Before the storm

You know what is weird? When you spend a year being all hyper-focused on the fact that this is your oldest child's last year at home (well, last year living at home full time...hopefully...or at least until he graduates college...again, hopefully...and moves back home because the job market stinks for all those poor 20 somethings with their college educations and nowhere to go)...anywhooo... What is weird is when you get through all the stuff. The Senior Thesis, the College Applications, the re-taking of SAT's, the College Acceptances, the College Decision, the Prom, the Graduation, the strange summer after graduation when they are not really kids not really adults (I call it the 'Are You Still Here?' summer)...you survive all of that in preparation for the big goodbye and then....they don't leave.

At least not yet.

A lot of kids have already said their goodbyes. I know that. But that's what is adding to the weirdness around our household. Jack's chosen university is on the quarter system which generally means they start later in the fall and finish later in the spring. However, I have yet to hear of too many schools that start as late as Jack's does this year. He doesn't even move into his dorm until September 26. Three. More. Weeks. If I wasn't in possession of a university calendar myself I might start to wonder if Jack was trying to pull one over on us.

I feel like we have been ripping off a particularly sticky bandaid one millimeter at a time for the past 6 months.

It's not that I want him gone, don't get me wrong. He's not making this difficult or challenging or annoying. I mean, it wouldn't kill me if he wanted to step up his efforts around the house but even at that I have noticed him taking more initiative in small ways to help with basic household maintenance and taking responsibility for himself. Just yesterday he informed me he was working on washing all of his clothes and figuring out what he wants to take with him and what needs to be given away.

Rock on, big guy.

Rooney says, "Jack, please don't go."

There is a bizarre little expression I have been hearing in my neck of the woods over the past 6 months. I have no idea if this is some sort of well-known metaphor or if it is oddly indigenous to our area but here it is:

In reference to the tension that can sometimes exist between children poised to leave home (but still at home) and their parents, I have heard more than one of my friends say, "They have to soil the nest a little so you'll be ready for them to fly."

I don't know about you but that imagery just makes me go, ewwwww.

I personally think it's a disgusting way to explain the conundrum of a child with one foot in and one foot out, but I also imagine that for many parents it not only rings true but brings some relief. It's always helpful when our children are making us bonkers to be able to step back and view it from a more removed, philosophical vantage point. If we can say, "Ahhh! It's a natural stage of development. Perfectly normal. This too shall pass..." we can save ourselves from going down that dark pathway of, "AAACK!! WHAT IN THE HE&! IS WRONG WITH MY KID!!!"

I gotta say, I prefer the former to the latter.

So, I get the reason for the metaphor and I'm even sympathetic to why the imagery might strike some parents as frighteningly accurate, I just can't relate. And when I say I can't relate it is not in some smug, "Why, MY child would never be so awful/inconsiderate/out of control/rude...!" Ha. Please. I have never claimed anywhere at anytime in anyplace to have perfect children NOR to be the perfect parent. And I never will because 1) I really try not to willfully go around breaking commandments, including the 9th one and 2) all you'd have to do is meet my kids or peek in their bedrooms and the jig would be up.

I can't relate because for whatever reason (and I claim no responsibility) Jack is neither literally (thank goodness) nor figuratively "soiling the nest" during his final days living at home full time. He actually seems remarkably content. Which is either great or cause for concern but since I don't have much control either way, I'm going with staying neutral. He doesn't seem unhappy about leaving, but he doesn't seem unhappy about his extended stay either.

We are all of us in limbo. The other kids have started school, they leave in the morning and return in the afternoon and in the in-between time Jack does laundry, occasionally does some car detailing work for people, and gives careful consideration to what he will have for lunch everyday.

I like to think he is just pacing himself. He's enjoying the calm before the storm. The storm could either be awesome or it could be dreadful and there is no way for him to know. So, he's just sitting back, enjoying his bedroom, his easy access to chips and salsa, and maybe even his family before it all hits.

Smart kid. I should take a lesson from him.

Freedom

The minute I stopped caring about what other people thought and started doing what I wanted to do, is the minute I finally felt free. 

~Phil Dunphy

The school year has officially begun.

And I have a cold. 

The cold started a few days ago with a mighty sore throat which fizzled into sneezing, watery eyes and a runny nose, and now I feel mostly fine (sorta, kinda) except I sound like I am walking around with a clothespin on my nose. 

It's that voice where when people ask, "How are you?" and you mumble something about "having a little bit of a cold", they tilt their heads, take a few steps back and say..."Yeah. You sound like it."

Sorry about that, everyone I have spoken to or come in contact with in the last 24 hours.

But in spite of all that, I was up with plenty of time to get Annie up and ready, feed her something that resembled breakfast (none of my kids are good breakfast eaters), make her lunch, take a first day of school picture AND get to school ON TIME. BAM!

That is some stellar parenting right there, People. 

On. Time. Day 1 and we are batting a 1,000!!

Even Annie said as we pulled up to the parking lot and saw millions of uniformed children still running around the playground waiting to go inside, "Wow! We aren't even late!"

That's right, Sister. Mom is going all out this year.

I was riding high on the euphoria of our on-time arrival right up to the moment I started looking around at all of the other beaming, on-time moms and dads. Okay, mostly the moms...I don't care what the dads are doing. 

I'll tell you what they were doing. They were looking showered, freshly coiffed (yep, coiffed) and dressed in clothes that can only be described as an "outfit" is what they were doing.

Standing out in the parking lot this didn't strike me as too much of a big deal. The children were creating a huge distraction and were still the focal point of all those cameras, cellphone cameras and iPads (Seriously, who are you people who take photos with an iPad? I'm sorry but I fail to see how holding up something the size of a small television to take a picture is a step forward in technology). We were just a sea of parents waving goodbye to our little lemmings as they marched off the cliff.

But once all those little cuties disappeared into the building, the smoke and mirrors were gone. Poof. 

All of the parents started dutifully moving toward the church where the First Day Parent Coffee Get Out Your Checkbooks And Sign Up For Stuff Thingy was going on. That's when my skirted yoga pants, clunky running shoes, and going-on-day-two-without-a-shower-hair became a bit more of a liability. Inside that church hall it became glaringly evident that most parents felt showering and getting dressed (not only dressed, but dressed cute) was part of the First Day of School regimen.

Rats. I missed that memo.

There was a time this might have really bothered me. There was a time I wondered why I couldn't quite manage to be as pulled together as those other moms. There was a time when I might have left that gathering worried about the impression I had made and given myself a good 15 minute lecture on the way home (even though it's only two minutes to get home, but I would have sat in the car for the extra 13 minutes finishing my talking-to) about how it really should not be that hard to get up in time to shower and look presentable on your child's first day of school.

There was a time....but not anymore.

One of the things I've learned over this past year as I have tried to live with heightened awareness of my children's growing, changing, learning and eventually leaving is that as they are doing all of that growing, changing and learning, hopefully we are too.  And somewhere along the line in these 18 years of growing, I stopped worrying about little stuff like dropping off your kid in workout clothes and possibly picking her up still wearing those same workout clothes. 

I don't think you ever want to get to a place where you truly don't care what other people think of you. Because if you take that to it's furthest extreme that is really the root of narcissism. Of course we need to care about the feelings, perceptions and perspectives of others. We need to care insofar that we don't go around offending people and behaving like boors and showing up at weddings in a tube top. But while I applaud those moms today who had freshly washed hair, cute cropped jeans and the perfect top (I really do, I don't know how you do it), I don't feel badly that mom wasn't me today. 

It might be me tomorrow. You just never know.

But, seriously, don't hold your breath...

Little detours

My kids have grown up thinking that making the 5 hour drive across our fair state multiple times a year is completely normal. They know every rest stop, all of their various fast food options and which gas stations have the least scary restrooms. When Annie was in her stage of being deathly afraid of automatic-flushing toilets, we ALL became experts on which bathrooms had toilets that were safe and which ones you needn't even bother trying to convince her to sit upon because no amount of cajoling, begging or bribery could convince her to put her tiny bottom on a toilet that might suddenly erupt in cacophony of swirling sound and water.

Nowadays, with fears of automatic-flushing toilets behind us, the trips are easy. The kids are so used to the drive they know how to settle in, check out, and watch the miles and the wheat fields fly by. Of course with the advent of iPods, iPads and endless other personal entertainment options, the trip has only become easier year by year.

After a lifetime of trips along the Northwestern stretch of I-90 the only questions that need to be asked are:

Does anyone need to stop in Ellensburg or can we press on to Moses Lake?

Where do you want to stop for food? I am only hitting two drive-throughs MAX so come to at least a partial agreement, please.

Seriously, you want to stop in Ritzville? We are practically there, can't you hold on for another hour?

Which is all why our most recent trip was such a startling departure from the norm.

After an unusually botched stop in Ellensburg (multiple unforeseen stops, restaurants unexpectedly closed for remodeling, Annie's utter indecision as to what would satisfy her 8 year old tummy for another couple of hours...) we were back on the road again.

Superdad would be joining us the following day so it was just the three kids and I. That was also unusual in and of itself. Nowadays, more often than not, due to activity schedules, work schedules and other mundane reasons, we end up divided in our travels. The division generally ends up being made along gender lines for no other reason than....it just does.

So....there I was with my three kids in the car. And it started to dawn on me that not only had this not happened for a very long time, but it might not happen again for a very long time. Or ever.

I'm not much of a Carpe Diem kinda gal, I gravitate more to a Seize the Nap sort of life philosophy but something was speaking to me in that moment. Something or someOne was nudging me to mark this moment.

Here they are. Remember this.

The drive along I-90 is not rich with memory making opportunities, although being a native Washington girl I do find it's varied terrain quite beautiful. Still, it sort of is what it is though. You travel through the mountains first. Pretty. Hit the more agricultural land on the other side. Pretty. Then you get a break from farmland as you move through the Gorge. Super pretty. Then more farmland until you start getting an increasing number of evergreen trees dotting the landscape, which is the sign that you are nearing the opposite side of the state where it all becomes more mountainous and green again. Pretty.

But right smack dab in the middle of the drive, something magical happens.

You see horses.

Wild horses, up on a ridge, overlooking the mighty Columbia River.

When the kids were little they believed they were real. And then, as they got older, they merely wanted to believe they were real. Because who wouldn't want to catch a glimpse of a band of wild horses in the middle of an otherwise ordinary, yawn-inducing, five hour drive.

Even the boys, easily bored and typically cynical at 15 and 18 years old, still admit they look for the horses. Every time.

But it's one thing to look for the horses while whizzing by at 70 miles an hour. It's quite another thing when your mother asks you (with what I'm sure was an annoying grin on her face):

What do you say we stop and climb up to the horses?

No surprise, your 18 year old responds with: What??? No!

You don't let it go. You tell him how you've always wanted to. That it will be really cool. Think of what a great story it will be!

He tries to bring in reinforcements. He insists his younger brother remove his headphones and fills him in on the fact that the Captain of their ship has lost her mind.

Younger brother responds in identical fashion when asked if he would like to climb up to the horses: What??? No!

Now they work as a team. Telling me that they are sure it is not allowed. I tell them it most definitely is allowed and that there is a viewpoint and a turn-off for that very reason.

The younger one (the one who never stops moving and plays soccer 7 days a week) tries to tell me that his knee hurts. I tell him that it's fine if he'd like to stay in the car while his 8 year old sister and I make the climb, since it will be too hard for him.

It will NOT be too hard for me! I'll be the first one to the top!

And the older brother rolls his eyes and groans knowing his younger brother just stepped right into my sinister reverse psychology trap.

Minutes later, for the first time in years and years of driving this route, we take the exit marked "Scenic Viewpoint". And it really is incredibly scenic.

I watch them set off. By now the boys are laughing and texting friends photos of their ridiculous adventure. Jack sends Superdad a text saying, "See. This is what happens when we have to drive with Mom." But they are smiling.

The boys do indeed beat us to the top. The climb is harder than you might think. In cowboy boots it is particularly challenging. But I keep telling her that she looks awesome and strong and determined. I know she can do it.

And she does.

We all do. And, yes, it is cool. And, yes, the view is amazing. And, yes, the horses are incredible and even more incredible that they are just here- in the middle of nowhere.

It was perfect.

Then we climbed back down (which was actually harder than going up) and continued our journey. 

20 years from now these three kids will get together with their own kids and families for some holiday and they will laugh hysterically and roll their eyes and say to each other:

Remember when Mom (our crazy mother!) made us stop and climb up to the horses?

At least I hope so. 

Because there are things in this world and in this life that will not last forever. Sometimes you have to grab hold and force time to stop for a second or two. That's all you get. Just a second or two. 

Hold tight.

Here they are. Remember this.

100 Years

Our house is celebrating its Centennial this year.

Granted, we haven't actually lived in this house for one hundred years (seeing as we are not Zombies) and I will confess the old gal has had a few facelifts through the years. But the bones of our happy home, along with the handful of remaining leaded glass windows, are all part of her original 100 year old charm.

She was considerably smaller when we first moved in. Over the years we have stretched her to her limit; ripping off the roof and adding a third floor, moving staircases, adding 6 feet to the back of the house, reconfiguring the basement (again), remodeling the kitchen (again), and none of that includes the work to the yard and the gajillion other small projects that have been done and continue to be done so that we can keep enjoying her hospitality for another 20+ years and beyond.

The latest project doesn't involve any demo work or structural changes, but it will require some elbow grease and determination. It may also possibly drive me into the loony bin (but I've said that about a thousand other projects worse than this one so you'd be wise to take my hyperbolic threats with a grain of salt.) 

(Can I get a whoop whoop for the nice use of the word hyperbolic?)

For the past four or five years I have been saying that when Jack goes to college I am going to have he and Annie switch bedrooms. And then at some point when I wasn't looking, those four or five years went by and now...here we are.

There are very practical reasons for the switch. His room is bigger. His closet is bigger. He has an extra storage closet in his room in addition to a full-size clothes closet. Considering the whole point of him going to college is that he is going to be gone most of the year it seems to make sense that the child who still has another 10 years of residency status left here at The Centennial House should get the better, bigger room. She's also a girl and we all know what that means in relation to closet space. She's going to need more.

Beyond the practical reasons, I'm excited about the side benefits. The most important side benefit being that this is a golden opportunity to clean out, clear out and get out lots of stuff. 

Me likey getting rid of stuff. 

So, it's all good. Both kids are excited about the move and I'm completely excited about the endpoint when it is really truly all done. What I'm not excited about is the hours and hours of work it is going to take to get us to the finish line. There is painting to be done, carpets to be cleaned, clothes to be moved, trinkets and treasures to be sorted and (hopefully) given away. 

Note to the little hoarder (aka Annie): Mom is not going to tolerate much sentimentality in this process. This is a time to be aggressive, cold-hearted and incredibly focused. Keep your eye on the prize, Sweetie. A clean, organized, beautiful new bedroom. (I've already broken it to her that the Dog a Day Calendar pages will not be making the trek across the hall.) 

So, I'm excited. Annie is excited. Jack is even happy about the change and the potential for a fresh start (his current room is beyond belief messy). Everybody is on board and ready to go!

So, why can't I get started?

Well, I'll admit, one reason is probably just because it is a BIG project and it is hard to know where to start. Do I clean out the rooms first? Do I start painting? Which room do I paint first? Where does the resident of each respective room sleep while painting is going on? Can Nate Berkus just come and do all this for me? He'd have a whole crew to help him so he could knock it out in like three days and he'd look cute at the same time (I'm not going to look cute for one second of this project). I could just sit back and post pictures to Facebook while you all envy me and my Nate Berkus bedroom makeover. Although, why would I waste Nate Berkus on my kid's bedrooms....? Forget it, if he shows up he's doing my room, and bathroom, and closet...And maybe my laundry room too, because only professional help could save that tiny space from the mayhem that it is.

There's that.

But I'm stymied for other reasons. Reasons that have nothing to do with paint colors and boxes of Little League participation trophies (what do you do with those??), and have everything to do with five years that went by in the blink of an eye.

For so long now the whole Great Bedroom Switcharoo was just an idea. A good idea, I'll give you that, but just an idea. It was out there. It was in some unknown future land in which our eldest child was going to leave home and live somewhere else for 9 months out of the year. It was just an idea.

Now, it's here. And even though he isn't going as far away as we once thought he might be, he is still going. He will have a different bedroom, in a different place and, if all goes well, he will be so happy in that new place we won't see him again until Thanksgiving. 

It's a strange thing to hope for, that your child will be so content he won't feel the slightest need to come home. But I do hope for that. Well, I mostly hope for that....in my less selfish moments when I'm thinking more of him and his well-being than I am of my own (luckily, that is most of the time). 

Don't get me wrong, I'm going to miss him like crazy. But at the same time I really hope to be missing him like crazy because that's what is supposed to come next. He's supposed to fly and we are supposed to re-paint the nest, get used to less noise and less garbage, and eventually find a way to live in and around and ultimately fill up the empty spaces. Over time, it will probably even all start to feel normal again, in a new-normal sort of way. 

It might take awhile, but we'll get there. This house has seen a lot of big changes and she's still standing. So are we.

I'm guessing that we will finally settle into that new-normal sometime around next June, just in time for him to come flying back for summer, bringing all of his noise and garbage and beloved quirks with him.  

And that's okay. We will still be here.

Happy Centennial, Sawyer House!

Thanks for the memories!

Presence

Here's a confession for you. (It's actually not much of a confession because I don't consider this a secret, nor am I at all reluctant to share this information, but confession sounds so much more interesting than "mundane revelation" so I'm still going with "confession").

Anywhooo...

My earth shattering Tuesday morning confession is this: My 8 year old daughter still climbs into bed with us pretty much every single night.

Now, before you think this is about soliciting parenting advice or looking for all the latest and greatest techniques for getting your school-age child to sleep in their own bed at night, I need to make one thing clear.

I don't really care.

Superdad doesn't really care.

And for sure neither myself or Superdad care enough to do anything about it that might require we would actually have to do something in the middle of the night. So any technique involving one of us swinging our legs out of bed, opening our eyes, or marching a weeping child back to her own bed just ain't gonna happen.

We really don't care.

And the beauty of parenting your third child is you also honestly don't care what anyone else thinks. You could be shaking your head right now and muttering, "Good heavens, you need to get that child sleeping all night in her own bed! How will she ever go to camp? How will she ever go to college? Will her husband be joining all of you in 20 years? You cannot let this go on one minute longer!!"

And I would just smile and nod and say, "You may be right."

Which is my surefire strategy for dealing with any unsolicited advice. You may be right. You may not be right. We both win and I don't have to discuss it anymore. Or, if you want to try and discuss it further you will end up beating your head against a wall because my only response is going to continue to be an annoying Stepford-wifeish smile and the pleasantly robotic response of, "You may be right."

Sure, some of it is laziness. I'm not going to pretend that we don't care because having a 60 pound child arrive in your bed at 2am is all sunshine and roses. There are those nights that don't go so well. Nights when it feels like our small child has at least 70 different elbows and knees that keep appearing in both of our backs. Nights when our petite little angel snores like a truck driver or better yet, vocalizes all of her inner 8 year old angst in her sleep complete with unintelligible yelling, whimpering and occasionally frighteningly maniacal laughter. I'm not gonna lie, those nights can be unnerving.

Superdad and I will talk in whispers the next day about how we really "gotta do something about this" and we formulate plans that oddly enough always seem to involve more work for me than for him, and then we get to the middle of the night and all of those genius solutions go out the window in favor of doing nothing more than rolling over and making room for our noisy, thrashing, elbow-jab-wielding nighttime visitor.

We take our chances in the hopes of a few extra minutes of sleep.

So, yes, some it is laziness. But, at least for me, there is something else. There is another reason I haven't yet found the inner strength to exile my young daughter from our bed.

The truth is, I get it.

Annie has expressed more than once, "It's not fair. You and Daddy have somebody to sleep with. And when the boys were my age they slept together in the same room. You told me they pushed their beds right up next to each other just so they could be close to each other! And they could still sleep in the same room if they wanted to! I have nobody! I'm the only one who HAS to sleep all by myself!"

She's right.

And the thing is, you can create all the rituals you want, and stuff your child's bed full of comfort objects, and turn on cute nightlights with fairies on them but your child is not stupid. None of this is the same as another person. None of this is the same as lying tucked in between the two people you love most in the world. None of this is the same as the feeling of safety you get from knowing there is another living, breathing human being sharing the dark, ready to stand side by side with you in battle against any monsters that might emerge from the closet or under the bed.

When I was a little girl, I would frequently cross the hallway in the middle of the night to my older brother's room. He had bunk beds and didn't mind if I made my way to his lower bunk in the night. What he did mind was that I felt the need to wake him up to tell him that I was going to sleep in his other bed.

It was always the same, me waking him up to ask him if I could sleep in the bottom bunk. And him, sleepily answering in an exasperated whisper, "Yes! It's fine! Why do you have to wake me up? Just go to bed!"

I never bothered to try to explain to him that I had to wake him up and tell him I was there. How would he know he needed to protect me if he didn't know I was there?

We are created for connection. We are born with an innate preference for the presence of people we love, not their absence. Absence might possibly make the heart grow fonder, but only because it creates an ever-increasing desire and longing for the other person's presence. Not because the absence itself is so idyllic.

Lately I have been standing on the outside watching too many people I know struggling to come to terms with the worst, most permanent kind of absence. There really are no words that are adequate to comfort someone grieving the loss of a loved one, so I try very hard not to offer anything other than, I'm sorry...I'm so sad for you...I'm praying for you... And I make a silent vow to myself to keep saying those things and to keep praying for a very. long. time. So much longer than we like to believe is necessary.

Sometimes, on nights when I'm feeling as though it's time - time for Annie to work out her demons and find a way to sleep peacefully in her own bed - I offer lame platitudes to her. I tell her how I'm always with her, even when we are separated by a long hallway and two closed doors. I tell her that she has her Pinky Bear and her blankie and those will keep her warm and cozy. I tell her that the nightlight is a reminder that God is with her and she has nothing to be afraid of. I tell her and I tell her and I tell her...and her incredibly sage answer every time is...

But it's not the same.

And she's right. It is not the same.

I think of that each time I'm tempted to take my words of consolation farther. To talk about how our loved ones are always with us, that they live on in our memories, that their light and spirit is still alive and moving among us. Because as true as that may be... and as much as that may bring some small measure of comfort in certain moments... I still hear the unspoken words of a grieving heart, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes screaming to the heavens, crying out and wanting the world to know that...

It's not the same.

No, it's not.


Nothing is an adequate substitute for presence. And death steals presence. For that alone, it is difficult for us to forgive the design of this world.
~Rabbi David Wolpe

Remember the good stuff

Well, we made it.

One week ago today, our oldest child graduated from high school. Honestly, it's a milestone that I never doubted each of our children would achieve. I think we have always been prepared to do pretty much whatever was necessary to get our kids at least this far. And believe me, there were a few moments along the way when getting Jack to hang in there, go to school everyday, do his homework, and apply himself and reach his potential (as encouraged on more than one report card over the years) felt a little like dragging a squealing lamb to the slaughter.

But he made it.

WE made it.

And once the moment was here, it really did feel like a very big deal.

As I have reflected on that moment over the past week, it has occurred to me that maybe I should have gained some wisdom of my own over the past 12 years. Maybe there is something I can impart after having successfully guided (prodded/cajoled/dragged) one child through Kindergarten-12th grade.

Maybe. I'm not promising a lot.

Here goes...I'm not even going to put a number on my pearls of wisdom. Too much pressure. I'd like to give this a catchy title like, "Lori's Top 10 Hints and Tricks for Getting Your Child to Graduate" but I have serious doubts I can come up with 10 witty and wise tips for surviving your child's school years. I'm hoping I can come up with two.

Right now you might be asking why I didn't think of these in advance and then I would know exactly how much advice I actually possess to pass along? That's sweet of you to think I give these posts that much time and thought. Yeah, sorry, I don't work that way. I'm more of a stream of consciousness, let the words fly off the keyboard sort of writer. Which is all part of why I could never actually be a writer. Planning, forethought, editing, proper punctuation...not so much.

Here we go!

Lori's Unknown Number of Things I Learned Getting My Child Through School

1. Your Child Does Not Need to be an Academic Superstar to go to College. 

I'm putting this at number one because I have a lot of friends with kids entering into high school, or in the early years of high school and I know the whole college thing is looming. Here is the thing, there are a lot of schools out there. Unless your child has his/her heart set on Stanford, Pepperdine or even some of the more competitive state schools, there are a ton of options. We were freaking out going into the college application process having heard so much about how competitive it is now. We had a child with a mediocre GPA, minimal extracurriculars and marginal test scores (He knows all this and owns it. I'm not saying anything he wouldn't tell you himself). He was accepted to 4/6 schools and the two he wasn't accepted to we knew were a stretch. 

Seriously, try not to stress out if your child doesn't have a 3.5 and isn't editor of the yearbook while starring in the school play after coming home from football practice. There aren't enough valedictorians to go around so colleges are more than happy to take some average kids, too. I promise.

If you and your child want college to be an option- it probably is.

2. I Have Yet to See Diorama Construction on the List of Required College Courses

Over the course of your child's many years in school, you will have to suffer through many, many projects. These projects include, but are not limited to: dioramas, TRIoramas, coat hanger mobiles, three dimensional solar systems (and you are not allowed to go get the kit from Michael's), posters (literally, dozens and dozens of posters), various model clay creations, the Rube Goldberg project (I'm so sorry if this one comes home to you), and if you had the pleasure of having my son's 7th grade math teacher, a bizarre sewing project that is supposed to teach something about geometry but mostly ends up in having children with fingers so pinpricked and sore they have to eat like dogs because they can't hold utensils any longer. 

What you need to know is this: None of these projects really matter. If your child is still young enough that he/she doesn't even receive actual grades yet then multiply that statement by a thousand. 

Oh, I know. You can't just blow these things off and you don't want to send your child to school reporting to his teacher that, Mom says this project is silly and she said there was no way she was going to miss the Project Runway finale to find me a shoebox, puffy paint and glitter glue so that I could make something that's going to end up in the recycling. 

I get it. That ain't happening.

But I beg of you, keep it simple. Don't let these projects dissolve into tears and missed bedtimes. Whether or not your little one gets an "S" or an "S+" or an "O" or a "?" won't matter in the long run. Tell them to do their best, applaud their effort and make sure everyone gets to bed on time.

My son answered a lot of questions on his college applications but not one of them asked if he could whip out a killer diorama.

3. Take Lots of Pictures Because You Will Never Remember it All

I hesitate to throw this one out there because I know for some people, this is pressure. I'm the sort of person who likes to take pictures and likes to put together photo books, so I'm grateful for the treasure trove of memories we have in the form of photographs, scrapbooks and now digital photo books. If you aren't that sort of person, and you think you won't care someday if you don't have your child's years in school documented, then don't sweat it. This is totally your call.

But for me, I spent a lot of time looking back on photos of Jack leading up to his graduation and I was thankful for every single one. To see how our boy went from that chubby cheeked angel to the handsome young man he is now was more than a little sentimental.

Even if you only take pictures for the big events, or the first and last day of school, just do it. You'll be so glad someday.

4. Take the Best, Leave the Rest

One of the most beautiful things about the passing of time is it inevitably creates a memory filter. Details get fuzzy, people and places get hazy, and anything that isn't carefully documented with photographic evidence becomes victim to the whims of our long term memories.

I say embrace the filter.

My cousin and I, with whom we took several Disneyland trips when our kids were small, always like to look back on the photos and videos of those trips and say, "Look at that! What a perfect trip! The kids were always smiling. No one got sick. Not a single tantrum, whine or complaint. Best trip ever!!"

It's a big fat lie but we don't care.

The truth is, most of it was great. The kids did have a fabulous time. We do have wonderful memories of those shared trips and raising our kids together. 

So that's what we choose to remember.

The same goes for school, or holidays, or sporting events, or anything!

Embrace the filter. 

Remember the good stuff.

5. That's It

Well, I've sat here for a good five minutes wracking my brain trying to think of one more thing I learned from my son's school years and I got nothin'. I guess next time one of my kids complains after staring at the computer for three minutes that they cannot possibly think of one single thing to write for the essay that is due tomorrow, I'll be a teeny bit more sympathetic.

It's possible they get their lack of persistence from me.

But I'm not being graded on this and truth be told there is a stack of laundry that isn't going to fold itself, so...I quit.

Another of the many blessings that comes with growing up is I get to throw in the towel on this one and nobody is going to ground me or give me an "Incomplete". 

Seriously, being a kid can be hard. There are all these people telling you what to do all the time and expecting you to be good at every single subject under the sun (including diorama building) while also putting in volunteer hours, building a "resume" and being an all-around super great guy or gal about whom teachers will write glowing recommendations.

Whenever you can, make sure they have some fun. Make sure they know it isn't all so desperate or scary or life threatening. Make sure they see their future as something filled with hope and potential and worthy of big dreams.

We all know life isn't easy and that being an adult is filled with a lot of hard work. It's okay to tell them that. They need to know that, too.

But a hopeless person is a stagnant person. To be hopeless is to be stuck. Don't let them get stuck.

Feed them on faith and the belief in a plan that is bigger than them. Teach them they are part of a grand story and everyone has a part to play-no exceptions. They are here for a reason.

Let them experience the realities and consequences of life.

But never stop giving them hope.

And love.

Always love.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." ~Jeremiah 29:11

We are

There is a wild story in the Gospel of Mark that begins with Jesus walking along, traveling from town to town as he was known to do, and ends with a couple thousand pigs hurtling to their deaths.

Like I said, wild.

In the middle of those two seemingly disconnected bookends is a man so wracked and tortured by demons that not only has he been rejected by family, friends and his community but in their fear they frequently attempt to chain him up. The strength of the demons is so all-consuming though that he cannot be bound or contained. The man appears to be destined to live out his days in as sorry an existence as one could imagine while his community can do nothing but stand by and watch.

Then along comes Jesus.

Somewhere in the depth of this shell of a being there must have been something left. There must have been a shred of the divine child he was created to be. A smoldering ember of the holy spark we are all gifted with at the moment the Father dreams us into being.

There must have been something left of the man he once was, because at the sight of the Healer that mustard seed of faith manages to move mountains. Somehow he is able to overcome the power of the demons and propel his body to the feet of Jesus.

Jesus is neither alarmed or surprised. Maybe he knows we will all end up at his feet one way or another.

He does not address the man. He knows the demons are still in control.

And the demons know they are about to lose.

They begin to beg. Asking not to be swept into oblivion but for an opportunity to take up residence in a herd of swine grazing nearby.

Before Jesus sends them on their way though, he asks the demon's name.

The cryptic, bone-chilling answer is, "My name is Legion, for we are many."

The man is healed. And for reasons that aren't clear, Jesus grants the demon's request and sends the evil spirits into the unsuspecting pigs who promptly run down the hill and drown themselves.

I'll say it again, it's a wild, wild story.

But it's the story I often go to when I feel desperate to understand why awful, awful, awful things happen in this world.

My name is Legion, for we are many.

The thing is, Jesus never seems surprised that there is evil in the world. He is confronted with it right and left during his time on earth, never more so than in his own violent death, and he is never surprised.

He just continues to move in and amongst the people- healing, touching, forgiving, teaching, blessing and loving.

He moved through the world as the ultimate antidote to evil with his Resurrection putting the final nail in death's coffin. So that even now, even as evil continues to try to wrack and torment and torture, it flails about knowing it really, in the end, can't win.

We see evil and we wonder where is God?

The Bible makes it clear that God was not the hand tormenting that demon-possessed man in the Gospel of Mark. But He was the hand that set him free.

Unlike some people, I'm pretty content with the Mystery. And by mystery I mean the capital "M" sacred Mystery. I don't expect to know all the answers this side of Heaven. This doesn't mean that I don't struggle, don't wonder, don't doubt, don't question... But when I find myself wrestling with angels I try to go back to what I know for sure.

I know God is love.

I know we were created in love.

I know that we are called to love one another and that when we do, we participate in God's healing work in the world.

It's not often I read stories in the Bible and wish there were a different ending. Thank goodness because if I did I'm pretty sure I'd eventually hear God whisper,

Simmer down there, Child. I got this.

But when I see overwhelming goodness rising up to do battle with the dark forces of the world...

When I see entire communities pouring out love and compassion on the suffering...

When I sit in a sanctuary, or a classroom, or a gymnasium and hear both strangers and friends raise their hopeful, determined voices up together in prayer and song...

I always imagine Jesus staring that demon down, looking straight into the depths of that poor man's true soul and shaking his head when the demon declares,

I am Legion, for we are many.

And with a voice fierce with love, and truth, and light he would say...

No...WE are.