Seventeen

To you, my independent one.

My oh-so-disciplined child who has

. . . practiced willingly

. . . studied carefully

. . . loved tenderly

. . . saved diligently

. . . given faithfully

. . . tutored selflessly

. . . befriended loyally

. . . traveled begrudgingly

. . . laughed joyfully

. . . challenged truthfully

Thank you for teaching me so much. Thank you for your sense of humor, your sense of style, and your sense of caring.

You, special girl, are a gift, and I love you so much.



Happy birthday, Caroline!

Love,

Mom

Eight Weeks

Think back eight weeks.

Don’t remember eight weeks ago? What if I asked you to remember everything that has happened since June 14. Could you remember eight weeks ago then?

June 14 was the day Abby left for camp.

Today she returns.

In eight weeks I took a road trip to Dallas, Texas; we’ve remodeled a bathroom; I’ve travelled with my family to the U.K.; and we’ve sent a child off to college.

A lot has happened in eight weeks!

And I know better than just about any mom on the planet just how long eight weeks is because my heart has hurt just a little for every minute of the eight weeks that Abby has been gone.

Every time I’ve thought of her, my heart gave a tug. Every time I prayed for her, my throat tightened up a little bit. Every moment that she’s been away has been hard on me.

So why did we do it? Why did we allow our 16-year-old daughter to live six hours away from us for eight long weeks this summer?

It would be easy to just have told her no. To rationalize that she is too young to be away for that long. Or to say that I needed her here (my heart certainly did!). Or to demand that she get a job rather than pay all that money to scrub toilets all summer.

Why?

I’ve had several friends ask me that question, and I’ve asked myself the same thing so many times over the summer. Why let her go when the alternative would have been so much easier?

Now, really, you should all know how I feel about letting go by now. As hard as it is, it is a necessary part of every child’s growing up and every parent’s growing away. It just has to be.

But today, as her bus is about to return her to me, I keep asking myself, why did we do it? Why did we let her go?

There are several reasons.

First, she is a child who needed to be let go right now. She needed this summer of independence and, especially, of being at a place she dearly loves. Her heart needed to be there as much as my heart needed her to be here with me.

Second, this wasn’t just a summer camp of fun and games for eight weeks. She signed up for the Service Team, which means that she was working every day, five days a week, for about eight hours a day (sometimes more). As parents, we place a high priority on service, and we want to teach our children to live as servants, so what better place to learn to do that? Developing a work ethic along the way probably isn’t a bad thing either.

And finally, it came down to spiritual preparation. The camp Abby attended was a Christian camp where we knew she would be nurtured in her walk with Jesus. We knew that she would have plenty of opportunity to fellowship with other believers, but also to spend precious time alone with the Lord. All of this, we felt, was so important for her spiritual development.

Today I turned to Philippians chapter 1 where Paul expresses his deep love for the Philippian people. He talks about how he prays for them with joy because of their partnership in his work.

And then Paul speaks of his confidence that “he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” A few verses later Paul tells them that he prays that their love would grow as they gain knowledge and insight and that they would “be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ.”

This is what we want for our daughters: Growth. Good work. Love. Knowledge. Insight. Discernment.

And we felt that for this summer, Abby could best gain those things while serving and learning and growing closer to Jesus at camp. Away from us and all the baggage we bring into her life. In a place she loves.

Could she grow here at home? Absolutely. Does this mean every one of our kids has to spend eight weeks at camp? No way. Not every one of our girls is cut out for that kind of work. Not every one of them would even want to put herself into that kind of position. But we have to take each girl into consideration—her personality, her unique needs—and we felt that for Abby, being who she is right now, this was what was best for her.

And we intentionally chose to let her spend the summer away from us, serving at camp.

Intentionality. It stinks sometimes. It means that we have to give up time with a girl we love deeply in order to help her grow. But we trust in the One who gave her to us to complete the good work that He has already begun in her.

And we’re really looking forward to having her back with us again tonight!

Bleacher Bums

My neck is stiff. My back is tired. I have a knot in my left shoulder, kind of toward the middle.

Anybody want to come work out those kinks for me?

How come I’m so stiff, you ask? I think the answer lies somewhere back on Sunday when I put my body through a grueling torture. Something akin to being in a prison camp cell, since I was confined to a very small space in less than comfortable conditions and was not allowed to leave.

Sunday was the annual high school music festival. Correction. The “Holiday” music festival. It’s held in the gym to accommodate all of the various music groups, but because the performers, which included three bands, two orchestras, and three singing ensembles, took the entire floor space of the gym, the only place for the parents to sit was . . . the bleachers.

*cue ominous music*

Three hours on a bleacher will indeed give you a stiff back, neck, and any other body part you’d like to mention here.

Don’t get me wrong, I love going to this concert. I’m a mom. Moms are supposed to love three hour long concerts given by 370 kids I don’t know and one kid I do know. It is for that one kid that I gladly sat on the bleachers last Sunday. The one kid I love with all my heart and wouldn’t miss hearing her play.

Unless, of course, my back was out and I was lying flat because of pain, which is exactly the situation B was in on Sunday. The man should never touch a shovel.

Believe me, I wouldn’t have traded places with B on Sunday. I would gladly suffer gulag-like conditions before I would want to have back pain like he has, so, really, no comparison.

He was feeling terrible about missing the concert, so he asked if we would please tape it for him. Naturally, the battery in our video camera hadn’t been charged since the kids use it for every school project imaginable, but we still had a few minutes of life left in it, so we took it with us. Maggie was my videographer because, while I thought I had a perfect view of Abby in the orchestra, as soon as the conductor stepped onto the podium I couldn’t see her. Why does this always happen? You’d think by now, after nine years of concerts and recitals, I’d figure out where to sit to get the best view, but I just haven’t worked that out yet.

So Maggie, who had a little better view than I did, taped the show. Well, only the parts that Abby was in. I don’t think B really wanted to see the boys group sing “Mr. Grinch” in a mystery key, even if it was just adorable and funny. Besides, remember the battery life? Not so much.

At the end of the concert, some friends we were sitting with slowly got up and stretched, probably letting the blood rush back into their legs and feet and toes. I had explained to them earlier that B was flat on his back and couldn’t sit on the bleachers that long, which was why we were taping the concert for him.

Our friends, who seriously questioned B’s “excuse,” had a great idea. They said that, in order for him to truly get the full effect of the concert, B should watch the tape in a 2 foot by 2 foot space, with his knees pressed up to his chest, sitting on a hard board with the heat cranked up to about 80 degrees.

For three hours.

Only then will he get the full concert experience.

Oh, and good news! There's another concert tonight! This one at the Middle School. Pray for me.

Don’t Even Get Me Started!

Some days . . . oh, let’s be honest here . . . most days, I watch my kids and wonder where in the heck they came from.

They out-do me.

They out-smart me.

They pretty much out-everything me.

Before I left last week, Abby asked me if she could have a plain white sheet. She needed it for a backdrop for a play that her class is doing this week. (Don’t even get me started on that play. It’s an amazing assignment, the culmination of an entire year’s work in Advanced Freshman English. The kids have to write their own Shakespearian play, create the set and the costumes, and perform it. It’s so worthwhile it’s ridiculous. But does Abby want me to come see this play? No. But don’t get me started . . . )

So before I left for California, I stopped at Target and got a king sized plain white sheet which another girl in their class sewed together with another king sized sheet. That’s one big backdrop!

Over the weekend, every time I called home, poor Abby, when she wasn’t practicing for her violin recital which I missed on Sunday (again, don’t get me started!), was down in the basement painting the backdrop for her class play. One girl came over on Saturday to help her paint, but mostly it was Abby’s job.

On Sunday night, when I got home, she was just finishing up this humongo project, so I went down to see it. I really wish I had brought my camera to the basement with me, because this is one beautiful backdrop. Abby had done such a fantastic job on it, creating a carnival-like scene complete with a ferris wheel and a game booth. It was so cute.

When we headed back upstairs I asked Abby how much time she had spent over the past few days, painting this backdrop. She figured out that she had put in over 13 hours, not including the additional couple of hours that her friend had helped her.

And do you know what? . . . (this is the part that really puts me to shame) . . . Abby never complained. She just got to work and painted. She never said to me, “Mom, this totally stinks. I wish I didn’t have to do this. I wish I had help.”

Nope. She just said, “I have to do this job. It’s a big job, but I have to finish it.”

And that’s what she did. She worked until the job was done.

I learned something from Abby this weekend (when I wasn’t even home). I learned that complaining is useless. It gets me nowhere. Complaining is for cowards who are afraid to work hard.

What will get me somewhere will be just plain digging in and getting the job done. On time. Without complaining.

On Monday morning Abby folded it up and took that huge backdrop, completed, to her class. She should have been proud of her work. But I guess not everyone in her class was impressed—the kid in charge of the play found fault with her work. (Don’t even get me started on that one, either!)

So I guess Abby learned something too. She learned that no matter how hard you work, someone will criticize. Someone will belittle. Someone will find fault. But Abby handled even that hardship with grace, as she does most things.

And watching her, I learned something else this week: Abby is the brave one.

I love me some Chinese Acrobats

You know what they say about life in suburbia. Never a dull moment. And last Saturday was no exception, friends, let me tell you.

I had hinted last week that we were taking our family on a "very special" outing. A cultural experience of sorts. An experience so body-bending and fast-paced that it's hard to even begin to describe.

But I'll try. Because that's what I do.

Are you ready for the suburban thrill of our weekend last weekend?

We took our girls to see the National Acrobats of China. Yep, we do know how to show our girls a good time.

Actually, it WAS a good time. If not a little twisted and weird, but a good time, nevertheless.

The program started out with a bang--16 women holding five sticks of spinning plates in each hand. For ten minutes they spun those little silver plates while standing on each other's shoulders, or doing the splits, or doing a somersault, or forming a pyramid. For about five minutes I believed they were actually spinning the plates; for another five minutes I whispered to my husband, "They're attached. I know they're attached. There's no way they could keep ten plates spinning for that long!"

Unless, of course, they are mothers.

The next "act" was called Hoop Diving--you know, where these men run really fast and throw themselves through a hoop. Then they add another hoop, and another, and another, until the top hoop is about 8 feet high. And they still make it through! While doing flips and such.

Unfortunately, while the hoops were only two levels high one guy missed and knocked the whole thing down. He's probably still cleaning the latrine on the bus for that one.

The entire night was kind of like a circus with acrobats performing stunts I had never seen before. It was colorful, and musical, and fun.

And costumes! Oh my, those Chinese know how to put together a costume! Unfortunately, one act involved martial arts "warriors" running around the stage in very tight spandex outfits that, well, showed every. little. thing.

Here are some of the other highlights of the evening.


Somehow they figured out how to get 16 women on one bicycle. We've decided to ditch the minivan and just go with the bike.


The straw hat juggling was incredibly cute and fun. Those boys do know how to party! At this point in the program, though, Abby said she was craving Bugles. Their straw hats were shaped just like the little corn snacks that we loved to put on our fingers when we were kids (and some of us still do!).


This girl did her entire act balancing on one arm. From a tiny pole. On top of a platform. Oh my gosh, I want arms like hers. Buff, I'm telling you. Buff!

Of course, Abby had to add to the moment by observing that "she must have a really bad wedgie."


But my favorite act of the evening had to be the contortionist. (Hopefully no men are reading this, lest they get some unseemly images in their head.) But I kid you not . . . that girl put her butt on top of her head! (You can't even picture it, can you?) While holding candelabras in each hand. And on each foot. And one in her mouth. It was a sight to behold.

And that's all I have to say about her.

So, never let it be said that we don't treat our kids to some pretty whiz bang cultural experiences.

And now excuse me. I need to go to the gym and work on my arms.

Some random thoughts about our day at the Taste

First, let me say, that I had worried for two days prior to our excursion downtown about what I would wear, particularly on my feet, to the Taste of Chicago. I mean, my current pair of tennis shoes has holes in the pinky toes, and that just would not do. But then, flip flops and my legs do not get along very well after a while, so that wouldn’t do either. I went round and round for days.
I didn’t need to worry.

Nobody looked at my feet.

At least I don’t think so, and once I got there I really didn’t care.

So random thought number 1: In a fashion sense, anything goes. I saw a lot of skin (as I had anticipated), but I also saw men in business suits and women in dresses (really!). Anyone who would venture into a crowd of about 500,000 people dressed in business attire only to have BBQ sauce dribbled down the front of his shirt or sweat pouring down her back is not only crazy but needs to report to H.R. immediately. You’re fired!

Random thought number 2: What’s with the body art? I am now officially in the old-fuddy-duddy-minority because I do not sport a tat. Seems like everyone else in the world has one. Now, I’m not one to make judgments—if you want to scratch your skin until it bleeds just to display an image that will undoubtedly sag and fall and become misshapen in not too many years is up to you. Who am I? But I did see the coolest tattoo ever.

Random thought number 3: Get the tasting portion and share it with a friend. Now, every booth has a “regular” portion of several different foods that would be equivalent to a meal. A full rack of ribs. An entire plate of fish and chips. A roasted pig on a spit. But, being the petite and cautious eaters that we are, we wanted to save room for other things, so we went for the “Taste” portion—just a small bit that makes you feel like you’re really not consuming as many calories, even though, over the course of the day, you really are. Here are just a couple of things we tried. The entire list will be given to you if you make a comment below, but only then. Suffice it to say, we “tasted” about 10 different things.

Random thought number 4: Be careful not to eat too much or you might end up like the guy sitting near me, doubled over, staring at the grass. You can imagine what came next.

Random thought number 5: If, after you get bored at the Taste, you decide to walk the entire length of Michigan Avenue, better wear the tennis shoes! I’m glad I did.

Random thought number 6: Macy’s on State Street has a really fine bathroom on the lower level, just through the restaurant area. We used it twice. Thank you, Macy’s!

Random thought number 7: If you really want to feel like a tourist (as if going to the Taste wasn’t enough) head to the ABC 7 Studio on State Street. You can stand there, gawking at the people doing the news like they’re monkeys in a cage, then pull out your cell phone and call your friends to say, “Hey, turn on the T.V.! I’m on the news!” That is, of course, if you actually remember to take your cell phone with you.

Which leads me to random thought number 8: Remember thy cell phone. Unless you want to know how much you mean to your husband who calls you 10 times throughout the day leaving various messages like, “Where are you?” “Why aren’t you answering?” “O.K., now I’m really worried.” “Should I call the cops?” Bless his heart.

Random thought number 9: Teenage boys are as fashion-conscious as the girls. At least the group that sat near us on the train sure was. They had actually bought a GQ Magazine and were reading it—out loud—on the way home. I learned that snakeskin is out, aviator glasses are in, and it’s never cool (unless you’re a drug dealer or want to look like one) to wear sunglasses inside. Who knew?

Random thought number 10: If you ever have the chance to make a day of it with just one child, do it. Abby and I had so much fun, and I know I will never forget our day together. Thanks for the adventure, Abby!

Pre-"Taste" Jitters

O.K., I'll admit it. I've lived in the Chicago area my entire life and I've never been to the Taste of Chicago. But with two children gone (see below) I wanted to do something fun with the one who was left behind.

The whole thing kind of freaks me out, to tell you the truth. Here's what I picture:

- lots of rather large men with beer bellies drinking, well . . . beer!

- same said men eating polish sausage until they look like they themselves are about to pop out of their casings.

- skin, lots and lots of skin. Makes mine want to crawl.

- Crowds. I don't do well with them. I had enough of crowds for the rest of my life on the Paris Metro this spring.

- Port-a-potties. Or Honey Buckets. Or Drop Zones. Whatever you like to call them, I just don't do them. I refuse. Could be interesting.

- Deep fat frying. I love the smell, but I don't like what it does to my already mid-life, flabby arms. I picture myself floating home like the marshmallow puff guy in "Ghostbusters" or the Bob's Big Boy balloon from "Austin Powers." That'll be me--Wildmom, as big as a house, floating on strings to get home.

So I'm picturing a crowded day of people from all sorts of walks of life bumping into me and eating like pigs. An adventure will be had, that's for sure!