied the poor parental fools who weren't like me, who didn't understand the secret of these moments.  I was sorrowful for their boring souls - those regular parents, the ones who didn't come up with these unforgettable afternoons.

Some of the memories have left me now, but I am certain that some cheerful children's music played at just the right volume in the background; learning songs created just for the moment, I am sure. Other children in other places must have been thrown idly in front of their televisions, sad and bored, but oh no - not at my house.  I was in the middle of parenting bliss and victory.  I was good.  I was managing many.  They were happy.  They were engaged.  They were creating.

And there I was, thinking about how darn easy it all was, how sad I was for those around me who just couldn't figure it all out.  Poor things.

(Here is where I would make the loud car-brake sound if I knew how to spell it.)

Here are but a few of the things that happened in the next milli-second, the one following my thinking I was such a divine instrument of parenting perfectness . . .

• one child slipped off of the chair and began crying
• someone's shaving cream from their shirt got a little bit mixed up in the pizza sauce
• there were not enough pepperonis to go around
• a couple of the children did not realize that the same hand motions used in manipulating shaving cream were not the same motions needed in pizza assembling
• one child tired of the pizzas and grabbed the can of shaving cream
• two children began to argue, thus sending a few of the toppings into the air
• another child slipped off of a chair
• there wasn't really a great way to mark each child's creation to be identified after the baking
• a couple of the little darlings weren't really hungry
• and then - worst of all - one of my darlings looked up at me, with big beautiful brown eyes and asked the unthinkable - "Mama, what are we doing next?"

WHAT?  Next?  Next, everyone under the age of forty will be air-lifted from the kitchen through a hole I will now blow myself and flown to another continent! And we will never ever use shaving cream again or make pizza again or maybe never eat again - that's what's happening next!  Got it?

Hmmmm.  Maybe that wasn't one of those moments of parenting utopia I had thought two and a half minutes before.  

But, even though I know better, they still happen . . . had one the other day.

And, I believe tomorrow I'll tell you all about it.  

Boo coos, baby, boo coos!

Last Thursday might have been like any other day.  I was driving along highway 278 with my three kids in the car.  I had just picked them up from the bus and we were running a few errands before heading home to get started on the afternoon's homework.  I had already taken the usual survey on the 'HWSitch' (that's homework situation in our language - each kid reports first thing off the bus on their HWSitch, giving me some idea of how much to expect, as in "I have three Math pages and some Social Studies questions and I need to read my AR book and I forgot to tell you that I have a project due tomorrow" or "Things are good today; I just have to read for twenty minutes.")

The HWSitch report helps me plan for the afternoon.  And the report was good that day.  Not too much extra stuff, just the usual.  No one was inundated with work.  All was right with us in the Graham Tram (in our language, that's a way for us to feel a bit 'cooler' in our mini-van).  So, we were humming along down the road, each child talking to me at the same time and assuming I'm listening to only her or him - things were just about like most afternoons.

The sun was shining.  It was warm; very warm for late January.  Traffic was light.  (We don't really have a large traffic congestion problem in Covington, Georgia, but it seemed appropriate to report on the traffic conditions, as I give a bit of foreshadowing for what was to come.)  Tim had just recently put the tie-dye peace sign license plate on the front of the Graham Tram, so perhaps I was feeling a bit hipper than the rest of those poor moms I saw in the lanes beside me.

We were talking about 'energy necklaces' that EVERYBODY has and how one of my kids has one but how the other two NEED one because it just doesn't seem right not to have at least one and they really do help you have more energy and they might just seem like some cheap twisted cord to parents and they might not seem like they are worth fifty dollars but really they are and everyone just has to have at least one to have enough energy - you get the point.  The two from the back that still NEEDED the necklaces asked Emma in the front seat where she got hers.  She told them where she got it and then they asked if they had a lot to choose from and then I said it . . .

"Oh yeah, they had boo coos of them."  The heavens opened up, the wind began to blow at gale force, the world around us turned green and began to move in slow-motion, the car turned upside down and Emma's head turned around and around like in The Exorcism.  Emma has a stare, as many will tell you, and if she wants she can bore a hole right in the middle of your head .  This was a new stare, though, a different one.  This one made her head look like it was going to blow up and her eyes seemed to be rolling back into her head.

It took her a moment.  Good thing we were at a red light because I had to stay tuned to the stare, stay tuned for the report that was sure to come.

"Mama, WHAT?  BOO COOS?  What on earth?  Are you a hundred years old?  Please do not EVER say that again, ever."  That screamed, she turned her head back to the front window.

And then she seemed to feel a bit better - seemed to be somewhere between giggling about this horrible faux pas of her mother and just wishing it away completely.  She turned her head back to the horizon, and left me there in my 'hundred year oldness.'  I was left to merge back into reality, to keep the car between the white lines, to move about our day as if it had never happened.

I'm not one to let things lie without a good fight or at least without driving my children completely crazy, so I laughed and laughed and then I used the term boo coos at least forty times more in the next seven minutes.  I enjoyed that, I did.  My kids finally laughed, wishing I would just shut-up and praying with all of their might that I never ever ever let that slip when anyone else is around.

And then the heavens closed up, things turned right side up, time began again, Emma's head got back to a human range of motion and we went back to our regular day.  But inside I was listing all of the reasons that I AM NOT a hundred years old.  Inside I was explaining how very cool I am, how it might not look like it but that's just because they aren't wise enough, mature enough to see it yet.  Bless their hearts.  I'VE GOT A TIE-DYE PEACE SIGN ON MY LICENSE PLATE, FOR GOODNESS SAKE - can't they understand?

I guess the answer to that is no.  They can't understand, just like I didn't understand.  I'll have to wait on that the same way my parents waited and their parents before them.  I'll have to wait along with my friends, my comrades on the same battlefront.

I'll wait.  I will.  And I'll keep on saying stuff like boo coos and some time I may just decide to say it in front of their friends just because I have that power.  I'll keep on seeming a hundred years old, from time to time and sometimes I'll seem a lot younger, like forty seven.  And sometimes the sky will open up and Emma's head will rotate 360 degrees and all will be right with the world.  We'll keep on doing this just like folks have always done it.  My kids will keep thinking "hmmmm, sometimes she can be so cool and sometimes she's totally old" and I'll keep thinking, "they have absolutely no idea how very cool I am inside."

We'll all keep doing what Mamas and kids, the old people and the young people, have done since the 'olden days.'  And it'll be fine.

I know how cool we old people are, even if they don't!

How to install a firepole of Love . . .

                                                            How to install a firepole!

I've known this great guy, Tom (well he's Chris to me, but that's another story) since he was about ten.  I taught with his Mom and know his incredibly cool family well.  For years, he was the neat son of my good friend; and then, lo and behold, he grew up and he went to college and he became a teacher!  I was teaching in Atlanta at the time and knew that he MUST work at Garden Hills Elementary with me.  I did a lot of marketing about our great school to him and did my best to explain to the principal how wonderful, creative and tremendous he was.  This just wouldn't be a good story if he didn't get the job, which he did.  (He told me later that I had given enough rave reviews that he would have gotten the job even if he had showed up to the interview naked with streamers flying out of his butt -  envision that if you'd like.)

Fast forward a bit and we are both happily teaching together.  It was fun to teach alongside of Tom, after I had done the same with his awesome Mom years before.

Another way to make this a great story we need to introduce "the girl" to the story, right?  Well, that I can do.  A couple of floors down from Tom and right beside my classroom was Shael, the beautiful, funny, bright heroine of the story.  Tom and Shael became good friends, like the rest of us.  Then 'the rest of us' noticed that their friendship was a little different - they had done it - taken the plunge - fallen in love!  For reasons I can't remember (I really wanted to so that I could step in as a hero) I bragged often about 'setting them up.' I guess I put together recommending Tom for the job and being friends with Shael as, well, as . . . Deana, you're responsible for the whole thing - good job, girl!

Now fast forward a bunch of years, maybe twelve or fifteen, to Indianapolis, Indiana.  They have created a groovy life there, with their two kids, Lily and Cole.  They do cool things together.  They have fun.  I often hear about what the two of them are up to and think to myself, "They've got the right idea - they're putting the emphasis where it matters - they get it - they're having fun and showing those two lucky kids what life is about."  It's always fun to hear what's up at their house, always inspiring.

Like many, I have a love/hate relationship with facebook.  There is plenty negative to list, but this is not the place for that.  There is a lot of good, too, and that is what this story is about.  I planted myself in front of the computer the other night to check in, pointed the browser to fb, and I smiled for the next five minutes!  The first update I saw was "How to install a Firepole" and the smile hit my face - I knew I'd love the photos - I knew it!

I was right.  I did love the photos and the witty commentary and the idea and the humor and the craftiness and the creativity and the LOVE!  You will, too.  I promise.  So, here is your homework (and it's fun) click on the link below.  DO IT.  You'll enjoy it.

I don't know much about woodwork or carpentry.  I never measure anything.  I'm not great at projects that involve both beginnings and endings.  Maybe you are.  Maybe you can peruse the photos and captions and then you can install your own firepole.  That would be awesome!

Most likely, I won't get to that.  I won't forget the 'firepole' lesson, though.  I won't.  I looked at those photos, I thought about those sweet people, I smiled and I saw LOVE.  I thought about those two kids.  Thought about how proud they must be of those 'out of the box' parents.  Thought about all of the giddy kids that will visit in the future and how much fun they'll have.  Thought about a Daddy spending all of those hours on that project.  Those photos said, "we love you."

I'm thinking now about 'firepole' projects I can do, we can do.  I'm wondering about the times that my actions show my loved ones how much I care.  We can't all pull off what my buddies did.  But we have different talents, leanings, loves.  Maybe we can come up with our own projects, our own firepoles of love.

                                                HOW TO INSTALL A FIREPOLE!

Trying to make a comparison and striking out.

I've been thinking a lot about Martin Luther King, Jr. in the days leading up to our 'day off' in celebration of his birthday.  I've been thinking that a thoughtful reflection would be perfect for today - something that brings together some past experience of mine and the ideas behind this holiday and the work of MLK and others in the same war.

And then it hit me - I've had an experience that fits the bill.  In 1995, I cashed in my teacher's retirement (there was not a lot there and thankfully my Papa and Nana never knew) and began planning a trip to Africa.  I have absolutely no idea where I came up with that idea, but I remember just knowing that it was the trip I needed to take.  My role as a parent today gives me a hint at how amazingly hard this craziness must have been to my Dad, but I definitely did not get that at the time!

Plans went along swimmingly; and it seemed that with each day leading up to the trip, the details got better and better.  I intended to be gone for just over six weeks and to have a journey that consisted of different 'mini experiences.'  I could not wait to board the plane.  Somehow, at the time, the idea of boarding the plane alone to fly to the other side of the world and be met at the Nairobi airport by someone I did not know seemed perfectly normal!  I was met in the middle of the night by the driver for the sister of a friend of a friend, who turned out to be an invaluable help through much of my time there.

My travels were varied; to say that what I learned on this trip changed my life is an understatement.  That's not newsy, though.  Any voyage by an 'awake' human is life-changing.  One cannot see the world through different eyes and step on foreign soil without being different.  All of our travels stay with us, altering our daily lives forever and ever.  While in East Africa I got to know a few families of expats from the US and then spent three weeks with a group called, "Global Volunteers", in a village in south central Tanzania.  The stories from those three weeks are numerous and deserve their own airtime, but today I'm remembering a different part of the trip.

In the last few days of my month and a half away I enjoyed casually moving in and out of different areas of Nairobi.  I had met fantastic folks by that time and loved having lazy time to discover this city far from my home.  There were good times with laughter, many good meals, a few awesome short trips I will never forget, and this time was the perfect ending to an unbelievable trip.  These last few days I've remembered a certain day trip into the city center of Kenya's capital.

The day was easy, laid-back and non-stressful.  I was beginning to get excited about returning home with my new stories of safaris and new discoveries and also starting to regret that I would soon leave.  I wanted to do a bit more poking around before I left, spend the day casually strolling the city streets and peer into shops of all types looking for art, some of which peers at me now in my house far from that day.  I don't remember what I ate for lunch, but I do recall that I had meaningful conversations with two different artists and loved being able to take the time to hear about their crafts.  I was almost whistling along the sidewalks, enjoying being such a 'world traveler' and loving the memories I was making.  There are times in life when one thrives on being alone and this was one of those times.  It was a good day.  It was an easy day.

And then, as I ambled along a street I hadn't been on before, I realized something I've never felt before.  I realized that I was the only 'white' person I could see.  I saw no one who looked like me.  I marveled at the realization.  I couldn't believe it.  What an experience I was having.  How proud I was.  What a moment - wow, how it was changing me.  I would never forget it.

I thought about this moment when I prepared to write on this MLK holiday.  And then I realized what a fool I was.  There was absolutely nothing about this experience that had anything remotely similar to the ideals for which the bright and open minded people of the civil rights movement fought.  Nothing at all.  I strolled along the streets of Nairobi in perfect comfort, new treasures in hand, and met friendly faces at every turn.  I moved as I wished, stopping and starting at my own will and paused to eat or shop when I was ready.  I was excited and intrigued, and each few minutes offered new opportunities for me to learn more about this small world.  Folks with faces different from mine smiled at me, asked me endearing questions and helped me along the way when I was lost.  I knew little about the people I met that day and they knew little about me, though I conducted my day in just the way I wanted.  I had no feeling remotely close to fear.

There is NO similarity between my 'really cool day' in Nairobi at the end of my amazing journey and the horrific days of brothers and sisters of another skin color on any given day in history.  My walk as the only caucasian on a block in Nairobi who met with only friendly or indifferent faces holds no comparison to the walks of so many African Americans who walked into the faces of hate for so long.  I contend to be understanding, but I cannot truly have an idea of what it feels like to walk strongly and continue fighting when one is met with stupidity and violence at every turn.  I have no idea about that.  I have no idea why I was born with skin of one color and another was born with skin of a different color.  I know that one day that won't matter, and I hope I'm alive to see it.

I thank God for courageous people who give all that they have for ideals that help us get closer to the way we could live peaceably together.  I thank God that I grew up with parents who shared that dream with me, and I pray that Tim and I are doing the same for our children.  We are trying, but we can't tell them what it's like to walk down the street barraged by hate because we don't know how it feels.

Say "Cheese" and say it often

Photographs ARE more than paper - I know you all know that. And, I know that many of you have already read the post that I am sharing today. It has been all around the internet over the last few days. It is sad, very sad; and it is hard to read. It is hard to think about. I want you to read it, though. I don't want you to read it just to be sad, and I don't want you to read it as some sleazy way to promote what I do. I am a photographer because I love it and because I know that helping to preserve pieces of our lives is important. My clients understand that, and so they are willing to invest in the process. Sometimes it is expensive and always it is worth it.

I want you to read this blog post from another photographer because I think it has more of a message than making the investment in photography. I think this is a call to all of us parents (often Moms) that it is IMPERATIVE that we have photographs of us - when our children are older, they will want to see what WE looked like, what WE did with them, when WE looked happy or tired or excited or sad or content, what WE shared with them. As parents, we work hard to ensure that we have photos of our children at every age, in every phase, at every special event, etc. How often, though, do we think of a zillion reasons why WE shouldn't be in the photos? My answer to that question is . . . OFTEN!

Do we fear that our children will grow into adults who look back at the pictures of us and see tired or overweight or without make-up or not dressed correctly? Are we afraid we won't measure up? Will we not look as good as the other mothers and fathers? Will our children wish that we had been dressed more fashionably? That's preposterous - you and I both know that.

Our children will see the one thing they are looking for - their Mama or Daddy or Dad or Mom or Pop or whatever you are called. They will see you and remember how we usually looked on those regular weekdays when they came in from playing. They will remember what made us laugh and when we got a serious look. They will remember just the way they sat in our laps or just how we threw them in the air or that we always looked at them in 'just that way.' They will look at those photos, snapshots or formal, and they will tell their children what it was like to be the child of us. I doubt they will notice the make-up or lack of it, the outfit we were wearing, or the amount of weight we needed to loose. They won't be looking for that. They will be looking for pieces of their past; pieces of the way things used to be. They will hold on to our photos in the same way we hold on to theirs.

As I look at the above photo I remember a grand good time. I also see a terribly fuzzy photo, taken with a cell phone, of a crazy tired woman with a funny looking paper thing on her head. I doubt that's what Emma and Harry will see when they look at the photo in years to come. I believe they will see a Mama who loves them, who laughed with them and tried to make that particular night fun. I believe they'll remember how they were the waiters and that they served the food to everyone on the porch and that they helped me use paper towels to make a chef's hat. I believe they'll remember.

I write this today and share this post for you AND for me. I suspect that you are like me. I spend most of the time behind the camera; and even with much prodding from loved ones, I rarely step out and get in front of the camera. That's not okay. I might not love seeing myself in pictures, but my children will; and seeing the photographs that we take today will be the tangible pieces they have of times gone by. I cherish the photos of my children as babies and toddling to walk and making a mess when they learned to eat - they will cherish the photos of their Daddy and I laughing and hugging and smiling and being surprised. I owe that to them. I do.

Please read:

http://fototails.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/a-letter-on-my-doorstep-portraits-are-more-than-paper/