Therapy

It started about six months ago, an occasional spasm of pain in my left armpit. Unpredictable and fleeting, the pain is severe enough to be noticeable but not so much that it was debilitating.

When I look it up on Web MD, which is usually pretty fatalistic in its diagnoses, nothing comes up, but because it is on my “cancer side,” I mention it when I go in for my annual mammogram a few weeks later. The nurse checks me out pretty thoroughly, the films are clear, and she suggests it is probably a muscle spasm.

The pain persists, so a month later I mention it to my sister, who is a nurse practitioner. She thinks it sounds like a muscle spasm and gives me a few tips to address the symptoms, none of which I do. I figure that anything muscular can take care of itself.

Months later, the pain has not abated, so I make an appointment with my doctor, or rather, the nurse practitioner at my doctor’s office.  Like everyone else, she asks me questions, feels me up, and has no answers, but since the pain is in proximity to the place where lymph nodes had been removed 15 years earlier, she suggests I make an appointment to see my oncologist.

By now I have already invested about a million times more time and energy into this than merited, but I dutifully call the oncologist, with whom I have had no contact in ten years. I am booked to see the nurse practitioner, who—like all the nurse practitioners I have consulted up to now—is absolutely wonderful.  She recommends physical therapy, an ultrasound, and an MRI to try to figure out what’s up in my pit. She also asks if I would be interested in genetic testing, something we had considered years ago but I put off.

In addition to the annoyance of all the cost and time involved, I’m increasingly aware that I am being sucked back to cancer world, a place that I thought I left behind long ago but that is in fact always thisclose. No matter how far you move forward, once you’ve been to cancer world, it’s intertwined in the fiber of who you are, and it doesn’t take much to pull you back to a dark place of fear and helplessness and endless nausea.

Although it’s fear the drives me to pursue the additional tests, I book the physical therapy to prove that I am fine. My physical therapist, Amy, works exclusively with women at risk for lymphedema which, apparently, includes me. (Seriously, I didn’t know that.) Amy assesses the range of motion in my arm and concludes that there is plenty of room for improvement. As I lay on her table, her fingers find tight knots of scar tissue that I didn’t know were there. The pain makes me cry, but I can tell it is helping. And as she presses deeper, I know that the tears come because she is touching emotional scars as well.

Amy talks to distract me. By our third session, she begins to tell me her own cancer story, which makes my story look like a day at the beach. At age 38 she is a three-time survivor. She’s undergone genetic testing and had her young children tested as well. They all have the gene, and are doing all they can to be on guard. She lives with cancer every day; it’s not just a bad memory tied up in a knot under her skin.

I want to live my life looking forward, not backward, but sometimes there is no moving forward until you deal with the past. My cancer story is only a small part of who I am, but it was a significant turning point.  I don’t want to live in that world, but sometimes it’s necessary to revisit it and to continue to learn from it.

I might be ready to pursue genetic testing. Whatever the results, it can’t be as painful as physical therapy! And it might be helpful to my kids and other family members. So, deep breath…and one step at a time.

And the spasm in my arm? Yeah, we’ve still got no answers on that. But I’m learning to live with it. 

Pebbles

I’m old enough to remember the television show Colombo, where the cigar-smoking detective with no first name seemed to know from the instant he arrived on the scene who committed the murder. Over the course of the two-hour episode he would wear the suspect down, conversation by conversation. The murderers, without exception wealthy and brilliant, were often victims of their own hubris, imagining that this bumbling little man in a rumpled raincoat wasn’t up to the task of uncovering their crimes. But the amiable detective would conduct an interview, start to leave, and then turn around with one more question. His catch phrase, “Oh, and one more thing…” was the signal that he was on to something, and in these questions—these after thoughts—were the points at which he gleaned the most information.

I am living in a season of “one more thing,” a time when the small irritations are mounting and wearing me down. As mother, I have claimed the spot as the emotional hub of the family, so compelling me to feel the feels of everyone in my circle. I might even feel them more intently than the original feeler. Someone I love will get hit with some minor disaster, and just when I’ve kind of moved on from that, another small but painful thing will occur. It feels as if, due to our own mistakes or just the nature of the world, we try and fail, try and fail, try and fail. We’re a little short on good news lately, and without a few upward ticks to balance things out, I feel weighed down with the accumulation of “one more thing.”

Sometimes a crisis of faith comes after a major blow from which there is no coming back: a death, a tragedy, an injustice. But more often, it’s the pebble in the shoe that pulls us off the path of hope. We gimp along, or maybe we stop to remove the pebble, but a few steps later the stone is replaced by another small pain, so we stop again. These small stops and small wounds accumulate until finally it feels that no progress is being made at all, and it becomes tempting to give up altogether. We lose faith that anything can be gained by attempting to move forward. There will only be more blisters and bleeding, and no reward for perseverance.

Sometimes it’s okay—even necessary—to sit and think and wallow (just a little) and maybe even cry. But then, even if there are still tears in my eyes, I have to stop focusing on my feet and lift my gaze a little, and I start to move. Maybe I will notice that I’m on the wrong path and decide to change direction. Or I will see something promising just around the next bend, and I know I’ll never get there if I don’t go forward.

If it is the small things that can bring me down, the small things can also lift me up: a brilliant oak tree dressed in the rich gold of autumn, the unexpected kindness of a stranger, an email from a friend, a bowl of warm soup and homemade bread.  There truly is good in each day. Even on the days when “one more thing” is heaped onto the pile, even on those days when I feel stuck on the side of the road, my life is blessed beyond measure.

It’s time to empty my shoes and be on my way. The journey, even when it’s difficult, is beautiful when we remember that there is always reason to hope.

The Table

Shortly after Kelsey was born, we moved into a four-bedroom home that was everything we thought we could ever want in house (except it lacked a fireplace). Of course it didn’t take long to figure out that even this new palace had some limitations. The kitchen, although a step up from the kitchen in our former home, was long and thin, not quite big enough to be considered an eat-in kitchen, but we found a table that would work. It, too, was long and thin, with drop leaves on the sides. When we weren’t eating we could put the sides down and slide the table against the wall, creating a small enough footprint that we could still move about the kitchen.

The table came as a kit—unfinished, precut pine and hardware. I would have preferred to stain it before assembly, but the timing didn’t work out, and one day when I came home from work, my husband and my dad had it ready and waiting for me. Eager to get the project done, I purchase a combination stain and varnish that I imagined would save time, and I applied two hasty, uneven coats. Not my finest work by a long shot, but we had a table.

Pine is a soft wood, so it didn’t take long for our family to make its mark on the table’s surface. Lots of it was just the wear and tear of daily use: the accumulated marks of dozens of practice spelling tests, glitter glue that refused to come off, wear marks from placing plates in the same places for hundreds of meals. The table was well used and well loved; day by day we built our family around its edges.

When we moved into our current home, I almost immediately began to think about getting a round dining table, since it would have worked so well in the space, but other priorities emerged, and we continued to create memories over meals and projects. More marks and grooves found their way into the surface, and more family members took their places around the table’s weathered plane, and they, too, have left their mark.

When we adopted, we kept Lewi’s name but not Lily’s. It was a difficult decision, but we were concerned that her birth name would not be well received in the US, so we made it her middle name and dubbed her Lily instead. But in the early days, when she was first learning to write, she would ask how to spell her Ethiopian name, and she would practice with a slow, deliberate hand, her handwriting so strong that she engraving DORKA through the paper and into the tabletop. It endures, as proud and defiant as her spirit—a symbol of who she was and in many ways still is.

We recently acquired a small round table for the kitchen. I would have liked something a little bigger, but the price was right, and it fit into my Prius. With the leaf in it, it’s just about perfect for the four of us who are still living here full time.

With a replacement in the kitchen, I moved the old table to the garage so I could do a little maintenance. The finish had gotten sticky, so I sanded down the top so I could re-varnish it. I didn’t even try to sand out the imperfections; even my sloppy finishing work is still visible. All of these things are a testament to the family, to the story of our lives. We have grown and changed much around these pine planks. It is our flaws that make us who we are.

Second Hand

Summer is the season of the garage sale. This American invention allows us to offload our junk a buck at a time while allowing others to enjoy those things we have inherited, outgrown, or tired of. And we can make a bit of money in the process, which we can use to purchase even more junk.  

I don’t stop for EVERY garage sale, but I can hardly pass a sign without being tempted to make a stop. It’s interesting how often I’ll find the same things at a couple of sales in one day: the exact same jewelry box or similar wall hangings. Lots of people shop for baby items at garage sales, and kids’ clothes are always popular. I usually have a list of a few things that I’m on the prowl for, but generally I go in with an open mind and come out with something. From stocking stuffers to stock pots, from craft items to garden tools, from board games to furniture, I’ve secured lots of great stuff for pennies on the dollar.

Estate sales are the granddaddy of garage sales. Buyers are permitted to roam a person’s home and purchase virtually anything they can see. Estates sales are like time capsules, painting amazing portraits of the people who once lived there. The family’s size, income, faith, political leanings, hobbies, duration of time in the home…it’s easy to come up with a reasonably accurate accounting of the home and its inhabitants.  The stuff tells the story.

Estate sales also feel a little sad, because they are usually held when a chapter of life is closing: a family has been transferred to another state or an older person is no longer able to stay in the home. Once grandma is installed in her new residence, family members take what they want, and the rest—the flotsam and jetsam of a family’s history—is left to be picked over by strangers.

As I sort through the tables of tacky Christmas decorations, I’ll see things and wonder why in the world someone held onto them and why some estate sale dealer thought some sap would pay money for it. Other times I’ll leap on something, wondering how I was lucky enough to find such a great treasure—clearly no one could see the item’s amazing value. One of my great weaknesses is needlework, because I know the effort that goes into creating it. These pieces are usually inexpensive, so I often take a couple home in an attempt to save them from the indignity of becoming rags.

At every estate sale, I inevitable ask myself what it will look like when an estate sale will be held for my stuff. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to offload most of our family “heirlooms” to the kids long before the last round of downsizing, and as I pass them down, I want them to know the story of our things, because they hold pieces of our history. I know that not everything that has value to me will have value to them, or they may decide that in some cases, monetary value trumps sentimental value. I’m cool with that. As long as these things joy for someone, their value remains intact.

The Four

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it started. The four of them probably first met when they all played together in the church nursery. By the time they were in elementary school, our families would go camping together with several other church families. During those weekends the four of them—as well as our many other children—would roam the campgrounds in packs or hang out together in each other’s campers or tents.

Although they attended different schools and had dozens of different interests, over time the four girls became best friends. Of course there were the usual girl things—fights and disagreements, alliances and separations, harsh words, immature and hurtful actions, the bitchiness of girls growing up. And there were times when they were just busy and involved in their own lives, but for the most part, the relationships persisted. They loved and understood each other, and they had each other’s backs. They hung out together on Sunday mornings and at youth group, but they also spent time together outside of the church’s walls.  

Allison, the oldest, was the first to graduate from high school. After a semester in college, she enlisted in the Navy. She was stationed in California when she met someone…and then she was pregnant. Last December she gave birth to a baby boy, and she has been doing a great job of raising him on her own, especially for someone so young who is so far from the support of family.

In the meantime, the other three graduated and moved on as well. The two in the middle went off to college, choosing larger schools, although one has returned to her hometown to attend community college. Both the young ladies have had their emotional and academic ups and downs, as has my daughter Kelsey, the last to graduate, now heading into her second year at Hope College.

After several months of failed attempts, Allison was finally granted a leave to come home to introduce Chase to her parents, and all of the rest of us. It was important to Allison that Chase be baptized during her leave, a beautiful testimony to the love and connection of our small church.

On the morning of the baptism, Chase was a perfect angel when the pastor placed water his head once, twice, three times. Allison read a beautiful letter written to her son that communicated her love for God and for the church where she herself had been baptized.

All the girls were there for Chase’s baptism. In spite of everything that had happened in the many months since they had all been together, it was a moment when you could tell that, in the chronology of friendship, no time had passed. They still have each other’s backs, and on this important day, they were there for Allison and for Chase.

Time changes friendships, and there’s no way of knowing how strong or how long any relationships will last. On the cusp of adulthood, these girls are making lots of choices that will continue to move them in different directions. I don’t know if the church will be a touchstone for them in the future, or if time will deepen their faith or diminish it. But for today, I’m grateful for the lives of four beautiful, amazing, flawed young women and the potential that lies in them. I am grateful for a church that fosters friendships and feels like family. And I’m grateful for Chase, a new member of the family, a child of God’s promise.

17

Like most kids, when I was in high school I didn’t let a little thing like the law stop me from experimenting with alcohol. I was a geeky introvert, and a little buzz gave me the confidence to talk to people and helped me to fit in with my crowd of fellow outcasts. A little vodka made us feel a little more cool, a little less odd. So drinking was our hobby, and being teenagers, it never really occurred to us that drinking in conjunction with driving might be dangerous. We thought we were invincible.

So it came to pass that late one Saturday night I was driving with a friend through a shopping district that had shuttered its doors many hours earlier. It was her car, but for some reason I was at the wheel. Although I was a month or two shy of my 18^th birthday, she was the legal age of 18, and had procured for us a large bottle of cheap wine. The bottle, more than half empty, was under her seat; the other half of the wine was in us.

I coasted through a yellow light before I notice the patrol car stopped at the cross street. He flipped on his lights, and I pulled over.

The cop, probably only a few years older than me, asked what we were doing in that part of town, although I’m sure he knew we were just driving, the sport of teens in small-town America. He commented, “Well, you looked like you were going a little fast through that light.”

Now, let’s be clear: I was in an area of town that I had no business being in. I was underage, I was driving drunk, and I had an open container in the front seat. I should have been scared. But I was 17, and I thought I was invincible.

I argued with him.

“I was only in second gear, so I couldn’t have been going over 25,” I huffed.

He should have busted me, but instead he backed down. “Just be careful, and watch your speed,” he said. He returned to his car, and we drove off.

From time to time, even the most responsible teens and young adults take part in behavior that is risky and even stupid—this is part of growing up, and as parents sometimes all we can do is pray that they survive their bad choices and learn from them.  But while white kids can chalk these things up to youthful indiscretion, teens of color rarely have that luxury.

As I look ahead to Lily and Lewi’s teen years, I fear particularly for Lewi, who is already confident and sassy, things that the white community hates to see in a young black man. At this point in life he is known and loved in his neighborhood, his school, and his church. But unless things change pretty dramatically, and soon, as he matures and ventures out into the world where he is not known, it is clear that he will be profiled, stopped, searched, hassled, and damaged because of the color of his skin.

For many black men, the key to self-preservation is zero resistance. They have cultivated a non-threatening stance, a compliant way of answering questions, and a submissive attitude when confronted by authorities.  It does not matter that they were doing nothing wrong, and it doesn’t matter whether the authority figure has the right to confront them, and it doesn’t matter how hostile and inappropriate the questioning. This is the price their pride must pay, and even with a calm and cooperative attitude, it is often not enough. Most African-American men (and women) do not get the chance to encounter a cop and walk away unscathed.

I wonder if I will have to encourage Lewi to be compliant, to submit to any form of white authority, and to calmly take whatever is hurled at him just so that he will he be able to walk to the store to buy Skittles.  It’s a societally approved form of bullying, and I never would have asked my other children to tolerate it. I don’t want to encourage my youngest to be a victim because of the color of his skin.

Kids who are 17 should be able to act like they are 17: a little reckless, a tiny bit defiant. They should feel invincible. Sadly, we have learned—repeatedly—that teens are not bullet proof. Today I grieve: over the tragic death of Trayvon Martin, for a nation where we allow these horrible events to continue, and for my child, who will face this all too soon. May God protect him, because I’m not sure anyone else will. 

Shots

I think that it is established that I am the world’s worst mother. Over the years my kids have been happy to point out all of my weaknesses and all of the things that that I did that they didn’t like. Now that they are older they are a little more forgiving, but the truth is, like all parents, I’ve injected plenty of my own personality into my parenting, and sometimes that means I’ve come up short.

This has become even more apparent in recent days when I’ve undertaken the huge project of getting everyone’s photo books updated. I began scrapbooks for my three oldest many years ago, and I was pretty well caught up when we moved into our current home ten years ago. Since then, I’ve done precious little. I did put together a book for Kelsey during her senior year in high school, but beyond that, stuff has just accumulated.

I began my career as a scrapbooker before the digital age, and I kind of like the old school method of cutting and pasting, in part because I’m comfortable with it and in part because I’m kind of tactile. But it certainly has its drawbacks. It’s messy, and it takes up a lot of space, and I don’t always have exactly what I want or need to complete a layout.

Plus I spend a lot of time sorting everything, especially photos. With ten years of prints, this is no small feat. I ask my kids to help, and sometimes they are actually helpful, but when they do, it isn’t always pleasant.  Sometimes they are annoyed because they cannot BELIEVE that I don’t remember some of the details of the photos—things that were clearly memorable to them. Sometimes they are peeved because, going through the photos, they are reminded of a time when they felt shortchanged, persecuted, or neglected: “Well, there was a year when I didn’t get to have a birthday party.” Other times they are unhappy with the photo quality: “I look terrible. Why would you include that?”

As we sort photos, I most regret the shots I didn’t get. Sometimes I would run out of film or the batteries would die unexpectedly, but sometimes I would just forget to grab the camera. I actually forgot the camera for my oldest child’s high school graduation. Seriously, who does that? Some days I really am a terrible excuse for a parent.

Assembling the books takes a lot of time and effort, and some days I don’t know if I actually enjoy it. Right now I feel so much self-imposed pressure to get it done that I’m not sure I’m loving it all that much, and I’m not sure I’m doing the best job I could do. Of course, I have more experience now, so I can do more on instinct. And since the idea is to highlight the photos, I worry less about creative use of paper and stickers, and focus on the pictures.

My other frustration is that writing in these books has always been important to me: putting the photos in context, remembering cute sayings or reactions, writing down the kids’ best friends or favorite foods. I’m frustrated that so many memories have faded, making the writing perfunctory and not as interesting as the captions I wrote when the assembly time was closer to the actual date.  

For the two younger kids, nearly all of our photos are digital, so I’m considering doing digital books for them. There are lots of advantages to the process: less mess for sure, less cost, more flexibility, fewer mistakes. But there’s also less “me” in the books. The books won’t have my terrible handwriting, my artistic style, my fingerprints on the photos. My kids likely would appreciate a perfect book, just like they would appreciate a perfect mother, but as they mature, the things they value may shift.

So maybe I’ll just keep doing it old school. Perfection—in projects and parenting—is overrated. 

Another Father

On this Father’s Day, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge an important father in our lives.  I am sure he has never received a Father’s Day tie or a plaster-of-paris handprint. I’m also sure he’s never gone a day—even a Sunday—without having to work, and more than most, I’m sure he has stayed awake nights worrying about his family.

I met him only once: the day we picked up Lily and Lewi from the orphanage. He had made the long trek from his village to meet us. He had surrendered the children for adoption about six months earlier, knowing that he and his new wife would not be able to care for them. His older children were of an age to help support the family, but these younger two, without a mother to care for them…well, what could he do?

In August of 2009, we traveled to Ethiopia. At an orphanage about an hour outside of the capital of Addis Ababa, we met our kids for the first time, as well as their biological father, Ulfina Deressa. He was too thin for his clothes, not tall, and he wore the sadness of a man living in grinding poverty.

We spent about an hour there, talking with him through an interpreter. We were never sure if we were getting straight answers, as it often seemed their discussions were long and the translations were far more brief.  We learned that the kids’ mother had died two years early of unknown causes. She was 36, and the two of them had four older children. For a time an aunt had helped to care for the youngsters, but when the aunt and the father married, they came to the conclusion that the two youngest should be put up for adoption.

I’m not sure what he hoped for, for his kids or for his family, when he took this brave step. On that day and in the days since, we wondered if the father imagined that we would provide him with some kind of financial support. This is expressly forbidden in international adoptions. Nothing—except a few photos—is permitted to change hands, because the State Department wants to avoid the sale of children, or even the appearance that children are being exchanged for money. 

We also wondered if the father really understood the magnitude of his actions. Perhaps the family thought that, because they weren’t infants, Lewi and Lily would never be chosen, and so the risk to putting them up for adoption was small. I do know that our translator, an executive for the adoption agency, spent a great deal of time explaining to the father, and not for the first time, that this was really happening.

We gave Ulfina pictures of our other children—Lewi and Lily’s new brothers and sister. He gave us a collection of photo booth snapshots of their birth family, each wearing the careworn expression of their father. Then our guide mentioned that the rain was about to start, and so we had to go. Lily’s bio father carried her to the van, talking to her in a language I did not understand but with inflections that were clear in any language.

I’m sure he often thinks about the kids, and about his decision. I hope he knows that his actions changed the world for the better for so many people, and that we feel blessed to call Lily and Lewi our own. So on Father’s Day I remember a father half a world away, and say a prayer of thanks for him, and the love that allowed him to release his children to us. 

Beauty

A few weeks ago, I got a haircut. I had been growing my hair out so that I could donate it for wigs for cancer patients, and it was finally the requisite 10 inches long. When my hair gets too long it starts to drive me crazy, but I’m not a fan of myself in super short hair. Fortunately the stylist was able to get the length needed while still leaving it longer around my face, so I don’t feel like I look weirdly unbalanced.

Before the cut, I asked to Kelsey take a “before” picture, which was kind of a big deal because I rarely have my picture taken voluntarily. When I see a photo of myself, I almost don’t recognize it as me. It’s weird, actually, that the camera sees me so differently than I see myself in the mirror.

In the “before” picture, I saw someone I hadn’t seen before, in film or in the mirror. This time I saw not myself, but my mother. Of course I knew we resembled each other, but in that photo there was no denying that time had deepened our similarities.

When she was alive, I thought my mother was beautiful, although I’m not sure I told her that. She would have denied it, anyway. She stressed about her weight and her wardrobe. I often gave her fashion advice, which she appreciated about as much as I appreciated her fashion advice to me. She hated her hair, and spent a lot of energy trying to make it something it was not. Instead of investing in a good cut that would work with her hair, she went to the beauty school for the cheapest cut she could get, and then would put in a hideous home perm. It’s ironic that when she died, chemo had taken all of her hair. We buried her in her wig. And she was still beautiful.

The only time I remember my mom telling me I was beautiful was when she would say, “You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” a way of dismissing both my looks and my feelings with one comment. I don’t even remember a time when she complimented an outfit, a hairstyle, or a choice of jewelry. Part of that was her own insecurity, and part of that was being of a generation that did not want to raise vain, spoiled children.

It took a lot of growing up for me to realize that human beauty comes in more than one slender, blue-eyed version.  Now I see external beauty in others, usually without even having to look for it. While I know that, especially in younger women, it’s critically important to recognize their brains and abilities, it’s not a bad thing to compliment their appearance. Because while I don’t want to be responsible for raising a generation of vain, spoiled children, I would like them to be self-assured and confident, and part of that is feeling good about one’s looks.

I try not to complain about my looks, but when Kelsey catches me at it, she reminds me that SHE thinks I’m beautiful. She says I am a bad example to her if I do not affirm my own beauty. I know she is right. And now that I see my mother’s face in mine, perhaps I can find a way to affirm her beauty that lives on in me.

Words

I’ve been doing a lot of writing lately. My new career as a freelancer currently has me writing product descriptions. I snagged a job writing descriptions of glass tiles for a website, and the guy liked my work so much that he’s been giving me a new assignment every week. It’s paid pretty well for freelance stuff, and I’m grateful for the income, since college tuition bills loom large on the horizon.

For many years I had a full-time job writing and editing, and during those years I appreciated the opportunity to make a living at writing. These jobs were not plentiful even when I left college, and over the years, jobs where you could actually make a living have become increasingly rare. With the explosion of technology, where everyone can find a forum, where print is out of vogue, and where the web gives us “everything” for free, the written word has become devalued. Anyone can write, blog, or publish on the web. There are few hoops to jump through, and even fewer filters. No one cares much about spelling or punctuation or fact checking. This has led to some great pearls being unearthed that would have never seen the light of day if it hadn’t been for self-publishing, and even some great intellectual conversations, but it’s also led to a lot of misinformation, oversharing of uninformed opinions, and venting.

The web and our access to technology have fostered more voices and less communication, because real communication involves listening and thoughtful response. These days it’s possible to send a message that flows right out of our fingers without ever going close to our brains. With instant communication, response easily devolves into rant—quick and often thoughtless responses that do little to edify or clarify. With all of its amazing capacity, social media has actually made our kids less social while creating entirely new ways for them to be cruel to each other, and to be victimized.

As with all advancements, there is both good and bad, and it’s up to all of us and the generations that are to follow to cultivate the good while curtailing the bad. And at some point, we need to reclaim the idea that words are a valuable commodity. Few of us believe that great lie of childhood: “words can never hurt me.” We know they can. But they also have the power to heal, to restore, to encourage, to edify….

And to sell tiles. While some days I feel a little like a word-whore, selling my craft for a few bucks, I also get a lot of joy from representing a quality product or coming up with a clever way of saying something I’ve already said 50 times. I also know that when I’m tired of doing that, blogging provides me with a place to play, where a small and friendly audience reads my stuff and hopefully gets some joy from it.

I’ve been doing this for about a year now, and I appreciate everyone who has stopped by, made a comment, or in any way supported this endeavor. I hope that my writing makes a difference to you; I know that when you read it, it makes a difference to me! Thanks!

(You’re welcome to check out some of my writing (and the gorgeous tiles and craft items) at http://www.wholesalersusainc.com, but please keep in mind that I didn’t write all the descriptions, my employer often changes my descriptions, and I did not proofread the site.)

Mother's Day

A letter to my adult children.

Hi kids. I know that within the next few weeks you’ll be looking for ideas of what to get me for Mother’s Day. Like most mothers, I’ll say I don’t want anything, or I’ll give you some practical suggestions, and maybe you’ll listen and maybe you won’t. Lewi and Lily will almost certainly present me with a collection of handmade art, and I will love it, as I always have. But for you older three, I’ve put together a special request list to consider. I figured I would take advantage of Mother’s Day to be, well, a mother.  

These are the things I’d love from you, for Mother’s Day and beyond.

1.       Start a new healthy habit. Maybe it’s adding a little exercise, taking vitamins, or eating one more vegetable each day. Doesn’t have to be a big thing, but do one small thing to enhance your health and increase your longevity.

2.       Break one unhealthy habit. Stop eating late at night, quit smoking (yes, I know about that) and stop exposing yourself to second-hand smoke, cut back on alcohol. Do this while you are young, and save yourself from years of addiction.

3.       Mend a relationship. Reconsider some of the people from your past. Maybe it’s a friend with whom you’ve lost touch, or a teacher you didn’t fully appreciate at the time. If you owe someone an apology, make it. If you need to forgive someone—including yourself—do it. Fix your past so that you can move forward.  (Please note: this is not a request that you rekindle a boyfriend or girlfriend relationship. Your exes—even though they are great people—at this point are better as exes.)

4.       Resolve an issue. If you’re indecisive about something, choose and move on. It doesn’t have to be a huge issue, but if you’re on the fence about it, it’s time to get off.

5.       Save some money. You’re going to need it. So instead of spending you hard-earned cash on disposable items like clothing, movies, pizza rolls, and imported beer, sock a little away. Those little bits will add up, and you’ll be able to do something worthwhile, like take some special classes or invest in something with long-term value.

6.       Help me sort your photos so I can get them into books. Seriously. I would love to get this project done, but I can’t do it without your help.

7.       Plan on having dinner at home on Mother’s Day. I’m happy to do the cooking in exchange for the privilege of gathering around the table with all of you. It really is my favorite thing, just being with you. Doing the dishes—not so much. So I’d be thrilled if you’d clean the kitchen together after we eat.

8.       And since you’re coming for dinner, if it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could bring me some chocolate. I’ll start working on my healthy habits on Monday. 

Cookie Mom

Kelsey was a Girl Scout for many years. Both she and her amazing leader stuck with the troop for the duration. With Lisa’s help, Kelsey worked her way up the ranks to earn her Gold Star, the GS equivalent of the Eagle Scout. For graduation from high school, Kelsey requested a lifetime membership in the organization.

So when younger daughter Lily wanted to join Girl Scouts, we were delighted. There’s no telling how far she will choose to go, but for now she’s having a great time.

Because of Kelsey’s long history, we’re well indoctrinated in the way of the Girl Scout cookie. With five active kids, we have decades of fundraising sales experience, and these fabulous favorites are one thing we’ve never had trouble selling. Most people are thrilled to see us coming, and more than happy to purchase a box of Thin Mints.

When Lily’s troop was looking for parents to organize the sale, I volunteered to be a cookie mom. Last year there were three of us, and this year only two, but in reality that’s the perfect number. I kind of inserted myself into the position of lead cookie mom. I like the job because most of the time I can run my own game. Of course there are deadlines, and there are girls (and parents) who do not respect the deadlines, but for the most part we’re all getting the hang of this.

What few people realize is that GS cookies are a multi-million dollar enterprise. The majority of the organization’s revenue, at all levels, is generated through these sales. And the Girls Scouts have it down to a science. There are rules and procedures that must be followed, and precious little grace at the upper levels.

I’m still learning a lot about all of this, but here are the broad strokes: first, the girls take orders for the cookies. The girls get incentives based on their sales, some of the incentives are actually pretty good. My favorite incentive, new this year, is that selling 50 boxes or more means the girl won’t have to pay dues next year. Finally, an incentive for the parents!

The troop will retain something like 55 cents per box, and the local council also gets a cut. Some of the money travels up the food chain, and some of it goes to offset costs. The cookie mom collects all the paperwork and places the troop’s order. Troops purchases cookies by the case, so if the orders of a given cookie are not divisible by 12, your troop is responsible to the balance of the cookies in that case. Usually selling a few extra packs, or absorbing the cost and serving them at a troop meeting, isn’t too big a deal.

Once all the troops have ordered, the regional pickup is scheduled.  All the cases of cookies for all of the troops in a given area are brought to a central location so the troops can come to collect them. In our area, the regional pickup is at the local fire house, which is really the perfect location.

This year I volunteered to help with this, and it was actually pretty fun thanks to the uber-organizational skills of our regional cookie mom. Early in the morning, a moving truck began unloading dozens of skids of cookies, each stacked 10 feet high. Before we could tear open the shrink wrap, each skid had to be counted (twice). Then we could start organizing by troop. There is a pick-up schedule, so we go in order, counting and double checking, and when the troop’s pick-up person arrives, the cases are counted again, and then loaded into vehicles. Most troops have well over 100 cases, which requires a fairly large vehicle. There have been years when people in small cars have had to call for reinforcements, but this year everything goes smoothly. The math works out, which I find amazing given the complexity of the story problem.

Most of us still have to sort the cookies for our own troops, and we still have to help our own daughters with distribution, and some of us have a few extra boxes that we’ll have to sell. (I still have some of the cranberry—they’re delicious! Let me know if you’re interested!)

But when the last Samoa is loaded in, there is pizza and conversation, and the satisfaction of a job well done. I didn’t grow up a Girl Scout, but I’m proud to be one now.

Easter

It was the Saturday before Easter, and there was much to do, but by the end of the day, much of it was done. The kids needed showers. Lily can manage on her own, but Lewi needs assistance. After he is clean he always begs for more time under the water; for once I acquiesced, because I was in the middle of making Easter desserts, and I needed just a little time to get things into the oven. A few minutes later, as I put the cake in the oven, I heard Lewi: “Mom, I’m bleeding.” The tone of his voice made me take it the stairs two at a time. There was blood flowing from his left thumb at an alarming rate, and I instantly knew that he decided to touch his sister’s razor. It took three separate changes of gauze to get it to slow down.

Once the kids were in bed, I put out Easter baskets. One of our cats is addicted to Easter grass and will go to crazy lengths to ingest it, so I try to put them where he will not access them. At three a.m., as I listened to him retching, I concluded that I had misjudged. I got out of bed and cleaned it up. Stupid cat.

Then, on the first day of the week, at early dawn, the phone rang. Of late daughter Kelsey has been the Queen of the Unwise Choices, and her most recent mistake will prevent her from being home for Easter. So we talk on the phone, confident in the hope that soon we will put this present sadness behind us and move forward.

The younger kids woke and were excited to unpack their Easter baskets. “I love the Easter bunny!” said Lewi. I decided to take credit for my work: “The Easter bunny doesn’t bring these; I do.” He’s momentarily disappointed, but recovered quickly at the sight of his loot.

After breakfast, I re-bandage Lewi’s thumb and then rush to get ready myself. I hustle out the door only a few minutes behind schedule.

On the way to church I am reminded that at some point during the week, my windshield cracked. It’s in an odd place, and there’s no sign of what caused the crack. I know I need to get it taken care of, but not today. Put it on the to-do list for next week.

The next hour both the choir and the bell choir rehearsed, and then worship began. Our congregation’s theme for Lent has been “washed in the blood.” Each week we would pick up a red ribbon to remind us of Jesus’ love, sacrifice, suffering… Today we traded in our scarlet stripes for ribbons of white. We celebrated communion and concluded worship, as is our tradition, with the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus, a piece of music that speaks to my soul in ways that I cannot begin to explain.

I do not always understand the ways of this world or the actions of the people in it, and I cannot begin to explain the ways of God. My own faith is a mystery to me, and some days I wonder what I really believe. But Easter isn’t about fact or explanation, but about hope. On Easter we look past today—with its blood and its puke, its cracks and brokenness, its temptations and mistakes—and we remember that these things will end, and that we will again see those we love. We are able to see that sadness will end, and that beauty can come out of crisis. And we can see that, just when we think it’s all over…something new begins. 

And he shall reign forever.Hallelujah! 

Sleep

When Daniel was a toddler, he was our child who just wouldn’t sleep.  No matter how tired he was, he refused to nap and refused to stay in bed at night. He was the one who tried my patience most on these matters, although Phillip and Kelsey had their moments, too.

Now, thanks to higher education, all of our older kids have turned into night owls. They have their own wonky sleep patterns, which is no big deal at school, but can be inconvenient and awkward when they’re back at home.  Those of us who are not college students do most of our living during the daylight, and it’s not always convenient to tiptoe around if the young vampires choose to nap in the middle of the day in the middle of the family room.

When we adopted, one of the things we were cautioned about was the possibility of our kids having nightmares and sleep disorders. This was never a problem; from the beginning, the kids went to bed easily, and if they woke during the night, they kept it to themselves. But in those early days when I’d check on them after they had fallen asleep, they didn’t have that peaceful and angelic look that most kids get when they sleep. They seemed troubled, even when far away in dreamland. Lily in particular sprawled across the bed as if fighting some sort of epic battle. Her contorted posture reminded me of the fossilized people of Pompeii, trapped for all time wrestling in the lava that they could not outrun.

Over time this has changed, and Lily now sleeps peacefully, angelically. In fact, she’s so “normal” that she’s started to complain about her bedtime: “Why do I have to go to bed at 8, even on the weekends?” It’s not that she minds going to bed; it’s that she hates to think that she’s missing anything. Like most kids, she still doesn’t understand that bedtime is not a punishment, and sleep is a gift.  

Lewi hates to go to bed, but what he hates even more is getting up to go to school. On the weekend he’s up before any of us, but during the school week, every morning he complains of being tired. My attempts to point out the correlation between going to bed early and feeling rested in the morning are a lost cause at this point. Maybe someday…

A few nights ago I woke to find Lewi standing by my bed. “Mom, I had a bad dream, and there were geckos in my room. Can I sleep with you?” It’s not an unusual request for a six-year-old, but he’s never asked to sleep with us before, and I’m not sure where he learned it. Perhaps it’s universal in kids—instinctual, like complaining about bedtime.  But even in the wee hours, I could recognize it as a sign of trust in me as a parent. I held open the covers; he snuggled in next to me and, safe from the geckos, soon was back to sleep.

Later that day Lily was reading in the recliner, one of her favorite after-school activities. It suddenly occurred to me that she hadn’t turned a page in quite a while, and that her breathing was heavy and regular. It was another first. At 4:30 in the afternoon, Lily was taking a nap, a sign that, finally, she might be at peace in her home.

What an amazing gift, the gift of sleep. It’s the world’s cheapest beauty treatment, for both the external and the internal self. It gives us both an escape from, and a way through, emotional ups and downs. Sleep renews inspiration and gives us hope to try again.

It’s also a barometer of what is really going on inside us. How we sleep, when we sleep, what we dream are all cues to who we are. And maybe to what we can become. 

The Bucket List

When I consider things I’d like to do before I “kick the bucket,” it’s hard for me to come up with ideas. There are a few things that I’d like to do, a few places I’d still like to see, a book or two I’d like to write, and I really should try a water slide just once, but in generally I’ve had a great life, full of events and opportunities that most people don’t experience. I’ve traveled, I’ve studied, I’ve met people. I’ve been able to pursue many hobbies and interests, I’ve ridden in a hot air balloon, and dipped my feet into most of the world’s salt water. I’ve been paid to write, I’ve married a great man, and together we’ve raised some pretty awesome children, who are all in college or college bound. We even adopted children, which has been a lifelong dream. I’ve been blessed, and while I didn’t accomplish anything earthshaking like curing diabetes or developing calorie-free chocolate, I hope that I’ve done more good than harm in my life.

But there is an item that tops my short bucket list: to take Lewi and Lily to Disney World. We were able to manage a few family trips there before we added Lily and Lewi to the family, and I would love to take all the kids, in part as a way to tie together the ends of our stretched-out family. But at this point, with three kids in college and less income than we used to have, it’s a distant dream for sure.

A trip to Disney is a luxury, and millions of kids grow up and go on to live productive lives without ever setting foot in the Magic Kingdom. Even in our first-world nation, many parents work hard and are stressed and stretched and still unable to care for their children’s most basic needs. These parents can only dream of a college education for their kids, let alone a family vacation.

This struggle surely would have been reality for Lewi and Lily if their bio father had not made the choice to put them up for adoption. There would have been little food, little education, little hope to break out of poverty. And they probably would have never even heard of Disney World, being focused on survival instead. It’s good to wish for great things for our kids, but it’s good to remember what’s important.

So instead of Disney, I took the kids to Meijer Gardens, which has a fantastic living butterfly exhibit every year. We enjoyed the beautiful butterflies as they flitted about the conservatory, we spent a little time exploring outside in the freezing cold, and we enjoyed a special ballet performance about the birth of a butterfly. I even coaxed them into the art gallery for a few minutes; the sculpture exhibit was too adult for them, but they indulged me by looking it all over and even asking a few questions. On our way home, we stopped and picked up donuts. (Just for the record, I’m NEVER the treat parent; that kind of spoiling is usually reserved for Bill. So when I buy the kids donuts, it’s kind of a big deal.)

I hold out hope for the big dream, but we invest in the everyday. A single trip will never compensate for the small things we do that nurture, inspire, and entertain.  It’s the here-and-now that lays the groundwork for their future.  

Rear View

We live in a school district that runs a lot of school buses, and over the years, I’ve logged many hours at bus stops, dropping off or picking up. Eventually the older boys would walk to the stop, but for the three younger kids, in recent years the stops have been far enough from our home that I’ve had to drive. I never just drop them off. I always wait for the bus to arrive, and I won’t begin to pull away from the stop until I see the kids get in and see the door shut.

These days, Bill usually brings the kids to the stop on his way to work. Our current bus stop is not far, just at the top of our cul de sac, and in the winter it is still dark when our kids get there. Although they are in elementary school, they ride the high school bus with the neighborhood “big kids,” who are universally kind and patient, and who always let our kids board first. Bill parks on the street ahead of where the bus will stop so that once the kids are on he can pull out ahead of the bus and avoid following it as it makes several more stops.

Last Monday morning Bill and I carpooled, so I drove to the stop and park; the kids, always eager to hang out with the big kids, are out of the car in a flash, yelling “I love you!” but never looking back. We are barely a memory to them as they slam the door. I catch glimpses of the reflective tape on their backpacks as they greet their friends. The bus arrives, and I strain to watch them in the rearview mirror, making sure they get on.

Before the door shuts, Bill’s voice jars me: “They are on. We can probably go.”

He, eager to get ahead of the bus, never waits for the door. I see his point. I am sure they are fine. But I worry. Against instinct, I put the car in drive, and we head for work.

That evening, my dad came for dinner, and to stay the night. He has an early morning flight, heading for Mexico, and it will be much easier for me to get him to the airport if we both start from my house, which is only 15 minutes away. My dad loves to travel; it feeds his soul. Last year, perhaps for the first time ever, he didn’t leave the country at all. This year he has been to Thailand and now Mexico and in a few months the Netherlands. He says he’s working on his “bucket list,” but don’t let that name fool you. The man is destined to outlive us all. Each day on the road probably increases his life by a month—and has the exact opposite effect on me. I am sure he is fine. But I worry.  

The next morning we’re both up at 5, and it doesn’t take us long to get ready. Dad has told me three times that he has packed his own morning meal (he’s diabetic, so food management is important)and that I don’t need to feed him, but he is grateful for a cup of tea. We load up the car and head to the airport, arriving in plenty of time in spite of icy roads.  Dad kisses me goodbye and grabs his stuff from the back seat, calling “I love you” as he shuts the car door. As he turns toward Mexico, I am barely a memory. I watch in the rearview mirror as he makes his way into the terminal. And when the doors shut behind him, I pull away.

I cannot protect those I love with my gaze.  In fact, that is not my job. My job is to give them a soft place to land, and wings so they can soar alone. 

Lent

We didn’t really observe Lent while I was growing up, but it’s become more common among those in the Reformed tradition to spend the days between Ash Wednesday and Easter reflecting on Jesus’ suffering. Part of the tradition is to “give something up” as a spiritual discipline, a means of sharing in Christ’s suffering in some small way and of preparing for the resurrection.

Some give up chocolate or red meat or Facebook. In years past I’ve given up shopping and swearing and Diet Coke, and some other things that I don’t remember. One of my favorite Lenten projects was the year that I talked the kids into giving up name calling. I got each of them a bag of their favorite candy, and each time they called someone a name they lost a piece. It was pretty powerful; name calling in our home decreased dramatically. And then on Easter, I gave them all of their candy, even the stuff they had lost, because I wanted to teach them about grace. It was a good lesson, but you can only really do it once.

Today, on the cusp of Ash Wednesday, I’ve been debating what to give up. The last month has had more than its share of difficult moments; there’s been death and disappointment and sadness—the stuff of life, and maybe not any more than usual, but it has felt like a lot. So lately when I think of giving up, it’s not about a spiritual discipline, but about quitting, about hunkering down under a blanket and making the world go away. I’ve had moments when I’ve wanted to give up being a mom, give up on people, give up my goals and dreams, and give up on my usually firm conviction that there is more good in the world than bad.

I have, from time to time, given up hope.

So this year for Lent, I will strive to give up on giving up. I will replace moments of despair with moments of prayer. Instead of hunkering down, I will gear up. Lent is a time to remember suffering as an act of worship, but it’s not a time to worship suffering itself. The only way to get through Lent is to keep moving. Things might get worse before they get better, but they will get better. There is always a reason to hope. 

The Left Lane

The snow had come down relentlessly during the night, and as the sun came up, I was making the one-hour trip to Holland for a lecture and a funeral. The highways had been plowed at some point, and for the most part at least one of the lanes was clear enough to kinda sorta make out the lines; otherwise we followed the tire grooves, moving into the passing lane only when necessary.

Traffic moved sanely, and at a satisfactory pace, even those cars and semis that chose to pass. As I got used to the feel of the road, even I occasionally took to the passing lane, successfully negotiating my way around one car at a time. But about two miles before my exit, I got behind a line of traffic that was going slower than it needed to, held up by a slow-moving semi.  The cars in front of me did not pull out to pass, and because I didn’t want to attempt passing five vehicles in the dicey left lane, I slowed down and joined the caravan.  I had plenty of time and just a short distance to go, so it was an easy choice to relax and go with the flow.

As more traffic caught up to our line, those cars also slowed down. While not wanting to risk the left lane but clearly wishing we were all moving a little quicker, they demonstrated their frustration by traveling uncomfortably close to my bumper, given the slick conditions. I was relieved to pull off at my exit, and even more relieved to park at my destination.

The lecture focused on the first Japanese, Native American, and African-American graduates of Hope College. The college had opened its doors to these young men in the days when it was less-than-fashionable to do so, and in return, the grads left the college with not only their degrees, but with a deep appreciation for liberal arts education and the role of faith in life. Each of them had long and successful careers in ministry or education. They spent their lives giving back by influencing and educating others.

After the lecture, I walked three snowy blocks to attend the funeral of my Uncle Bill. Okay, he’s technically not my uncle; Bill’s brother Jim was my stepmother Mickie’s first husband. When my dad and Mickie married, Bill and his wife Elsie welcomed my dad, and all of his children, with open arms. We were all one family—no question. Their hospitality and their enormous love taught me that family cannot—should not—be limited by blood lines. After Mickie’s death in 2006, and even more so after Elsie’s recent death, my dad and Bill were close, like brothers.

Bill’s funeral reminded us of the scope of his life. In many ways, Bill was a blessed man. Money, talent, opportunities, the love and support of a strong family; all of these were Bill’s, and he shared these gifts generously. But his life was not without sadness, even tragedy.  The funeral was a beautiful testimony to a life well lived, a life underscored with grace and unwavering faith in the face of both suffering and blessings.

Our life journey is influenced by those with whom we share the road: teachers, mentors, family. They shape and mold us. Some of these people are given to us, and some we can choose. But when we cannot choose those with whom we travel, we must make the choice of how to travel with them. We can let them frustrate us or slow us down. And sometimes our best option is to fall in line until we can appropriately exit.  

Or we can embrace them and find a way to love them. It can be a risky road, but it’s the road of the most positive influence. 

Ink

So, I kind of get the whole tattoo thing.

There are parents who think that getting a tattoo is the worst things their kids can do. It’s a low-rent stain that cannot be undone, an expensive mistake, a tacky end to their child’s innocence. And in some ways it is. It’s the newest sign of rebellion, like long hair in the sixties, except way more permanent. But for the generations coming up, it’s completely normal, acceptable, and hardly a judging offense.

With our emphasis on acceptance of each other, the lines have blurred or even disappeared on some of the standards of the past. Not all of that is good, but lots of things that used to cause our foremothers to purse their lips disapprovingly are really small matters in the grand scheme of things, and it’s good to take on a more accepting attitude.

Two of my kids have considered tattoos. Kelsey has one and talks of getting more, and Phillip has declared his intention to get inked in the not-too-distant future. These were not impulsive decisions. They researched tattoo studios and considered carefully where on their bodies the adornment would be located. They also spent a lot of time debating designs, and I have to say their choices reflect their personalities and things and relationships that are important to them.

While these were their choices, they did talk to me about them. I encouraged them to pick something that would really be personal to them, since they would be wearing it for a long time, and to have it installed in a place that could easily be covered by clothing. While perfectly acceptable for my kids’ peer group, tattoos are not considered mainstream by most employers, and we would hate for them to miss out on a job due to a conspicuous dragon. We definitely want our kids to be employable.

A little rebellion is good for the soul and helps us grow up. Even in my youth I was pretty serious and conservative, and I didn’t rebel much as a kid. I wish I had taken advantage of my youth to dress outrageously or to do funky things with my hair. The only thing I remember my mother and me arguing about was my emerging feminism. She didn’t understand why I thought women should be referred to as women, not girls (“Someday you’re going to WISH someone would call you a girl!”—still hasn’t happened). I maintained that language should be inclusive, there should be equality in the workplace and in the church, and women who are assaulted aren’t somehow asking for it. My mom thought I was an idiot. All these years later, feminists are still fighting the same battles, and I’m still a feminist, so maybe it wasn’t really rebellion. Maybe it was growing up.

I’ve thought about getting a tattoo myself—I figured it was the one way to make tats seem uncool to my kids—but I’m not a fan of paying for pain. And at this point in life, I’m not sure I could come up with a single meaningful symbol. Life keeps changing me in amazing ways. I’m not willing to write anything in ink just yet. 

Tests and Papers

In school, skills and learning are measured in essentially two ways: papers and tests. People have different views on how they prefer to be evaluated, but the thing about tests is that once they are done, they are done. You can second guess yourself, of course, or perhaps arrange to take the test again, but there is no way to edit history. What you have written, you have written. It is a reflection of a moment in time.

Papers are a work in progress until the last second. When I was in college it didn’t occur to me that I could type a paper early and just leave it in my notebook until it was due.  I would always work on papers until the absolute last minute, obsessing over the exact words that would best communicate—and get me the A.

If parenting were a test, or a series of tests, few parents would consider themselves to be straight-A parents, and their kids would certainly concur. We all botch it more times than we care to admit, and even when we do well, it often feels more like pure luck than good prep work or an advanced skill level. In the long run, parenting is pretty much pass/fail. And fortunately most of us pass. We release our children into the world and stand back as they begin to function as adults.

Although there are certainly tests involved in raising children, parenting is more like writing. It’s ongoing, rather than a finite event. We can make decisions about what will be included, and when and how. Over time we know that there should be enough action to keep it interesting, but the right punctuation is important, too: places where you separate, or take a breath, or ask a question. And while you can’t change what has been written, it’s possible to reflect on what was and to learn from it, adding layers of understanding to the story.

Three of my kids are legally adults (and the other two THINK they are adults), but I still feel my work is not quite done. The editor in me wants to continue to go back, to add or subtract, to give them what they need to make them better, stronger, happier, more prepared.

Like a paper, parenting is never really “done,” even after it is turned in. My dad still offers advice and encouragement three decades after I moved out of his house, and I still hear my mother’s voice nearly thirty years after her death. I’ll remember her counsel (or worse, repeat it to my kids) and I will realize that this is all part of the same continuing story.

Parenting is hard work, and there are days when I think I would like to be done. But most days I’m glad I’m not. My role has evolved, and while in some ways it has diminished, in other ways it has never been more important. Although the framework of the kids’ stories is already established, there is still much that is unwritten. While it is their job to write it, the editor in me is sure to want to offer suggestions.