Guinea Pigs

This kid?

She's a nut. 

But I love her very much.

With my whole heart, in fact.

She’s our oldest. Our first born. We brought her home from the hospital without a clue in the world how to care for her. Or how to parent her—at all, let alone well.

We’ve made many mistakes along the way, and sometimes we’ve just had to throw up our hands and say, “Sorry. You’re our guinea pig. We don’t know how to do this.”

Over the past 20 years there have been a lot of firsts with her. First to play piano. First to walk to school by herself. First to get a job. First to play a sport and first to quit a sport. First to go to college. . . .

You get the idea.

And with each of those firsts we’ve had to decide how, as her parents, we were going to handle each scenario as it came along. Sometimes the decisions were easy; other times not so much.

Last week, we hit another first, and this was probably the hardest first yet. Because last week, B and I became the guinea pigs, heading into parenting territory yet unknown.

As she and her friends began planning their spring break, Kate asked us if they could borrow our my van to drive to Florida.

*huge gulp*

Yes, that’s right. She actually had the NERVE to ask if she could take my van to Florida. My van! To Florida!

Some of you reading might just stop right there and say, “Um, no. Not happening. Not in my lifetime. Find another way to get to Florida.”

But we had a couple of things standing in our way.

First, we had precedent. See, when B was a sophomore in college, he and a friend took his parents’ station wagon to Florida for the week. They drove around, visited his grandparents, hung out on beaches, AND THEY SLEPT IN THE CAR! They went much farther into Florida than our daughter wanted to go, . . . AND THEY SLEPT IN THE CAR!

At least the girls had the good sense to rent a house.

But the second thing we had to consider was our philosophy. I’ve written about it before, but basically we are raising our girls to not need us.  I know that sounds terrible to some, foreign to others, and totally frightening to most, but our hope is to train them to be responsible, mature adults who can handle life independently of us. And we’re training ourselves, slowly, along the way, to let go gracefully.

(O.K., forget the gracefully part. That hardly ever happens. But we ARE trying to train ourselves to let go.)

So, taking into account precedent (I blame B’s parents for that one!) and our philosophy, we felt like we couldn’t say no. Well, we could have said no, but then we’d be kind of hypocritical, wouldn’t we?

Of course, there were some in our family who thought that our decision to let our daughter take a 16 hour road trip in our family car was . . . shall we say . . . irresponsible. 

And maybe it was.

Maybe if the trip had turned out differently, if something terrible had happened, we would have regretted our decision and called ourselves irresponsible for the rest of our lives. I don’t know. What I do know is that we stayed true to what we believe about our kids: they need to be trusted to make good decisions, to be allowed to explore the world, and to grow up. All without their parents’ constant companionship.

So we became the guinea pigs, making a tough parenting call--one that left us biting our fingernails and checking our phones for most of the week. Thanks be to God, the girls (eight girls in two cars) made the trip safely.

We did entrust them into His care last week, but really, we have to do that every day of their lives, don’t we? 

Just ask Anna's parents.

Let's talk. What do you think? Were we irresponsible parents to let our daughter drive to Florida last week? When have you felt like a guinea pig as a parent?

  

Nineteen

She was always eager.

An eager learner, we called her. One of those “Oooh! Oooh! Pick me!” kind of kids in the classroom.

Eager to be the first to experience, to see, to know . . . anything.



Eager to love—always free to share hugs and affection with those she loves.



Eager to run ahead.



Eager to work hard.



Eager to please us, her parents.



Eager to be a great sister.



Eager to be goofy.



Eager to be a friend.



Eager to be born.

Nineteen years ago today Kate eagerly arrived . . . three weeks early.

We love you, Kate!



Happy birthday!

"I'm a Weepah"

Call it hormones.

Call it middle age.

(On second thought, don’t you DARE call it middle age.)

Maybe it’s winter, which is always rough for me (doesn’t help that it gets dark right after lunch—geesh! It’s like we live in Alaska . . . without all the beauty.).

I don’t know what it is, but lately I’ve been especially, shall we say, weepy.

I can’t get through a church service without dabbing at my eyes. I can’t watch television commercials without tearing up (all those poor people with medical issues and tax problems!). And don’t even get me started about watching the news . . . .

Yesterday I surprised myself, though, when my college girl went back to school. I drove her all of eight blocks back to the dorm in the late afternoon, pulled into the circular drive, and looked into those beautiful blue eyes. For some reason I felt like I needed some closure. (I’m big into closure, just ask my family.) So I turned to her and said, “It was a really great break, Kate. We loved having you home.” And then I cried. Just like a little baby, I wept.

Reminds me of that scene in “The Holiday” when Jude Law tells Cameron Diaz about his crying problem and he says, “I weep. I’m a weeper.” (Only in his gorgeous British accent he says “weepah.”) Yep, that’s me. A weeper.

So there I was, mind racing, realizing that half of her freshman year was already over and before I know it she’ll be a sophomore and before I know it again she’ll be halfway done with college and speeding quickly down the highway toward real adulthood. They grow up so fast. *sniff, sniff*

It’s not like Christmas break was perfect. Those three little angels aren’t exactly angels all the time. They don’t always get along. They don’t always even acknowledge each other’s existence as human beings. But they are sisters who love each other, and it’s always fun to have them all under one roof.

Which is, I guess, why I unexpectedly started to cry as I dropped my daughter at her dorm. (Of course, it could have been the huge tuition check I handed her with strict instructions to not-lose-it-but-be-sure-you-don’t-take-it-to-student-accounts-until-Tuesday.)

I looked at my daughter, growing into a woman, and realized how quickly things are changing. Those nights of having all five of us under one roof are becoming less and less frequent and more and more precious. The playful banter and raucous laughter that seems to only happen when we’re ALL here will end for a while. The noise will die down . . . A LOT . . . and the big space that seems to be filled up when all five of us are home will have just a little less personality to it.

Kate’s gone. Sure, she’s only a few blocks away. And, sure, I may see her later today with some things she’s forgotten here at home. But things have changed again, my world has altered just a little, and I must move on.

With tears in my eyes.

Still Learning - Part 2

Hi! I'm so glad you stopped by. If you're here for Fabulous Friday Food, you'll have to come back next week. I have been busy--really busy--this week and haven't been cooking much, so I got nothin'. But I hope you'll come back next Friday for some really Fabulous Food.




When I last left you we were in the middle of a story. Two identical keys, on the same ring, were missing, and my daughter was learning some important lessons.

And so was I . . . .

* * * * *

Throughout the week we texted back and forth, and she told me she was going to walk over to Public Safety with a friend to see if they could help get the U-lock off of her bike.

Good idea, I texted her back.

She also said she had stopped at the front desk of her dorm to see if anyone had found the keys. No luck there.

Oh, that’s too bad. I’ll keep praying.

At one point she said to me, “Mom, do you have any idea how much a locksmith costs? Like, 80 dollars!!”

Uh huh.

Life’s rough. And let me tell you something, sweetie, being a mom whose hands are tied is rough too. Restraint isn’t exactly my strong suit.

Finally, about three days later at around 9:30 P.M. my phone rang. “MOM!!! I FOUND MY KEYS!!!! I ACTUALLY HAVE THEM RIGHT HERE IN MY HANDS!!!”

We jumped and shouted together on the phone, rejoicing that the incident, which had caused me almost as much internal turmoil as it did her, had come to the very best conclusion.

“Kate, that’s great! I’m so happy for you! Where did you find them?”

Turns out, she decided to ask one more time at the front desk in her dorm lobby. The girl working the desk was no help whatsoever, but it a guy who was standing nearby overheard Kate asking about some lost keys, looked down on the counter, and said, “Are these your keys?” all nonchalant like.

There they were, just sitting innocently on the counter. Who knows how long they had been there? I guess long enough for Kate to sum up the financial implications of a locksmith and buying a new lock. Long enough for her to come up with a plan and to ask someone on campus for some help. Long enough for God to teach her whatever lesson He wanted her to learn and for her to spend some time praying through her situation.

And in the meantime, those keys remained lost long enough for God to teach me a thing or two as well.

How easy would it have been for me to just say, “Oh honey, I’m so sorry this has happened. Let me call a locksmith for you and I’ll come meet you at work and we’ll see if we can get that bike unlocked for you”? And surely it would have been easier for me to write the check to a locksmith than for her to do it.

But in the meantime, she wouldn’t have come up with the great idea of going to Public Safety. Or checking at the front desk. Or finding out just how much this mess was going to cost her.

And in the meantime we both had the opportunity to pray and to wait for God to work it out. I’m so glad He worked it out this way rather than the most painful, expensive way, but even if He had chosen that path, it would have been worth it, too.

Because she did it. Kate had gotten herself into that mess and she had the unique privilege of getting herself out of it. It was her problem, and even though I was there to support her in it, she got the satisfaction of handling it.

I’m so proud of her, but I’m also just a little bit proud of me because I didn’t handle it. Me, the fixer-upper. Me, the handler. Me, the mom who wants to kiss it and make it better.

I didn’t handle it. And it was the right thing to do.

After almost 19 years of mothering this child, I’m still learning.

Now it's your turn. What parenting lessons have you been learning lately? What is the hardest part of parenting to you?

Still Learning - Part 1

The call came in last week: “Mom. I did something really stupid.”

How does one respond to this? I sat. I waited for the story I was sure to come.

“So I was running late for work the other day so I rode my bike, but I was wearing a skirt so I didn’t want to ride my bike home from work. I figured I’d just get it the next day when I was there.”

Yeah? Where’s the stupid part, aside for riding your bike to work with a skirt on?

“Well, when I got back to the dorm I don’t know what I did, but the keys to the bike lock fell out of my purse and I can’t find them anywhere.”

Immediately I pictured the bike lock that her dad bought before she left for college—a huge, heavy-duty U-shaped lock that only opens with a key. The packaging bragged that no bolt cutter could cut through this lock. No, sirree.

“Oh, Kate. How did this happen?” I asked.

“I don’t know!” the panic starting to rise in her voice. She’s probably picturing the U-shaped lock, too. “We played Capture the Flag when I got back. I set down my bag somewhere. The keys probably fell out on the grass.”

Yes, she had looked everywhere. Yes, she had torn her room apart. Yes, she had asked people if they had seen the keys. Nothing.

And, no, she had not separated the keys—two identical keys were still linked together on the small ring.

Don’t even get me started.

“Let me call Dad,” I offered, knowing already what he would say. But I felt like I needed to do something, and that was all I could offer at that point. “I’ll call you back.”

I made the call and got the response I knew I would get.

“Don’t help her out. Whatever you do, do NOT call anyone for her. If she were out East, we wouldn’t be able to help her, so just pretend she’s away at college, not just right down the street.” After 25 years, I knew this was what he would say, but I needed him to be the fall-guy, not me.

I called Kate back.

“Kate, I don’t know what to tell you. You’re going to probably have to call a locksmith to come and pick the lock for you. And then you’re going to have to buy a new bike lock.”

“How much is that going to cost?!” The panic rising in her voice even more.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to call to get an estimate.”

That little incident was one of the hardest parenting issues I’ve faced in a long time. It seems so simple in theory—make your child do the hard things . . . face the consequences of their actions . . . yadda yadda yadda. I KNOW all this in my head, but putting it into practice is so very hard.

I didn’t offer to Google locksmiths (even though I had already done it). I didn’t offer to pay for anything. I just remained firm that she would have to figure this one out, and I made sure she knew that I was sorry, so very sorry, for the hardship she was experiencing. And I was. More than she would ever know.

So tell me, has your child ever gotten into a jam? What did you do? Anything? Nothing?

I’ll let you know tomorrow how this all worked out.

Remind me to never complain about a delayed flight

Remember how yesterday I was telling you about all the responsibilities Kate graciously handled while B and I were away? And about how Maggie was so sick the night before we left to come home? Kate wasn’t the only one to not sleep that night. I didn’t sleep a wink either. Worry doesn’t even begin to explain this mama’s inner struggle.

The next morning, I was up early, showered, and ready to go before anyone else in our group, of that I am certain. When you don’t sleep the night before, you pretty much can’t wait for the morning to come.

And I figured, silly I know, that if I got up early and got myself ready, that we could get on the plane just that much sooner and head home to where I really needed to be.

I know. I know. Those darn planes don’t leave a minute before they’re ready to leave. And for some reason, ours decided it didn’t want to leave on time. It wanted to sit a spell before we took off.

Apparently “a spell” is exactly two hours because that is the amount of time our flight was delayed. Two hours!

Now, Heathrow airport is a haven for duty free shoppers but since 1) I don’t like to shop and 2) I’ve never been one to stock up on liquor and cigarettes and 3) I’ve never been able to think of “duty free” as anything more than a scam, I basically sat in the airport biting my nails and getting mad at the gate agent for not letting us on the plane RIGHT NOW! DON’T-YOU-KNOW-MY-DAUGHTER-IS-SICK?!

Apparently they didn’t care.

Finally, FINALLY, they called us to our gate, and we waited to board our plane. As we stood in line, my phone rang. Weird. My phone had not rung the entire trip, and now, just as we were about to board the plane, my phone was ringing.

I had a sick feeling this was about Maggie.

“Hello?”

“Mom?!” I can hear the panic in Kate’s voice. I begin to think the worst about Maggie.

“Yes? What’s wrong?”

“Mom, it’s been raining all night and we’re starting to flood!”

Now this is NOT what I was expecting at all. First of all, our basement is double, triple, quadrupally (is that a word?) protected from flooding, and only because we have flooded so many times in the past. Three, to be exact.

Let’s just say that Allstate and us aren’t such good neighbors anymore.

Even though we have four sump pumps (that’s right, four) and a back-up generator for when the power goes out, we still sometimes need to use an ejector pump in the laundry tub where all the yucky water from our sewers comes up.

And that was the case that Saturday morning. Even though the power hadn’t gone out, the water was still coming up through the laundry tub. I guess seven inches of rain will do that.

Poor Kate, who had not slept all night long because of worry over her sister and now the soaking downpour we were getting, was up to her armpits in sewer water. And she was worried sick that our basement would flood yet again.

Unless you’ve been through it, you have no idea how traumatic a flood can be.

Thankfully, B was able to calmly (a miracle in itself!) talk her through how to find the ejector pump, how to hook up the hose and then open the window to put the hose out, and finally, how to plug in the whole contraption (dry your hands and feet first!). Kate, miraculously, was able to follow B’s instructions and get the pump working, saving our basement from certain catastrophe.

Let me tell you, I could not get home fast enough. After all the trials my poor daughter had encountered that week, this topped them all. Handling a flood is a terrible thing, even for an adult, but for an 18-year-old just on the cusp of adulthood, this was a bit much.

People have asked me if I was proud of my daughter for all she handled while we were gone. Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it. I am amazed by her strength. I am in awe of her grace. I am thankful for her cheerful attitude.

She taught me so much.

And let me just say an obvious word about God’s timing. If our plane had been on time that morning we would have been already in the air by the time Kate found our overflowing laundry tub. She would have had no idea what to do, and would have probably done her best to bail water as quickly as she could. But in the end, she would have felt guilty if our basement would have flooded, somehow taking on the responsibility for the flood herself.

Thanks be to God for delayed flights, that’s all I have to say.

I was reminded that morning that there is always a reason for those delays. None of the people on our flight knew that the delay was just for us (*wink, wink*), but I know. I am so thankful that Kate was able to get through to us, and I am so thankful that God’s timing was perfect.

And I'm so thankful that my daughter is ready for anything.

Is She Ready?

My oldest, Kate, leaves for college today. Early, I know, but she’s taking a 2-hour course in the wilderness of the north woods of Wisconsin, so she leaves this afternoon.

Me. A mother with a child in college. How did that happen?

How did I go from changing her diapers, singing little churchy songs with her, teaching her the ABCs, and sending her off to kindergarten to . . . this?

I know how it happened, of course. Through lots of years of hard work (on her part and mine), through lots of life lessons, through some tears, and through lots of laughter we pushed and pulled and gave and took to get to this day. Teamwork, that’s what it was.

But today the question I ask is not so much how did this happen? but is she ready?

I wonder, as I’m falling asleep at night, if I’ve remembered to tell her everything I need to tell her. About not taking Motrin on an empty stomach . . . or about how many cups are in a pint . . . or about how some friends will come and go and that’s o.k. even though it’s hard . . . or about boys.

(Scratch that last one. I have never known and still do not, after 25 years of marriage, know much about boys. She’ll have to figure that one out on her own.)

But, really, I often find myself these days wondering is she ready?

The squirrely kid who wore sweatpants and athletic shirts and who barely combed her hair through her entire 7th grade year. The girl so smart she can manage AP Calculus but who can’t find her way across town without a map. The girl who loses track of time because she’s engrossed in a book. My absentminded professor.

Is she ready?

Yes, she is. You know how I know?

Last week. That’s how I know.

Last week, B and I took a little trip across the pond. (Have you heard? *wink, wink*) Before we left, we gave her a few instructions that were, basically this: Go to work. Feed the dog. Take care of the house.

There might have been a couple of other things on the list, too, like Make-sure-you-get-your-car-out-of-the-driveway-before-the-guys-come-to-seal-the-blacktop-on-Thursday. Big deal. We knew she could handle that.

But some things came up that weren’t on the list, and these are how I know she’s ready.

First came the air conditioning. A few days into our trip I decided to splurge and call home to see how Kate was doing. (Believe me, at $1.29 a minute, this is indeed a splurge.) She was fine. A little lonely, but we knew that would be the case. Toward the end of our call she happened to mention that it was really hot in the house because one of our a/c units didn’t seem to be working.

What?! Panic sets in from Scotland.

As we talked, we figured out that it could possibly be the batteries in the thermostat, so Kate went to buy some batteries (I’m notorious for never having batteries on hand—drives my husband crazy), and called us back. All was well. She managed to remove the thermostat from the wall, replace the batteries, and put the thermostat back on the wall. It worked.

Small test compared to what was to come.

Next was the flat tire. One day, Kate was just pulling into the driveway when our neighbor came over and said, “Kate, did you know you have a flat tire?” The email we got was hysterical.

“Mom! Dad! What do I do?!”

We instructed her, via email, how to call AAA to get someone to come change her tire (Just as an aside, can I just say that at least once a year we get our money out of our AAA dues? It really is a good investment.), and then told her she would need to go to the tire store to have the flat tire fixed.

She did this too, without any problem or complaint. Unfortunately the tire was shredded, so she waited for us to get home to buy a new one, but that was O.K.

Next test, sick sister.

The day before we were to get home, Maggie was scheduled to come home from camp. We knew they would be home alone for about 24 hours, but we knew they would be fine.

What we didn’t count on was Maggie being sick. I really should have thought this one through because Maggie is sick every year when she comes home from camp. She’s allergic to horses, and there are lots and lots of horses at this camp. Even though she stays far away from the horses, and even though she takes medication for asthma and allergies while she’s there, she still gets sick. Every year. Without fail.

This year she picked up a little cold toward the end of camp, and that just made her asthma and allergies even worse so that by the time she got home she could barely breathe. I talked to her on our last night in England and heard this little voice saying, “Mommy? I don’t feel well at all.”

Can you just hear my heart breaking?

I could hear in Maggie’s voice that she was having a lot of trouble breathing, so I offered a few suggestions, none of which were very helpful. We then talked to Kate and tried to help her decide whether or not she needed to take her sister to the hospital for a nebulizer treatment. It was horrible, being on the other side of the Atlantic, not knowing how to help your sick child or her sister who had never had to take anyone to the doctor before.

But here’s the thing. Kate just listened to our instructions. She didn’t panic. She didn’t cry. She just listened and wrote down what we said and then I’m sure she prayed.

Thank goodness for my friend, Amy, who came over later that night with cold tablets for Maggie which helped clear up some of her congestion and, more importantly, helped her sleep that night.

But Kate? She didn’t sleep much at all. She assumed my role and listened for her sister’s breathing through the wall, hoping and praying she wouldn’t have to take her to the doctor the next morning.

Is she ready? Oh, yes, she’s ready. Kate assumed more responsibility last week than any of us expected her to have and certainly more than she had ever had in her life. And she handled every test that came her way with such grace, such great ability, that (don’t tell her this) I was actually a little surprised.

She passed each test with flying colors.

Thankfully, Maggie was better the next day because Kate was about to handle yet one more test.

I’ll tell you about that tomorrow because it deserves a post of its own.

Graduation Day

Dear Kate,

I couldn’t find a card that would say everything I want to say to you on your graduation day, so I thought I’d be my usual verbose self and write you a letter. What can I say? It’s what I do.

Today’s the day. Not the day you’ve been waiting for your whole life—I wouldn’t presume that the day of your high school graduation is “it” for you—but it is a fairly significant day.

Today marks a change for you. It’s a day that signifies leaving one part of your life behind and looking forward to new adventures and new challenges.

Today is the day you’ve prepared for, and I know you’re ready. As your mom, I could not be more proud of the young woman I see before me. She is beautiful. She is strong. She is ready.

I’m not going to write to you about what’s gone. It’s been a great 18 years, and we often reflect and laugh together about your days in our family. And it’s not like you’re leaving our family—you never will. You will always be a part of us, Kate.

No, today I’m going to write to you about what’s ahead, both for you and for the world you’re entering because if there is one thing I know with all my heart it is that you are going to make a difference. And the way you will best make a difference is to be exceptional.

So, be exceptional.

Be exceptional, not because of what you’ve done, but because of who you are.

When you were younger I encouraged you to NOT be known as the “smart girl” or the “basketball player” or the “tall girl” (not that you could help that!) I didn’t want those things to define you. I wanted, instead, for you to strive to be known as Kate W., the “kind girl” or “the girl who really loves Jesus.”

There are lots and lots of smart people out there. You’re one of them, as the cords around your neck today will signify. There are a lot of outstanding athletes out there too. The world has plenty of rich people and influential people and successful people. Musicians, businessmen and women, politicians.

Being exceptional has nothing to do with status or money or the type of job you hold. Being exceptional means taking everything God has given you—every gift, every talent, every opportunity—and using it for His glory and to lift up those around you.

Believe me, there are many “exceptional” people out there by the world’s standards, but there aren’t many people like you. Because there aren’t many who know the authors of nearly every childrens’ book series and who will enthusiastically share their recommendations with the kids at the library.

There aren’t many who will notice when a friend is hurting.

And there aren’t many people who will take the time to look a little boy named Ulysses right in the eye and tell him that he’s special and show him by spending time with him that he’s loved.

There’s only one you, Kate, and only you can love the way you do. So use that gift, and all the gifts you’ve been given, to promote the wellbeing of others. Use your “smart brain” as we always say, not for your own gain, but for the benefit of those around you so that you leave this world a little bit better than when you started, just because you were here.

And that’s what I want you to do. Love. Live a life that is marked by love so that everyone around you will be drawn to you because of what’s inside.

The Ulysses’ of this world need you.

You can do this because your dad and I believe in you. You will always have our support. You will always have our love.

So, off you go, dear girl, into a world that needs exceptional people just like you. You are going to do great!

Love,

Mom

Senioritis

Last week Kate, who is a senior in high school, begged me for a day off, claiming she needed a “mental health day.” Is that a 21st century term, or what?

But I get it. It’s been gray and cloudy for what feels like months now. She’s tired of school—she says they do nothing all day long. In fact, on Friday her gym teacher told the class to get a yoga mat out of the closet and then to lie down and take a nap. Kate claims that every Friday is now going to be “nap day” in gym class.

(Her dad would argue that if she gets a nap every Friday that is a mental health day. But I digress.)

Knowing that her dad was going to be out of town for a few days and her mom would probably be tired, Kate seized the opportunity and asked me for a day off. I must have been in a weakened state of mind because I did something I rarely do—I asked for the opinions of others. I’m usually pretty decisive, but that day I decided to throw Kate’s question out to my Facebook friends.

“Taking a poll. Should I let my daughter with senioritis have a mental health day? Comment below.”

And 28 of my most opinionated friends came back with various forms of “yes!” . . . except for Kate’s dad who came back with an adamant, “No!”

Also, some of my friends were concerned about the lying issue--would I lie to get my child out of school? Let me be clear (that usually gets the nation's attention, doesn't it?) . . . I will not lie to get my child out of school. Enough said.

Since Kate's dad was out of town, I was left to make the decision.

So I did.

Here’s the way I see it. Kate has already been accepted into her first-choice college. She’s pretty much a straight-A student. She holds down a part-time job. She tutors kids in the city once a week. She’s active in her youth group. The girl is busy. She works hard. And she’s a good . . . no, a great . . . kid.

Mentally, she’s checked out of high school. I’m not sure if they’re really doing nothing until the end of the year (I’d like a tax refund if that’s the case)—especially since a few of her classes are AP classes and they should be getting ready for the tests that are coming up in May—but I’m sure things are probably winding down somewhat. And after Spring Break it will only get worse.

Does all that mean she deserves a mental health day? Probably not. Does anyone deserve such an indulgence?

But does it also mean that she doesn’t deserve it? Also, no.

So what’s a mom to do? What did this mom do?

I thought about it long and hard last week and came up with a compromise. I told her that I would allow her to choose one day—and one day ONLY—between now and the end of the school year as her “mental health day.” She can take it now if she wants, knowing that in two weeks she’ll have five mental health days in a row (Spring Break), or she can wait until the weather gets warmer and do something more fun on her day off.

She didn’t love my answer (I think a senior in high school would just like to call the shots herself, thankyouverymuch), but she accepted it graciously. I think she’s going to try to gut it out until Spring Break and then wait for a warmer, sunnier kind of day to take a mental health day. She’s already asked me if I’d take her into the city, and we all know that I can’t say no to my daughter.

I guess I’ll get a mental health day too.

Birth Order Blues

My in-laws spent the night last night. This morning, while enjoying a few minutes on the porch, we got to talking about their first-born son, my husband. J, my father-in-law, was telling my girls about how their dad paid for most of his college education, something we all agreed would be impossible to do today.

The girls sat spellbound as their grandpa practically burst his buttons telling them about how hard their dad had worked all his life. He even took his first job—a paper route—at age 8. He has since held jobs as a butcher shop cleaner, a grocery bagger, a park district worker, and then into banking. We regaled stories from college when, during our senior year, B worked 40 hours a week while also taking a full load of classes.

He’s such a first-born.

Now, my in-laws have every reason to be proud of their son. My husband. B works hard. He’s always worked hard for everything he has. I’m proud of him too.

But as they talked, Abby and I caught glances between us and smiled. We’re both middle children and, according to all the “birth order” stuff that’s out there, we’re not quite as industrious as those first-borns ahead of us. We like to take things as they come, which makes us more flexible and easy-going. It also makes us more independent (which, I have to add, my darling Abby most certainly is, and I would guess my mother would say the same about me). But would we choose to work when we could play? Ah, probably not.

Eventually the conversation turned to my own first-born, Kate. We quickly realized that she has held jobs for a good portion of her life thus far. She babysits, she’s scooped ice cream, and now she shelves books in the library. All before her 18th birthday.

She’s such a first-born.

This trait in my daughter became even more glaring to me this afternoon. As I sat with my computer, she said, “Hey, Mom. Why don’t you sign me up for the ACT test in September while you’re sitting there?”

Huh? She’s already taken the ACT test, and she did very well. So I asked her, “Why are you taking it again? You did fine.”

But “fine” wasn’t good enough. She wanted to see if she could do better. The middle child in me could no more comprehend wanting to take that test a second time than I could imagine flying to the moon. Why on earth would she put herself through that to get one or two points higher?

I’m such a middle child.

So I registered her for the test. But during the registration process the student has to answer all kinds of questions, so, of course, I had to ask her the questions.

“How far away would you like to go for college?” Less than 10 miles. (Just kidding! That’s my personal bias coming out, but we did have a good laugh about that one.)

“What field of study would you like to take?” What else? Literature.

“What’s the highest level of academic degree you would like to achieve?” I wonder if she saw my jaw drop to the floor when she said, “I’d like to get a Ph.D.”

Such a first-born.

How about you? Where are you in the birth order? I'd love to hear your stories.

Molly Grace Photography Session--Toto, I Don't Think We're in Sears Anymore!

I lied. I know I told you that I wouldn't report in until Monday, but I couldn't resist sharing this with you.

Last Wednesday, Kate had her senior pictures taken. How, I ask you, did I actually come to have a child who is a senior? I KNOW, right?!

It seems like just yesterday that we were heading to the Sears Photo Studio at the Oak Brook Mall to have her photographed. She'd wiggle and squirm and usually cry and after about 45 minutes of struggle we'd give up, figuring we'd gotten the best pictures we possibly could, and then we'd head to the Nordstrom Cafe for lunch.

Gee, I wonder what ever happened to those pictures?

Anyway, did I mention that Kate had her SENIOR PICTURE taken last week? And do you know what that means to me? It means college applications are just around the corner. And then lots of waiting. And hand wringing. And waiting some more. And then decisions. And stress.

But last week was stress-free as Kate went into her photo shoot. Molly Grace is a photographer extraordinaire. She's as nice as she is talented.

We had arranged to meet her make-up artist, Anna, at Molly's studio in Naperville. Kate had a great time getting all gussied up, and I enjoyed visiting with Anna who is a treasure. And a really good mom, too.

Anna finished up her artistry and sent us off to meet Molly Grace at Danada House in Wheaton. Danada House is a Forest Preserve property which is basically a huge horse farm and a beautiful old house which is often used for weddings and special events. It's a lovely setting.

We had such a great time with Molly. The poor girl had been shooting photos all afternoon in nearly-100 degree weather, but she was still smiling, cheerful, and encouraging. We were her third shoot of the day, and it was quickly becoming twilight--absolutely gorgeous light that day.

The only thing I could possibly "complain" about would have to be the bugs. Oh my, were they swarming that evening! Kate and I laughed that Molly was going to have to Photoshop out all the bugs that were in Kate's mouth, nose, and eyes.

I think we spent about an hour and a half with Molly, and the time just flew. We had fun getting to know her, and were surprised to find out that she attended the same high school that Kate does AND that she also worked on the yearbook--just like Kate does.

And I know--I KNOW!--the photos are going to be wonderful. You know how I know? Molly gave us a preview on her blog. You can check out Kate's photos here. We have a viewing session next week, and I can't wait to see everything.

So, if you're in the Chicago area and need a great photographer, check out Molly Grace's website. She's a pro with a really, really good eye.

Ahhhhh

Last weekend we finally had a good day to get the porch ready for summer. Here is where I like to sit and write when the weather cooperates.



Today the weather finally cooperated, but my schedule didn't. A few friends held a birthday luncheon for me today, so . . . twist my arm . . . I had to be there. (It was lovely, by the way.)

But Kate and Maggie were home, enjoying the gorgeous weather on the porch. Look at what they did this afternoon.



Summer's almost here, and I can't wait.

Pay for it Yourself

Over the years B and I have tried really hard to teach our kids about money. I could write several posts about this, but what I really want to do today is to relate a conversation that took place in this very house earlier this week.

Kate: Hey, Dad, I'd really like to go to ______.

B: That's fine, Kate, but you'll have to pay for it yourself.

Kate: Dad, lately all you and Mom ever say to me is "pay for it yourself." I mean, I think I hear that more than I hear "I love you."

B: Well, Kate, it's kind of like Wesley in The Princess Bride. Every time Princess Buttercup wanted Farmboy to do something he'd say, "As you wish." It was his way of saying "I love you."

. . . . .

Later that night as Kate is heading to bed: 'Night, Mom. 'Night, Dad. Pay for it yourself!

Travel Tuesday - Buttercup Cake Shop

The day that Kate and I were to leave London was it. THE DAY. We had been looking forward to this day for our entire six-day stay in London.

We had walked past it . . . several times. We had waited. We had anticipated.

But the timing was never right.

Finally, we knew we had to do it. We were out of time.

And so, on that last day in London, just before checking out of our hotel, we stepped into the Buttercup Cake Shop. It was the shop of our dreams, literally, because we had been dreaming about it long before we left the States. We had found this shop online and, to our great delight, it was not far from our hotel--in the very neighborhood we were staying! What luck!

Isn't it just the cutest little shop you've ever seen?


We took a picture of the package because we just knew we'd never see anything that adorable back home.


After about 10 minutes time, all four of our cupcakes were gone. Devoured. But delighted over completely.


If you're ever in Kensington, you absolutely must stop by the Buttercup Cake Shop. You won't regret it.

They have a website, but I doubt they'd deliver to Chicago. Not that I've asked or anything.

And here's a fun travel story to go with our ultimate cupcake experience. The young man who waited on us in the shop had an American accent, so we asked him where he was from. He said Chicago--turns out he was a Northwestern student working in London on a six month student work visa.

So that was fun.

But sitting in the corner of the shop was a young couple who overheard our conversation--the only other people in the store. They started laughing when they heard that we were all from Chicago because they were from Chicago too! Oak Park, I think they said.

So for one small moment in one small cupcake shop in one small neighborhood of London, five people from Chicago came together.

It was surreal.

And sweet.

College Choices

B and I are in the throes of choosing a college.

Just kidding! Kate is in the throes of choosing a college--even a college to which she just might send an application. It's a big, confusing maze.

So we did what every good set of helicopter parents would do, we bought college guides. One is called "The Insiders Guide to the Colleges" and the other is the "Fiske Guide to Colleges." Both are the 2009 editions.

Fiske is a little more technical, giving lots of statistics and information that parents probably want to know about the schools, like HOW MUCH THIS IS ACTUALLY GOING TO COST ME.

But "The Insider's Guide" was a hoot. I highly recommend this book if you have a high schooler. You'll get the "inside scoop" from real students, and whoo doggy, some of it is truly insider info. More than we parents would like to know, believe me.

Anyway, we read the entry for our alma mater (dubbed one of the places "Most Likely to Find Your Spouse"), and we found the information surprisingly accurate.

So we headed to some of the schools our daughter is checking out these days and found some very interesting information.

School Number 1, although academically rigorous, is also rigorous in other activities as well. The social scene is dominated by Greek life, and weeknights, as well as weekends, are often spent bar-hopping. But, the book also reassures us that, "Yet, despite the apparent prominence of alcohol and Greek life on campus, students insisted that those who prefer not to participate in either activity could still manage to find their own ways to have fun." Ah, sure.

Let's move on to School Number 2. This school is located in the South. We've all been kind of pulling for this one because, frankly, we'd all like to move. I mean, if Kate goes to school somewhere warm we'd all feel like we should come along. Just call us the Clampetts.

So the write-up on School Number 2 starts out great. It talks about how academically challenging the school is. In fact, many students "lament that if they had gone elsewhere they would have had higher GPAs." The student-teacher ratio is low, another plus.

The campus itself sounds like a paradise with beautiful gardens, lush meadows, and even a lake in the middle of campus. I can't wait to see it--we have a visit scheduled in a few weeks.

And then "The Insider's Guide" goes on to say this about School Number 2: "Students generally agree that random hook-ups are significantly more common than official dates . . . but despite all this arbitrary 'messing around,' students report that STDs are not rampant." Well now, that's a relief.

School Number 3? Well, apparently School Number 3 is too small (or too far out in the boondocks) to even make it into these books because there was no write-up in either book on School Number 3. Hmmmm.

School Number 4, then. Well, School number 4 happens to be, as we've been told, Kate's "backup" school. Did you even have a "backup" school when you were applying to college? I know I didn't. I was just happy to get accepted somewhere . . . anywhere. (Funny thing was that after I got accepted to my School Number 1, I changed my mind and started the search all over again. That's how I ended up at my alma mater.)

Now, I know that there is no perfect school, and college is what you make of it. Heck, I've been around college students for years--I should know that better than most parents. But now the professor hat comes off and the parent hat goes on, and some of this stuff is a little unsettling.

My daughter, bless her heart, has a great head on her shoulders. She is an amazing kid who makes me proud every single day. I have no worries about her--it's just everyone else out there I worry about. Will they be good to her? Will they see her as the wonderful, beautiful girl I know she is? I could drive myself crazy with the questions.

And so, the list continues to grow. Tonight Kate started reading up on a couple more possibilities. We may have to make a few cross-country trips to figure out if any of these schools are even application-worthy.

But first we'll check the books . . . if my heart can take it.

In the Blink of an Eye

Kate and B aren’t home today. They left last night to drive a few hours to a state that doesn’t even border ours to visit a college that we know very little about.

It’s her first college visit.

On Saturday night, as I was going to bed and Kate was in her usual spot in front of the computer doing her last check on Facebook and catching up on blogs, I stopped to kiss my girl goodnight. I looked into those big, blue eyes and saw in them the little girl I knew not so very long ago.

And my heart pulled just a bit.

“How did you get so big so fast?” I asked as I stroked her beautiful, silky, brown hair in much the same way I would have when she was young.

She didn’t have to say anything. We both knew the answer.

Overnight.

One Goal for 2009

Someone in the next room sounds like Marilyn Monroe. I don’t know who it is among the eight or so teenagers in there doing Karaoke, but someone’s got the sultry thing going on.

Wow.

One person I’m pretty sure it isn’t is my daughter. She doesn’t do anything subtly, quietly. No, you always know when Kate’s around because she’ll be the one having a great time, laughing louder than everybody else, enjoying every minute of life as only she does.

Kate never glides gracefully into a room, she barrels. She doesn’t just laugh, she guffaws. She doesn’t just “like” something, she “LOVES” it.

My oldest teenager embraces life like the Puff-a-Lump bunny she embraced when she was a baby—she never lets go. When “Booey,” as we called it, became just too shredded to take to bed anymore, I put it through the wash and quietly tucked it away in the basement. But the level of shredded-ness just proved that Kate loved that bunny fiercely, just as she loves life today.

She seems to have come out of the womb grasping for the brass ring. She knows better than just about anyone that life has so much to offer. She doesn’t understand what “down days” are because, frankly, I don’t think she’s ever had one. She is, without a doubt, the most “up” person I’ve ever known.

I have learned so much from that kid over the past 17 years.

• I’ve learned that if you are taller than everyone else in your entire middle school, you might as well use it to your advantage.

• I’ve learned that if you make some personal goals, like, say, to get good grades, you might as well work hard to get the best grades you can.

• I’ve learned that working hard is a good thing.

• I’ve learned that it’s important to be a good sister every day.

• I’ve learned that if you’re going to London you might as well just go to Paris too.

Every day that karaoke-singing, belly-laughing, big-hug-giving girl reminds me to embrace life, to embrace friends, to embrace family, and to love them with all the enthusiasm I can muster.

It’s 2009. I hope this year I can remember this one simple lesson that my oldest daughter has taught me.