Stop The Wind

13 May 2012 3 Comments

by Deb D in Growing Up, Parenting Tags: , ,

My three year old son and I were playing at the lake.  I watched, amused, as the plan for his boats unfolded.  With an intense look on his face, he set to work on his fleet.  The wind was strong that day, repeatedly interfering with my son’s plans, tipping and scattering boats at the shoreline.

I could see my son’s frustration mounting.  Finally, he turned to me and demanded, “Mom, make the wind stop!”  I chuckled at the notion that my son thought I possessed that kind of power.  The would-be hero in me wanted – really wanted – to have that power.  An image of Deb Dunham, goddess of nature, waved her hand, effortlessly righting every wrong.  The longing to grant my child’s every wish, heal his every hurt, and protect him from every harm is my raw desire – unwise and impractical, yes, but very real.

I recall my baby’s first night at home.  A tiny, innocent, vulnerable little being in a too-big crib, in a too-big room, in a too-big world.  Too big to protect him from.  How would I ever keep him safe?  How would I keep my own heart from breaking when he suffered the inevitable hurt?

It occurred to me that this is the price a parent pays for the purchase of a love this big.  The amount of pain I would endure would be in direct proportion to the amount of love I feel.  And yet, I am willing to take that risk.

As the years go by, I am learning to rely on the natural balance of life as a stabilizer to keep me grounded, reminding me of the benefits of my limitations.  When I can’t be a perfect parent, my children learn tolerance for imperfection.  When I can’t do everything for them, they learn self-sufficiency.  The truth is, it is in not giving children all that they want that they receive all they need.  Rudolph Dreikurs said, “We cannot protect our children from life, therefore, it is essential that we prepare them for it.”

When my children are grown and re-inventing parenthood, I will empathize with their struggle to be everything to everyone.  And I will remind them to be gentle with themselves – for their benefit and mine.  After all, I will still be their mother, and they will still be running around with my heart.

You Aren’t Listening

10 May 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Uncategorized Tags: ,

Once upon a time, there was a family of four – a mother, a father, and two children.  The oldest child had exceeded childhood milestones in many ways.  She was also a quiet, well-behaved child.  But the younger child, Sarah, was very different.  She appeared to be ‘delayed.’  She started to crawl when she should be walking.  When she did learn to walk, she would fall every few steps, often bumping her head.  Sarah tried to communicate, but the few words she knew weren’t the ones she needed, and hardly anyone understood them.  Sarah ‘acted out’ – a lot.  Her family and her teachers became weary.  Frustrated, they would say, “Sarah! You’re not listening to me.”

Sometimes, at dinner, Sarah would throw tantrums.  Her family played the ‘process of elimination game’ for five frustrating minutes until they had pointed to every possible ‘want.’  At bedtime, Sarah would cry and point and finally, throw herself down, worn out and still unable to communicate.  Sarah’s mother would cry sometimes too.

Sarah’s loving parents had her evaluated by every specialist they could find.  Explanations were tossed around, each skewed to the specialist’s profession, and none skewed toward Sarah’s benefit.  In a single year, Sarah had hundreds of appointments, assessments and interventions.  All were inconclusive.  “Where is your voice hiding?” the family wondered.

Finally, at the age of four, Sarah met the person who would change her life – the doctor who discovered that Sarah was deaf, almost.  Sarah was ‘fast-tracked’ through the medical system given her late diagnosis of Enlarged Vestibular Aqueduct Syndrome (EVA) – an unstable, inoperable condition.  Any bumps to the head could render Sarah completely deaf.

Sarah’s parents were told that she should never participate in contact sports.  No kickball games, no monkey bars at recess, no…fun?  Pass the bubble wrap, please.  And the tissues.  Family and friends cried big, ugly tears for this beautiful little girl.  For the difficulties she would endure, and for the frustrations already spent and still to come.

One day, not long after Sarah got her very first hearing aids, the tears changed shape.  When Sarah walked outside, she stopped at the top step, wide-eyed and incredulous at the sounds she was hearing.  She jumped – startled by a crow.  “What’s that?” she asked.  She had never heard a bird before.  When Sarah went to bed, instead of crying, she was able to communicate her fears.  “I need the light.  I’m scared.”  And she lay down peacefully, hearing the comforting words of her parents. Sarah doesn’t act out like she used to.  She stills herself so she can read lips and enunciate the words she is learning.  And she sings. She sings!

Sarah and her family are preparing for the future.  They are learning sign language.  They are gathering resources and information.  And they are basking in the sound of each other’s voices.

One day, in mock posturing, Sarah said to her family, “You’re. Not. LISTENING!”  The same words that had been mistakenly directed at her for years.  With regret for their ignorance, they stopped what they were doing and faced the beautiful little girl with the hearing aids.  “Tell us, Sarah.  What do you want us to hear?”  To which she said nothing.  She stared at them in silence, content that finally, people could hear her.  And she could hear them.

“All the sounds of the earth are like music.”  – Oscar Hammerstein

Listen well.

Excerpted from an article by Donna R., Sarah’s mother, and my sister

A Moment In Time

30 Apr 2012 11 Comments

by Deb D in Greatest Hits, Just Life, Parenting Tags: , , , ,

When my first baby was born, my father would come to visit so I could ‘get things done.’  He would sit for hours, rocking my infant daughter to her heart’s content – and his.  I would dash around them cleaning, cooking, and running errands.  Knowing that my baby was loved and cared for, I reveled in my productivity.

I cherished these stints of freedom to catch up – until the day I stopped for a rest and really saw the two of them.  Plopping down on a couch next to my baby and her grandfather, I noticed the joy between them.  With nowhere to go and nothing to do, the pair of them were free to just love each other – to experience the peace of a moment spent together in silence.  I envied my father as I convinced myself that this was a benefit reserved for retired grandparents and not for busy mothers.

Several years and a couple of children later, my youngest daughter, now 8, finds me lying on the floor stretching a tight muscle.  Quickly noticing a rare opportunity, she throws herself onto the floor next to me and sneaks in for a cuddle.  A previous version of me wants to peel her off and set her back on track for the harried morning routine.  But the ‘Live Like You’re Dying’ version of me cuts off the drill sargent in my head with a reminder, ‘Enjoy it! You may not get another chance!’

So I sink into the moment.  Wrapping my arms around my sweet girl, I whisper, “It’s so easy to love you.”  She squeezes me tighter and plants a kiss.  A flood of love engulfs us.  We lay like this in suspended animation.  Time becomes irrelevant.  Life becomes only this moment.

Eventually, voices of the family remind us that the clock has not, in fact, stopped and the school bus waits for no one.  Searching for a delicate way to break our bond, I say to my daughter, “If we stay here coveting each other then all the people who were meant to benefit from our presence in their day will miss us.  They won’t get to share the gift of you and me today.  We need to spread our love around.  We need to do what we’re meant to do.”  Without pause, without doubt, my daughter trumps my logic with her own wisdom.  “Mom,” she replies, “THIS is what we’re meant to do.”

Yes, baby, it is.  How are you, at eight years old, so wise?  And I, at the tender age of 42, am just learning these lessons that you know so well?  With regret, I review the scant amount of times I’ve stopped long enough for a child to slip into my arms.  I feel actual pain in my chest when I recall visions of me dragging a child by the hand with quickening steps.  I shudder as I hear scripts play back in my head, ‘Let’s go. Not now. No time. HURRY!’

I could drown myself in sadness over lost moments.  Instead, I vow to change.  Never a day will go by that I don’t offer a hug or ask for a kiss or speak the love words.  Never again will I be unapproachable to a child.  Never, will I miss the fullness of a moment spent in stillness.

Saved By the Son, Again

19 Apr 2012 3 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Parenting, Reconciling Tags: , ,

I may have misrepresented myself in a previous blog about my management of a busy schedule.  Given the fact that it was only the first week of a ‘mind-numbing’ schedule, I was still in possession of a sense of humor when I wrote about it.

Four weeks, and many mess-ups later, that sense of humor vanished and my brain exploded.  It was one of those days when you wake up feeling almost as tired as when you went to bed.  The insane busyness had finally caught up with me and stripped me of any reserve energy.

This particular day involved three trips between home and a town 30 or more minutes away.  I won’t bore you with a math problem, but let’s agree that it equaled a LOT of time in the car, especially for a Mom whose personal fuel tank is on empty.

So when I arrived at a sports field and found no one there, I snapped.   Immediately I knew it was my mistake.  Why wouldn’t it be?  Hadn’t I botched the schedule twice already this week?  I had shrugged off the first mistake, felt annoyed at the second, but came unglued on this, the third occassion.

Having a car full of children (not all my own), gave me pause.  I was actually proud of myself for pre-determining “Will anyone be scared if I start yelling?”  When they assured me that they wouldn’t be emotionally scarred, I unleashed a string of PG-rated curses against calendars and schedules, and no one in particular, that lasted longer than a few breaths.  Then came the tearless whimpering and stomping of fists on the steering wheel.  It was a full-on adult temper tantrum.  Like an irrational two year old, I couldn’t stop myself, until…

A hand reached across the front seat – the hand belonging to the same son who recently pulled me from the clutches of despair with his heartfelt sentiment.  This time, he employed quick wit to rescue me, and a car full of kids, from the Mommy breakdown that threatened to ruin the lot of us.

With feigned seriousness, my son began reciting Ricky Bobby’s irreverant dinner table grace.  “Dear little four pound baby Jesus….”  That’s all it took.  The entire car erupted into fits of laughter.  My son continued ad libbing a mock prayer sprinkled with requests that his ‘Mama regain her sanity.’

Though I’m not a fan of blasphemy, I felt that maybe even Heaven was laughing at the site of this car full of lunatics.  What an amazing remedy humor is!  Once again,  negativity was transformed by a sensitive, humorous, loving 13 year old boy.

The ride home was uproarious.  We opened the windows, blasted the tunes, and sang at the top of our lungs, effectively releasing all tension that had accumulated in the past month.

Despite the fact that I’d secretly like to claim dominion over my emotions, I openly admit that I can be as vulnerable as a small child when stress crosses my path.  But again, I recognize that where the vulnerability of an adult meets the love of a child, amazing things happen.  Children have a special brand of magic that imparts perspective on life.

So although I’ll do my best to remain in command of my faculties, I suspect I will forever be the colorful, emotional, unpredictable mother that my children enjoy saving.

Saving Seven Lives

11 Apr 2012 3 Comments

by Deb D in Reconciling, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

I’m drowning in thoughts of murder.  No, not  me.  I don’t want to murder anyone – today.  But it seems that plenty of people do.  Which makes me wonder, like the Black Eyed Peas do in their song, ‘Where Is the Love?’

I’ve been reading the Hunger Games trilogy in which murder is a main theme.  Then there’s the daily disturbing news coverage of murders like the one of the man who killed seven people.  Couple this with the re-telling of the Passion of Christ this Easter season in which the crowd shouts, “Crucify Him!” and you understand how I got to this unsettled place.  Still, I surprised even myself when I burst into tears at Mass.  My children, unaccustomed to Mom crying, giggled nervously and whispered to each other loudly enough to draw attention to my spontaneous unraveling.

An explanation was expected on the ride home.  But how to articulate my despair?  Is it wise to expose my children to my darkest thoughts?  Mother is supposed to be a beacon of hope and strength and comfort.  Yet, she is human and desires that her children witness that truth. 

So she begins, delicately, trusting that her children will rise to the challenge before them.  She tells them that she feels weak sometimes and powerless against the evil in the world.  And when she stands before God in His house and spills her heart out to Him, she feels like a child who needs to cry about what she can’t do and can’t have – like world peace and safety for everyone.  Mother chokes up again when she proclaims how unfair it is that a person can decide to kill seven people and just do it.  But another person, like Mother, can’t decide to save seven people .  It’s easier, it seems, to kill people – literally and figuratively – than it is to save them.

The children, desperate to patch up Mother’s wound as she has done so many times for them, offer their wisdom.  The son, usually silent, speaks first.  With his story, the son pulls the mother’s pain out of her in the same way that Androcles plucked a festering splinter from the lion.  Here is what he said:

“Once there was a boy who was walking home from school.  Some bullies gave him a hard time and all his books spilled out of his backpack.  Another boy saw this and came to his aid, picking up books and helping the boy up.  The Samaritan asked, ‘Why are you carrying so many books?’  The boy answered, ‘I cleaned out my locker because I had intended to kill myself today.  I’m sick of being bullied.  I thought no one cared about me.  But you helped me.  And now I know I was wrong.  Thank you.'”

By the end of her son’s story, Mother is crying again, but for a different reason.  She is humbled by her son’s wisdom and compassion.  She feels hope and joy in his story.  Fearing that Mother may have missed the point, the son explains, “You never know the effect that kindness has on people.  You’ve probably saved a lot of lives, Mom.”

…..

There are moments in life when my heart fills so unexpectedly and so completely that I wonder how it remains contained in my chest.  The heart that only moments before was shriveling in despair, is renewed by an extended hand of compassion.  In an instant, I am transformed like the Grinch on Christmas morning: 

And what happened then?  Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.  And then the true meaning of Christmas came through and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches plus two!

A little love from little beings brings big love to big beings.  Beautiful.

.

A Female Prerogative

05 Apr 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Crack A Smile, Just Life, Parenting, Uncategorized Tags: , ,

If I had a dime for every time someone has described my little girl as ‘sweet,’ I’d be able to pay for her college tuition.  She owns sweetness.  But there are moments when sweet turns salty.

Return with me to a scene in my kitchen seven months ago….Eight year old daughter is throwing a tantrum worthy of a Terrible Two.  She slings accusations of treason, threats of mutiny, and plenty of parent bashing.  My crime: signing her up to play fall Lacrosse.  By the magnitude of her reaction, you’d think I’d told her she was committed to prison or to an orphange.

In my most delicate and patient Mama voice, I reminded Miss Sweetness that I signed her up for this session months before – when she was enjoying lacrosse.  “But I DON’T love it now and I WON’T do it and you CAN’T make me and….” screamed the angel with her halo on fire.  The tension escalated when I told her definitively that she would be honoring her committment to the team – i.e. I’m not throwing away hundreds of dollars in fees.  BUT, no worries, Peach, I wouldn’t think of signing you up again after this season.  You’ve made your wishes clear.

Periodically, the tantrums replayed themselves.  Each time, husband facetiously pointed out, “We’re gonna miss this.”  When emails reminded me to sign up for the upcoming lacrosse season, I confidently hit delete, delete, delete.

Enter Peach on the opening day of Spring lacrosse.  “Mom?  I was talking to my friends today and decided I want to play lacrosse.”

Silence.

More silence.

I was livid.  And speechless – which turns out to be a very lucky (and uncommon) thing.  Lucky because I’m certain I would have regretted a word or two.  Visualize me, if you will, a cartoon character – face beet red, steam shooting out of its ears.  A multi-dimensional “Oh?!#$%” escapes my lips.  “Yes,” she replied guiltlessly.  “And I’ll need a new mouthguard and shorts.”  Off she skipped, blissfully ignorant of the fury rising within me.  Admidst the brew of poisonous thoughts in my head, a glimmer of admiration popped up.  Imagine, after what she put me through, she has the nerve to declare that she simply ‘has changed her mind.’

How frequently I’ve commiserated with girlfriends who refuse to change their mind or admit a wrong choice for fear of inconveniencing or angering another.  Why, and when, do we lose the courage to speak our truth without fretting over what others will think?  Might it be best, then, to honor this courage in a young girl instead of stamping out the fire with a vengeful reaction?

I coach myself against the desire to make my little tigress suffer in kind for previous infringements on my sanity.  Still, I reach deep in my pockets for a reason to deny  her new whim.  I even consider how she will compensate me for the late fee I’ll incur.  (I can hear Yoda assessing me, ‘The need for justice is strong in this one.’ )

Failing to justify the need to reap revenge for revenge’s sake, I return to the fact that my daughter is just 8.  I can’t hold that against her.   In fact, I can learn from her.  I just hope I can muster her level of courage when I need it.  If I’ve made a committment to you, be forewarned, I may change my mind simply for the practice.

Aging Gracefully

26 Mar 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Just Life Tags: ,

As a Physical Therapist, I work with debilitated elderly.  Therefore, I have few examples of aging well.  The active 85 year old with the trifecta of an intact intellect, healthy physique, and winning personality does not often cross my path.  Which is why I was smitten with an adorable woman I saw on a talk show whose video review of the Olive Garden Restaurant went viral.  An active woman, Marilyn Hagerty seemed a model for geriatrics – poised, authentic, fun, optimistic.

In contrast, my forlorn elderly patients frequently impart this impractical advice: “Don’t get old.”  Really?  What’s the alternative – die young?  The more I hear this bit against aging, the harder it is to hold back my snarky comebacks.  I’d like to ask these Negative Nellies, ‘when should I kill myself then? 50? 60?’

The compassionate side of me knows that aging is not for sissies.  Often, the losses seem greater than the gains.  An elderly post-surgical patient said, “They (the surgeons) keep taking things out but they never put anything in.”  It’s a dilemma really.  The will to live a long life is strong.  The temptation to complain about the process is stronger.

We get all wrapped up in youth, digging our heels in while age drags us kicking and screaming from year to year.  Some fight bitterly.  Some scoff at age with reckless behaviors and silly decisions – aka mid-life crises.  Few age gracefully.  Carolyn Myss says, “You can’t avoid turning 50 if you were meant to turn 51.”  Logic wins. 

I distinctly recall the feeling I had about ‘aging’ in my twenties.  Every year got better – more freedom, more money, more respect, more stuff, more experiences, more wisdom, MORE.  After childbearing, the ‘more’ became more bills, more work, more worry.  Yes, there was also more joy, but it’s hard to see that when you’re submerged in the thick of it.  I imagine the elderly might observe that the senior years involve more sickness and more loss. 

So how to stay positive amidst the inevitable changes? If we take our clues from Marilyn, we’ll position ourselves to stay in the game – literally.  When Ms. Hagerty’s video review went viral, this was her reaction, “I didn’t care.  I had to get to Bridge Club.” 

Therein lies a benefit of aging.  The freedom from caring what people think and say and expect of you.  The freedom to cast off the word ‘should’ and replace it with ‘I want’ and ‘I will.’  When I tried to encourage a 90 year old patient to stay out of bed during the day so her systems would function better, she looked me square in the eye and said, “No one’s gonna tell me I can’t sleep when I want!”  Amen, sister!  Can I get you a blanket?

The elderly can lay claim to freedoms reserved just for them.  I look forward to that part of aging. For now, when my 42 year old self feels like mourning its losses, I’ll picture my 80 year old self –full of pep like Marilyn Hagerty – admonishing it.  ‘Shame on you,’ she’ll chide.  ‘I wish I was 43 again!’

Thank You, Button

19 Mar 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Uncategorized

Sometimes the world is so beautiful I can’t stand it.  More accurately, the world is always beautiful, and sometimes I see just how mignificnet it is and it blows my mind.

I conducted an experiment one day, challenging myself to find the smallest, most insignificant thing I could feel grateful for.  My attention shifted to the buttons on my shirt.  Boring, commonplace, underappreciated buttons.  As I focused on them, I saw how simple they were, a no-brainer as far as inventions go.  Yet buttons didn’t always exist.  Imagine the first person to discover buttons.  He/she was probably elated at this newfound convenience.  A decorative one to boot! 

Then I pictured my shirt missing a button.  Gee, I’m glad I’m not missing a button.  You know, I actually have hundreds of buttons, and they’re all different!  So I went to look at those buttons too.  In my closet, I ran into belts and zippers and all sorts of fabrics and colors and designs.  Then I notcied the light above my head and the simple switch that turned on this amazing technology.  And I was grateful for Thomas Edison and…..

Like a runaway train, gratitude gathered momentum within me.  It sped down the track of my mind out of control.  I couldn’t stop seeing everything as amazing.  I actually had to look away – turn my brain off – for fear that it would crash.

There are days that I repeat this experiment just for the trhill – like a hyped-up child who gets off a rollercoaster and runs right back into the line to ride again.  I’m addicted to gratitude high.

The irony is, the more I see that everything matters, the more I realize that nothing does.  In gratitude-speak, the fact that I have a chair to sit on is magnificent.  The loss of that chair would be grand, too, because the floor would be there for me to sit on.    And if I didn’t have the floor, well, the ground would support me and I would be grateful for that.  And there it goes again – gratitude taking off with me in tow until I start crying because I can’t fathom the abundance in front of me, and below me, and beside me.

Mark Haddon’s autistic character in The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-time observes, “I think there are so many things in just one house that it would take years to think about all of them properly.  And also, a thing is interesting because of thinking about it and not because of it being new.”

It sounds silly, but I am grateful to gratitude for showing me how to think about things ‘properly.’  And for coloring my world with so much overwhelming beauty.

I. Need. Help.

15 Mar 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Growing Up, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

(Dedicated to ShaZam)

In my twenties, I practiced extreme independence and self-sufficiency.  I didn’t need anyone.  I could handle myself, thank-you-very-much.  From changing the oil in my car, to teaching myself how to sew, there was nothing I wouldn’t take on.

This fierce ‘hear me roar’ persona is one of the qualities that attracted my husband, I’m told.  Looking back, I must have appeared to be quite a catch – a girl who wants to be with a man but has no intention of depending on him.  Husband, bless his thick skin, wasn’t even put off by my frequent declarations of independence.  Me: “I don’t need you, you know.”  Husband: “Yes, dear.  You’ve made that clear.”

To my husband’s amusement, I would throw my 110 pounds into impossible tasks like loosening lug nuts on a tire or carrying roofing shingles up a ladder, refusing to accept help.  He only offered unsolicited help once.  His genuine concern over my safety was met with a Hulk-like reaction.  I didn’t quite sprout muscles or turn green, but my voice did deepen as I spit venom in my husband’s direction.

It’s comical now – my staunch opposition to assistance.   I naively equated dependence with weakness.  My black and white thinking saw no middle ground between complete independence and helplessness.  I wouldn’t let anyone help me for fear that I would be surrendering my power to them.

This supremely invulnerable alter ego continued into motherhood.  I tried to do it all – with a smile.  When number two baby came along seventeen months after number one,  and husband left for a business trip one week later, I finally fell off the scaffolding.  Cradling a colicky baby and a screaming toddler I cried into the phone, “I can’t do it.  I. Need. Help.” …..and the walls of the city crumbled.

The image of invincibility that I had built up was, ironically, as delicate as glass.  What looked like strength was actually weakness.   An attempt to cover up fear.

These days, I hand my husband a jar before I try to open it.  I take my car to the mechanic for an oil change.  I ask a child for help with the computer.   And yet, I feel stronger than ever.

I’ve learned that I do need people to help me through life.  And they need me.  We are inter-dependent.  Us people, we are gifts to each other.  When we wall ourselves off, we do so at our own peril.  And we rob each other of the gift of being able to help.

I still pride myself on my ability to care for myself.  I like being independent.  But I also enjoy knowing that I can ask for, and accept, the love and kindness that others have to give.

Calendars, Cops, and Country Singers

12 Mar 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Just Life, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

When my online calendar gave me the following alert, “Caution!  There are conflicts in your schedule.” I paused, briefly.  No kidding, I thought.  Two working parents, three kids in sports, an aging dog, doctors and dentists appointments for all….There are bound to be a few conflicts in the schedule.  Until I figure out how to invent time or bi-locate, those conflicts are going to have to learn to co-exist.

This week marked the beginning of a mind-numbing schedule full of activities and appointments that are all essential (according to their participants.)  I sometimes envision my online calendar with a life of its own – like the 1970s sci-fi movies about smart computers taking over humanity.  It appears as if I enter one item and it magically multiplies until the once neat white/gray grid is eclipsed in a wall of red.

Joking aside, I’m well-aware of my responsibility in creating this mess.  I’ve given too many yes’ and not enough no’s – clearly.  But like many things in life, if you think too much about decisions before making them, you get stuck in the details and never move forward.  So, I say yes without having any idea how I will manage the details.  A clever man – aka husband – once said, “we’ll never be able  to afford kids on paper but somehow it all works out.”  So far, he’s right.

Darryl Worley advises,

Sounds like life to me plain old destiny

You gotta hold on tight just enjoy the ride

Get used to all this unpredictability

Sounds like life.

I’ve surrendered to this somewhat comforting outlook on life.  Which is why, when asked to be a home-stay volunteer for an out-of-town student group this weekend, I gave a sincere ‘yes.’  Might be fun – after the extra cleaning, (i.e. gutting and fumigating a child’s bedroom), food shopping, and juggling of carpools.

So why take on so much?  Truth is, I love being busy.  The ‘busy’ reminds me that I am abundant.  I am needed.   Taylor Swift points out, “Life makes love look hard.”  Love takes work and patience and time.  But someday, when I look at my kids’ healthy, straight teeth, I’ll forget the umpteen trips to the orthodontist and the endless arguments about brushing and flossing.  When I hear them tell stories about the time they scored a goal or broke a bone, I’ll forget the rushing around from one sports field to the next.    I’m willing to bet that Trace Adkins is correct in predicting, “I’m gonna miss this.” 

For now, I have to keep a sense of humor and hope that those around me will do the same.  Like when the police officer pulled me over and asked, “Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?” I replied with a definitive, “Yes, I do.  Very fast.  Would you like to see my calendar?”

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