Scar Tissue

When I was 15-years-old I had the opportunity to redefine myself. Prior to Labor Day weekend in 1983 I was an athlete. I played a sport every season and had a fair amount of success at it. I spent every available moment conditioning or practicing or participating. My teammates were my friends. My goals centered around sports. I was an athlete.

Starting in about third grade I had spent a portion of most summer weekends on water skis. Each year we knew that after Labor Day our weekends at the lake would become less frequent and so we always tried to squeeze in as much skiing as possible during that 3-day period. By the time I was 15, I had been slaloming for quite a long time. I loved the quick cuts across the water and jumping across waves. To ski on two skis was barely worth the effort of getting into the water. It was one ski or nothing for me. Our family had one ski that could enhance this experience like no other. It was an old, heavy wooden ski of my dad's. The weight of the ski made it unstable during the process of lifting out of the water but if that could be overcome, it was as if you were gliding across ice unfettered by the friction of ski against water.

In order to stabilize this ski during take off, I would put the front tip of the ski in the yoke of the rope. As the boat blasted off, I would simultaneously emerge from a wall of water and lift the rope off the ski. On this last Saturday of summer something went terribly wrong with my timing.

As my dad engaged the full force of the boat's engine, the handle of the rope slipped out of my hands. The handle first lodged against my bent knee and eventually slid down to my foot. When that happened the ski kicked backwards and bent my knee to a 90-degree angle the wrong way. The ski dove downward into the water and I was dragged behind the boat by my mangled leg. My dad was driving the boat. My mom was the spotter. They didn't realize that any of this was happening until my brother, who was skiing next to me, motioned for them to cut the motor. I had destroyed the inner workings of my knee. Ligaments and tendons were ripped in half. Skin held the top half of my leg to the lower half.

A two-hour ambulance ride delivered me to a hospital affiliated with the University of Illinois. My dad's network of connections delivered the athletic department's orthopedic surgeon to my bedside.

After a four-hour surgery the doctor explained to my parents that most likely I would never walk again without a cane or crutch. Mine was the worst knee injury he had ever seen. I was too young to be a candidate for knee replacement so he did his best to repair with synthetic materials, steel rods and portions of my hamstring.

During my doctor's first visit to me after surgery, I asked if I worked really hard, could I be ready for basketball season in the late fall? He said no. I was crestfallen but asked if I would be ready for softball in the spring? The doctor with the amazing surgical skills and horrible bedside manner said: "Your goal should be to walk. You'll never play any sport ever again. If you clumsily fall off a curb, you could undo all my work and there is nothing else I can do for you." With that he turned and walked out of my room.

I spent the next nine months in a cast that stretched from hip to toe and a full year on crutches. I spent the rest of high school trying to figure out where I fit. I was suddenly the girl who had the accident. The girl on crutches. The girl who wore sweatpants every day for a year because they were the only thing that fit over the cast.

Once all the casts and braces were removed I was left with a leg emaciated from a year of inactivity. My knee was swollen and misshapen. I had a hideous 8-inch scar on one side and a 5-inch scar on the other. When it was so hot that the only reasonable option was to wear shorts, invariably a complete stranger would approach me with "OH MY GAWD! What happened to your leg?" It wasn't exactly the kind of attention that a high school girl craves. Eventually my irreverence kicked in full time and I would explain that I cut it shaving.

Any time I sat down I began to instinctively cover my knee with my hands. It was a futile attempt to have people notice something, anything else about me. When my team stopped inviting me to parties, I touched my knee. When we would drive by a softball field or I saw a basketball game on tv, I ran my fingers along the scar. It was the ever-present, hideous reminder of what I lost.

Prior to the accident I was involved in church. I participated in youth group activities. I paid attention during Sunday School and learned Bible stories. I had a faith based on gratitude. I was thankful for all my blessings and in some crazy one-sided deal I made with God, I thought if I were good, the blessings would continue. Church was something I did but my faith didn't define who I was.

My accident was the true beginning of my faith journey. I learned I could scream at the God who had allowed this. I could rail at the God who didn't live up to my self-made bargain of "blessings in exchange for being good." I could unleash my fury at my loss. And, there was comfort. In the quiet of the night I could replay the events of that day. Had I not washed the sun tan lotion off my hands? Did the handle slip because of greasy hands? Had I pushed myself too far? Was I too tired to ski that last time? Was there a problem with the ski? With the rope? With the boat? I could question why the most important thing in my life had been taken away. And, there was comfort.

I learned I could scream. I could sob. I could question. And I learned that all would be well.

I also learned the names and the stories of all sorts of people--the people I wouldn't have had time for if I were still playing. I had time to read. I had time to listen. I had time to work through my loss of identity. I spent time on my burgeoning faith.

Over the past year I have been through a refinement process. Redefine seems much too drastic. I would now argue, looking through my almost 43-year-old lenses, I really hadn't been able to define much at all by age 15 so I'm not sure I had to re-define anything. So maybe my water skiing accident was about refining me also. Maybe that is what all the periods of loss, of hurt, of questioning are designed to do. They continue to refine us.

The events of this year didn't leave me with a physical scar to touch but nonetheless has left me with just as many lessons.

I have learned about the loss of friendship and that has allowed me to hear the stories of a different circle of people. I spent time questioning whether I could continue to belong to "that church" and now I am able to call it my church. I have learned about my need for worship. I have learned that worship isn't a performance to please me as much as it is a conduit for my connection to the Holy.

I learned that I could scream. I could sob. I could question. And I learned that all would be well.

That Mother

Plastered on a downtown bus is an advertisement for an apartment rental company that reads: "Your mother knows where you live. It's time to move." I chuckled when I first read that. Then I realized that I was closer to being "that mother" than I was to being the one who needed to relocate. It then became a lot less funny.

This week we registered our middle child for kindergarten. On our way into the school we saw a friend who had just registered the youngest of her four children. Once we were close enough to make eye contact with her, she pumped her fist in the air and said "God Bless America! My youngest will be in kindergarten." Once inside the school we saw nervous moms and dads who were confronting this stage for the first time. That was us two years ago. We aren't quite at the fist pump yet but we've moved past the nervousness and dread.

Two years ago we dutifully gathered the papers necessary for kindergarten registration: Peyton's birth certificate, our mortgage papers, a recent utility bill, a ream of paper worth of forms that we had completed prior to registration day. Getting organized was the easy part. Walking across the threshold of the school was more difficult. We were excited for our oldest daughter. She was thrilled to begin this next phase. I was scared beyond rational thought.

I had visions of sending my baby into the cold, harsh reality of public school. Who would comfort when she fell down? What if there were bullies? Would she be confident enough to ask for help if she didn't understand algebra?

All of our children have been in a daycare/pre-school situation since they were about six-weeks-old. We have handed over our children to be cared for by strangers and for the most part it has been a good experience. I absolutely refuse to debate the merits of stay-at-home parenting versus day care centers. I believe that most parents do what's right for their family.

When we started Peyton in daycare I freaked out completely on the first day. I couldn't be the one to drop her off; Beth had to do it. I had fears that the daycare workers wouldn't know her cries or how she liked to be held or how she like to be burped. They figured it out. I came to value their feedback and suggestions. Long ago I gave up the illusion that I was the only one who knew about and could care for my babies.

What I eventually figured out about Peyton's first school experience is that kindergarten teachers are a special group. They liberally hug. In addition to academics they spend a fair amount of time teaching about kindness and respect. They didn't get to algebra but Peyton learned to read and by the end of the year had a pretty good grasp of beginning math.

Beth has been in elementary education all of her career. She knew these things. She did her best to convince me but there are somethings that I had to experience in order to believe. I really should do a better job of trusting her wisdom

Several years ago I heard a quote that has changed the way I view parenting. Marian Wright Edelman is the founder and president of the Children's Defense Fund. She says: "Children can't be what they can't see." This goes deeper than the adages about "actions speaking louder than words." We are raising three African American children and it is important that they see themselves reflected in our doctors and lawyers and teachers. One day about mid-way through kindergarten Peyton informed me that she could be a teacher. I confirmed that she could be anything she wanted to be; it's a common refrain in our house. Peyton replied: "Yep, I know. Miss Watson is brown just like me."

Now more than any other time in my life, I now have friends representing all the life stages. It isn't about their ages. I have a 55-year-old friend who is dealing with junior high woes and a 50 something friend with a child getting married. I have friends who are contemplating children and friends in the throes of adoption anticipation. I am friends with new grandparents and grandparents who have been celebrating this stage for quite a while.

I am surrounded by all manner of good examples on thriving throughout the various stages. I think my favorite quote should be expanded to "people can't be what they can't see." I want the parents of first time kindergartners to remind me of that even though I've been through this with Peyton, Bennett and Emerson have not and I need to make it a special time for them. I want advice from the parents who are living through the angst of junior high kids. I want to work through the process with my friend who is about to walk a daughter down the aisle and into a new family structure.

Most of all, between now and the time when my kids get their first apartment, I want to figure out how not to be "that mother" they would try to avoid through relocation.

Tulips and Daffodils

Since typical gender roles don't exactly work for our family, Beth and I have divided our home duties according to our natural inclinations: I'm in charge of all things maintenance and Beth controls aesthetics. Truly one of my great joys in life is having the furnace serviced and cleaned. I'm downright giddy at the prospect of having our lawn fertilized and aerated. Beth is able to combine pieces of furniture and art from high end boutiques and discount stores to ensure that we live in a home with style and a decorative theme. She makes sure colors flow from one room to the next and that the rug makes sense with the sofa and bookcases and vases. I haven't a clue what any of that even means. Separating maintenance from aesthetics is a good system for us.

Practically speaking this means on those rare occasions when there are a few extra dollars in the bank account, Beth thinks about redecorating the family room and I think tuck-pointing. She has visions of freshly painted walls and new furniture and I imagine new gutters. Since we live in a home that is just about 60-years-old, maintenance gets a far disproportionate amount of our budget. When we moved into the house seven years ago, we proclaimed that our pink tiled bathroom would not last six months before we started to remodel. But then the basement flooded. A new kitchen was in the five year plan but in the past five years we have had to replace rotting windows, a sinking garage floor and oh yeah, we've adopted twice. So we continue to live with the peach laminate counter top in the kitchen and Pepto-Bismol pink tile in one of the bathrooms.

It's frustrating to be in charge of aesthetics in our home--except for one time a year. Each Spring when it is time to plant, Beth gets to decide what will look best and I am in charge of digging the holes. Most years we have ten yards of fresh mulch delivered and I dutifully fill wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow and disperse mulch around the yard until the large, pungent mound on the driveway disappears.

One Fall Beth decided that our house would be absolutely resplendent if only we had hundreds and hundreds of tulips. She poured over bulb catalogs to select the most hearty and beautiful combinations. She spent all of her birthday money and what felt like the budget of a small country to purchase tulip bulbs. We purchased the bulb planting attachment for the cordless drill and I measured the ideal depth to plant tulip bulbs. We spent a weekend planting cluster after cluster of bulbs.

All winter we had visions of welcoming Spring with a yard that fooled our neighbors into thinking they had made a wrong turn and were instead visiting Holland. Hundreds and hundreds of tulips would signal that we had survived another harsh Illinois winter and our endurance would be rewarded with tulips.

Come Spring, one lonely and not particularly hearty tulip emerged from the ground. One. Before our solitary tulip was fully opened, a violent Spring thunderstorm stripped the petals from the flower and we were left with a stem. All of our work, all of our money, all of our hope and we were left with a stem. Surprisingly Beth did not appreciate my comment about how we would have been better off to place a stack of $20 dollar bills on the roof of the car and drive around the neighborhood. We haven't planted tulips since. They remain Beth's favorite flower and now she enjoys the ones I have a florist deliver to her early each Spring.

The thing I love about maintenance projects is my deeply held belief that if I care for things, if I properly maintain and clean and tune up, the things will respond as I expect. I have our furnace serviced and it is ready to fire up on that first chilly Fall morning. I take the lawnmower in for a tune up and it is at the ready for the first cut of the season. My gutters move the water away from the house and I do not have to fret about a wet basement. This is a world that makes sense. Hundred of dollars and hours of effort spent on tulips that do not emerge in the Spring does not make sense to me.

We've discovered that our puppy, Eleanor, is about 50 percent less crazy if we take her on walks several times per day. Since there is a direct correlation between calmness in our home and puppy walks, I'm a pretty willing participant. Most mornings during the week Eleanor and I set off on a tour around our neighborhood. While I wouldn't readily admit that I'm enjoying my mornings with the puppy, I have enjoyed seeing the neighborhood come to life. First there were tiny flowers peeking through the snow then the buds began to develop on the trees and soon there were green stems and leaves poking through black dirt and shooting straight toward the sky. But they weren't tulips.

This Spring I have become acquainted with daffodils. I'm sure these daffodils have been in place for years but I've not noticed them before. I guess you tend to notice things when you're walking instead of driving a mini-van from one drop off to the next pick up. These flowers have survived and seemingly thrived in the midwestern yo-yo temperatures. Eighty degrees one day, forty degrees the next? No problem. Daffodil flowers remain intact. Blustery wind, driving rain? The daffodils stand in defiance.

There is an empty lot a couple of streets away from us. A developer razed the house on that land in hopes of building a larger and more modern home. The bulldozer engine was still warm when the bottom dropped out of the housing market. So the corner lot has been empty for a couple of years. This year, during my walks, I noticed daffodils popping up around the outline of where the house once stood.

This makes no sense. No one fertilized. No one measured the exact depth of the bulbs. In fact, bulldozers broke up chunks of cement and leveled the ground on top of where these daffodils bulbs had been resting. But this Spring the daffodils paid no mind to what made sense and they emerged once more. Sturdy, defiant, lovely.

There seems to be all sorts of daffodil lessons for me. Years ago someone planted daffodils. The investment they made continues to pay off even though their house is no longer standing. I think this is the definition of legacy. There is a passage in the Bible that describes the lilies in the field and how they pay no attention to what they will wear and yet they are the definition of beauty. Maybe this means I shouldn't worry. However the lesson that seems to be rattling around my head these days is that sometimes things don't make sense.

I am a mom who is doing her best to nurture my children into amazing adults. Sometimes my hard work and planning and maintenance pays off and sometimes it doesn't--at least not in ways that I can see right now. Sometimes things emerge because of my efforts and sometimes it is in spite of my efforts. Sometimes things that don't make a bit of sense are a gift. And sometimes you need an early morning walk with a crazy pup to see these gifts.

Defined By One Word

Last Tuesday as we were all eating dinner, Emerson, as is often her way, picked up a piece of turkey and threw it at me across the table. She is two and for the last year or so, she has provided nightly feedback about our food selection. Any food she enjoys is met with hearty approval through voracious eating. Things she doesn't enjoy--mostly vegetables--are whipped across the table. As we have done for the past year or so, we once again corrected the behavior. We've tried logical appeals, stern talking, time outs, removal of her plate once it is thrown, providing no snacks until the next meal and so on. All to no avail. We are so beaten down that we've begun to celebrate small victories like instead of throwing her entire plate across the room, most of the time she now only throws the offending item.

On this night my future softball star threw the food and I explained that if she threw any more food, dinner would be over for her and she would go to bed. At that, she stood on her chair, pulled down her potty training underwear and showed me her tiny bum. My two-year-old mooned me.

Earlier in the evening she proclaimed that she had to go potty. We let her go into the bathroom on her own and 2 minutes later Beth checked up on her. Beth found a pile of poo in the middle of the room and a gleeful Emerson exclaiming that she had gone potty and inquiring about her candy reward. The day had started with Bennett holding open the door so that Emerson could go outside. Emerson took an Easter egg still heavy with candy and threw it at Bennett's head.

Last week when I picked up Emerson from daycare her exasperated teacher told me how Emerson needed to go potty but another little girl was occupying the toilet. Rather than wait her turn, Emerson got a cup, filled it with toilet water and poured it on the little girl. The drenched little girl ran off to find a teacher. Emerson hopped on the potty, did her business and looked for a teacher to reward her with candy.

When people ask me about Emerson's personality I tell this story. Bennett was on the floor playing with his toys. Emerson dove into the middle of Ben's play and took his favorite truck. We explained to Ben that she only wanted to play with him. We suggested that he find a truck for Emerson and then teach her to play. When he complied with our instruction, she took her truck and hit Ben in the head with it. When he started to cry, she took both trucks and walked off. This is my youngest child.

We often refer to Emerson as the terrorist who wages jihad against the family. When Ben wants to play with her, he straps on his football helmet and asks the whereabouts of "the terrorist." She is so often referred to as the terrorist that she will respond to the name.

Most of my Emerson stories have an element of humor. If nothing else I can appreciate some of her creative problem solving. I could also tell stories about how unlike her siblings, my baby will still snuggle as long as her parents need. In the middle of her play she will run up, hug our legs, scream "yuv you" and run off just as quickly. She has amazing rhythm and begins dancing as soon as she hears any music. She has a well developed belly laugh and more than anyone else in the family, she will someday be the life of the party. Maybe those don't exasperate me and therefore don't bear repeating in the same way.

At age 24 I was promoted to my first management position. I worked at a fast-paced, highly stressful, pressure-cooker of a research company. The moments before any project began were especially difficult. We often would not have the necessary materials until moments before they were needed. On one such occasion I was working with a part time admin to copy the questionnaires that were needed for a research session. As a questionnaire came off the copy machine, it was stapled and hurriedly delivered to the testing room just in the nick of time. But the admin kept making mistakes. She kept getting pages out of order. She would staple the wrong end of the questionnaire. She would staple a small portion of the questionnaire and leave the rest on the copy machine. I blew up and fired her. Not only did I fire her, I proclaimed her an idiot, told her she was useless and would no longer exist in my world.

I do not admit this easily. I am shamed by those words. I am shamed that I found it acceptable to say that to anyone. She absolutely was not suited to do that type of work. But I let her incompetence in that one situation define her for me. I was wrong. She was also a mom, a wife, a friend, a person. I am haunted by that incident. It was a low point in my humanity. It has shaped the way I manage, the way I conduct performance reviews, the way I treat colleagues. Never again will I define someone by an incident or performance on a particular task.

One day this week I was at my end with Emerson's antics. For one very shameful moment I wondered to myself if we had made a mistake by attempting to parent three children. Even though the thought passed by quickly, it has haunted me every day since. Our family would be incomplete without Emerson. It wouldn't be nearly as good. I wonder if by defining Emerson as one word--terrorist- I have somehow allowed myself to focus on all her negative traits and ignore all the good.

In most business situations I am confident to the point of arrogant. When it comes to friendships I am so insecure that I rarely suggest social activities. I am strictly conservative when it comes to my children's dress. I am left of liberal in most political debates. My sense of humor is irreverent. My faith is the most important relationship in my life. I wouldn't describe myself as arrogant or insecure, irreverent or religious, liberal or conservative. I am a combination. To use one word would be an incomplete description.

When I choose one word or one situation to define someone, I form an incomplete picture of who they are. It allows me to ignore the good and the valuable. I fail to recognize the amazing. I'm going to need a new nickname for Emerson.

Get Out of the Tomb!

The two most dangerous days in Christianity are Christmas Eve and Palm Sunday. I'm not sure this is a universal truth. I just know it applies to my family.

My older children are of the age that they can finally experience anticipation. Christmas Eve is nothing if not an exercise in the ritual of waiting. On that evening Peyton and Bennett know that they will open their first gift of Christmas--always pajamas. They will sit at the kitchen table and write a letter to Santa detailing their arguments for inclusion on the good list. They will carefully place an unopened can of Diet Coke and a plate of cookies and carrots by the Christmas tree and they will dive into bed, squeeze their eyes tightly shut and do all they can to fall asleep quickly.

But before that ritual can begin they have to get dressed up in what Ben calls "handsome clothes" and attend Christmas Eve service at our church. We attend the 5 pm "family friendly" service. I think family friendly might be loosely defined since there is fire involved. It doesn't quite seem fair that we load up the kids on Christmas cookies, tell them that Santa will arrive in a matter of hours and insist that they sit still during church.

As a way to manage all this energy, our church does an instant nativity pageant. Each child comes to the front of the church and chooses which part they will play as the Christmas story is read. They can choose to be part of the gaggle of Marys, Josephs, shepherds or angels. Most boys choose to be a shepherd because they get to hold staffs that can be imagined into a light saber or sword or baseball bat. No one wants to be Mary. The Marys get a piece of cloth to cover their heads and the only action needed is to pretend as if you're rocking a baby. A prized role is that of an angel. Each child in that role gets a kazoo and at the appropriate point in the Christmas story, they play their kazoo into some semblance of "Hark the Herald."

Peyton thinks the kazoo is called a "who-er" since that's the sound it makes. One year she didn't get to the front before all the kazoos had been handed out and she loudly protested that she didn't get a who-er. Unfortunately when she said it, it sounded like she was saying whore. It was a proud moment for us. Our young child stood in the front of the church screaming about a whore.

The service always ends with the entire congregation and by entire I mean even the littlest ones, holding lit candles and singing Silent Night. My girls always have flouncy taffeta dresses and by my estimation, taffeta is highly flammable. This year I offered $10 each to the older kids if they could make it through the service without setting anything or anyone on fire. I only had to pay one of them.

Like many other churches, ours hands out palm fronds on Palm Sunday. Palm fronds in the hands of my children are like tiny green whips. I suggested to our Director of Church Operations that we should require protective eye-ware on Palm Sunday--there must be some sort of insurance risk. The instructions are clear. We are to wait for the appropriate song and then wave the palms. For children "hosanna" is some sort of secret code word that incites them to whip the palms back and forth while their parents duck for cover and check their insurance policies to determine ocular coverage.

This year someone who must not have enjoyed wearing a post-Palm Sunday eye patch, organized the children into a Palm Sunday processional down the center aisle. I knew the potential and therefore sat squarely in the middle of the pew. Even the most voracious palm slinger could not reach me in the middle. All of the children and some of the brave bespectacled adults walked down the aisle as we sang a peppy praise song that mentioned "hosanna" several times. Someone watching it from the balcony described it as a tornado of palms.

During the processional I watched Peyton use her palm to smack a boy two kids in front of her. I watched Bennett hide his face behind his palm so that no one would see him. In an act of prevention, Emerson's teacher held her throughout procession. Emerson gets an evil glimmer in her eye and since she doesn't talk much, no one can know for sure the plans she has. It's best to hold her tightly in these situations.

As I looked around the church there were people clearly enjoying the song, the sentiment, the parade, the mayhem. There were just as many stoned-faced parishioners who set their jaws and crossed their arms in passive aggressive protest over the choice of "praise" music. As I looked over at Beth she had tears welling in her eyes. So did I. I leaned over and said to her that it's sad how much our church has changed in the course of a year. And, it breaks my heart that our church continues to be so divided over music that we can't find common joy in a parade of children. Beth corrected my assumption: "It's not that at all. Watch your children. These are their memories of being involved in a church. This is what they will remember. These are the moments of our life." Oh.

No one would ever describe me as wearing rose-colored glasses. It is unlikely that I will see a silver lining without a telescope. Once a glass is down by a quarter, I consider it to be half empty. By nature I am cynical and skeptical. In most situations I look for problems and conflict and I obsess about a way to fix them.

Professionally I am an operations person. I look at every process and see the potential for failure. I then formulate a plan so that I am never surprised by mishap and can spring into action with a solution. Unfortunately this spills over to my personal life. Honestly, it doesn't just spill over, it is a part of who I am.

One of the happiest days of my life was when I heard a presentation on "catastrophic thinking." Finally there was diagnosis for my curmudgeonly attitude. Furthermore, there were entire careers that capitalized on my approach to life! Catastrophic thinkers imagine the worst possible outcome and plan for it.

During the Easter season there are always articles and sermons that warn us that we must experience the darkness of Good Friday in order to relish in the celebration of Easter. Those don't resonate with me. I'm more than happy to dwell in the despair of Good Friday. But Easter is the central tenant of my faith. More than Palm Sunday or Christmas Eve, Easter is the core difference between my faith and many other world religions.

The mystery of my faith is that Easter comes and there is joy. And, no human was needed to fix the situation. It is antithetical to my life view. I feel comfortable in the darkness of the tomb. I like to think that if I were there on that very first Good Friday, I would have first pointed out that we should never, ever call this day "good." Then I would have sprung into action, assessed the situation, formulated a plan.

Easter would have come with or without my plan. My daily prayer is that I can also experience the joys of Easter and realize that my catastrophic thinking isn't always needed.