I’m Not Sure How to Mom Anymore

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 26 Comments

sports

I.

I have two sons.  In just a month, they will be 11 and 13.  And our home, well, it’s not the same as it used to be.  There are basketballs and gym shoes, shin guards and dirty socks at every turn.  There is a constant search for missing earbuds and phone chargers, and “pump up” music, the kind that plays before sporting events, has become the soundtrack of our lives.  There is a funky smell here, a mingling of stinky shoe, sweaty uniform, and Axe body wash, that wafts through the air.  And it is next to impossible to keep snacks stocked in the cabinets.  Almost-teen boys are a lot less snips and snails and puppy dog tails and a lot more bottomless stomach.

I don’t mind wrangling the socks and washing the uniforms, and I’m learning to hide my favorite snacks from the scavengers who live here.  I know to watch for loose balls at the bottom of the stairs, and I’m an expert at hunting for “lost” equipment as we are running late to practice, again.  I don’t even mind the stinky smell.  I mean, I don’t like the stinky smell, but I’m becoming desensitized.  And my mother-in-law buys me candles, so that helps.

What I do mind is that these simple, insignificant changes signal something bigger, a shift in my responsibilities as a parent, a change in what motherhood means.  The canary that represents childhood at our house is barely hanging onto its perch.  I’ve been trying to resuscitate it, but it isn’t working, and the thought of a dead canary here nearly stops my heart from beating, too.

My little boys aren’t so little now, and I don’t really know what I’m doing.  I’m not sure I know how to mom anymore.

I was skilled at rocking my sleeping babies.
I was quick at chasing my busy toddlers.
I was smart at exploring the woods with my curious preschoolers.
I was impressive at creating crafts and experiments for my kindergarteners.
I was even good at teaching my inquisitive elementary students to read.

But I don’t know how to parent 10 and 12.

 

 

II.

A few weeks before Christmas, my younger son begged me to chaperone his concert rehearsal for fifth- and sixth-graders who play strings.  He pleaded with me several times, and I changed the subject several times, mostly because missing work usually creates more work for me in one way or another.  But he persisted, and the teacher sent out a code red that said something like “We are in need of chaperones” but that sounded to me like “These kids will never amount to anything if none of their mothers even care, for goodness sakes.”  And also I realized that my little boy is 10, and he was begging me to go, and in just a few short months he may be begging me NOT to.

So I signed up.

On the morning of the rehearsal, I was excited to spend a little extra time with my son.  I waited in the office until the secretary released the students for the trip and boys and girls rushed into the hallway with music books and backpacks and violins.  I hurried to the bus to welcome them and watched through the window as my son and his friends approached.  Soon he boarded, giggling and chatting with his classmates, who quickly shuffled past my row to claim the seats in the back.

He may have said hi as he passed by.

I’m not exactly sure.

But I am sure that there was no hug, no I’m-so-glad-you’re-here-Mom, not even a pause for a chat or a fist bump.  There was nothing, really, to indicate that the two of us were any more related than any other pair of people on that bus.

The rehearsal went off without a hitch, and soon we were boarding again to head back to the elementary school.  On the return trip, I glanced behind me every once in a while to see what was happening in the seats in the rear.  The kids talked and joked and laughed and enjoyed escaping the classroom for an hour or two.  When the bus doors opened once again, the students hastily exited to return to class.  And the kid who had begged me to chaperone this trip scurried down the hallway without ever looking back.

And that was that.

My dog wagged her tail and jumped excitedly when I got home, which soothed my fear that I had turned invisible after leaving the house in the morning.  I checked the mirror and pinched myself just to be sure.

Yep.  I’m still here.

Later that evening, to my surprise, my ten-year-old thanked me for going on the field trip “with” him.  He was so happy that I had taken a few hours off work to ride that bus, even though it had seemed like my presence didn’t matter at all.  The truth was that he never intended to spend time with me on the way to his rehearsal.  He just wanted to know that, when given two choices, I would choose him.

Thank goodness I did.  Because I came very close to failing that test. 

I may have felt a bit neglected that morning, but I knew exactly where to sit at the concert that night for a perfect view of my son and his cello.

So there’s that, too.

This is what parenting 10 looks like.

 

 

III.

Last Friday, my older son’s middle school basketball team was recognized during half-time of the varsity game at the high school.  It was a big deal to us.  But as we finalized our plans for the evening, he seemed unexpectedly stressed.

“Mom,” he said, looking conflicted, “you can just drop me off at the high school.  I mean, if you want to, that’s fine.”

Drop him off?  Was this kid serious?

This was going to be a sweet moment.  I mean, he was wearing a freaking bow tie, and they were announcing his name, you know, over the loud speaker.  In front of a big crowd.  At a varsity basketball game.

No, drop off is not an option.   

“Okay, yeah, well, I really want you to be there, Mom.”

Yes . . . I know that. . . So what am I missing?

“But it’s okay if I hang out with my team, right?  You won’t care, will you?”

Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh.

Of course.  Your team.  Right.  Your friends.  For sure.  Absolutely.  I mean, that will be perfect because I really just wanted to concentrate on the game anyway. 

Yeah.

So my son played it cool with his teammates while I sat alone in a gym packed with people since the rest of the family had other things to do.  It was different.  But I enjoyed observing my son from a distance, seeing the whole picture of who he is without the distraction of the details.  I enjoyed watching how he interacted with his friends and  admiring the young man he has become.  I know I’m his mom, but, really, that kid is pretty amazing.

I didn’t mind cheering for the home team while he socialized since I love watching basketball, too.   But I was shocked that night, because something about high school has definitely changed, and very recently, I think, because I have been teaching high school for thirteen years and I have never noticed.

Get ready for this.  Grab a chair because it’s crazy.  Ready?

High school boys LOOK JUST LIKE GROWNUP MEN now!

Seriously, when did this start happening?  And why aren’t we researching how to make this stop?

I looked at the players in disbelief, imagining what my grown sons will look like and wondering how ALL of those changes can possibly happen in the next few years.  It seems impossible.  Glimpses of the future flashed through my mind, tempered by glimpses of the past, when I was cheering from the student section and my husband was the high school basketball player and everyone loitered at Burger King or ran through the Taco Bell drive thru after the game.

Time is not a distance runner.  He is a sprinter.  He races past at an incredible speed.  Kids grow up, and adults get old, and moments pass quickly and are lost forever.  Our only hope of bottling yesterday is to preserve its memories.  And that only works if we take time to make them.

While we were at the high school that night, my son touched base with me only once.

Yes, when he needed money.

But on our way home, he talked and talked and talked about the events of the evening and the conversation he had with a former coach and the funny things that happened with his friends.  And the two of us decided to run through Taco Bell, just like my friends and I did in high school, even though we had already eaten dinner, even though it was after ten o’clock at night.

I wonder if, ten years from now, he will remember eating those tacos with his mom after a varsity basketball game in 2017.

I hope that he will.

This is what parenting 12 looks like.

 

 

IV.

When I started teaching, I worked at a rural high school in southeastern Ohio with a man named Jim Williams.  Jim Williams was tall and serious and a respected veteran teacher.  He had a dry sense of humor and a quick wit, and it seemed to me that he had read every piece of literature that had ever been written.  He was also the chair of the English department, so he was, at least in my mind, my boss.

I was a novice, still learning the ropes and finding my confidence, and Jim Williams was never anything but kind to me when I worked with him.  But, because of my own insecurities as a young teacher, I felt about fifteen years old whenever we spoke.  My mind defaulted from being the high school teacher to being just another student, although he always treated me as a respected colleague.

So Jim Williams and I didn’t chat very often, mostly because I was more comfortable feeling my real age of twenty-something than defaulting to an anxious fifteen.  When I needed professional advice, he was helpful, but I didn’t hang around long enough to discuss the news or the weather or my life outside of school.  The English wing had no extra room for me, so I could easily escape to my classroom by the gym with any seeds of wisdom he had shared.

In hindsight, I should have devoted more time to learning from Jim Williams than to hiding from him because he shared some of the best advice that I have ever been given.

And it had nothing to do with teaching.

It was a gloomy winter day at the high school when I received a message that my baby boy was sick and I would need to be home for the next couple of days.  Not only was I striving to excel as a teacher at that time, but I was also just learning to juggle the demands of teaching and motherhood.  Before having a baby, I rarely used a sick day, and I often continued working after school until late into the evening.  I took pride in my commitment and my creativity and all of the extra hours that I logged.  I don’t remember exactly what I said to Jim Williams that day, but I imagine that it was some version of an apology for needing to be home.

What I do remember clearly is that he stopped me – so that he could say something profound instead of listening to my nonsense.

Jim Williams said, “There will always be another teacher, Mary Ann.”

Oooooooh.  That burns.  I mean, I’ve been trying really hard to be the best and to do the most and to keep all the plates spinning.  You haven’t even noticed?

He wasn’t finished.

“There will always be another teacher, Mary Ann, but your son will never have another mother.”

See.  I told you he was smart.

Yes, it stung, but I understood what Jim Williams was saying.  He wasn’t telling me that I was easily replaceable or that my teaching wasn’t up to his expectations.  He wasn’t saying that hiring a substitute for a day or two would be equal to my presence in the classroom.  But he was telling me to take a deep breath and prioritize.  And I needed that.  Because sometimes I was so worried about being the best teacher for my students that I wasn’t being the best mother for my baby, even when I was at home with him at night.

Jim Williams was saying that my presence as a mother matters.

And I have never forgotten that.

 

 

V.

Maybe raising 10 and 12 isn’t as complicated as I think it is.  Maybe it’s mostly about presence, about “choosing” the people we love and connecting with them whenever and however we can.  Maybe it’s as simple as being in the same place, even when we are all in separate rooms doing separate things.  Maybe it’s just about being.  Maybe just being is exactly what my sons need.

Don’t get me wrong.  We eat dinner as a family and play games together.  We plan fun events and talk and spend time with grandparents and friends.  Those things are important.

But there are many more hours now when I am not chasing anyone or disciplining anyone or teaching anyone about fractions or saving anyone from harm.

There are many more hours now when I am just here.

And that’s okay.

Maybe parenting 10 and 12 is being close enough to come to the rescue but far enough away to let my children take a chance.  Maybe it’s watching them climb the tall, scary ladder, and then holding the safety net under the tightrope they are walking to become men.

The minutes, they pass quickly, and there is no buying them back when the canary’s song fades.  So maybe I just need to relax, enjoy the journey, and remember that just being matters.

And maybe it matters the most when it seems like it doesn’t matter at all.

 

 

Image Source: Steven Depolo under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic

 

Hidden Figures: Lessons on Hope and Courage

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 3 Comments

hidden-figures-poster

Hidden Figures tells the true story of three African American women working at NASA during the height of the space race between the United States and Russia.  The year is 1961, and while the country is united in a common goal to send a man to the moon, there is racial tension within NASA’s gates and civil unrest outside them.  The three women who propel the movie, Katherine Goble Johnson, Mary Jackson, and Dorothy Vaughan, have both brilliant minds and firecracker spirits.  Given the time period, they are considered “lucky” to work as computers (mathematicians) at such a respected government agency, but their experiences at NASA reveal that while technology is advancing at lightning speed in 1961, social progress is often excruciatingly slow.

I believe that every person has a valuable story, a unique life experience that unlocks the door to lessons that we may not have learned on our own, so I expected to appreciate this movie.  What I did not expect was that Katherine, Mary, and Dorothy would become my friends, that they would kick up their feet and make themselves at home in my head.  I didn’t expect that their voices would continue speaking to me long after the movie had ended, that they would unpack their suitcases and stay.

I did not expect this, but I don’t mind that they did.

Here are a few of my favorite takeaways from this movie, but PLEASE go and see it for yourself!  You can thank me for the recommendation later!

*CAUTION: Spoilers ahead!*

 

  1. Do not allow ANYONE to diminish your value.

Over and over and over again, the main characters in the movie are treated as second-class citizens because they are female and black at a time when both are considered inferior.  Even though Katherine’s ability to calculate complex mathematical equations is exceptional, she is repeatedly underestimated, and when her colleagues begin to recognize her extraordinary talent, she is still resented by men and women alike.  Likewise, Dorothy is not appreciated for her leadership, and Mary is discouraged from pursuing graduate classes in engineering despite both women being highly qualified.

But these ladies know that their value is not determined by what other people say or do or think.  They have a strong faith.  They have an impenetrable self-respect.  They have the love of their families.  And they have each other.

This is what gives Katherine the spunk to challenge the sexist attitude of the man she eventually marries and the courage to invite herself into highly classified meetings at NASA without proper clearance.

Katherine, Mary, and Dorothy know their value.  They do not allow anyone to dim their light, and neither should you.  Keep shining.

 

  1. You can be the first.

In one of the most compelling scenes in the movie, Mary Jackson petitions the court to allow her to attend graduate classes at night at a segregated high school.  This is her only option if she wants to become a NASA engineer.  In her plea, Mary reminds the judge of the “importance of being first,” in this case being the first to challenge social norms.  She asks him, “Out of all the cases you gonna hear today, which one is gonna matter a hundred years from now?  Which one is gonna make you the first?”

Being first matters.

But the movie also reveals that being first isn’t easy.  In Mary’s case, being first means going to court.  It means researching and pleading her case.  It means risking rejection and abuse.  Even when Mary is victorious and is granted permission to attend, being first means being unwelcome.  It means proving herself every single step along the way.

Even so, Mary shows us that there is something rewarding about winning an honorable and hard-fought battle.  And if you are the first to do something worth doing, you can rest assured that others won’t be far behind.

But they will never be first.

Because you were.

 

  1. If you aren’t part of the solution, you are part of the problem.

Even though I was absorbed in the struggles of Katherine, Mary, and Dorothy, I couldn’t take my eyes off the white people on the screen.  I know that the actual events took place in 1961.  I know that social norms were very different at that time.  I know, on an academic level, about segregation and discrimination.    But I couldn’t stop watching the behavior of so many white characters and thinking, “How could you do that?”

How could you make Katherine use a separate coffee pot in the office?

How could you intentionally prevent her from having the information she needs to do her job?

How could you deny her recognition and shut the door in her face when she is a critical part of your team?

How could you?

On the way home from the movie, my sons asked some difficult questions.  What would we have been like, as people, if we had been raised at that time, in that place, and indoctrinated with those ideas of right and wrong?  The truth is that I don’t know.

But there are white people in the movie who stand out as exceptionally bright lights.  The brightest of those is John Glenn, who does not hesitate to greet all of the NASA employees, including the black women who have been sent to the side, with a handshake and a warm smile.  He is portrayed as exuberant, kind, respectful – and eager to acknowledge Katherine’s exceptional talent.  Another bright light is Karl Zielinski, a mission specialist who encourages Mary to pursue a career in engineering when she sees that as an impossible goal.

Our actions influence people.  When we turn our heads and ignore the mistreatment of others, we are supporting that mistreatment, and we are encouraging other people to support it, too.  And when we choose to be a brighter light and chart a different course, like Glenn and Zielinski, our behavior is influential, as well.

It’s not a matter of whether we do or don’t want to influence others – because that is not our choice.  The choice is what kind of influence we will have.

 

  1. ASK FOR IT.

You are never, ever, ever going to get something that you don’t ask for, even if you deserve it.  It’s not going to happen if you don’t ask.  It just isn’t.

This idea is a recurring message throughout the film.  As Hidden Figures progresses, we see all three ladies ask (and work very hard) for what they want.  Katherine asks for more data, more access, and more respect.  Dorothy asks for a promotion.  Mary asks for the right to her education.  And even though they do not get what they ask for right away, they do eventually get all of those things in one way or another.

Asking does not guarantee that you will get exactly what you want when you want it.

But not asking does guarantee that you won’t.

 

  1. Protocol is important. Until it isn’t.

“Protocol” is a key word in the vernacular of NASA in 1961.  There is a strictly defined way to do almost everything, and, when there isn’t, the uncertainty sends the people who work there into a bit of a panic.  There is a sense that the same organization that is on the forefront of scientific advancement is so entrenched in tradition and bureaucracy that it can’t see the forest for the trees in terms of social progress.

In one tense conversation, Katherine’s colleague Paul Stafford, who is offended that Katherine has been asked to double check his work, prevents her from attending a meeting by saying, “There is no protocol for women attending.”

Katherine quickly replies, “There’s no protocol for a man circling the earth either, Sir.”

There is an interesting paradox in the movie between the very precise calculations that are necessary to ensure the astronauts’ safety and the flexibility that is also required to allow for scientific – and social – growth.

Rules are important, but rigidity is dangerous, and this applies to so many aspects of life.

 

  1. “You are the boss. You just have to act like one.”

When Katherine seeks permission to attend top-secret meetings so that she will have immediate access to the data that is critical to her job, she looks to her boss, Al Harrison, to override Paul Stafford, the head engineer, who wants to keep her out.

“Within these walls, who makes the rules?” Harrison asks.

“You, Sir,” Katherine answers.  “You are the boss.  You just have to act like one.  Sir.”

With that, Harrison decides to break protocol, and Katherine joins the men at the table.

Katherine’s quick wit reminds us that we often underestimate our own power to change things that aren’t working.  We may not be the Space Task Group director at NASA, like Harrison, but we are the bosses of a lot of things in our lives.

We just have to act like it.

 

  1. Open your eyes to the challenges of others.

Throughout the movie, Katherine maintains her composure despite difficult situations that would send most of us into a fit of rage today.  But when she is scolded by Harrison for taking too many breaks after running a half mile in high heels in the middle of a rainstorm to get to the colored restroom, she finally loses her cool.  Frustrated and soaking wet, she confronts Harrison in front of the entire office, asserting that she is tired of being treated like a second-class citizen.

This leads Harrison to bust up the signs assigning NASA bathrooms to one race or the other, and in a defining moment as the team works on their space mission he declares, “We all get there together, or we don’t get there at all.”

Harrison is portrayed as more open minded and empathetic than many other NASA supervisors, but the reality is that he did not “see” Katherine’s struggle until that struggle threatened to impact the success of the Friendship 7 mission, thus jeopardizing his own success and reputation.  Only then did Katherine’s plight become real to him, and then he became her ally and maybe even her friend.

But that does not negate the fact that she had been taking long breaks for a long time, and anyone with just a bit of common sense could have figured out that running across the campus to the colored bathroom was a ridiculous haul and a waste of her time, besides the fact that it was completely unfair and demoralizing.  But no one expressed concern.  Because it wasn’t their problem.

There are people all around us facing challenges that we choose not to see.

What would happen if we all started seeing them?

 

  1. Do what you love.

Katherine, Mary, and Dorothy tolerate a significant amount of disrespect just to do their jobs.  In the film, they choose to work in a field where women, particularly black women, are not really welcome.  They could probably pursue work in a less hostile environment, but they don’t.

The reason these women pursue these careers is because they have a passion that I will never understand – a passion for MATH.

And it’s okay.  I don’t need to understand it.

Because Katherine, Mary, and Dorothy inspire us to find our own passions, to find our own hidden gifts, and to pursue those with a vigor that is intensified, not diminished, by obstacles.

 

  1. Don’t lose your courage. Don’t lose your kindness.  Don’t lose your hope.

At the end of the movie, the audience in our theater burst into applause.  Typically, we applaud for people who are standing in front of us, people who can see and hear that recognition.  But in the movie theater, we clapped for people who would never know, the real Katherine, Mary, and Dorothy, and all of the other people whose astounding resilience has changed life for us all.  We applauded for the people who are more courageous and more daring than the rest of us.

And we clapped for the people who are still striving to reach what seem like impossible goals.

Hidden Figures shows us that people can and will continue to achieve the impossible.

Now we are watching to see who will be first.

 

*Hidden Figures was released by 20th Century Fox and is based on true events.  The book Hidden Figures by Margot Lee Shetterly was the inspiration for the film.

 

 

 

 

Happy 2017 From Still Chasing Fireflies!

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 13 Comments

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Hey, there!  Greetings from Still Chasing Fireflies!

Friend, if you are reading this, I am so grateful that you are still here, waiting patiently for me.  It’s been a while!  I have thought about visiting you here on many occasions, but I’ve been waiting, too.  Waiting for a certain feeling.  The feeling that it’s time.

And I feel it.

It’s time.

I am SO very happy to “see” you here again!

The blog has been quiet for a few months, I know, but don’t let the silence deceive you.  I’ve been writing – and writing and writing and writing!  In fact, some very exciting things are starting to take shape.  I *might* be experimenting with a novel, and a few screeners *might* be very excited about what they have read so far.  (I wish I could tell you more . . . But I can’t!)  My kids and I have been working on a children’s book; I am IN LOVE with our idea, and it would be a dream come true to see our story in print on a bookshelf someday (if paper still exists by then)!  The publishing world is brutal, but we are up for the challenge, and we don’t expect anything to happen in a hurry.  There are also some essays that may become blog posts, some poems, and some previously published pieces that I hope to share with a larger audience soon.  So if you have missed Still Chasing Fireflies, don’t worry.  I have so much more to share with you!  And it’s really, REALLY good stuff from an emotional well that runs much deeper than I ever knew.

So 2016 has ended, and as one year ends and another begins, it seems like an appropriate time for reflection.  Sometimes this reflection reminds us what a wonderful year we enjoyed.  We are overcome with happy memories of family milestones, new adventures, fun celebrations, and special moments.  We hope that the coming year is filled with just as much joy and satisfaction.

I certainly hope that describes the 2016 you experienced!

But other years, we say, “THANK-GOD-THAT-IS-OVER-BECAUSE-THAT-YEAR-WAS-TRYING-TO-MURDER-ME.”

That was my 2016.

Yes, 2016 will go down in the history books as the most challenging year of my life to this point.  That is partly because I have not had a very challenging life.  It is also partly because 2016 totally sucked.  But the good news is that challenges can lead to deep reflection and incredible growth.  They can make us more confident, productive, and resilient.  They can give us insight into aspects of life that we never understood before.  And there is something very fulfilling about those lessons, even if the journey to those revelations felt a bit like a scene from Saving Private Ryan.

I could write a long, long list of the things I have learned throughout 2016, and I’m sure many of those lessons will inspire future posts, but let’s start with a few that really stuck with me.  Maybe one of them will stick with you, too.

1. You have much less control over your life than you think you do.

Okay, I will admit that I am a bit of a control freak.  It drives me cray cray to watch my kids fold laundry.  Honestly, I have to look away while they are doing it because it is just too painful for me to watch.  (On my behalf, I get this from my mother, who refolded everything I folded for the first 20 years of my life.  Love you, Mom!)  When my kids push the cart at the grocery store to “help” me, well, I can’t stand that either.  I am on a mission, and we have a pace to maintain, Kids.  And when adult people use words like cray cray, yes, that drives me crazy, too.  Grow up already.

I know.  It’s ridiculous.  And it’s all part of my illusion that I have the power to control things, and that if I control things, then I can prevent bad things from happening to me and my friends and my family and all of the other innocent people around the world.

Except I can’t.

I can’t control what other people do and what kinds of decisions they make.  I can’t control how much it snows or how other people drive or when something might go haywire inside my body.  I can’t make someone change or decide who my children will marry or prevent a loved one from having a heart attack or force someone to look at another perspective.  I can’t do those things.  All of them are out of my control.

And I really, really hate that.  Even if it’s true.

2. You have much more control over your life than you think you do.

Wait a minute . . . That sounds like a contradiction to #1, right?  Not really.  We humans tend to vacillate between feeling completely in control of our lives and feeling completely out of control of our lives, and neither one is really true.  Even when things are happening outside of our personal jurisdiction, we ALWAYS get to decide how to react to them.  We can join the people on the high road or join the people on the low road.  We can sulk and pout too long because life isn’t fair.  Or we can choose to marinate in our own anger forever.  Or we can pull on our grownup boots and start hiking down the path that has been charted for us, even if we don’t like that path at all.

Or we can write a novel.

Really, it’s up to us.  But the happiest people take a few minutes (or days, or weeks) to lick their wounds and then find a way to climb the mountain in front of them.

3. There are a lot of people on the low road, but no one is stuck there.

I had NO IDEA how much traffic there is down there.  It is a VERY, VERY CROWDED place. And I get it.  It is very tempting to take that exit when life isn’t cooperating or emotions are running high.  I’ve been there.  I’ve tried it.  I’ll probably be back.  I know.

Some people are on the low road because they took a wrong turn and they don’t even realize they are there yet.  Others popped on for a hot second and are desperately seeking the next exit to get off.  And then there are people who have been there so long that they don’t even need the GPS to stay on course.  They smile and wave and pretend to be friendly as they carefully orchestrate head-on collisions.

Fortunately, the high road is wide, with plenty of lanes to accommodate everyone.  You can merge onto it easily and at any time, and the drivers there are imperfect but also encouraging, forgiving, and kind.  The high road still has potholes, but it is more likely to lead to the destinations you seek, sweet spots like Happiness, Satisfaction, and Inner Peace.

I promise.

4. Belonging to the sisterhood of women is an extraordinary privilege. 

All women have the opportunity to join an ancient sisterhood that is very, very special.  When one woman in the sisterhood suffers, her sisters do, too, even if they have not experienced the same hardships related to marriage, fertility, career advancement, motherhood, aging, or any other challenges that are unique to women across the generations.

Women in the sisterhood protect, support, and uplift other women.  They do not bulldoze them to serve their own selfish interests.

You see, being a female is not a choice, but being an honorable, compassionate woman is.

Surrounding yourself with women from the sisterhood is a choice, too.  DO THIS.

When life is hard, they will be your fiercest allies.

5. Even the best relationships are really, really, really, really, really, really hard sometimes.

All relationships.  Your relationship with your spouse.  Your relationships with your kids.  Your relationships with your parents.  Your relationships with your friends and your siblings and your neighbors.

Anyone who tells you otherwise is a LIAR.

Love people with your words and with your actions to keep those relationships healthy and strong.  Be patient.  Offer grace.  Talk often.  Share feelings.  Put one another first.  Make consistent, small investments.

It’s worth it.

6. Any relationship has the potential to be broken if people are not careful.

7. Any relationship has the potential to be healed if people are willing.

8. If you tell yourself anything enough times, you will start to believe it.

So make sure that what you tell yourself is the truth.

And make sure that what you tell yourself about yourself is building you up rather than tearing you down.

This is so important.

9. The human experience is the human experience.

Your race, your geographic location, your income – none of it matters when it comes to being human.

We humans are all looking for the exact same things.  We all search for validation and love.  We all seek to understand our purpose and our unique place in God’s universe.  We all experience the same emotions, even while living in vastly different circumstances.

This is true for everyone.  Everywhere.  Ever since the beginning of time.

You are no more important and no more human than anyone else, even if you think you are. 

You are no less important and no less human than anyone else, even if others say you are.

Certain experiences humanize us, like watching the birth of a baby or holding the hand of someone who is face-to-face with death.  They pull our wandering spirits and our inflated egos right back to ground zero.

There is something about the pain of a deep, dark struggle that is also incredibly humanizing.  It makes you feel more connected to humanity than you ever felt before.  It makes you feel more whole in a strange kind of way.

10. It is easy to lose sight of who you are, but reconnecting with your true self will open the door to amazing possibilities.

This world is harsh.  It will test you.  It will tempt you.  It will grab you from behind and try to take you hostage.

It is easy to give up.

But you don’t have to.  When you see your face on the milk carton, you can bite and claw your way back to yourself.  You can rediscover who you are and reevaluate what you truly value and believe.  Then you will be much, much closer to attaining greatness in your life.  And you will have a much clearer picture of what “greatness” actually looks like to you.

When you reconnect with what matters and begin to accomplish new goals, there will be people who can’t wait to celebrate with you.  There will also be people who criticize you.  And there will always be people who want to compete with you.

Choose the first people.  They are more fun.  They also have your best interests at heart, and they will propel you forward in positive ways.

Then you can help them fight the good fight and reach for greatness, too. 

11. When you are at the end of your rope, serve others.

It sounds counterintuitive that the most effective way to help yourself is to help someone else, but it’s true.  Acts of kindness are incredibly therapeutic.  They turn your focus outward, renew your perspective, and remind you that every single person has a complicated story.  You get to SEE the good and BE the good at the exact same time.

Volunteer somewhere.  Help a neighbor.  Buy a cup of coffee for a stranger who seems stressed.

Acts of service give you a greater purpose and create meaningful human connections.  And purpose and connections are things that all humans need.  (See #9.)

12. You have some truly amazing people in your life. Make sure you know who they are.

 

Again, I am so very, very glad to be back with you, my friends!  Life will always be full of uncertainty, but here’s to an incredibly fulfilling adventure in 2017!  May all of the wishes you work for come true!

GOODBYE, 2016!

smash-2016

Thank you, Nicole Wheeler Kunko, for sharing this image!

Imagine This . . .

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 4 Comments

Dentist Canva

Imagine for a moment that you are a dentist.  You have several years of experience under your belt, and you know that you are very skilled at what you do.  You could make a lot of money in a private practice, but you decide to open a clinic to serve those who are considered at risk of serious dental problems and those who are disadvantaged and have not been receiving the services they need.  Although your clinic will be open to everyone, you know that people who are satisfied with the dentist that they have will stay where they are.  You want to have a diverse client base, but you have a desire in your heart to attract and serve clients who are somehow in need.

You enjoy working at your new clinic, but there are challenges that you did not face in your previous practice.  You are now struggling financially, which was never an issue before.  You spend a lot of time teaching people, kids and adults, why dental care is even important.  In your suburban practice in an affluent neighborhood, families could not get enough dental care.  They would ASK you for tooth whitening procedures and referrals to the orthodontist.  Now you are passing out free toothbrushes and toothpaste because many of your patients need them.  You replenish the supply with your own money each time you get paid.

You find yourself trying to think of new and creative ways to reinforce basic dental health to your patients.  You look for ways to entice your patients to adopt good habits because you know that if you can get them started, then they will eventually see the value of what you are asking them to do.  With better dental care, they will have better overall health, increased confidence, and more job opportunities in the future.  Many of them just don’t see this yet.  But they will.  You refuse to give up on them.

You know that many of your patients have very difficult and unusual life circumstances, so you have flexible hours to try to accommodate them.  Sometimes they have to bring their children to the clinic with them because they do not have anyone to help them with childcare.  Sometimes they cancel on you at the last minute because they work two jobs and cannot pass up an unexpected opportunity to earn some extra pay.  Sometimes, you come in early or stay for late appointments, and the clients just don’t show up.  Sometimes, you work really hard to help a family, and you can see at the next appointment that they did not follow any of your instructions at all.  It can be disheartening.

But some patients cry when you help them.  They cry because they never thought that they would get the help that they needed.  They cry because your clinic offers the understanding, patience, and flexibility that allows them to do what is best for their families.  They cry because you recognize their individual needs and respect their humanity.  Sometimes, you cry, too.

You feel really good about the work you are doing in this clinic.

Then one day an inspector from the state visits the clinic.  He looks very serious.  He seems unhappy.

He says, “You are a terrible dentist.”

You are horrified.  You ask him how he came to this conclusion.  He pulls out two charts covered with graphs and tables. One chart shows data from a wealthier suburban dental practice.  The other chart shows data from your clinic.

You are a smart person.  You are a dentist, after all.  You know this isn’t good.

“Our data indicates that the patients at your clinic have many more cavities than the patients at other clinics.”

“Yes, they do.  I serve many patients who have not had good dental care in the past, and some of them are not convinced that dental care is even important.  That is why I came to this clinic in the first place.  To serve these people.”

“You say that you are serving these clients, but the data shows that many of your patients are not brushing their teeth twice a day, even after they visit.  If this clinic were good, your patients would be brushing twice a day.  You are just taking their money.”

“Please remember that many of my clients were not brushing their teeth at all when they came here, and now they are brushing more than they ever did before, even if it is not twice a day.  I work very hard to find new ways to educate and inspire them to improve their dental health.  Plus, we do have patients who now have excellent teeth thanks to our clinic.”

“At this other practice, almost all of the patients brush twice daily.  Their patients also do not skip appointments.”

“I think our client base is not the same.  My patients are wonderful people, but a large number of them have serious medical or mental health conditions, multiple jobs, or other unusual circumstances.  Some of them are caring for sick family members or raising children with little help.  Some of them have been in and out of the criminal justice system.  Some of them have had very bad experiences with the medical profession in the past, and we are working hard to rebuild their trust.  We do experience more cancellations than other dental practices, but we believe that what we do is very important, and we do not stop trying to help people.”

“The other practice has a record of fewer cavities.  Therefore, it is an excellent dental office with excellent dentists.  That office and those dentists are much better than you.”

“But I used to work at that office.”

“You are not a good dentist.”

“When I worked there, you said that I was an excellent dentist.”

“You have really let yourself go since you came here.”

“Actually, I have learned a lot by working at this clinic.”

“I am going to recommend that your clinic is closed.”

“But what about my patients?  They will have nowhere to go.”

“They can go to the more successful practice.”

“No, no, no.  They do not feel understood at that practice.  They are tired of being treated like nuisances or outcasts when they ask for help or try to do the right things for their families.  They will fall far behind in their dental care because there is no flexibility.  Many of my patients really need this clinic.  I feel like there is a misunderstanding here.”

“I am sorry.  You are no good.”

 

This is what it feels like to be an ECOT teacher right now.

 

I will be the first to say that we need major education reform in this country.
BUT . . .
Please do not believe everything that you read.
Please think about what data actually represents before you jump to conclusions.
Please understand that newspapers are clearly showing bias and journalists are not doing their homework.
Please do not drag students, teachers, and families through the mud when your actual concerns are about politics and school funding.

You can disagree about politics and school funding without distorting information and minimizing the good that is being done for many kids, both in traditional classrooms and in the online environment, by excellent teachers!

 

What It Feels Like to be the White Mother of Black Sons

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 5 Comments

Rikki

My heart has been hurting, friends.  The world has been spinning out of control recently, and I keep thinking, “Why won’t all of us just listen to one another?  Why don’t we seek understanding instead of taking sides when we all want the same things – to be respected, to be safe, and to be treated fairly?  Why can’t we acknowledge the pain in another person’s heart and help to heal it?”

Then I read a Facebook post written by my friend and coworker, Rikki Johnson, and I was so moved that I asked her if she would adapt her post for our “What It Feels Like Series” here on Still Chasing Fireflies.  I am incredibly thankful that she agreed to open her heart to us in this way.  I know Rikki as an enthusiastic English teacher, but she and I have another thing in common: We are both moms of boys.  Our boys don’t have the same racial heritage, but her essay reminds us that ALL mothers share the same heart, and this is a way that we can connect and understand one another, even when our life experiences may not be the same.  As a mother of black children, Rikki worries about some things that I hadn’t even thought about before.  Her essay challenged me.

PLEASE read Rikki’s story.  Please read it with an open heart and mind and share it with your friends and family if you are moved, too.  That is one small way that you can be a bright light in the darkness, just like a firefly, as we all seek to be understood.

I’ve remained pretty silent lately regarding the recent incidences of the two unarmed black men murdered at the hands of police officers, as well as the murders and shootings of the Dallas police officers. I’ll start with this: it is a difficult time in our country to be a police officer. The murders of those men protecting the crowd in Dallas is despicable and it only overshadows the message so many are trying to peacefully spread. Think of this though: the distrust, disrespect, and criticism of the police these days is very similar to the reality that black men have faced as a whole throughout our country’s history.

My recent silence on this issue mostly stems from fear. I’m afraid of being disappointed in the reactions to my feelings about this by those closest to me and my boys: my family and friends. I hold so many people to such high expectations that I usually set myself up to get my feelings hurt when they don’t live up to them. I’m begging you to see my perspective and try to understand where I’m coming from. I am a white woman married to a black man, and I’m raising black sons.

So many people hold my children and husband as a separate entity than my neighbors’ black husband and children because I am white. My family is an example that I know many of my friends and family members use to justify their perception that racism is no longer an issue. My husband is used as an example that “good” black men do exist. But if my husband were caught making the same mistakes as many of my white family and friends have done, would he still be one of the “good” ones? What if one of my boys were caught shoplifting a candy bar or some other youthful antic like toilet papering someone’s house or breaking curfew? Would you label him a thug behind our backs?

Why don’t you listen when my husband openly speaks about his personal experience being black in this country?  Why don’t you listen to me when I try to explain that my husband and boys, yes, even the “good ones,” are statistically 2.5 times more likely to be murdered at the hands of police. And if they are, someone, somewhere, will try to find some past record, social media post, or picture to justify why they somehow deserved it. Heaven forbid, if my son were to ever make a mistake and be subjected to the legal system, he would be more likely to receive a stiffer penalty than a white man who made the same mistake. How many times do you get pulled over in a year? My husband was pulled over 6 times in the last 12 months while driving home through the predominantly white city where he works. Some of his driving infractions: failure to signal, failure to come to a complete stop at an empty intersection, and going 40 in a 35. Most of those times, he was sent on his way after they ran his license, insurance, and plates. Maybe it was his nursing scrubs that eased the officers’ minds that he was a “good one?” In cities across the country, black people are disproportionately pulled over for minor driving infractions compared to white people. They are also 2 times more likely to be subjected to being searched.  These are facts, and my husband and boys are not any more immune to them than the next black man down the street.

If you love us, then listen please. Please stop trying to explain away our experience as a family or my fears for my husband or my boys because it makes you uncomfortable. This is our reality, and just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. These problems remain because people keep trying to explain them away or debate them or say that others are only trying to stir the pot. We all know that not talking about a problem doesn’t make it go away. Listen to what people are saying instead of just waiting for your turn to speak. Try to put yourself in the other person’s shoes and remember that just because something isn’t a part of your experience, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

I’m not sorry for being born white. I’m not ashamed of who I am at all. I’m comfortable being me around any person, and I always have been. But, as a white person, I recognize the privilege that comes with it. Growing up, I didn’t know fear in interacting with police. I never wondered if I were overlooked for a job because of my skin. I was never followed through stores by associates when I was out shopping with my friends. I’m mouthy and sarcastic, and I see how differently my demeanor could be perceived if I were a black woman exhibiting the same behavior. Recognizing this privilege doesn’t mean you are ashamed to be white. Acknowledging an issue is the first step in making changes.

It is scientifically proven that young black boys are perceived to be older than they actually are upon first glance than white boys. This means that higher expectations for their behavior are placed upon them at a younger age. When black boys play rough, their behavior is more likely to be deemed violent and malicious, whereas white boys are considered tough and masculine. Boys will be boys, you see. In a study testing even the subconscious perceptions of participants, adult black males were perceived as more of a threat than their white counterparts. My eldest is about to turn 12; day by day he is turning into a man and statistically is perceived as more threatening. Maybe his predicted short stature will protect him? These are the things that I think about that mothers of white children don’t.

As any good parent should, I’ve raised my children to address authority figures, such as police, with respect. But, as a mother of black boys, I have to go deeper than that. We have to practice what to say, how to say it, where to put your hands, never to move without explaining your actions, how to appear small and unthreatening. I have to remind my boys as they grow into men outside of my umbrella of protection that they shouldn’t run down the street, even if they’re in a hurry or running late. They shouldn’t wear a hoodie over their heads, or travel in large groups of other black boys. All of these actions could invoke suspicion or draw unwanted attention. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think any of my friends and family members with white boys ever had to go through training as extensive as this just to leave the house! And, yet, it could not even matter because last week a man did everything right when stopped and was still murdered right in front of his 4 year old and wife.

I know many of you will not have even read this far. Or, if you have, you may have been coming up with rebuttals to each of my points along the way. I’m not asking to debate. I’m trying to let you in on my reality as a wife and mother. My hopes and dreams for my babies and their futures are no different than any mother of any color. I dream that my children will lead successful, productive lives. I want them to become great fathers, husbands, friends, employees just the same as any mother wishes for her sons. However, these ongoing incidences of violence and injustice serve as constant reminders that nothing, not even my children’s lives, are promised.

To my family and friends, I beg you not to claim you love my boys and my husband, and yet still try to justify all these other men being killed for being black. My perspective–my husband’s perspective–my beautiful children’s perspectives are very similar to those of the people who are marching in the streets to end this violence on ALL sides. We’re not against police and we’re not calling anyone racist. We’re asking that you at least acknowledge the problem and find some understanding and support to help make this country better and safer for my family and yours.

Thanks again to my friend Rikki Johnson for sharing her “What It Feels Like” story with us.  Speaking out in the midst of controversy is not easy.  It is courageous, and it is important.  Starting conversations and then listening with love, respect, and patience is important, too.  Thanks, Rikki, for being loving and patient with me as we discussed some really hard things.

Do you have a life experience that you can help other people understand?  It could be ANYTHING that is stirring your heart!  You can write it yourself, or I can help!  Please reach out to me to add to our “What It Feels Like” series!

 

 

 

 

 

 

What It Feels Like to be the Son of a Father With Dementia

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 21 Comments

what it feels like

Grab a tissue, my friends.  I swear that my goal at Still Chasing Fireflies is not to toy with your emotions, but this What It Feels Like series is definitely going to bring out ALL the feels.  Last week, my husband and I were hundreds of miles apart while he was in Chicago for work and I was visiting family.  When we finally reunited, he dropped a bomb on me; he had been secretly writing this beautiful post about how it feels for him to watch his own father battle dementia.  Oh. My. Goodness.  I could hardly edit and post this on the blog through my tears. 

Love on your dads, people.  Please.  Now.  Do not wait.

Like many other young children growing up, I believed my father was one of the strongest, smartest, goofiest, hardest working men I knew. He could do, and fix, anything. But those qualities weren’t always the ones that meant something to me as a child.  I valued when he would get on the ground and wrestle with me.  I still remember the feeling of his scruffy face once in a while and how he would use that as a laughter-drawing weapon on me during the match.  

I remember how he would sit and work out floor plans for houses and buildings using my architectural building blocks on our end table in the family room.  He taught me what lintels, copings, rough openings, and many other construction terms meant, simply by playing with me and those blocks.

I recall him being excited to show me his design for our club house, walking me through the drawings and dimensions. I should note that my passion for construction and design began at a very early age, and my father played a critical part in that. Not sure he meant for that to happen, but he seemed to enjoy that I liked it.

As time moved on, he and I worked on my first car together, having the carburetor rebuilt so we could replace it, hoping it would help me get something more than 10 miles per gallon.  (It’s a good thing gas was .95 cents per gallon then; I didn’t want to spend all my paper route money on gas because I needed some for actual dates!)  I probably wasn’t the best mechanic, and I am sure I complained about holding the light for him more than doing any actual work myself.  But we got the job done.

That was also about the time my father invested in the family boat, well, Jon Boat that is, for fishing.  I had the pleasure of being one of the first passengers during the initial shove off from shore, and, well, it floated.  And that…was…about…it. Many minutes later, we finally got the motor fired and we were off.  Off to find the catch of the day. Or, in my case, to put my favorite mix tape in my Walkman and catch some rays.  You see, fishing was something my father and I didn’t have in common.  He enjoyed the outdoors, and, well, I enjoyed the cities.  

And so the distance between us grew.

It was close to the end of my senior year, just a few more weeks remaining in my basketball season, when I came home from practice to find my father in the driveway washing the family car.  For anyone else, this may have seemed perfectly normal.  But not for my father.  You see, my father worked the 4 to midnight shift most of my life.  He was either sleeping or working when I was home.  On this day, for him to be home at this time didn’t add up.  And it wasn’t good.  He had lost his job at the age of 54, just shy of age 55 – the age when he would have been able to collect his full pension.  This was the mid 90’s, before age discrimination was something to litigate. This event was crushing for the family.  With a wedding for my sister that summer and my desire to go to college, and without another full-time income in our home, life was about to get difficult.

However, that moment in time changed everything for me.  Watching my dad handle the issue with integrity and seeing him take on anything and everything to keep food on the table taught me to do the same.  But it also drove me to focus. I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life working hard and chasing my dreams, following my passions, and living the life I want.  

So after graduating from high school, I worked two jobs while attending a local community college to earn a degree and the credits necessary to transfer to a larger school.  After my first year at Kent State, I was accepted into their school of Architecture.  There was one caveat; I had to go back to Kent for Summer Studio immediately. The day I left for college was Father’s Day, 1997.  My father, who in my first 20 years rarely shed a tear in front of me, cried that day after commenting about me heading off to start the program and knowing I wasn’t going to be coming home for the summer.  I’m not completely sure if the tears were sadness or if they were happy tears because I was fulfilling my dreams, but it was a rare occasion either way.

There were many times during my college years that my father would talk to me about how he never really got to do what he wanted because he wasn’t that great in school.  He would end up working odd jobs during the semesters just to survive rather than studying.  I believe that he told me these stories to encourage me to never give up, to trek on and fight for everything I wanted to achieve.

So why am I telling you about these memories of my father and me?  Because he can’t, not anymore.  You see my father was diagnosed with dementia, and he sometimes forgets how many sons I have, or our names, or what I do for a living. He forgets where he is and why he is there, or if he has even eaten.

Watching this awful disease progress is like watching the sand on a beach fight the ocean tide. As the day passes, the memories of those footprints, sandcastles, motes, and all the fun experiences that occurred on the beach are erased.  With each new day, the experiences in the sand begin over.  There is no remembrance of what happened the day before.

My dad has memories, but they tend to be from further back in his life, not many from us as a young family. Mostly he reminisces about his days in Vietnam. And as the tide of his mind rises, and then regresses, the same stories begin again.  This happens many times during an hour.  So you sit, and listen to the same stories again, just so you can spend time with him.  Or you find yourself fielding the same questions, over and over again, trying with all your energy to stay relaxed and not show frustration at this horrible disease that is not his fault.  Often you find yourself fighting internally with the pure instinct to avoid the visits rather than see a man struggle with this relentless disease.

There are times when I am working on something at home and I am struggling or need help, and I think I should call my dad, like I use to, because I know he will know what to do.  But then I instantly realize that this isn’t a possibility anymore.  It hits you like a champion boxer just set you up for his patented left jab and right hook combo.  The man who could have done anything, who could have taught you anything, who was there to show you how, is no longer available for you in this capacity.

Sure, he is here, but not all of him.  You wish that you could call him and work on some projects in the yard or in the house together.  You wish that he enjoyed sports like you do, or that you liked fishing so that you could spend some time together doing things you both enjoy.  But most of all, you wish he could remember that he gave you some of your best qualities and made you who you are.   

This is what it is like being the son of father who has dementia.  You are not completely sure WHAT he remembers.  You are not sure IF he remembers.  You are not sure HOW MUCH he even knows about what is really happening to himself.

So I will add some gravel and Portland cement to the sand on my beach and set my memories in concrete for both of us, until one day those memories may very well erode away for me, too.  But until then, my father will always be the goofy, scruffy-faced wrestling superhero he has always been to me, preserved in my memory until the waves finally win the war.

Thanks again to my husband, Ryan Ware, for sharing this post with all of us.  It wasn’t easy to write, I am sure, but sharing our hard things can help others and maybe even heal whatever is hurting us, too.

Do you have a story to share in this series?  I think you do.  You don’t even have to write it yourself.  I can help!  Just let me know what’s on your mind.

Finally, it’s Father’s Day!  We love you, dads!  Happy Father’s Day to my own dad, Kenny, and to all the other dads out there, including my husband, my father-in-law, and my grandpa, too.   

Be sure to show your dad some love this week, and watch for the next post from Still Chasing Fireflies!

 

Why I Should Be in Jail and Other Things I Learned From the Tragedy at the Zoo

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 6 Comments

snake

When I heard about the little boy who had fallen into the gorilla enclosure in Cincinnati, I was fascinated just like everyone else.  Maybe it’s because I recall the hazards of raising two quick, mischievous preschoolers of my own just a few years ago.  Maybe it’s because we love animals or because we live so close to an amazing zoo that we spent many carefree hours there almost weekly when my boys were small.  Maybe it’s because we were at the zoo one day when a silverback rushed to the front of the enclosure and slammed his hand into the glass with such force that we all jumped in surprise.   Or maybe it’s because we just can’t wrap our heads around how these majestic creatures that seem so warm and gentle lounging in their artificial habitats have both the intelligence and the physical strength to break us in half.

Would meeting the friendly faces on the other side of the glass be more like a dream, or more like a nightmare?

After watching a few news stories and hearing the eyewitness accounts, I felt comfortable that I had the gist of the story figured out.  A mom was at the zoo with her child.  The mom looked away from her child for a brief moment, as parents sometimes do.  The child broke the rules, as children sometimes do.  The mom and I and all of America were horrified to discover that the child had fallen into the gorilla enclosure.  The gorilla acted like a gorilla, creating a dangerous situation for the child.  The zookeepers, unable to read the gorilla’s mind and having little time and a child’s life on the line, made a heartbreaking decision that will probably haunt them forever.  The child survived.  The loss of the gorilla was terribly tragic.  Everyone learned a lesson.  Life, as always, will move forward.

BUT THEN I started reading all of the commentaries.  I read one and then another and then another.  Each time that I finished reading one, a new one would pop up, and soon I realized just how naïve I had been to think that this incident was an isolated tragic accident, the devastating result of the perfect storm on what could have been an ordinary day at the zoo.  This incident was not about one little boy, one flawed enclosure, and one tragic loss.  There are so many lessons we can all learn.

  1. Zoos are a death trap.  Seriously.  Yes, I have been to the zoo probably 275 times in the past ten years.  My kids have gone to camp at the zoo and attended preschool right beside it.  No, we were never injured, nor do I know anyone who has accidentally or even purposely entered an animal enclosure without permission.  Yes, this child was the first and only child in 38 years to sneak into the gorilla pen at this particular zoo.  But these places are DANGEROUS, with a capital D, and a capital A-N-G-E-R-O-U-S, too.  Sure, they are marketed as safe places where kids are educated and entertained, but N to the O.  I now regret everything my children learned there and all of the wonderful memories that we made.   Totally not worth the risk.
  2. Children must be watched EVERY. SINGLE. SECOND.  Sure, we already knew that we need to watch our children carefully, but that’s not what we’re talking about here.  We are talking about the NEW standards.  Whooooaaaa, Mama!  Right there!  Did you just blink?  The new rules say that there is no time for blinking if you are responsible for a child.  There is no time to answer your phone, even if the school is calling to say that your other child just barfed on the playground.  There is no time to dig through your purse to find your keys or an old, open pack of fruit snacks to calm said child who is throwing a fit.  And don’t even think about going to the restroom unless your child can fit into the stall and stare into your eyes while you pee.  A good parent never looks away.  NEVER.  But don’t be a helicopter parent.  That is bad, too.
  3. The only way that you can accomplish #2 is if you only bring one child to any public place.  This means that zoos should have a one-child-per-adult policy.  Sure, this means most families will rarely get to visit, but safety is the goal.  This also means no more school field trips, but as a frequent field trip volunteer, I give this new rule two thumbs up.  And this means no more zoo camps, unless the camp has a 1:1 ratio of kids and teachers, which means that camp will now cost $750 a day.  Safety at all costs, right?  If it is important to you, you can save up.
  4. These higher costs will be more affordable and the new rules will be more tolerable if we just institute a law that families are allowed to have only one child each, unless, of course, the family can afford to hire multiple babysitters, in which case two kids might be okay.  This law will make it easier for parents to keep their eyes on a child at all times so that even when they are still unable to prevent a tragedy from happening they will at least have the opportunity to watch the event as it unfolds.
  5. Zoos definitely need to have barriers that are more difficult for children to penetrate, and it is essential that EVERYONE insists upon this because a zoo would never think to make changes after an accident like this unless every single person on the Internet pointed out that this should happen.  Also, zookeepers do not love people and they do not love animals.  It takes a special kind of person to be a zookeeper, someone who has no feelings.  I had no idea.
  6. In this case, the child was tempted to visit with the animals after watching them in the enclosure, so it would be best if the children who are visiting the zoo don’t actually see the animals in order to prevent such a temptation.  The most logical update would be for zoos to build a very tall brick wall in each exhibit that would be located between the animals and the zoo visitors.
  7. If someone commits a crime in our country, that person is innocent until proven guilty.  However, if a parent does something that probably is NOT a crime but that infuriates the public, then that person is most definitely guilty until proven innocent.  That makes perfect sense.  If you don’t really think about it.
  8. It is VERY important for every single person who did not actually witness a situation involving a family to judge the mother’s actions, even when the people who actually did witness the incident agree that the mother did nothing wrong.  If we don’t comment, the mother probably will never learn anything at all from the situation.  As we all know, a mother isn’t likely to torture herself enough by replaying a terrible incident involving her children over and over and over again in her mind for the rest of her life.
  9. Any mother who does look away from her child for any reason ever should definitely go to trial with a jury of her peers.  And since other mothers might be biased, the jury should primarily include people who have never raised, taught, or babysat young children before.  To be fair, there should be at least one mother on the jury, but she should be well known for starting sentences with “My child would never . . .”  The death penalty should always be considered an option, even if it is determined that no crime was committed.
  10. I should definitely be in jail.  For all the times that I called the Poison Control Center.  For the time that my preschooler was (accidentally) locked out of the house while I took a shower.  For the time that my toddler superglued his fingers together.  But lucky for me, those stories did not go viral.

As you can see, we all learned some important lessons from what was a truly heartbreaking and tragic situation that happened recently at one of our Ohio zoos.  If you will excuse me, I need to check on my children, who are playing soccer in the backyard without any supervision.  It looks like I will be seeing you in court, or at least in the court of public opinion.

 

What It Feels Like To Have a Stroke at 41

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / Leave a comment

EVERYONE has a story, and I am SO excited to share this story with you today.  Let me introduce you to my friend Kate. She is an amazing mother (our sons are close friends), a talented photographer, and a very creative spirit.   She was also shocked several years ago when she learned that she had suffered a stroke at only 41 years old.  Today, Kate is thriving despite the ongoing challenges of stroke recovery.  She is doing so well that she even wrote the first GUEST POST in Still Chasing Fireflies‘ “What It Feels Like” series where she recounts the days immediately following her stroke.  I am SO GRATEFUL that Kate is kicking off this series on the last day of Stroke Awareness Month with a very important message, a message that just might save your life.  Please share Kate’s post with everyone you love!

Self-51816-2B-BW
Kate’s self-portrait today

I hope Kate also inspires you to think about your own story.  What is YOUR story?  What moment in time will live with you forever?  What experience have you had that others may not understand?  Please consider sharing it with us!

Here is Kate’s story.

Brain
One of Kate’s brain scans

It was mid-morning, Friday, November 9, 2012. I was still wallowing under the sheets when the heavens slapped me with a streak of sunbeam on my face beckoning me to get up. I knew it was about time for me to get out of bed, but the sheets were warm and the sickness had been going on for 2 weeks then, transforming my once sanctuary of a bedroom into an infirmary. But soon the situation would change. I would no longer be living in ignorance because the mysterious affliction would be given a name. And the name would change me forever, kidnapping me from that bliss of an unconscious life to an overdue time of reckoning. 

 I had yet to feel the temperature outside that morning, but peeking through the window I saw the trees sway as the technicolor leaves danced in the wind, so I imagined it was crisp and cold. The sky was sunny and bright and inviting, so for all intents and purposes, the day should have been a fine day to be productive. But I was unable to rid the pounding in my head. No reason to get out of bed that morning, I argued, figuratively and literally. I had several real and invented problems at the time but the throbbing, stabbing, heavy head was not an invention.

The problem with my heavy head was that I had fallen down the stairs thirteen days prior and the accident left me with an extremely painful and lingering headache. I was told by an emergency doctor that I had sustained a concussion and the hospital sent me on my way with prescriptions for both a painkiller and a muscle relaxant. And so I waited for days for the headache to get better. 

Left to face yet another day of pain, I had little options other than perusing the television channels for entertainment. My husband, Eric, had been in his basement office for most of the morning, and the kids had been in school since 8 o’clock. Aside from the snoring cat on my bed and the low volume of an old movie, the house was pleasingly still when it finally happened.  
 
With no thematic movie music to signal that the moments ahead would be more exceptional than the moments before, my right arm inexplicably went limp and fell on the mattress. I looked at the right hand on my lap, so completely conspicuous from the left, and it had been rendered lifeless, spiritless, without sensation and feeling like nothing but a cold piece of meat. I picked up my wrist with my left hand and the fingers hung like dead, dangling tentacles. 

In a desperate attempt, I violently shook my right arm with my left hand, trying to bring my right side back to life. How many minutes I violently shook it, I do not know. Five minutes? Ten minutes? 30? My memory is blotchy. Whatever the amount of time it was, the sensation finally came back, but it was not the same. My body was no longer one. I envisioned that it was cut right down the middle, connected only by faulty wiring. Even though my anxiety lessened, the moment was almost too much to bear.

The moment was scary and surreal. I put it back into my mind like it had been a dream, and with good defense mechanisms for denial it seemed inconsequential to tell anyone what I had just seen or to ask someone to bring me to the hospital. I didn’t want to scrutinize the reasons or sound an alarm but I knew something was probably wrong. Really wrong. Did I want to know that something wrong happened there, or should I keep it to myself and move on? Accepting it or doing something about it needed courage but I could not muster it. I rearranged the pillows that rested on the headboard and continued to watch the rest of the movie. 
   
Denial is a powerful thing.
   

And so later in the afternoon when my speech slurred, Eric read that a possible side effect from the muscle relaxant was slurred speech. It made total sense to us. So I continued to stay in bed, hardly interacting with anyone into the early evening until my stepson, Henry, came into my room to say goodbye. He was leaving for his mother’s house for the weekend and as he left he said, “You sound kind of strange.” He was annunciating something that I was already saying to myself.

Self-Feb2013

Kate’s self-portrait a few months after the stroke

The evening came in quickly and all I wanted to do was sleep, so with no announcement to anyone, I slept. That night was the first night that I did not tuck my six-year-old son to bed. There were no kisses, no hugs, no I love yous, no alarm clocks, no clean teeth. 

I have no idea what time I fell asleep that night. 

The next morning, I got up very early and immediately showered. At that point, I still hadn’t mentioned the paralysis to anyone, including Eric. As I showered, the warm water stung my skin on my right side like prickles from a cactus. Suddenly, I felt a new sense of urgency. Suddenly, something was undoubtedly wrong. 

Suddenly, fear gripped me. 

Eric had woken and gone downstairs. After a quick shower, I grabbed my robe, went downstairs and met him at the kitchen table. I stood against it, grabbed a pen and tried to write something. The result was pure gibberish. I wasn’t able to put down anything logical, or even illogical, on the paper. Since last night I had already been suspicious about my ability to write because someone had texted me and I wasn’t able to text them back.

“I can’t write,” I slurred.  “Something is wrong. I can’t write.”
   

It was at that time that we both agreed it was time to go to the hospital again. 
   
If incoherent speech, brief paralysis and broken cognitive skills don’t give you a hint to go to the hospital, then what does? I thought, how stupid of me that I hadn’t gone to the hospital sooner! 

Denial is a powerful thing.
   
With a methodical scurry, we all got dressed, got in the car and drove to the nearest hospital. For me it was a confusing trip, fraught with extreme trepidation. And the longer Eric drove, the more I convinced myself that I was surely dying. I thought of my guileless young sons in the backseat, and my soul melted with guilt, positively certain that whatever I was dying of, I did this to myself.
   
I needed to be a better mom.
   
I needed to be healthier.
   
I needed to be a better person.
   
I bargained with God by saying my Act of Contrition. 
   
After the longest 15 minute car ride in my life, we arrived at the emergency room. At the reception desk, I couldn’t provide my full name, so Eric took over the conversation for me and gave them some particulars about how I had been feeling and for how long and so on and so on. Hearing my symptoms, the hospital whisked us into the emergency room immediately. At that point, I definitely was scared. But scared of what?
   
After a few minutes in an examination room to get personal information, health insurance cards, and vital signs, I was rolled into a CT scan room. I had just been at the emergency room for a scan one week earlier because of my fall, so the scene felt like deja vu. When the whooshing noise of the scan became louder and the red lasers rotated around my head, I looked upward, sighed, closed my eyes and prayed. 
   
Back in the examination room after they completed the scan, we all waited for news. I don’t remember how long we were waiting; in fact, I really don’t remember what we were even doing or talking about. I don’t remember wanting to talk about anything at all. I was in my thoughts, in my mistakes, and in my regrets, thinking about the year that had transpired and how life can turn on a dime. Eric and I were just married in January of that year, full of passion and good intentions with a new blended family of seven, and then found ourselves in the middle of our fair share of bad decisions and happenstance – unemployment, financial distress, and the perplexing affliction. The once lush lawn of our new home was spiraling into mud, and I spent days and weeks in despair. But the desperation didn’t seem to matter anymore. In that room my eyes were fixed on the bright, fluorescent overhead light. I tried not to blink so that I could take the moment in as much as possible. In the light I saw a collage of good things – laughter, kisses, places, dreams, plans, everything that was going to happen, everything that I had forgotten.
   
I was already mourning them all.

When I was brought back to reality by the sound of a doorknob, my destiny finally revealed its bad hand. A doctor opened the examination room with determination, and with a somewhat anticlimactic tone he said, “Well… you’ve had a stroke.”

At least I know what I’m scared of now. At least it has a name. 

MeandMe
Kate (and Kate), using her story to help others

Kate would like to thank Eric Sorenson and Dawn Hosmer for their editorial assistance with this post.  I would like to give Kate a HUGE thank you for sharing her story and for helping me to get this very exciting new adventure on the blog off to a powerful start!  If you have a story (and you do) and you are interested in sharing, please reach out to me!  You don’t have to be a writer to guest post.  I can help you!  Think about it!

You can read more about Kate and her journey on her personal blog, The House of Revelry, at http://thehouseofrevelry.blogspot.com.

Finding Elizabeth

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 8 Comments

The Elizabeth that I knew lived in a nursing home.  She was elderly and frail.  I don’t remember seeing her stand or even sit up.  I remember her as a tiny, fragile lump beneath the covers.  Her lips were dry, and her words were mumbled, and she was hard for me to understand.

I remember that it smelled in that place.  It smelled like everything awful, and it smelled like the chemicals that tried to wash the awful away. I was five-years-old.  What I remember most is that I did not like to go there.

We went there because my mother loved Elizabeth.  She said that something tragic had happened to Elizabeth once.  She said the people closest to Elizabeth claimed that she had never been the same after that.  My mother had fond memories of her.  She knew Elizabeth.  She knew her heart.  But for me, at five-years-old, the two of us had nothing in common.  Elizabeth, to me, was lost.

Until I found her in a box of old letters.

Letters

In 1944, Elizabeth was living in Ohio with her husband, raising two children and devoting her time to her home and family, like most women of her generation.  Her eldest daughter had already married and moved a few hours away.  Elizabeth was probably still adjusting to this change, one of her chicks leaving the nest.  But Betty was safe.  She was happy.  She was protected and she was loved.  Elizabeth missed Betty, but she knew that Betty was okay.

Her eldest son, Charles Jr., however, was another story.  The distance between Elizabeth and her son did not escape her.  She could never, not even for one moment, take his safety for granted.  Every joy was tempered by her worry that Charles might be cold or hungry, depressed or homesick, or, worse yet, injured or imprisoned.

Charles had enlisted to serve in the United States military.  Somewhere far away, on the other side of the globe even, he was fighting in World War II.  Her heart was so proud of his selfless courage, but it was equally crushed by the weight of her fears for the safety of her son.

Portrait Closeup

Elizabeth listened to radio broadcasts and read newspaper articles about the developments during the war, but what was happening on the frontlines still seemed distant.  News was not instant, and the images were static.  Life at home continued, as normally as possible.  She had teenagers to care for, Lewis and Maxine, and her daily routines helped to keep her occupied.

And she had letters.

Charles wrote regularly, and Elizabeth wrote to him often, as well, sending packages to remind him how much he was missed.  He enjoyed her gifts, like the peanuts she sent that he shared with his friends and fellow soldiers.  Occasionally, he asked her to send specific things that he needed, and she always obliged.  He shared funny stories, like the time that a deer sneaked into the barracks and ate all of the snacks, and he told her about the Abbott and Costello movie that they had watched for entertainment.  His letters were upbeat and positive.  War didn’t sound so scary at all.

Letters from Charles never mentioned danger.  They never described exactly what he was assigned to do or even where he was.  He mentioned that he censored his letters so that they would be approved to leave the base, leaving Elizabeth to wonder what he was omitting.  He often looked forward to the day he would come home, and he always signed off with the same encouraging closing: “Thumbs up!”

As the oldest boy in the family, Charles was full of advice, especially for his younger brother, Lewis.  Even from across the globe, he advised Lewis about girlfriends and class schedules.  He told Lewis to keep his options open with the ladies, even though Charles himself was clearly sweet on one young lady, Doris, whose name was mentioned frequently in his letters.  He asked Lewis to send him pictures so that he could stay connected to what was happening at home.  He told Lewis what classes he should take in high school and was clearly disgusted, even in the midst of war, when his little brother did not take his advice.

Charles was thoughtful, as well, remembering his mother on important dates throughout the year.  He must have known how much she worried about him.  His Mother’s Day message in 1944, so simple and plain, was the most beautiful Mother’s Day gift that Elizabeth could have received while he was gone.  Her tears, as clear as glass, left no stains on the precious letters from her son overseas, letters that she opened oh-so-carefully.

Mother's Day

Elizabeth must have read her Mother’s Day note a thousand times before safely tucking it away in the box where she kept all of Charles’ letters.  Gently touching that paper, running her fingers across his ink on the page, was the closest that she could come to embracing her son.  To the world, these men in uniform were so strong and so brave.  But to her, Charles was so very young, hardly a man himself, really.  Just a few years before, he had still needed her advice, her reassuring touch, her loving care.  She had gently washed and bandaged his skinned knees not all that long ago.  Yet now he and so many young men like him had been entrusted to save the world.

Charles Closeup

Days and months passed, and Charles remained at war.  Elizabeth was comforted by his letters, but sometimes there were long spans between them, and this made her nervous.  If she waited long enough, another letter always came.  It would include an apology for the long delay, explaining that he had been quite busy with his responsibilities, although exactly what his duties were was a bit of a mystery.  Each letter provided some  solace, but Elizabeth knew that by the time she received it, time had already passed, and the reassurance of his safety was actually old news.  As soon as one note was received, she eagerly awaited the next.

In the meantime, Elizabeth loyally supported her son from afar.  She hung a  banner in the family’s front window for everyone to see and took Maxine’s picture in front of it.

Flag  Flag in Window

And she clung to a poem (author unknown) that criticized the discontent of those who weren’t directly in the line of fire.  How dare someone complain about rationing when her son’s life was on the line?

Poem

In January 1945, Elizabeth received a letter with a little more information than usual.  Charles’ letters had been few and far between for a while now, but in this one he shared, “We are now allowed to say that we are someplace in the Philippine Islands.”  What a relief it was to know where her son was actually located!  She could point to it on a map.  She could imagine the climate and the scenery where he was.  “I have picked up a few more souvenirs,” he said, although he explained that he wouldn’t be able to send them for a while.  Someday, she thought, they would look at those souvenirs together, and he would tell her interesting stories about the culture and the merchants there and how much he had paid for the beautifully crafted and exotic gifts.

In Phillipines

As always, Charles had asked for more letters.  Over the previous months, their letters, flying back and forth across the sky and over the ocean, had created an invisible web that kept them connected, mother and son.  Even when there was nothing to write about, Elizabeth kept writing.  She would write and write and write, about nothing and about everything, until she could finally see Charles face to face once more.

And there, in the bottom of the box, I found them.  The two letters, stamped March 19, 1945 and April 16, 1945.

In the first envelope, Elizabeth had neatly tucked a letter full of updates for her son.  The news from home was nothing out of the ordinary.  Lewis has a cold.  Maxine recently visited Betty.  The snow has melted, and Doris performed well in the show last night.

But the war still loomed like a dark cloud over the small town in Ohio.  Charles, of course, was abroad.  There was concern that John could be drafted after being reclassified to 1A.  And Chet, another local boy, was being held captive in an enemy prison camp.  “Thumbs up” was now “Keep praying.”

Return to Sender Close

And then there was a second letter from Elizabeth, a letter mailed in March of 1945.  Elizabeth wrote about the recent flooding in the area and how the mail had been delayed.  There wasn’t much to share, really.  The news at home was mostly uneventful.   The letter was a bit mundane.

But then, the ending.  A simple statement that was dripping with emotion.

“Have not heard from you for 5 weeks . . . Write.  Love, Mother.”

And their standard closing, “Thumbs up.”

Five Weeks

And something in my stomach turned, and my throat tightened at the thought of Elizabeth’s anguish, her desperate wait for a response.  The sadness rushing to my eyes threatened to interrupt the story when I realized that here, in this box full of letters from Charles, I was holding two letters from Elizabeth.  Two love letters from a mother to her son.  Two letters that she had mailed to the Philippines.

Two letters that should not be in this box of mail that she had received.

Two letters that confirmed that what she had always feared had come true.

The Elizabeth that I knew lived in a nursing home.  She was elderly and frail.  I don’t remember seeing her stand or even sit up.  I remember her as a tiny, fragile lump beneath the covers.  Her lips were dry, and her words were mumbled, and she was hard for me to understand.

My mother said that something tragic had happened to Elizabeth once.  She said the people closest to Elizabeth claimed that she had never been the same again.  But my mother loved Elizabeth; she had fond memories of her grandmother.  For me, at five-years-old, my great-grandmother and I had nothing in common.  Elizabeth, to me, was lost.

Until I met Elizabeth, a young mother of sons, just like me, a mother who loved courageously and prayed steadfastly and hoped fiercely for the well being of her greatest treasures, her children.

Until I found her in a box of old letters.

We often associate love stories with courtship and romance, but maybe, just maybe, there is no greater love story than the love between a mother and her son.

What’s on the Horizon (and How You Can Help)

/ Still Chasing Fireflies / 3 Comments

on the horizon canva

As Still Chasing Fireflies’ birthday celebration draws to a close, it’s time to look forward and make some plans for the coming year.  Here are a few goals that I would love to achieve before Still Chasing Fireflies turns two, but I need your help!  (Be sure to read #4.  It’s my favorite!)

  1. First and foremost, I want this blog to stay true to who I am and what matters to me.  If you see Still Chasing Fireflies straying from its purpose of sharing the emotional ups and downs of being human, please, set me straight!
  2. Still Chasing Fireflies has enjoyed some exciting exposure this year, so I plan to look for more opportunities for publication in the coming months.  If you enjoy the blog, please share it with your friends!  You are welcome to send them a link and an invitation!  All of the blogs that I read were introduced to me by my closest friends.
  3. Now that Still Chasing Fireflies has a strong foundation, I want to build a sense of community!  I invite you to leave comments on the blog or on Facebook. I’m going to experiment with posting more about the blog on the Still Chasing Fireflies Facebook page and less on my personal page to move the conversation to one place.  If you haven’t liked or followed the Still Chasing Fireflies page, please join us there.
  4. AND HERE IS THE IDEA THAT EXCITES ME THE MOST!  I love to share a good story with all of you, but there are SO MANY stories that I can’t tell because I have not experienced those stories myself.  I don’t know what it is like to live through divorce or receive a cancer diagnosis or lose a parent.  I don’t know what it is like to adopt a child or watch a daughter get married or live on a farm.  I don’t know what it is like to be a minority in a place with little diversity or to raise a half dozen kids or to save someone’s life.  BUT SOME OF YOU DO!  Maybe you don’t want to manage a blog of your own, but maybe you have a story to tell.  Maybe I can help you tell it or help you share it on my blog.  Please reach out to me!  I would love to host a “What It Feels Like” series with guest posts from people who have stories to share.  If writing isn’t your thing, I can help!

What will the coming year bring for Still Chasing Fireflies and for me as a writer?  I. HAVE. NO. IDEA.  But it’s time to stop partying and get back to work!  Thanks for celebrating the first year of the blog with me this week, and please consider sharing your own story here (or even somewhere else) in the coming year!  Your story could change someone else’s life.

Trust me.

This year has taught me just how much our stories matter.

~Mary Ann