9-1-1

There have rarely been times when I have been totally and completely blindsided by my offspring. Since I had become so conditioned to strategize, I always felt the best possible outcome would ensue with the least amount of negativity. I became so accustomed to this mindset, I literally divided my day into quadrants- morning, afternoon, evening, and night. I micro -managed each detail so I might feel the tiniest bit in control.

It was farcical to be so type “A” when I lived a perpetual play date (triplet boys) that could go wrong at any second. Sure, I could plan but something was always bound to pop up.

One such afternoon, the children were all together at a friends’ house. They were having a fun time playing and there were about 5 of them. Our girls were in charge since they had reached babysitting age and could easily access us moms who were two blocks away.

It was a welcome break to see friends myself and get to visit. We were at a local tapas and wine store sipping and chatting when our cell phones began blowing up. Apparently, one son had gone upstairs to hang out and decided it would be fun to play on the phone. This resulted in cop cars WITH BLUE LIGHTS FLASHING to dash to their house assuming there was an emergency. One son had curiously pushed “911-111-1111” on the phone just to see what would happen. The cops asked where the parents were and they told them, “At the wine store drinking wine.”

Not only did our friends get highly embarrassed that cop cars pulled into their Main Street house for the world’s speculation, but we moms felt no parenting awards were coming our way either.

PLU or Who?

The first time I heard the term “PLU” was when I described a crowd. My sis-in-law said, “You mean PLUs.” I asked what that meant and she said, “People Like Us.” She nailed it. She wasn’t referring to people like her, but rather a group of similar people. The homogenous crowd I described WAS so alike I could have easily described one individual or the collective group and they seemed the exact same.

Recall being pigeon-holed by people as a prep, jock, or geek in high school? It was how kids identified themselves and each other. It was major effort to get to know someone outside your bubble. And more often than not, that cross- pollination didn’t happen that much.

Calling a crowd a “PLU” is not necessarily a compliment. When people only associate with like minded, like-appearing and like-interested groups, not a whole lot of influence or change occurs. It’s like we sometimes cocoon ourselves in familiarity, therefore protecting ourselves from appearing different from our perceived assigned group.

Growing up, our children were very open to a vast array of friends. Some were foreign exchange students from Germany, China, Roatán, and Poland that would visit. One of our sons called his friends “the misfits” in middle school. It wasn’t negative, just a description of his “Non-PLUs.” He already got how it was cool to get to know and get along with a myriad of people.

I used to be concerned with being in a PLU crowd. It was exhaustive trying to maintain the associations, relationships, activities and enrollments I self imposed on myself. Once I got over my petty insecurities, I realized I identified with all ages of people. I met some of the coolest people in non-PLU territory. They are 81-94 years and I love them! Had I not looked outside my PLU, I’d have missed that HUGE blessing!

“BAG of WEED”

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Before anyone calls the cops (or DHR for that matter), please read the rest of the story. When our daughter was about two years old, she had a really hard time verbalizing syllables. Her brother’s name, Jordan, was especially hard for her to pronounce. She ended up spontaneously calling him “Weedo.” We all ended up calling him that for nearly 15 years until he finally (exasperatedly) expressed his true feelings about his nickname. And they were not pleasant!

The term of endearment did, however, apply until high school. Since we typically made his lunch on school days, one morning I absentmindedly wrote “Weed” on his lunch bag. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. When he went to lunch, his friends died laughing over the fact he was carrying his bag of “Weed.”

THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!

It started 21 years ago when I was Orca the Whale. I was already on “bed arrest” for a high risk pregnancy but then had to be admitted to a teaching hospital with a neonatal unit. This aged facility was where my Cornish hen-sized babies would enter the world too early at 30 weeks. I recall there being lots of preterm, laboring moms that night and no room for admittance. So I got to lie on a gurney for a bed with a curtain as a partition. I recall garish, exposed, fluorescent bulbs, and the view of a mega dust bunny gliding back and forth over my head. To keep the babies baking longer, I was given a med that caused vomiting. Not just a little either. So, in my 1/2 star accommodations, I thought to myself, “This can’t be happening.” But it did. And it kept happening for 6 more weeks….

The next time it happened I was outnumbered and carting all my brood to a public library. It was one of the very few places I could go with 4 preschoolers without doing a perpetual head count. Since we were potty training, I was relieved there was a potty right there too. We go in the library and one of my guys is so engrossed in his trains that he goes #2 right there by the train table, completely unnoticed. (As you know, children run around and around and back and forth A LOT when playing at a train table.) To add insult to injury, my sons also had on deep-trekked shoes and were innocently “painting” the carpet with the “accident.” I got a sudden whiff and the panic set in. My 911 button was pushed and I went into damage control. Mortified, I take the culprit to get cleaned up. Then, the perturbed librarian comes at me with carpet cleaner. I thought to myself, “This can’t be happening!” But as sure as stink it did! I got to clean carpet, clean children, clean shoes and accept the fact we couldn’t go there ever, ever again.

Looking back, those minor horrors were “Boot Camp” to prepare me for a whole lot to come. I can take a whole lot more stress now than I could back then. I am not as fazed at shattered windows, fender benders, and escaped pet snakes. Maybe God knew I needed to be pushed. Maybe He knew what would get through to me. I really don’t know, but I can definitely say I got the message.

SECOND PLACE

Sometimes, we get what others might conceive as “the shaft.” Second place can seem like failure to some: very, very good but not quite good enough.

Recently, the world was engrossed with the World Cup. Us fans observed when Croatia, who effectively battled their way to the final, ended up coming up short. They got second place and not their desired outcome. But, considering the fact the country hasn’t been to the finals of the World Cup in decades, they were quite successful. In reality, they had a great showing and proved that a lesser populated nation could produce an outstanding team of players on the world’s pitch.

Second place can actually be quite a relief. I remember my school’s spelling bee when I placed second and my opponent advanced to the county level. I also recall Girl’s State when I lost to my opponent at the gubernatorial level. I was relieved to stop with both those levels of loss/success. I wanted the opponent to advance so I didn’t have all the additional responsibility. I got a modicum of success without further responsibility. I gained “partial noteriety” with which I was satisfied. My resume was filled but I had no further obligation.

Another example could be observing the American princess, Megan Markle. She made her official appearance with the Queen and royal family recently at Buckingham Palace. She was observed as being positioned behind Princess Kate And Prince William and some interpreted this as insubordination. But in fact, it was planned that way due to the hierarchy of succession. We can only speculate the relief she must have felt in being behind the experienced royals and not thrust straightaway into the world’s spotlight. Second row could have been welcome relief for her. Pressure was abated due to her physical positioning.

It can be a gift to be second place or runner up. It can be a blessing to obtain the experience of the trial, game, match or race and not gain all the pressure to move on to the next level. Or, the failure, per se, can be what makes us stronger. Sometimes, life allows us the gift of experience rather than that of prestige. Prestige is fleeting and bases itself on success and winning. Experience, our perpetual teacher, bases itself on failure as well, thus, nothing is wasted. In actuality, failure is what makes success so sweet. Second place can very much be a gift.

U2 and Me TOO

Their mind bending words are,

“I can’t change the world, but I can change the world in me.”

The artist goes on to say,

“When I rejoice…”

No, this is not a contemporary hymn (it should be), but rather lyrics from the iconic band, U2’s song “Rejoice.” God resonates throughout their music. I confess I am an avid fan. Their story, their music, their lyrical questioning of how things are disturbs me in a good way. I’m impressed their band has not allowed egos or money to compromise their values and that giving back continues to be important to them. (Of course, a few zillion fans’ adoration, nice digs, and luxury travel aren’t bad either, I presume.)

Kendrick Lamar is another phenomenal, Pulitzer Prize winning (and a Grammy or so) influential artist with an important voice. His message to his fellow Compton- raised, struggling population is that they are visible and not forgotten. He said in a recent Vanity Fair article that he wants to give back and help rather than just leave it all behind and “luxuriate.” That is a powerful and promising choice he’s made.

What I’ve observed in my half century existence is that no matter our zip code, finances, or health status, there is a definitive choice we all have. We choose our outlook. I have known joyful people who have been through things that would buckle anyone’s knees and also the opposite. I gravitate to the former.

Circumstances are often completely out of our control. You can’t pick what family you were born into, nor your DNA (not yet, anyway), and sometimes, BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE. However, our perspective remains optional.

All can easily succumb to defeat when adversities bombard. Personally, I have been there but got really tired of my gray-skied view. I sought all resources I could to fight my own defeatism. Daily I guard myself against “Stinkin Thinkin.”

The brick wall of life will allow you to repeatedly beat your head against it as long as you’d like. There are certain questions for which there’s no good answer (or any, for that matter). Still, life goes on and we have to decide our position.

What then do Eeyores of the world do? They CHOOSE gratitude, kindness and positivity. I’m not fooling anyone that I don’t cry, get knocked down and suffer disappointment like anyone, but I won’t stay there anymore. I have found my own remedy for discouragement and bullying circumstances. My personal weapons of choice are: reading the Bible, prayer, practicing gratitude (a whole lot of it) and serving others. I haven’t found anything better to help me choose joy.

What’s In A Name?

Pets’ names are often curious and have an interesting story behind them. I love to inquire how they got their monikers. Our first family dog, Fluffy, was named by our daughter due to her fascination with the Harry Potter series. The beastly, three headed dog that protected the secret passageways of Hogwarts was ironically named “Fluffy.” We considered this first, family dog a metrosexual since he loved carrying his “Chewy Vuitton” purse around. Our neighbor down the street fed him a scrambled egg and bacon most mornings. He had his daily route of progressive dining which lead to excessive weight that I got chastised about by our vet. Once, I actually attached a sign to his neck that said “Please don’t feed me” but no one listened and his girth became like a pot bellied pig at 120 pounds. Still, he lived 17, happy years (and was amazingly buoyant in the river).

A recent addition, Skippy, was not named after the peanut butter brand but the dog food we gave Fluffy when he got insulin shots. Our daughter was dismayed when she heard the name and said that it figured. She said, “Of course I’m not there and it gets named after off brand dog food!”

A favorite pet name was one our son gave his pet goldfish. A family friend had won it at the fair but wasn’t interested in keeping it. Our son, however, was. He got his prized pet and immediately named it “Grace cannot name me” so his sister couldn’t have a say. That fairground goldfish lived three, unheard of years. It was a value added pet!

Annie is our elderly chihuahua that we found on the side of a highway. Obviously an orphan, her name came easily. Artemis is half feral and brought home numerous dead “prizes” before she realized she was actually going to be fed and didn’t have to hunt anymore. Thus, she got the name which means “goddess of the hunt.”

We recently had a kitten chase our vehicle a quarter mile in the woods. He was tiny and starving. My son who picked him up (or got picked up by) named him Opossum and we call it Opey for short. That name was the only one after a week that we could all agree on. (It’s hard to not agree on any reference to Andy Griffith anyway.)

Unenforceable, implied laws of pet naming require animals get interesting names. Who’s ever heard of a cat named Sara or a dog named John anyway?

WRAP ‘EM UP

Human condition can be measured without scientific, in-depth studies. It can easily be assessed when three, preteen boys have too much time on their hands.

Not realizing their idea was of the psycho-sociological nature, they took several rolls of plastic wrap and attached their willing brother to a pole on our road purely for reaction. He willingly complied since he had watched one too many episodes of Impractical Jokers. (Thoughtful as the perpetrators were, they left plenty of room for him to breathe.) The other two hid nearby in anticipation of stranger’s reactions.

Apparently, they had only two passersby and only one vehicle slowed down long enough to check he was actually breathing.

From a scientist’s perspective, the study was a bust. Not enough participants and the results were skewed. But to the boys, at least two hours had gone by and they got what they wanted- their own laughs.

Tattoo Who

I always thought tattoos were interesting. I have no idea why, but I would look at them and think to myself, “What does that mean?” and “Why do they have that?” I was inexplicably drawn to them and could only imagine the story behind the ink. I even researched what the Bible said about them. However, I was raised by a father that said a tattoo was a “permanent reminder of a temporary feeling.”

Throughout history, tattoos have sometimes had negative connotations. My husband had a grandfather who was a merchant marine that was embarrassed of his – so much so, he hid his with long-sleeved shirts in sweltering heat. Cher even had hers lasered off. Yet they seem more ubiquitous and socially accepted now than ever.

To me, tattoos are interpretive, personal art. The only thing that stopped me from getting one was the fact my intuitive husband said I’d want to change mine out after a month like an accessory. His opinion was correct in that I was easily bored with decor and fashion. In those areas, he had me pegged.

There were, however, nonnegotiables in my life: my devotion to my family and my faith. To explain, it takes supernatural, God- equipped strength to raise (much less live with) 4 teenagers. So, when I hit a particularly difficult, rough patch, I decided to take a personal “break.” I have no clue how to define or what constitutes “a break,” but I will say it was the healthiest choice. No kidding, I hit a very high, hard wall in parenting. So, I separated myself to avoid perpetuating anymore negativity and to gain perspective. I went to the beach and started praying fervently. I had no idea what to do, how to do it, or what could come of my quandry. I just kept seeking divine guidance. I knew God was there and would help me but I didn’t know what that would look like. The more I prayed, the more God drew closer. I felt His comforting presence and sensed my job was to back off and let Him do His work. I felt without a doubt that God was telling me to “Be still” and just “Be Thankful.” That message, after days of prayer, was all I needed to stop trying so hard to force change. My role rather, was to rejoice and be thankful for all God’s blessings. This was new for me: I was to stop micromanaging everything and just “be.”

After contemplating this reality, it dawned on me that I felt a permanent reminder was in order. It was like I was driven by an external force that sunny weekday to go to the beach tattoo parlor. Yep, a middle aged, mother of 4 had an unwavering plan to commemorate this “God moment” in ink.

With their high-tech, graphics design program, and medical grade equipment, the artist created a light- hued, grey scripted message on my inner wrist. It was and is my permanent message from God to be still and be thankful.

It has induced hilarious banter from some like, “Did you get that in prison?” I also find it humorous that I am the only one in my family with one- none of my college kids do. Interestingly, it has also been the impetus of deep conversations with strangers regarding faith. I don’t regret it and haven’t for one moment wanted to change it out either.

ABC Diagnose Me

gray and black stethoscope — Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

Howie Mandel had it right when he said, “ADD, ADHD, OCD…I wanna buy another vowel!” He was referring to the multiple diagnoses he had been given.

School-aged children tend to be stuck with the most vowels. Once they start school, their obvious differences in learning, self-regulating and temperament begin to emerge. Of course, when you put 25 children with one teacher in one room, there will be issues. Asking tiny people to be still and be quiet can be like asking social media users to post only kind remarks. It’s the impossible, yet we continue with this style of teaching, continuing to force squares into circles.

When a child’s behavior stands out exponentially is when the real fun begins. From the notes sent home, to the red marks on their schoolwork, to the teacher’s conferences (I must hold the world record for those), the message sent is “something is wrong with so and so and needs to be corrected.” My heart aches for children in that predicament. When possible, changing the environment, trying different schooling options is a luxury. More often than not, the parent is forced to send their child to a losing environment.

I’m guilty myself. By God’s good grace, my children got through it. It was ugly at times and painful at others but they did it. In hindsight, I recognize I nearly lost my mind obsessing over their behavior, grades and if their teachers liked them and what their diagnoses were. To medicate or not, switch schools (but to which and what kind?), and find therapies to correct our issues, were all consuming. After many MD appointments, we finally found a local specialist and he helped tremendously. However, it wasn’t a cure-all but another tool instead.

What truly mattered was how they, individually, developed as human beings, not if their teachers liked them (a few did), if they could read on time (a few did) and what diagnoses they had. Hilariously, I got the vowels myself seeking their’s! My point is that it’s great to decipher what issues are at hand, but not to get bogged down with them.

The point is to help your child navigate the process of growing up into a productive, self-regulating, caring adult. The world overall won’t accommodate because of a diagnosis. He or she will still have to perform and be expected to conform to the world around them. Focusing more on their positive nurturement is much more helpful. I wish I had done that instead of trying to “fix” them.

Once hyperactivity and impulsiveness were identified, I read every book available (not many back then) and made appointments with every expert I could find. I even flew to New York City and paid $400/hr to talk to the author of the only book I could find on the subject. For that costly hour, the doctor didn’t give me the secret tools of success or the magical cure, he simply spent the hour telling me to take care of myself first, as their caregiver, and to love and praise them! That was it! My $6.67 per minute consultation was spent learning self care and to cheerlead my brood. I was sure he’d give me something tangible and he did, he gave me a book about people who turned out famous with, and despite, their ADHD.

You can wear yourself out procuring knowledge on learning disabilities and the like. I did. But I’d suggest perceiving treatment as a tool or partnership, a more light handed approach. In the end, it’s most important they feel loved, supported and cared about. In the end, isn’t that what everyone wants?