All the Things He Ate Today

He rolled out of bed tummy already growling.

He dressed himself quickly and then started scouring.

He started with cereal, at least two bowls,

Then he gulped down some cheese sticks practically whole.

He scarfed a banana and then grabbed another.

Rushed to the bus; bid adieu to his mother.

Sloppy joe on a bun was consumed midday,

Complete with fruits and veggies filling the tray.

And when he was done, he ordered some more;

It went down the hatch without a crumb on the floor.

When he got home, it was clear he was ravenous.

He chomped through some chips while roaming the cabinets.

He crunched all the carrots, then munched all the grapes

By tossing them one by one to his face.

He swallowed the leftover pot roast and potatoes,

Before he slurped down the noodles and a handful of tomatoes.

To keep the food stocked costs a small fortune,

I lamented to myself as he preheated the oven.

He savored the pizza as it was still hot,

Along with some soup he warmed up in a pot.

He sunk his teeth into some bars of granola,

Then he dined on some crackers, dipped in Nutella.

He devoured the yogurt (fruit on the bottom).

I begged him, “SLOW DOWN,” but no one could stop him.

Bell peppers, blueberries, he couldn't get enough.
I marveled, "where does he put all this stuff?"

He helped himself to the pickles and pears,

And dared to wonder why the fridge was so bare.

A slice of pie, and then a bowl of oatmeal,

He ate like a savage; it was almost surreal.

He finished his toasted bread with butter,
And then he asked, “what’s for supper?”

Dear Coach

Dear Coach,

My child will be late to practice.

When your first line item at the team meeting was tardiness, I resisted raising my hand. Now that we're a few weeks into the season, I've decided to come clean. My child will be late to practice.

When you're sending those parent emails about the importance of promptness, I know you're talking to me, Coach. And I apologize. I know you don't need a million excuses, but I never want you to feel that my family and I don't value what you're doing here. So please, let me explain.

I don't know if you know this about us, Coach, but my husband and I work full-time downtown. We leave early to drop our kids at the before school program, and get home late after picking them up.  Although we commute together, nearly every day we leave one car at the park and ride packed with equipment, snacks, and spare clothes. We stop there to divide up, then conquer the evening without spending the extra miles to go home. We do this for you, Coach. We take our family's commitment to this team seriously. So before you assign me any labels, there are a few things I'd like you to know.

I value your time.

I don't know who these parents are that work from home or get off early to consistently make it to 4:30 practices and 5 o'clock games, but that's not us, Coach. Now, I don't want to diminish your importance, but between doctors, dentists, school conferences, and sorry Coach, other sports, those 16 personal hours I get each year have to stretch. I have to be strategic.

Today, we mapped out a typical plan. I would work through lunch and leave early, while my husband would take the bus later to the park and ride. It was going perfect. But Coach, did you know the Twins had a day game today? Neither did I. My panicked sprint to the parking ramp was for not; the game had let out and traffic lines were already formed.

Twenty-five minutes ticked off before I was able to exit the ramp.  Twenty-five minutes, Coach. I passed the time scream chanting "I hate the Twins!" Now, I understand that scream chanting disdain for the hometown team seems a bit un-American, but I was thinking about you, Coach. Those pokey baseball fans didn't care about your time. But I do, Coach, and they were stealing your minutes. If turning my back on the Twins makes me wrong, I don't want to be right. I want to be on time. For you, Coach.

I value your lessons.

You're always prepared, Coach. I like that about you. I'm always prepared, too.
When I picked up my child from school, he got his equipment on in the parking lot lickety split while I fed him a granola bar. It was some fantastic teamwork, Coach. We had this right up until the moment I noticed we didn't have his helmet. His $&@%ing helmet. How in the name of all things holy did we forget the helmet?

Do you remember story problems from math class? I wrote this one for you, Coach:
Little Johnny's practice starts in 15 minutes, but he's missing some equipment. The field is ten minutes away from his location. Johnny's home is also ten minutes away, but in the other direction. If Johnny goes straight to practice, he will be five minutes early, but unprepared. If Johnny goes home first, he'll be 15 minutes late (10m to home + 20m back = 30m total).
Q: If Johnny goes straight to practice, but then his mom runs home for his helmet and brings it back, how many minutes will Johnny be standing there unable to participate in practice?

Coach, I'm not sure how you calculated your answer, but I came up with a number greater than 15. So we did it. We went home first. But it was a sight to behold. My player jumped out while the garage was still opening and I was turning the car around. He had that helmet in record time, and never stopped running. We were a well-oiled, and now fully prepared team. Just like you preach it, Coach - hustle and teamwork.    

I value your commitment. 

Coach, my husband and I did everything right this morning.
All equipment packed in the car: check.
Car left at park and ride: check.
Work through lunch to catch the early bus: check.
Car keys ready when I got off the bus: this is where it fell apart.

In my hasty departure, I left my keys at the office. As I stood there taking stock of the situation, you were the only person on my mind. And then, I ran 1.4 miles in heels all the way home.  I'm not going to lie, Coach, it kind of hurt all over.  As I grabbed the keys, I thought it best to change into gym clothes and tennis shoes to speed the run back.

5:03, Coach.  Can you believe it?  All that disaster and I was only three minutes late! You looked me over and remarked that I should try harder to be on time.  Now, this may have been the shin splints talking, but just then I wanted to punch you in the face.  Not super hard, but definitely square on.  I held it back though, Coach.  I just wanted you to see my commitment the way I see yours.

I value you.

I've done your job, Coach.  I know there are parents who take your effort for granted.  I know there are parents who will never recognize all the practice preparation, game planning, conflicts, adjustments, and equipment malfunctions.  I know some parents do the old no call, no show.  That's not me, Coach.  That'll never be me.  I see you.  I appreciate you.  And more than anything, I value your role in my child's life.  So I mean this as a standing courtesy with a sincere apology, my child will be late to practice.

Thanks Coach,

Carrie

Trip of a Lifetime

In July 2015, my family had the privilege of traveling to Cusco, Peru for two weeks with Smile Network International.  We hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, we saw amazing sites, and we ate fantastic food!  Our favorite part of the trip though, were the days spent at the regional hospital taking families through the life-changing experience of a surgical repair to either a cleft lip or palate.  

We arrived at the hospital Saturday morning with more than twenty volunteers, translators, and a medical team of nurses, surgeons, and anesthesiologists.

Families began lining up in hopes of receiving a coveted surgical spot long before our arrival.  As we passed through the packed corridor, the looks of anticipation were evident.  Even before screening began, there were families with infants just days old that were removed from the waiting line.  Babies have to reach a weight minimum before being eligible for surgery due to risks associated with anesthesia. They were deferred until the next mission.

The day began with each surgical candidate and a corresponding family member receiving a number.  This number identified them throughout the week.  Volunteers were handed a numbered medical file, and found their patient in the hall.  The screening process occurred entirely in a small auditorium.  The first stop was the intake desk, manned by in-country translators, where information was gathered: name, age, parents, distance traveled, shelter needs, languages spoken (many people speak Spanish and/or Quechua, a local tribal language).  

A quick cultural note: all families had their personal items in red, striped blankets, tied around their backs.  The blankets also carried goods they may need to sell while away from home to earn money, or goats, or babies, or small children, or all of the above and more.  As I sat listening to an intake interview with a man and woman, I finally asked the translator which was the patient.  When he advised it was the baby, I wondered where was the baby exactly. 

The second stop for families was the surgical consult.  Surgeons Walt and Patty, who were each assigned a translator, immediately assessed the feasibility and priority level of each candidate. When I took my couple to this station, the woman sloughed off her blanket, and revealed, among other things, her baby Samuel Andi inside.  Samuel Andi had received a cleft lip surgery a year earlier. Walt cleared him for a palate repair, but also, a revision to his lip.  In the case of both surgeons, they were very cognizant of achieving not only a medically necessary result, but one that provided a best possible cosmetic outcome as well.  Samuel's nose was pulled downward quite a bit from his first surgery and the second surgery was an ideal time to correct that.

Sadly, many children were eliminated or deferred to a later mission at this point in the process for reasons such as being too young for needed bone grafts, etc.  Each of us sat with a patient who received this news.  It was heartbreaking each time, and still is to us now.

At the weigh station, children and adults could remain dressed, but babies had to be entirely undressed to ensure they met the minimum weight requirement.  When I first held Samuel Andi after he was weighed, I assessed him to be around four months old.  

Medical history was the next and lengthiest hurdle to clear for surgery.  The backlog that occurred gave volunteers like Chad and I time to get to know our families.  Jude and Dane had been hard at work entertaining the waiting children with card tricks, the crayons we'd made, stickers, stuffed animals and other gifts the troupe of volunteers had brought.  As the chairs filled in the auditorium, they were called upon to also bridge the language gap between volunteers and families.  It was Dane who translated for me that little Samuel Andi was not four months old, but 18 months old.  The malnourishment caused by his cleft palate was evident.  He was also filthy from days of walking to the hospital.  His hands were rough from a life spent on the side of road while his family sold wares to earn a living.  He was also an incredibly happy baby whose parents couldn't have been more pleased to show off their son.  This story was the similar with Suly, Joel Roger, Efrain, and many others who left an indelible memory in our hearts.  

Patients who were fortunate to be cleared for surgery were scheduled throughout the following week.  Many had arrived with few resources and were provided shelter during their time in Cusco.  Volunteers now took children, and some adults, through the surgery process.  Dane ran with Chad to translate for a patient needing last minute lab work. I scrounged the supply closets for a gown suitable for a 16 year old, then mimed to her when it was time to change.  We sat through multiple surgeries and asked questions answered by the prolific surgeons, nurses and anesthesiologists!  Jude sat with the pediatrician doing pre-op exams to help translate while her bilingual nurse did double duty on the recovery ward.  Pre-op and recovery were in the same small room with pealing paint, broken windows and mismatched bed sheets.  Jude's side job was applying temporary tattoos to all the recovering patients. 

As each child was sent home, every nearby volunteer and medical professional was hugged and thanked.  The appreciation was palpable.  

There is no short way to detail each story, or all the wonderful people we met-our amazing tour guide, the tireless Smile Network staff, the medical professionals who have taken this journey many times before, and of course, the families.  Their hardships did not make them unhappy people, but instead, thankful people.  

My goal in committing to this mission with my family and nephew David, was not that we will change the world, but that we will make decisions and take action colored by this experience.  It is impossible to take this journey without transforming your view of the world and yourself.  

We very much appreciate Smile Network for providing this opportunity, and our family and friends for their support on this journey.  It will be meaningful to us for all our lives.

Thank you!

Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give. Matthew 10:8d.

Thank You, Candy

I got to do a really satisfying thing recently; I got to deliver a long overdue thank you to a friend.

All the way back in tenth grade, Candy and I got into a fight.  I remember arguing in front of my locker.  I remember being stubbornly angry.  I remember us defiantly parting ways.  I have no recollection the reason for any of it.  I do know after that day, it was the end of our friendship in the joined-at-the-hip way we'd been accustomed to; it was always superficial after that.  And I missed her constantly.

A little background:
A couple years earlier, eighth grade started a rough stretch in my life.  Amongst my many turmoils, I gave the rumor mill its first tiny seed, and it blossomed into a beautiful nightmare.  The blatantly false tales of my promiscuous behavior grew to fantastical proportions.  I was challenged to fights by girls who'd heard I was trying to force oral sex on their boyfriends.  There was no shortage of guys willing to say they'd seen or participated with me in public orgies.  Several friends joined the chorus of jokes and jabs.  I was a 13 year-old pariah.

Ninth grade had just begun when I received a visitor who'd heard my place equaled action.  I had the misfortune of being home alone (but spared the full act).  My attacker wasted no time the next Monday bragging he had firsthand knowledge that the rumors were all true.  A friend told the school counselor, the police were called, and my circle of friends shrunk.

More humiliating than having the bruised bite marks photographed, or turning over torn clothes and the vulgar recordings left on my answering machine, was facing my peers at school.  Everyday I was tormented with questions like, "how can you do that to him? He has a girlfriend, and you're a slut." Ouch.

Important Aside:
I don't tell the story to garner sympathy, but to give context for my thank you.  The scars from that time are barely visible now, even to me, but I do know where to look for them.  It is the reason I take great care with the secrets people entrust to me, but live my own life like a wide-open book.  It is also the reason I do my level best to never lead with judgement, and bristle when people speak in absolutes.

When I testified in court, my mother and brother were considered witnesses and could not sit with me.  But I did have one person by my side, holding my hand and encouraging me-Candy.  I remember what all of us were wearing that day.  I remember the questions I was asked.  I remember the answers he gave.  And I remember Candy's voice.

At the time of our fight I was 15, and only in the infancy of my mental recovery.  I didn't yet understand how the events of those years would inform so many decisions and sacrifices I would make.  But I always felt the loss of Candy's friendship.

When I roll around the events of my life, I inevitably come back to those years, and that incident.  I occasionally search the sex offender registry (he's on it for subsequent crimes), but he's not really the point.  I think about Candy.  It has always been deeply meaningful to me that she stood by me during a time it was incredibly unpopular do so.  Candy was a friend when I needed her most.

More than once over the years, Candy and I crossed paths, and I wanted to hug her and tell her I miss her.  And thank you.  But I just couldn't help wonder if we were still fighting?  And what the hell were we fighting about?  (We've since determined that neither of us have any idea.)  My timing was impetuous and odd, but I finally got my chance.

So I told her.  And we hugged and I cried.  And then we relived all sorts of happy memories.  And a gigantic weight was lifted.

Thank you, Candy.

My First Time

This year our family decided, for the first time, to host a foreign teacher for our children's Spanish immersion school.  We were fortunate to be matched with Sarahy from Honduras, and even more fortunate to be a part of many firsts for her as well.  Her first plane ride brought her to Minnesota.  Since living with us she has experienced her first snowfall, her first bowling alley, first roller coaster, first hockey game, and first time internet shopping.  And then there is this one other first for both of us that is near and dear to my heart uterus.

When Sarahy arrived, it was with great excitement that we showed her around our home and introduced ourselves.  When acquainting Sarahy with her space, I had pointed out a drawer in the bathroom with several feminine hygiene items: tampons, panty liners, razors, etc.  A few weeks after her arrival, I learned she'd had someone bring her to the store for sanitary napkins.  She explained she was unfamiliar with tampons, and needed something she understood.  I felt bad I hadn't thought to stock pads, and was perplexed by the idea that she hadn't had experience with tampons.
I thought only people who lived in small, remote villages around the world hadn't used tampons.  Who knew?

*About a month* later when she came home with a box of tampons I was curious, and more than a little surprised. She explained that a woman had purchased boxes for the teaching assistants and her peers were encouraging her to try them.  She didn't seem enthusiastic about the idea, but bravely asked me if I could help her understand how to use them.  No one had ever asked me the tampon question before.
I live for this kind of thing. I got this!

I proudly unwrap the tampon and describe how to the hold the plastic applicator at it's neck with your right thumb and middle finger.  With the right pointer finger, I push the thin tube into the top tube, grasping the tampon as it exits the plastic.  I hold up both parts, pull the collapsed applicator beyond the string, and voila, tampon insertion complete!
"Make sense?"
I can tell by her expression that my explanation had fallen short of effective.  Damn.
I say it only once in my head, and then quickly aloud so I don't lose the nerve.
"Put your hands together like this to make a vagina. Vagina (vaheena) manos."
I ask her to kneel down so I can stand beside her to demonstrate the correct angle.  Tampon cued up, applicator inserted into the vagina hands, tampon ejected, success!  Her eyes and mouth turn up into a smile, and I know we've connected the dots.
I'm so good at this!
"Now you try it."
She faces me and fumbles with the applicator with both hands.
"No, no, you'll need to stand next to me.  You won't have that kind of angle when you're doing this to yourself.  And you need to practice using one hand."
That felt weird to say.  Maybe it wasn't that bad. Other people must have said that. 
"I have to use one hand? What do you do with the other hand?"
"Well the other hand kind of clears. the. area."  I'm turning my left hand slowly down to make an upside down peace sign.
Okay, it's weird. I feel weird.
She stands beside me to prepare for her first attempt.
If anyone walks in right now to see me kneeling down making praying hands into vagina hands, I'll die.
Sarahy practices putting a tampon into my vagina hands a few times until she feels confident.
Mission accomplished! I'm an excellent teacher.
I advise her of proper disposal, we discuss frequency for changing them, and when to use super versus regular.
The world is a more educated place. Yeah me! 

I was experiencing a sense of pride and walking away, onto the next thing, when her question comes.
"Carrie, so what happens to the string?"
"The string?"
"When you go pee, what happens to the string?"
Because English is her second language, I often speak with purposeful diction when explaining something unfamiliar, but now I'm in awkward slow motion.
"Well. Sometimes the string. Is already. Curled. Up. In. Your. Vaginal opening. Then it's not very necessary. To do anything."
I feel feverish.
More quickly now. "Sometimes, you do nothing.  It gets wet, and then you can just blot it dry when you're wiping."
I may need to lay down. 
"And sometimes *motions for her to follow me into the bathroom* you can move it out of the way."
Shut up, Carrie.  Stop talking. Some things are meant to be self-taught. 
Nope, I'm doing it.  I'm actually walking into the bathroom to give a full demonstration of how to move the string out of the way.  God, help me. 
I squat over the toilet and reach behind me to show how one might go about pulling the tampon string to the side.
Rock bottom.  I just hit rock bottom. 
She doesn't seem convinced that scenario will ever come up, and I'm not sure it will either, but now the cat's out of the bag that I sometimes move my tampon string.
Does anyone else do that? No one taught me that. I don't know. I don't want to know. 

The learning is complete, and I'm now really happy to be done.  Until I stop, and go back.
"Oh, I just remembered one more thing."
Do I have to say it?  I don't want to say.  I can't help myself because I feel compelled to see this whole lesson through.  I travel out of body to watch the words fall out of my mouth.
"When you take the tampon out, *deep breath* sometimes it will pop out quickly, and swing like a pendulum."
I'm miming a swinging tampon with my forearm.  
I need a drink.
Her expression tells me she wonders why this is significant. 
Well, I'll tell you. 
"If you aren't prepared, it may drop into the toilet water, then wrapping it up to throw it away becomes a horrible mess."  In fairness to my awkward need to relay this information, it is true.  Unless you don't care about causing a plumbing back up, but I do.
"Sometimes it will crash into the side of the toilet and leave blood on the rim.  It would be nice to clean that kind of thing up."
Okay, super gross, but I don't want to clean it up.  
"At this point, I trust you can practice on your own."
 I officially feel faint, and must now remove myself from the kitchen.  The lesson is really done this time.  I will have to assess my teaching skills when I come to.

Tampon tutorial (long version) is complete.
No additional Q &; A at this time. :)

Mom Job

I don't want to start right off discounting dads, but around my house "mom" is a much more popular word.  I've challenged my boys to try "dad" once in awhile.  They sometimes walk right up to me, understand my expression, hold my gaze, and yell, "Daaad!"  It's refreshing.
But there are times when they are distressed, sick, or hurting, that there is only one person for the job.  And that's when I do my most thankless, exhausting and satisfying work.

Job Skill: Know Your Customer
I awoke several weeks ago to my youngest, Dane, climbing in between my husband and I, carrying the cat with him.  He has a fear of tornadoes, and a storm had his mind racing.
"Mom, Hannah and I have to sleep with you so we feel safe."
"Climb in sweets."  We review conditions necessary for a tornado and the statistically low fatality rates until he is satisfied that no danger exists and drops off to sleep.

Job Skill: Tireless Effort
A short time later my oldest, Jude, whispers to me, "Mom, I need you.  I can't breathe."
I always hate those words.  I move to his room so we can do the ritual that is breathing treatments for asthmatics.  My need to constantly put my ear to his chest kept me up the rest of the night.
The next day he felt well enough to go to school, but later ended up at the clinic.  While my husband sat through testing into the evening, it was my job to complete chores at home, prepare myself for an overnight at the hospital, and try to rest. Yeah, that resting part...

Job Skill: Be Resourceful
Sarahy, the teaching assistant we are hosting from Honduras, had come home early from school that day.  She sought me out after sleeping most of the evening, face swollen and feverish.  The language barrier made deciphering the problem difficult, but I understood it was a dental issue.  Combing through her documents, we learned that she had medical, but not dental coverage during her visit.  So well into the night I left voicemails and sent emails, searching for a reasonable and expeditious option.
With the much-appreciated help of my cousin Leona and a woman supporting the teaching program, we were able to get her into the University of Minnesota dental school.  I got regular updates on the exams, costs and care.  She is a capable, intelligent adult, but was in need of help to find resources.

That mom title gets a little elastic at times.

Job Skill: Perform Under Pressure
Two weeks ago, my husband stayed in isolation for days with a cold.  My youngest was helping with dinner.  He opened a can.  I could hear the screams then saw the blood.  A large flap of his thumb hung down.  I called out to orders to Leona, Jude and Sarahy for gauze, clothes for Dane, the car, my purse.  I pinched his thumb tightly while rifling through his files to confirm immunizations.  I carried him to the car and then into the ER.

Job Security
Several hours later, we arrived home.  I crawled up next to my husband to assure him everything was fine. "I'm sorry, what? Did you go somewhere?"  I told him I will never have the bliss that is ignorance around this place.  Good thing I'm the boss.

Privacy Please

Truly a day in the life...


"Juuuuude! Get out!  I do not need an audience while I'm using the bathroom."

"And now ladies and gentleman, my mother is about to attempt an amazing feat!"

"Seriously! You can brush your teeth in any other bathroom.  I don't want an audience."

"Mother, it occurs to me that you are confused about my role here.  I'm not part of the audience, I'm the announcer."

"Get out!"

"Now mom, you are a grown woman.  Is it correct that you know how to lock a door, yet chose not to?  Do you understand that by locking the door you could delay us?  We would definitely pick the lock, but by the time we got in you might actually be done."

"Point taken.  Get out."

"Is it? I feel like we play this game a lot.  I don't want to be here any more than you want me here, yet here I am and we're both suffering."

Enter second child.

"Dane, mom says she doesn't want an audience while she's using the bathroom.  I'm actually the announcer.  What do you want to be?"

Shrugging, "I guess I'll be the animal trainer."



 

The Notebook

When I was in my early twenties, I went out with a guy that kept a journal of women he'd dated.  It catalogued their pros and cons, and sometimes there were additional notes describing how these traits had the potential to switch columns and under what circumstances.  He took care to summarize each woman, what he had learned from the relationship, what traits he would now avoid, and what adjustments he would make to his own behavior in the future.  He was an organized thinker and a model of over-preparedness.  He did not care to be idle, and I found him entirely too serious.    

Some women might have been offended by the notebook, or insecure about the story their own entry would tell.  Not me.  I found the whole idea fascinating.  Everyone I know has hoped for love and navigated the ethereal and confusing feelings that come with it.  I had just never seen a system designed so objectively to manage it.

I'm quite certain I ended up in that notebook.  I never wondered what my list looked like though.  Maybe because I wasn't that invested, but maybe because I know the things I like and love about myself, my favorite memories and proudest accomplishments.  I also know my failures, flaws, and regrets.  I hadn't thought of that notebook in more than a decade.

Right now I'm getting to know a new coworker, someone I work closely with and must depend upon.  It struck me the other day that what we know about one another has come from sharing our own perspective of ourselves.  It's different than knowing someone through common acquaintance-it's what you give of yourself.  While we are building a professional relationship, we are sharing personal stories: first good, many funny, and now, some sorrowful.  And it got me to thinking about that notebook.

I feel certain people experience me the same way regardless of what capacity they know me.  I have a sense of balance and a deep appreciation for my life's rewards.  I really love to laugh.  I think those themes are consistent, but I've wondered lately if the pros and cons I would list for myself would have anything in common with a list anyone else would make of me.

I won't be passing out papers with columns drawn in and instructions at the top or anything.  I won't be giving people examples like "admitted lesbian" or "big boobs" to form their lists. (yes, he had those as a pro and con for one woman).  I won't be asking anyone to share their bullet points in front of a group.

I will do what I often do when I find myself in a phase of deep thought and self-reflection.  I will stop to look around at my life.  I will cry and laugh and remember.  I will acknowledge my pros and cons, but I won't put them in a notebook to be stored away.  I will travel with them each day.

Lesson Applied

My family saw Jackie Robinson at the Minneapolis Children's Theatre last season.  The play conveyed Jackie's roadblocks entering Major League Baseball, and used a lot of bigoted language to stay true to the storied struggle.  My then six year-old Dane asked during intermission, "why does that kid keep saying boy like that to Jackie when he's a man and that kid is a kid?"

My sons heard a lot of words they hadn't heard before that night, and a lot of derogatory language that was confusing to them.  I knew before we went to the play that I should be prepared to talk about it afterward, and I was.  The theater parking lot had recently installed new pay machines, and, as a result, the lines to exit were long and so began our discussion.

During that season, Minnesotans were preparing to vote on legislation to define marriage as one man, one woman, and so there was plenty of propaganda on the topic-some of it spirited to say the least.  The mini-van waiting to exit ahead of us was covered in not just "pro-marriage," but also, anti-gay bumper stickers.  As I spoke to my boys, I wondered how the conversation in that car might be fundamentally different than the one we were having.  I also noticed my then eight year-old Jude reading all the text in front of him.  And then came his thoughtful questions.

"Hey, mom?  Do you think the way people used to discriminate against black people is the same way some people discriminate against gay people now?  Do you think those parents ahead of us realize that gay people are the same as everyone else?"  My husband knew what he'd see when he looked over at me.  Silent, proud tears.

I was careful to explain that racial discrimination wasn't exactly a "used to" although we've come a long way.  I told him I thought he nailed it though-a parallel that child's mind drew all on it's own.  Jude then starting listing for us all his friends with interracial parents, two dads, two moms, foreign-adopted, and even traditional families that were all pretty great.  He summarized his point by stating that we are all "different, but the same."

This was one of my best moments as a parent.  It reinforced to me that I'm getting it right more than I getting it wrong.

I believe education goes a long way in the path to tolerance.  I believe having empathy seals the deal.  I try to give my boys context when I'm making an important point about any life lesson.  I try to show them common threads between their experiences and those of others so they understand the importance of being open-minded and kind.  I believe empathy is the gift that grows your heart and mind.  





  

Unsolved Mystery

I did something last night that I've done a thousand times over the last five years.  I woke up with an idea where to find my lost wedding ring, then I got out of bed to look before the thought dissipated.  Maybe I'd been wearing an apron that day and dropped it into the pocket.  It wasn't there, so I went back to bed.  Of course it wasn't there though, that wasn't the first time I'd had that idea.

The "it" is really a "them."  My wedding and engagement rings were not soldered-a purposeful decision because I wanted to travel without wearing my diamond.  I'm a person frequently prone to removing my rings for one reason or another: digging in dirt, exercising, bathing the kids.  I'm also a person of habit though: put them together and slide them to the corner furthest from the edge of a nearby countertop.

We were having our first barbecue in the new house.  I was preparing food and frequently washing my hands.  I remember my agitation at repeatedly drying around my rings, so I took them off.  My last positive memory is using a blue Christmas towel hanging on the stove to dry my hands and the rings I was holding. (Yes it was August, but we hadn't fully unpacked and I could only find holiday-theme towels).  Within 15 minutes I knew they were misplaced, but soon after guests had begun arriving, so the search would be delayed until they'd all departed.

Every corner of every counter, every piece of trash or recycling, every drain catch, every kitchen drawer was searched for the missing rings.  My oldest hadn't come into the house at all, and my youngest was barely two and not yet countertop height, so involvement from both could be ruled out.  And how odd that they would both be missing.  If I had mistakenly knocked them off the counter, what are the odds they would have landed in the exact same mysterious location?

That fateful day our office had a desk and two chairs, and stacks of boxes yet to be unpacked.  I thought possibly I'd thrown everything I'd cleaned up into that black hole, and my rings were hidden amongst the piles.  But after all these years, each box has been meticulously sorted through, all pants pockets checked, heating ducts searched, appliances moved, and couch cushions upended.  No sign of the rings.

The more time that passes, the less clear my memory of the scene becomes.  Sometimes I wake up to check places that didn't even exist when my rings were lost, like the pantry shelves or my bookcases.  Sometimes I'm motivated to remodel my kitchen, because I'm sure the demolition will reveal the rings.  Sometimes I wonder if I should try hypnotism to jog my memory.

I have not given up hope.  I hear stories all the time about lost treasures found.  I can't bring myself to buy a replacement, because I already have a ring, I just don't know where it is.  Friends and family have taken apart my home sure they know a spot I haven't checked. If only.  It's an unsolved mystery for now, but I just know one night I'll awaken suddenly with the clue I've been missing.