In pursuit of a pen, I reached into the junk drawer (grumbled about cleaning it out) and picked up a mechanical pencil with no top, wrapped in tape, and the cylinder was empty. Harper, our 8-year-old neighbor, was over and said, “Why does the pencil look like that?” I held up the plastic pencil remains, fiddling with them in my hands, and said, “Well, when my son lived here, he would recycle these and use them for projects he would build.”
Whoa…Past tense. “…when my son lived here …” I heard it.
Then I felt it. My heart did that sinking thing when it secretly knows the past is, well, past…and life within the walls of our home will never be the same.
That was then…
I thought back to when the kids were little. We’d set up obstacle courses in the backyard with logs to balance on, hula hoops to maneuver through, and barriers to tackle. My husband managed the stopwatch, narrating along the way, and I held the video camera–because in my mind documenting meant the moment wouldn’t (couldn’t) go away.
Our oldest son would go first, his eyes planning the most efficient, logical, and fastest path, no ladder too tall, no tunnel too narrow, no risk too great. Our youngest son would follow, arms flailing, adding cartwheels, leaps, and spins along his path to ensure the most fun could be had on the journey. Finally, our daughter, the oldest, would lean out of the screen door, Harry Potter book in hand, “What’s the fastest time?” she’d ask while slipping on any shoes that were handy and pushing her curls away from her face with the back of her hand the way she does. She’d quickly survey the course, hustle to the starting line next to her brothers, and yell, “READY Papa!” Up, over, in, and out, she dashed through the course with her signature audible breathing, making it clear she was working to win. Once she held the new record, the screen door closed with a bang, book, glasses, and our current winner once inside again. The boys would then clamor to surpass her time, and the cycle continued.
I play the kids’ childhood moments in my mind’s Viewfinder all the time–clicking through the first days of school, family trips, awards won, races lost. I think about who leaves toothpaste in the sink, who can tolerate “all that crunching,” and who will empty the top rack of the dishwasher. One common thread – as if running the backyard course, they have all become unstoppable-each blazing their own trail, no matter the obstacles.
This is now…
We had our kids 15 and 18 months apart. Total 3. So…in the last two years, we’ve had two high school graduates and in 2024, our youngest will flip his tassel as we say farewell to all of the high school pomp and circumstance.
And as quickly as they graced our every single day for 18 years, off they go.
As our first two started their journeys outside the context of our family, it was beyond hard. But all I could picture was our unstoppable daughter out in the world discussing the current issues and immigration policies with peers, laughing heartily at her friends’ jokes, and making Spotify song lists with her new people.
She is right where she needs to be. But boy do I miss her.
Then our oldest son, who always came out to greet us, carry in the groceries, and asked SO MANY “Can I?” questions – the stamina of a cheetah, he never tired of hearing, “No.” He’s the guy to call when the car won’t start, the path needs clearing or the couch won’t fit through the awkward doorway. He follows Mark Twain’s words, “ I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.”
He, too, is right where he needs to be. But boy, do I miss him.
Our youngest is our mainstay. The traditionalist. He knows where the holes are in the wall to hang the birthday banner draping the kitchen window five times a year, where the angel food cake pan is kept (and how to use it), and is always clad in workout clothes as if a “sporting” emergency could spring up anytime, he’s the kid that will be there on your happiest or loneliest day and come loaded with snacks and goofy jokes.
Soon, he’ll pack up, and our nest will be very empty
Boy, I’m going to miss that nest.
What I’ve learned:
Back in August, when packing up the kids for college, I stopped and really listened to the sounds of our morning. I held onto them with clenched fists because somehow through the cacophony of yells and stomps, blenders and constantly running water came the harmony of our home. But eventually, even the best of bands have artists who seek standalone stardom. Simon split from Garfunkel and still performs today with a little less hair and a lot of notoriety. So as they should, our family paths have split. I struggle to marvel at the space between us because letting go is really, really hard. Thankfully we have our stories, love, and of course, Facetime.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
“It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves that will make them successful human beings.”
In our world that seems like it is set on an interminable spin cycle setting, I found solace in the variety of thoughts shared on Substack:
THE I CAN’T BELIEVE MY STATS POSTS: “Last week I had 10 followers, today I just hit 450!” I mean…wow. I have had the same 11 followers for awhile, I had 12, but Dad is legally blind now and can’t read anymore or drive (which everyone with car keys should be thankful for…)
THERE ARE SHORT, DEEP THOUGHTS THAT HOOK: usually about mindfulness, anxiety, fluttering stomachs and clenched jaws. I connect immediately with these as I try to relax my jaw for a moment.
THERE ARE JOINT CELEBRATIONS: Happy Women’s Day announcements – (”I am woman, hear me roar”). These draw me in because, well, I love a good celebration, especially when coupled with Helen Reddy lyrics.
THE QUESTIONS GET ME TOO: Simple ones like: “Are you listening?”
Finally, proclamations by genius-minded people like Anne Lamott just make sense:
So: I don’t know. I’ve told this story here before (what else is new?) but when my mom was getting sicker with Alzheimer’s, on top of diabetes, my panicky brothers and I spilled to an elder care nurse at our HMO our fear and confusions about her future, and our not knowing much of anything about what to do next.
She listened gently and then said, “How could you know?”
Say what?
How can we know what it means, and what to expect and what to do?
We can’t. But I do know that when we take the next right action, glimmers of insight follow.
We’ll read and listen to the voices we trust, and they will help guide us. – Anne Lamott
Our kids are all facing decisions right now. Jobs after college, law schools, distant travel teams.
Big 20-something choices – the kind of decisions that will lead them to the country or city, a job they love or one with financial security; exposure to a new area in the country or not.
Each choice will shape their experiences, who they are, and who we will become.
Thinking back, when the kids were younger, I decided on the small stuff – Pampers or Costco brand diapers, mashed peas or sweet potatoes for lunch—Naptime books: Good Night Moon or Bears on Wheels.
As they got older, each would choose two books before bed to read. Every night. Before school, they matched their plaid shorts with striped t-shirts, and none were the wiser. It was THEIR choice. They were at the helm of the small choices as the drawers squeaked open and closed.
Then we moved to the either-or choices: library or bookstore, playground or zoo? School lunch or make your own. (They always made their own) Each choice given to them to hold and handle.
Bigger kids = bigger choices
Soccer or mountain biking? AP or Honors? Clarinet or cello? Baseball or lacrosse? All theirs to make.
Older kids = life choices = THEIR CHOICES
What I learned:
Hard choices are real choices. The reasons we make them define who we are, and where our agency lies.
We can make choices because we know what we care about, what matters to us, and how we will interact in the world with the decision.
Lucretia
In the space of hard choices we have the power to create reasons for ourselves to become the distinctive people that we are. And that’s why hard choices are not a curse, but a godsend. – Ruth Chang, Philosopher
My plan was to walk our dogs this morning…but Lola, our fluffy, tailless Border Collie, yanked me and Sancha (lab/golden mix) through the neighborhood instead. Her tugging seemed to say, “Come on! We’re missing all the good stuff!”
So just like obedient sheep, we followed along as she plowed through the world nose up, eyes straight ahead, one ear forward, the other pointing at me like a periscope.
Poor Lola. I feel the life of a suburban Border Collie is mentally more labor-intensive than that of a farm dog. There are no sheep or livestock to organize, no big fields to hunt and explore, and barely one unamused squirrel in our backyard.
Basically, Lola is left to plan her whole day like the rest of us. Dog breeders will swear you have to exercise Border Collies at least 37 times a day, or they will get bored and expend their energy otherwise. Oh, it’s true, I feel guilty as heck when I come home to a scene from The Killing Fields with stuffed animals strewn about and plastic noses and eyes carefully dislodged from their stuffed owners.
But Lola, much like our kids, came without assembly and upkeep instructions. She was rescued from inside a screened porch somewhere in North Georgia, surrounded by her own poop and no food or water. In retrospect, we often wonder if Lola was a little bummed when driven away from all that land. For all we know, she could have built the porch herself and was just drawing up the bathroom plans. She’s THAT smart.
Lola is a worker and a leader.: Pass her a laptop, and she’ll have a business reorganized and gleaming with success. Lola would be a blur on the corporate ladder as she escalated to the top while others envied her drive, agility, and vertical leap. She efficiently pees on all the spots necessary to make her way through life. Border Collies like Lola are smart and driven – a good breed. She has just the right amount of affection with a smidge of jealousy woven into her fluffy coat.
LOLA’S TOP 8 LEADERSHIP TIPS: If Lola had her own flock, here’s how she would lead.
1. Leave your mark:
Pee several times throughout your life and all over the place. Leave your mark, your legacy…but always remember where your food is and who loves you unconditionally.
2. Take a stand:
Showing you believe in something and sharing how you feel is like Lola when she poops, do it when and where you need to…holding it in will just lead to bad feelings (especially if you ate a sock).
3. Listen and observe:
Always be ready to change directions. Lead your herd wisely.
4. Keep your paws clean:
Be honest and wipe your feet even if you have plans to go out again.
5. Wag your tail:
Exude positivity and wag like mad, even if you only have a stub of a tail.
6. Use your speed and strength:
No matter the setting, be the hardest worker in the room.
7. Beware of shiny objects:
Don’t let your sheep go astray; stay focused and on point.
8. REST on top of tables (or whatever works for you):
Stop and look at life from other perspectives. Truly, things are clearer from above, said God and Lola.
Lola is a sweet girl. She and Sancha make every day better. But in a pinch, if you need a CEO, look for the Lola’s of the world. She will keep you safe, organized, and full of joy. If you need a best friend, Sancha is your gal. She’s your lifer; she’ll stay with the company and be faithful for years. On walks, she pees for a long time in one place ONLY…much like the small-town plumber in a Hallmark movie who is happily living in the same place for life.
What I learned:
I hope our children channel their inner Lola in life. Like people, every dog is different. But unlike some people, dogs love unconditionally, are forgiving, and ever-loyal. Let’s learn from them.
As Anne Lamott said, “Having a good dog is the closest some of us are ever going to come to knowing the direct love of a mother or God.”
Let them lead you home like Lola, comfort you like Sancha, and always “stick” together.
It was “One final announcement” time at the end of mass – that moment when everyone is planning their next move. But the elderly congregation at my childhood church is settled. This is their destination. They arrived 20 minutes early to recite the Rosary and the Memorare. They kneel, sit, and stand gingerly and devoutly, and are settled in the pews where they sit every Saturday evening. Same row, same kneeler, same well-worn pine showing generations of worshippers. My own parents move methodically to “their row” each week, led by muscle memory, devotion, faith.
As the small, joyful woman made her way up to the altar, she was like a bright light in the form of a five-foot nun from the Philippines. She was from the Little Sisters of the Poor.
After a sermon I do not remember (though in the middle of it I did wonder if priests ever use ChatGPT)… we all sat on the edge of our pews, eager to hear what she had to say.
She began with a pun, “Father Nick asked me to keep my speech short…he must not have noticed I’m already short.” The congregation loved her immediately. She went on to tell us about the services the Little Sisters provide. “For nearly 200 years, our order has welcomed the elderly poor and dying into our homes as we would welcome Christ Himself.”
Wow, I thought, sitting next to my elderly parents, what a blessing.
She went on to tell us they have homes where they serve people in over 30 countries and 20 in the U.S.providing personalized care, with sisters living on-site.
With a huge smile on her face, she said, “But to keep things short for Father Nick, I’ll just say, YOU PAY! I PRAY!” Laughter filled the cavernous church. Levity. Something our aging church had not had within the brick walls for years. I feel like even Jesus on the cross gave a little Mona Lisa smile.
Her voice slowed, becoming more measured, “We take turns sitting and praying with the dying.” She said. “As a young nun, I would take my turn and pray. But I was so nervous…” She went on, “My prayer was always: Please don’t die during my shift. Please wait for the next sister’s shift.” She smiled, the congregation laughed, and then told us she finally learned how special and sacred it is to bear witness to someone leaving this world.
She closed by saying in her lively voice, “For those girls who are interested in becoming a Little Sister, we have your veils waiting in the Narthex.” More laughter followed.
What I Learned:
As Sister Maria walked down the aisles with a collection basket, one of the poorest communities in Albuquerque opened their wallets and gave what they could to help. Because that’s what we do – share laughter, share love, share what we have.
“Oh, gosh, do you cry every time you leave?” I asked my sister as she fastened her seatbelt, blinking her watery, tired eyes. “Some days,” she replied, glancing at her phone, ready to make a call on her way home to help someone with something; it didn’t matter who or what—if she said she’d help, she would. I waved goodbye and said a prayer, hoping she’d get a little rest.
I was on. Mom walked outside with a Dove Bar in hand, and in the distance, I heard the rumble of the wood splitter starting. There’s nothing like seeing your legally blind 90-year-old dad operate a motorized, hardened steel blade by himself. I shifted Mom over so I wouldn’t lose focus on either of them. Then Mom suddenly went into nurturing mode and said, “I’ll get you gloves.” Dad and I began splitting wood into smaller, more manageable sizes that he could carry. After the first wheelbarrow full, I didn’t see Mom return, so I said, “Let’s finish tomorrow.” “We still have all of this,” Dad said, sweeping his arm toward the rest of the woodpile, and kept working as if tomorrow depended on it. I looked up briefly and saw Mom approaching, cradling gloves and a hat.
“I can’t believe I found them so fast,” she said proudly, handing them to me like a treasure she discovered only to share with her daughter. I slipped the two right-handed gloves on and secured the bucket hat on my head. “You have to protect yourself when you help Dad with this. Go slowly and don’t rush.” I thought about how Dad rushes as if there’s a wood-splitting deadline he’s barely going to meet, while Mom works methodically, pacing herself like the metronome on the piano—measured, steady, calm. We finished up, and I mentally prepared for Mom’s sundowning—the dreadful circadian rhythm disruption when her confusion becomes overwhelming for all of us.
Before dinner, our dear neighbors stopped by with a plate of freshly made Biscochitos, a small piece of plastic wrap revealing cinnamon-sugar-coated cookies. I thought about how these are the allies we need in our lives. Neighbors like this sweet couple, who built a gate between their home and Mom and Dad’s to make it easier to help, visit, or deliver cookies.
At 1:20 a.m., the sundowning occurred.
“This is not my home. I’d know if I had a daughter. How did I get here?”
I texted my sisters: How do I get Mom to transition from her reality to today?
The three dots on my phone pulsed like a heartbeat: “Try to agree with her and accept as much as possible. Try music and singing, and if she’s up, give her a pancake. Walk her around the house.”
When Mom is in this altered reality, she clocks in at about 3,000 horsepower, a 4-foot-10-inch force.
As the text from my sister rolled in, I felt like she was sending answers to the SAT so I could ace the test: “Food usually calms her down. Try changing the subject or asking her questions like, have you milked a cow…”
There it was. Two pancakes later, and a detailed explanation of how she would spray milk directly into her mouth while milking, Mom was back. “You want fresh milk? THAT’S fresh milk,” she said emphatically.
54 minutes later, and we’re back in bed.
What I learned:
Daughtering is a verb.
The focus toggles between loving and languishing, admiring and administrating, memories and management.
While I need to remember to ensure Mom and Dad are hydrated, medicated, and rested, all must be connected to care and non-operational love.
This Friday, I will be home with my parents. I thought I’d repost a story I wrote a few years ago… the changes they’ve gone through, mentally, physically, and emotionally, over the years are evident. Still, they are eternally guided by faith, hope, love, and my super supportive sisters.
Repost from 2023 Lenten Reflections #4
I am one of four sisters. The youngest and farthest from our parents. Growing up, people would refer to me as “the baby,” and mom would swoop in like an eagle – wings flapping and correct them in her unyielding tone, “Nooooo, she’s the youngest”. At the time, mom was busy raising four independent girls, and the term “baby” was reserved solely for those in diapers, which we were all out of by age two.
As in most families, we each had our textbook roles as siblings: the oldest – reliable and overly cautious (as kids we barely glimpsed at the Grand Canyon as she herded us like a Border Collie away from the edge), the middle sisters – a tad rebellious, with large social circles (probably helped that they had a cool 1957 Ford truck to drive), and me fun-loving and easy-going perhaps a bit lazy. Now that Mom and Dad are 84 and 87, respectively, (AMAZING! I KNOW!) life has changed a bit, and we have adjusted our roles.
That being said, when it came to caring for them as they waltzed hand in hand through their later years, I was not the daughter to step up to the helm and guide the ship. There’s something called “Seagull Syndrome,” where the sibling who lives the farthest away tends to visit, poop on everyone’s ideas about caretaking, and fly home. I try not to do that but rather be the “fun uncle” type daughter who says yes to everything (“Yes, cookies for breakfast counts…yes, we can binge watch Blue Bloods until midnight”) , and then I head home.
Thankfully, with three sisters and the Catholic faith as our north star, one of my sisters retired from her job and moved back home to care for them. With a Master’s Degree in psychology, 30 years of experience managing engineers, and a heart of gold, she was clearly qualified and has made what is possibly the noblest of all jobs look easy. She’s the Helen Keller of caretaking. She knows where mom hurts and how to heal, she knows when dad needs to go for a drive or use the wood splitter, and she knows exactly when they both need a nap. Although they both say they “don’t nap”.
As a bunch (think Brady’s with attitude), we each contribute what we can. My oldest sister is always on call and will drop anything to be present. Outsourcing as needed, and sending Pedialyte, Boost, or whatever is needed via Amazon. My sister, closest to me in age, will jump in and clean, manage all outside work, call daily, and do more between 10 pm and 2 am than most people do all day. We all have our jobs, whether it’s calling to tell them stories of our day, making sure mom takes her medicine, or dad sits down to rest. But my sister, the primary caretaker, has developed a skillful management of herself and our parents, and for that, we are all grateful.
How does she do it?
Always reading and learning, she finds the perfect balance between caretaking and respecting our parents’ need for independence. In the book Being Mortal, author Atul Gawande posits that whether a teen or a senior, they both value autonomy and crave the feeling of purpose and worth every day. So, when Dad, who recently stopped driving, wants to drive the truck from the front yard to the back, we let him buckle up and go…better to help him remember he still can, even if just a little bit.
Equally, when mom wants to give the next-door dog, Ned, leftovers through the fence (even though he’s been fed), she takes care of dear old Ned. I read a story about Bill Thomas, director of a nursing home in NY, who brought in pets for the residents to nurture because he says giving people something to care for makes them more active and alert. Thus, my parents’ surplus of suet, bird seed, dog bones, and corn.
Being part of the “Silent Generation,” our parents are workers. Raised in the Depression Era, everything is recycled, reused, repurposed, and appreciated. Growing up, wood piles were (and still are) precious commodities, prom dresses were made by mom (!), and going out to eat at “The Royal Fork” Buffet was a really big deal.
Luckily, Dad starts each morning by saying, “Another good day, right, Mom?!” Mom replies in her realistic tone, placing her coffee in the microwave again, “Okay, Dad”. They do this, call each other “Mom and Dad,” the titles God bestowed on them that they cherish and will use day after day until there are no more days.
During my visit this past week, I wrote down some notes. As they are specific to my parents, I believe the lessons can be applied to taking care of any senior or otherwise. I wrote this list for my sisters, so it may read like a journal, but I thought it might help someone out there.
I strongly believe “everyone needs a destination.”
Respect what I call “the triangle”: Church, the doctor’s office, and the grocery store. These are their familiar stomping grounds – weave in a few other outings (restaurant, casino, a walk), and it gives the day purpose.
Note: If you have to reschedule a doctor’s appointment, do it. Better to take them when they are prepared and feeling okay than stressed and apprehensive.
Listen to their stories – it connects them to a familiar time
My mom’s stories at the age of 14 are formative years and the spotlight of her daily memory.
When Mom talks about giving up the St. John’s College scholarship offer she received, I think about the huge sacrifice she made for her family by working and supporting them when Grandpa was sick.
Mom will remind you of the way grandma and grandpa warmed water on the stove for their baths and how they sang songs like “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain” in perfect harmony.
Dad will tell you stories in Spanglish as vividly as if you were there.
Speak loudly
Especially if you are reading a crossword clue to dad or the jumble letters, or driving and mom is in the back seat, or telling a story, or or or…
Diet and meals – let them eat cake!
Mom will eat more and digest better if the food is cut into small pieces.
Gatorade powder (more economical per Dad) is rejuvenating. Stir thoroughly or he’ll tell you there is “perfectly good wasted sugar at the bottom of the glass” and refill it.
Happy Hour is sacred; respect it. Open a beer for Dad and poor Mom’s Pedialyte. Place cheese, gluten-free crackers, and fruit on a plate and enjoy.
The “Big” meal is at 3:00 pm.
Dove Bars – we bought eight boxes at the commissary – it’s a highlight of the day…and a fair bribe to get mom to eat.
Outdoor Activities – Emerson said that the happiest person on earth is the one who learns from nature the lessons of worship. So walk outside a lot.
Mom will always have things to show you around the yard, enjoy the tour. Upon my arrival, she said, “Come meet our new family members.” I went out back and was greeted by 24 cranes who began squawking at me as I approached the fence. “If we go to the poor house,” Mom said, “it’s because Dad and your sister keep feeding these guys so much corn”.
Watching Dad move wood from the ground to the truck to the splitter and stack it is as exhausting as doing it yourself.
Dad will work harder than any 20-year-old you’ve ever met and wonder why “me duele de todo” (everything hurts).
Later, talk Dad through why “todo duele” (everything hurts) and gently remind him he is 87 years old and must pace himself.
Indoor Weather – Dress for summer
It will always be warm inside Mom and Dad’s house. Our brilliant sister has the thermostat programmed to plummet to 72 degrees. (Highly Recommend!) To set the thermostat, press the bottom button on the left once, then walk away nonchalantly. Mom will later turn it up to 81 degrees. Once you are drenched in sweat, repeat the process.
The fireplace will be used if the weather is 70 degrees or below.
Indoor Activities –
Mom thinks her hearing is excellent, but according to a hearing test, it’s not. So, before watching Jeopardy, Mom will ask you to “turn up the volume because Dad can’t hear!”
Mom’s filter has gone from almost there to MIA, so when watching Jeopardy, be ready for a roasting of Ken Jennings, who, according to Mom, “acts like he knows everything” …ummm…he did win about a million times.
With Dad’s macular degeneration, he is still able to enjoy and make out the scenery when watching the Alaska shows. “Good hard workers!” he says. He also loves “Nat Geo”, “The History Channel”, and “The Weather Channel”. The more dramatic, the better with the weather.
Puzzles for mom…have one set up and another on deck at all times. This is her quiet space.
The Newspaper
Holding the newspaper in their hands brings comfort, familiarity, and joy. Even if Dad can’t see enough to read it.
Let Mom read the paper to Dad in the morning while he slurps his way through the coffee and pastries or cookies. Tread lightly, this is their time.
When Dad shakes out the newspaper, he’ll say, “Let’s see who’s left and let’s see who moved out of town.” Then he’ll hand me the obituary section to read aloud “slowly”. I announce the names as if they were crossing the stage at a commencement ceremony, or rather, St. Peter’s gate.
The crossword and Jumble are great mental gymnastic exercises and keep their minds active.
Top 10 Do’s and Don’ts
Don’t do laundry. That’s mom’s gig.
If Dad is struggling with something, DO take over and help.
If mom is struggling with something, leave her alone. She “CAN DO IT!”
Don’t move the scissors, pencils, coffee, Kleenex, or blankets. Life is now done by feel and rote memory.
Do agree more.
Do let Dad cheer up Mom. Dad equals levity.
Do help them remember: Dad may not remember what he ate the night before – i.e., “Oh, we ate enchiladas last night? Did I enjoy them?” “Yes, Dad, you loved them.” “Oh, good!”
OR “Did we watch Blue Bloods last night?” Yes, Dad, you fell asleep in the last five minutes. “Did I enjoy it?” Yes, Dad – you loved it.“Oh, good!”
Do answer the phone mean people prey on the elderly.
Don’t ask them, “Do you remember when…” just retell the story.
What I’ve learned:
Being far away is hard. Wondering if this is the phone call is hard, hard, hard. Saying goodbye to them at the airport when I leave is hard…homesickness in my fifties looks a lot different than it used to, and I mentally prep myself for the lifelong homesickness yet to come.
But I love that God and Grace and Mercy exist. I love that when I cry and truly let out my fear of their absence, the tears feel like a Baptism. I love that I have my sisters. How to care for those who cared for us…I love that we are like a pit crew, repairing what is broken, filling up our parents’ tank with all the love we possibly can because we’re on the clock. I love that we take care of each other.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
On writing…
“You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves in your heart–your stories, visions, memories, songs: your truth, your version of things, in your voice. That is really all you have to offer us, and it’s why you were born.”
Last week, Cora texted her brothers: “When are you coming home next?”
Friday rolled around, and I heard the rumble of Dexter’s truck in the driveway. He was home for the weekend.
Then, early Saturday morning, Zavier soared through the door, yelling, “What’s up, Fam!”
Cora had asked, and here they were.
It reminded me of when the kids were younger, and Cora would direct the boys in several plays they created. Sometimes she was the police officer, and they were the deputies in a big sting operation, or they were headline performers for a Christmas show. Cora would choose the songs, and the boys followed directions and sang the five holiday songs they almost knew the words to, multiple times. They threw on bonnets for Little House on the Prairie reenactments, performed Baptisms for every doll in the house, and took their bows one show at a time.
Everything went smoothly until it didn’t. Without fail, lyrics would go awry – a dreidel would get mixed into Rudolph’s Reindeer games, the dogs would drink the baptismal water during the doll ceremony, or potty talk would slide its way into a script, the boys laughing hysterically along the way until Cora would shut down the entire show.
But this weekend, they accepted their casting calls and showed up when asked.
Before I knew it, clean laundry was packed up, I wrote them each a little note, and their cars rumbled away. It was a wonderful weekend.
From the Runonmom.com Lenten archives, here’s one of my personal Favorites…thanks for reading.
Today at work, I walked with a first grader to his classroom. The tousled-hair blonde with sweet, aqua eyes looked down at his untied sneakers and uttered, “I still don’t know how to tie my shoes…I mean, I just don’t have time, you know (dramatic pause) now that I play baseball.” He caught my eye to make sure I fully grasped the play ball part. I gave him an understanding, “I KNOOOW, you’ve got a lot to do!” response, and he gave me the kid nod that said, “Finally, someone gets it.”
Clearly, he was a busy guy. Way too busy to mess with shoestrings and all that tying. Baseball was his priority now, and talking about it made him beam. He wanted to share who he was, and by letting me know he was a baseball player, he was pleased with himself and satisfied that I heard it from him first.
We all need our thing
Something that drives us, that makes us jump out of bed and start the day with a spark. Does it define who we are? Maybe. It certainly tells more of our story.
And kids? Kids are constantly exploring. They also need to get out and experience success and failure, whether in an organized sport, class, or just playing with friends on the playground. Pray they seize opportunities to socialize, develop their identities, and discover what they love or don’t.
When I grew up, my sporting perspective was pretty narrow – it was soccer or soccer. As the fourth of four girls, you just follow the pack, and my sister, who is closest in age to me, was a soccer player; therefore, so was I. We had two practices a week, games on Saturdays, reversible uniforms, and our snacks were sliced oranges and water.
Nowadays, there are limitless choices for kids, from soccer to surfing, and mountain biking to martial arts. Practices sometimes end as late as 9:00 pm., and on some nights, dinners are eaten at different times while homework sits on the back burner simmering patiently. Justin and I feel like we are constantly driving somewhere, but we don’t complain because soon enough, the backseat will be empty, garage doors tightly shut, and there will be fewer shoes to trip over.
Naturally, over the years, our kids have dabbled in a lot to find out what makes them tick. In the process, we’ve had: acoustic guitars, bass guitars, ukeleles, soccer cleats, keyboards, lacrosse goals, baking tools, chorus, piano music, gymnastics, basketball high tops, hockey pucks, baseball gloves, frisbee golf goals, shuttlecocks, tennis rackets, catcher’s gear, football helmets, swim goggles, orienteering shoes, toe shoes, tap shoes, ballet shoes, running shoes, metal cleats, turf cleats, unicycles, mountain bikes, skateboards, Ripsticks, bows, arrows, quivers, fishing rods, dart boards, ping pong balls, and more I may have forgotten.
I am so grateful they have WANTED to try so many things, and I am happy we’ve been able to afford them the chance. They’ve settled on (but are not limited to) swimming, baseball, and mountain biking, plus cello, saxophone, and trumpet- a well-rounded crew.
Thank God.
Thank God they found something they care about and enjoy.
I know we’re busy, but as I say, it’s a good busy. It’s a time where we can relish in our children’s successes, see them win, lose, fall, get up, and be there just in case they need us or a Band-Aid.
What I learned:
Let them try. Let them fail. Let them know they have to give it more than a week. Tell them to power through the whole season because there is a team or group depending on them, and life is about teamwork and perseverance.
My first-grade friend, who is simply too busy to bother with tying his shoes, figured out what makes him happy, as all kids should. What a lucky guy.
UPDATE 2025: All of our kids are still playing sports in college and are very happy.
40 Reflections #31: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
Tonight is one of those nights when I stare at a blank page. No clue what to write. Guess I should have planned rather than gone organic. Let’s see…
Yesterday, I watched a woodpecker balance upside down in a very acrobatic foraging pose, using its tail feathers like a tripod and clinging effortlessly to peck the heck out of the nuts and seeds we had out. I mean, even this guy went in with a plan, and I’m sitting here with a blank page!
I arrived at the airport this early morning, thankfully with lots of time before my flight, as security was packed. I felt like I won the lottery when my bag did not get flagged, and I could lace up my shoes and head to gate A19.
As I settled in my aisle seat, my window neighbor had arrived. He was an elderly gentleman with only his Sudoku book and a pencil capped with a red eraser marking his last page.
“Sudoku will pass the time”, he said.
He had zero electronic devices to set on airplane mode, no earphones taken from the flight attendant to plug in and watch whatever Delta is offering on the screens dotting the seatbacks. Instead, he stared out the window like we used to, watching luggage load and busy workers shuffle around the tarmac.
We had the loveliest conversation. Turns out he’s a motorhome guy with fascinating stories. Which I will share…soon!
I arrived at my childhood home to help take care of my parents. Mom recognized me (thank you Jesus), and Dad asked if the flight was full as he had my last 1,583 flights prior. Ahhhh…normalcy.
Now, my blank page is full, and so is my heart. More tomorrow.
runonmom.com 