My Piece of the Rock

The Summer of the Red Fox

"Hunger will lead a fox out of the forest."
- Polish Proverb

At dusk and at dawn for the past two months we've had whispered moments of anticipation and excitement watching the mama fox and her baby come in and out of her very clever culvert den across the street in Old Man's yard...the reward of suburbia destroying animal habitats, no doubt. Mom likely picked our neck of the woods, so to speak, because we're a quick trot from the (overcrowded) forest preserve and full of good hiding places in our forty year old neighborhood of no sidewalks and open ditches. Plus lots of chipmunks. Still, one baby was amazing. Two made us hold our breath and tiptoe down the driveway to really believe what we were seeing. Three was tipping the balance slightly. Four babies playing in the street across from my house made me wonder how long this live documentary is going to last and will there be a happy ending... 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Good Thing

Four women sit on a bench, catching up as women have been known to do. Three talk animatedly about their children, how they’re dealing with school, with friends, with life. One seems distracted. She’s got other things on her mind today, which is why the others are there…and will be there…

 

Thirteen years ago these women sat on another bench, this one outside in the warm spring sun in a neighborhood park. Sweet bird songs and youthful shrieks of joy danced on the breeze as they talked animatedly about their children, watching their little ones play and wondering aloud about how they’d deal with school, with friends, with life. At the time, motherhood linked them. Now friendship binds them. And so they sit, talking animatedly about their children…moms committed to a Lifelong Involvement in Nurturing Kids. MomsLINK. That was the name of the mothers group they started a lifetime ago when their babies were babies, not tweens and teens.

 

Yet that LINK still connects them. So much so that the three were there for the one as she sat on the bench in the skin-paling fluorescent light of the concrete-walled county courthouse, anxiously waiting for her divorce trial to begin. Who knew that thirteen years ago conversations about coupons and crafts and diapers and discipline would lead to this kind of loyalty…this kind of love?

 

I knew. Or at least I hoped, desperately, that’s what MomsLINK would do for its members. We Founding Mothers, as we called ourselves, used to joke that we needed friends so badly we were willing to put an ad in the newspaper to look for other lost souls who were hungry for coherent conversation and a little moral support. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Very few MomsLINKers knew each other before joining, yet friendships blossomed that quickly connected women to other women, at all ages and stages of motherhood, those working in the home and out, and what a good thing it was.

 

It was a good thing to have another mom point out that you had a colicky baby, not just an awful, caterwauling baby, and tell you that your beautiful baby would outgrow this stage, just wait, and here, let me walk with her a while so you can rest.

 

It was a good thing to have two weeks’ worth of women lined up to provide meals for one of their own who’d just had a baby or just lost their mom to cancer or just had a child come home from the hospital.

 

It was a good thing to have park play days, mom and tot outings and monthly evening meetings where you got to pretend you were a real grown up for a while (until the clock struck noon or nine and the minivan turned back into a pumpkin and you were relegated to Cinderella status once again).

 

For ten years, MomsLINK was a very good thing. Sadly, all good things must come to an end; yet the end of MomsLINK wasn’t really an ending, more like a new beginning. Friendships that developed because of the group’s creation continued in spite of the group’s evolutionary conclusion.

 

So that years later, those same women who sat on the park bench sharing life’s joys and concerns can now sit on the courthouse bench sharing life’s joys and concerns, literally. And that, most definitely, is a good thing…

Good Clean Fun

You gotta love it when something works...and even better if it works and it's fun! Friday night our PTO hosted March Madness, a district-wide event that worked really well...and even better, it truly was fun! And free (for our families and staff and their families)! This event has had four formats in four years, but this year was the best so far, I think, since we have now opened it up to all students/families grades Pre-K through 8. That's a wide variety people to make happy, but I think we did! And the biggest victory for me was that we drew the most middle school kids that we've ever had at an after-school family event...and that tells me we're on the right track.

  The rented carnival games were a huge hit for all ages, and no one seemed to mind that we didn't give away ticky tacky prizes that break within seconds. Instead we gave away tickets. Five orange tickets could be redeemed for a snack at the Welcome Table. Purple tickets had a matching half that went into a drawing for a $10 Target gift card (we had a dozen to give away). All good, all around.

But the highlight of the evening was the middle school students versus district staff basketball game, organized by Marcie Uelman, one of the middle school gym teachers who helped us plan the event. A girls team played female staff. A boys team played the male staff, and then the girls team played a mixed staff team for the final 10 minutes with the boys providing commentary. The staff teams whomped the students, although some of those kids really showed their stuff out on the court! The bleachers were packed, and the crowd was roaring, especially when Principal Kevin Suchinski and gym teacher Rob Siebert snuck in moves worthy of the Harlem Globetrotters and the staff cheerleading squad, headed up by Dean of Students April Mayh and complete with the little fluffy hair ribbons and matching cheer vests, took the floor to perform pyramids and organized routines. Good clean fun!

But even more than the happy faces, sweaty heads, laughing kids and chatting parents, I think what I love the most is the bond that has clearly been formed between families and staff. Our PTO is called the Family School Partnership because when the parents voted to leave the PTA 4 years ago and form a new group, we wanted to make sure that our name clearly represented our mission, to strengthen the connection between home and school. There's been a lot of hard work these first four years, but I think the effort is paying big dividends in the form of good clean fun...for everyone, students and staff alike! And that's enough reward for me:)

Happy Mother's Day

I know it's not the second Sunday in May, but that's how I'm feeling today. You'll just have to read on to find out why...

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I knew (innately) that I was having a girl. And the thought terrified me. Girls seemed so much more difficult to parent than boys...so much more drama, so much more to worry about. And those mother-daughter dynamics never seemed to function well, from what I could see, getting worse as the girls (and moms) got older. I was pretty sure I was destined to failure, as the mother of a daughter.

A few months before Kai was born, I shared that fear with a friend, who was more of a mentor at that point in my life. She was an incredible teacher and a single mom of two girls. Laurie was about the only person I knew who honestly enjoyed her daughters at all stages of their lives, whether growing up at home or being grown up and living on their own. She gently but firmly told me to quit my whining, that God was entrusting me with this gift of a baby girl, and maybe, had I considered, just maybe becoming a mother to a daughter was a gift from God as well, a golden opportunity, so to speak. She assured me that God would help me be a wonderful mother to my daughter, if I let Him help me. I trusted Laurie and admired her faithfulness, but I still wasn't sure she was right.

And then Kailie arrived...healthy, beautiful, rosy pink and angelic...when she was sleeping. For the first 3 months of her life, when she was awake, Kai screamed bloody murder. She didn't want to nurse. She didn't want to be rocked. She didn't want to snuggle. She wanted to scream. Even though I'd read all the What to Expect When You're Expecting books and I had already done this once before, I didn't have a clue what was going on until I broke down at playgroup one day and tearfully handed off this screaming child to a friend who said, "Rachel, she's colicky. It will pass." She was right.

It took some time, oh say, ten or so years, but as of her thirteenth birthday, that healthy, beautiful, rosy pink, angelic baby girl has evolved into a healthy, beautiful, rosy pink, angelic teenager who is also fiercely independent, wickedly funny, surprisingly goofy, musically gifted and increasingly able to use her amazing brain to figure life out. She is also a passionate advocate for any and all underdogs, be they people or animals, and sticks to her guns, regardless of what other people think. My daughter makes me laugh, on a daily basis, and reminds me through her own actions and words that I'd better walk the walk if I'm going to talk the talk. She keeps me real. She keeps me young. And although I sang Happy Birthday to her this morning, in my head I was really singing, "Happy Mother's Day to me."

The De-Locking...A Bit of WriterRae Hair-story

In support of my friend Kim who has posted this pic on her FB profile because apparently her new hair-do is TMTH (Too Much To Handle for those of you who don't speak tween girl), I am sharing this little piece of my hair-story.

My mother used to teach in Tinley Park, IL, which was basically a slightly evolved sleepy little farm town 40 years ago. She also had a good college friend whose family lived in nearby Mokena, IL, which was most definitely still a sleepy little farm town 40 years ago. Somehow, between those 2 connections, my mother hooked up with a Mrs. Lucille Newton, who cut hair out of a two-station salon (if you could call it that) in her home on some desolate farm road on the outskirts of Mokena. For my first haircut we traveled all the way to Mrs. Newton's house in Mokena from our house in Homewood (apparently there were no hair cut places in suburban Homewood in 1970).

Now, I know that when you're a kid, every trip seems to take longer, especially when you're not driving and you don't know where you're going, and seeing as how my mother got lost almost everywhere we went and I lived in perpetual fear of never making it home again, Mrs. Newton's house literally seemed like the end of the world. Perhaps my mother felt that way, too, because after my first haircut at age 2, I don't think I got many more haircuts until the dreaded de-locking (sort of like de-frocking but you chop off all of the sinner's hair instead of removing them from the ministry).

By age 6, my naturally thick and wavy hair was halfway down my back. However, my arms had only grown proportionally to my 6-year-old body and so brushing the back of my hair was a challenge. The way my mother tells it, I used to complain so forcefully (read: brattily) when she attempted to brush my hair that she began to refuse, instead warning me (the 6-year-old) that if I didn't brush it, it would become a rat's nest.

Well, that little pearl of wisdom was a self-fulfilling prophecy. By the time I hit 2nd grade, I had a rat's nest going in the back of my head that would rival any 1950's do. My mother, no longer willing to employ the "brush it yourself" strategy and unable to withstand my howls when she tried to untangle the snarl, drove me and my pig-headed self to Mrs. Newton's where she said, "Do what you have to do."

In all fairness to Mrs. Newton, she did try a variety of things first, like working an entire bottle of conditioner into my rat's nest in hopes of getting it undone, but to no avail. Eventually, she took the scissors to it and gave me this charming "pixie" do. Not a good cut for naturally thick and wavy hair, as you can see. I cried myself to sleep for weeks, thinking that I looked like a boy, and cursing Mrs. Newton's name as only a traumatized 6-year-old can.

Sadly, there really is no moral to this piece of hair-story other than, "Quit your crying. Hair grows (unless you're a bald guy)." But that's a hair-story for another day...

Beach Dreamin'

Yesterday on Facebook, a friend updated her status to say that she was looking at real estate in St. Joe and wondering if, in the middle of our current life's-good-if-you're-a-polar-bear weather, St. Joe was warmer or colder than our little hometown...St. Joe being 90-minutes north of us, right on the shores of the temperamental Lake Michigan where storms blow in and out and dump buckets of snow without a second thought. No doubt her FB friends thought she'd fallen victim to cabin fever. I, however, could relate.

St. Joe was a magical place for me growing up. Every fall as our family made our Columbus Day weekend trek through southwestern Michigan, we had a routine. The first night we stayed at the Bella Villa Motel in Stevensville, Michigan. Even though we'd moved into the incredibly stylish 1970's, the color scheme was 1950's South Florida, which worked for me. Who liked avocado green and burnt orange anyway? Would we get the coral door, the mint green door, the aqua ice door or the butter yellow door? It was like going to Vegas, baby! And for a quarter, you could make the beds shake. Now that's 5-star accommodations!

Nights two and three were reserved for the Saint Joe Holiday Inn, which sat perfectly positioned between the lake and the Blossomland Bridge. Our west side room gave us a birdseye view of the train bridge in the St. Joe River. The vacation scored bonus points if we were awakened in the middle of the night by a clanging warning bell. Crowding onto my brother's rollaway bed by the window, we'd watch the tracks swing shut to let trains cross the river while the huge cargo ships lay docked further east.

Days were reserved for shopping at the Emporium and Ben Franklin in St. Joe's old-timey downtown, eating ice cream at Wilbur's, playing at the community park which was down in a valley, if you can have a valley in the middle of a sleepy Michigan town, apple-picking at Mr. Thandlewayne's farm just south of town off the Red Arrow, feeding the ducks at the base of the Blossomland Bridge and house hunting. My father was forever hunting for his dream house on the shores of the lake he loved. His extreme scoliosis kept him from being a swimmer and beach lover; all he needed was the view. Virtually every trip we took we hooked up with a local real estate agent and toured assorted homes, all with a view. While much of my memory bank continues to warp and grow fuzzy with age, I have crystal clear pictures embedded in my brain of wandering through stately St. Joe Victorians with their antique steam heat radiators, worn wood floors, high ceilings and always, always a view of the lake through the tree canopy lining the bluff.

My dad's been gone two years now, but just ask my husband...I'm still beach dreamin' of a room with a view.

Life Lesson #4: 7th Grade Ninjas Turn Out Okay, Really!

When my husband and I were teenagers, I’m sure we drove our parents crazy, but, really, we were pretty good teenagers, as teenagers go. First-borns, responsible, trustworthy, not swayed by peer pressure…I’m thinking, for the most part, our parents got off easy. But I also think that being on the straight and narrow path as a teen, while definitely a plus, sets you up for some naïveté as a future parent.

 

So it was helpful that we got a little preview of “the other side” of teenagers when we worked in youth ministry early in our parenting journey. Every Sunday night when we drove home from youth group to pick up our toddlers from my parents’ house, we’d say, “Please, God, let us learn from this experience.” And really, we had good kids in our youth group. Really we did!

 

However, recently I was talking to some friends, all parents of tweens and teens, and was reminiscing about one of our former senior highs named Josh, who, along with his wife, was expecting their first child in early November. However, I was having a hard time seeing Josh as a dad because I have this image burned in my brain of a wild and crazy 7^th grader, which is what Josh was when we met him. Please note: wild and crazy is not an understatement, nor is it Steve Martin’s wild and crazy.

 

One of my initial encounters with Josh took place in the church kitchen. We were doing some sort of cooking activity when I heard strange noises coming from across the room. I looked up to see Josh with a dish towel tied around his head Ninja-fashion swinging two long, serrated knives in the air as he circled menacingly. “Ayiii ayahhhh, ayiiii!” Josh howled with a mad glint in his eye.

 

Seeing as how I never, in a million years, would have done anything like this as a kid and the youth leader instruction manual didn’t cover 7^th grade Ninjas with no concept of self-preservation, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with this invader. It took about 10 minutes for me to convince Josh that flinging knives around Ninja-style was not in his best interest, nor mine. He reluctantly put them down, not fully convinced, while I breathed a sigh of relief and wondered if this happened in Josh’s kitchen, too.

 

And so, it was on such quasi-parenting dramas that my husband and I cut our teeth…trial by fire. Fortunately, Josh grew up to be one of my all time favorite people…an incredibly responsible, trustworthy and loyal individual who served his country honorably in

Iraq

. Holding his beautiful baby in my arms over Thanksgiving served as tangible proof of just how much Josh has matured in the 15 years since we’d met.

 

And as if that wasn’t enough of a gift to be thankful for, I got an email from Josh shortly after our visit.  “The fact that I am a stable human being is a direct reflection on your patience, love, understanding and knowledge. Notice patience is listed first. I'm positive I tested it quite often…I’m sure my son will appreciate it, too,” he wrote.

 

What Josh doesn’t know is that without those testing experiences, I don’t think I’d be the stable human being I am today either, especially in the parenting department. My husband and I are far from perfect parents, but we feel fortunate to have had a trial run at this parenting teenagers thing, thanks to Josh and our other “kids”. Here’s to 7^th grade Ninjas! They do turn out okay...really!

 

19 Years of L-O-V-E

You're the one that I want...ooh, ooh, ooh, honey!

Download Anniversary_0001  (music by Outcast Jazz Band)

19 years of wedded bliss today!

 

Rooted and Grounded in...

Ever since we cleaned out my mom's garage two weeks ago, I've been thinking about roots and what it means to be connected to family and faith. I've written before about coming from a line of good, strong women...they're stubborn, opinionated, faith-led and service-oriented. It's pretty clear to me that my daughter and I are continuing that gene pool. However, I'm always intrigued when I see further proof of those DNA links, especially to my Gram.

What I found in the garage, though, gave me pause. I uncovered a side to her that I'd not seen before. A humble side, which I don't remember ever experiencing as a kid. My Gram, it turns out, had been a Director of Christian Education for her Presbyterian church (like my mother, like me...like my daughter one day??). I discovered that fact through a letter I found in her papers. Yellowed with age, covered in cobwebs, it proceeded to outline her tenure as DCE, as well as the arrival of a new pastor, who had decided to take a more active role in Christian education than his predecessor. Knowing my Gram the way I thought I did, I was pretty sure the end of the letter was going to be calling for his resignation. Yet as I read on, it became clear that my Gram was yielding to a higher authority, God's, even in the face of obvious support from members in her congregation to stay on in her position.

She ended the letter by saying, "May I please go back to being a resource person, working quietly without a special title?...I have found that work done simply as a member of a congregation brings more results and less grief than work done as an "important" name that everyone knows."

A name that everyone knows...how ironic that years later hundreds and hundreds of Homewood grade school children who grew up in the 70's and 80's knew my Gram's name by heart. Mrs. VanDyke was legend in the Homewood public schools for close to 20 years, regularly visiting classrooms as a volunteer storyteller with her finger puppets. Yet because she was rooted and grounded in love for God, she simply served him humbly throughout her life.

As I continue in my writing journey, I'm well aware that I'm not a James Patterson or a Dr. PhiI. I'm also pretty sure that my husband will not be able to retire on my author income any time soon (his game plan!). Yet if my roots run deep and I share my Gram's DNA, it is enough to know that I am rooted and grounded in love and am serving God by using my gifts wisely and, I hope, humbly. If that makes me a good, strong woman for the road ahead, all the better.

Life Lesson #2: Don't Mess with Your Father, Son...

Because he's meaner than your mother. Because he was once a teenage boy, too, and he knows how your brain operates...even though you'd like to deny it and claim no genetic similarities to the wise and just adult male who sits next to you at the dinner table...or was that the wise a*% who sits next to you at the dinner table?

From the mom's perspective, I'm thinking it's a little of both, as last night we were having our (now) nightly dinner conversation about Oldest Son's grades. I announced to my husband in a pleased-as-punch voice that Alex had come up with "a plan" to get his reading grade out of the hole it was in.

"A plan?" the Dad said, amazed that Oldest Son was actually thinking ahead. "What kind of plan?"

"Well, you know we have those root tests every week, and Miss D said in this novel we're reading if we find root words and write down the definitions, we get one extra credit point for each word. And there's no limit. I'm going to get 100. I've already got 36. She said the most anyone ever turned in was 32!" Alex announced, grinning ear to ear with the brilliance of his plan.

"She's never met you," I muttered, thinking this woman was probably going to be pulling her hair out by the end of the year or rapidly going gray (which I've noticed I've been doing this fall...go figure). Bet she didn't plan on grading 100 Latin and Greek root word definitions this weekend, but hey, she offered...

"Yeah, just call him BoBo the Root Boy," the Dad casually tossed out, causing me to choke on my just-sipped milk, very nearly spitting it all over the table in juvenile boy fashion.  (BoBo, BTW, would be our pet name for Oldest Son, much to his chagrin).

Then, of course, I couldn't stop laughing...and my family looked on with rising panic, never having seen the Mom lose it at dinner like this.

"I'm sorry," I gasped between guffaws.  "I just had visions of story lines dancing in my head...you know...'Bo Bo the Root Boy Saves the World, One Latin Prefix at a Time'. Hey, where's my notebook?"

My kids continued to stare, quite sure I'd gone over the edge. My husband, however, now saw the added humor and was trying not to fall off his chair as he contained his mirth, eyes watering as he held in full belly laughs.

"See? That's why we have to have questions for you to answer at dinner...so we can have polite conversation," my husband informed our three very confused children. "Otherwise we have this..." he said gesturing to me, still trying hard to return to reality from the fictional world of BoBo the Root Boy and not succeeding.

It's okay, though. A little laughter through chaos at the family dinner table brings everyone closer together, right? Excuse me...I said, "Right?!"

Don't mess with your mother...or your father, now, Son. Riiiight, as Bill Cosby says.