Open Window Distractions

I start most "school" days with a plan, but we have a problem.

We are distracted.

Window staring is the worst.  I personally have a highly evolved skill of staring, not only out the window, but at the ceiling and even at an actual blank wall for minutes, even hours, if inspired.

I'd like to claim that I'm involved in Zen-like peaceful meditation, but the opposite is true. My mind is not empty. I am not still. I am racing with thoughts, ideas, scenarios for apocalyptic movies starring ME as the hero. My overactive imagination is so busy that it shuts down my body and I stare.

My kids are the same.

Every open window is a distraction. Birds are interesting. So are the cars that drive by.

And nothing evokes the magic of the Great Outdoors like actual “school” work. Math worksheets entice squirrels to come up to our porch, draw their little rodent paws across their chests in an eerily human posture and whisper with their shiny black eyes, “Feed me, please.”

We feed two neighborhood squirrels: a skinny, formerly saber-toothed she-squirrel named “Toothy” and “Bruce” a big, fat he-squirrel whose cropped tail makes him look more like a beaver.

We feed Toothy because she is our walking, scurrying miracle. When she arrived several weeks ago she was nearly starved to death. She had patchy fur, a sparse twitching tail and a grossly misshapen face from two odd, overgrown teeth protruding from her lower jaw. She looked like a harelip squirrel.

So the kids and I talk about harelips and wonder if the condition occurs in squirrels. We Googled Smile Train and watched tear-jerking videos of compassionate doctors repairing harelips in third-world children. We talk about health care in third-world countries.

We talk about how people are doing small things to make a big difference in other people’s lives globally. We discuss the great questions of civilization.

And then it's lunch time and Bruce comes around.

We don’t actually like feeding Bruce. He is a fat little guy who bullies Toothy into giving up her factory-shelled walnuts. Sometimes we throw him a nut or two to distract him while our little squirrel nourishes herself.

Toothy is doing better now. She doesn’t have to cock her head to one side to painfully choke down her nuts. Her superfluous teeth fell out, and she almost looks normal now.

But the kids wonder where she lives.

What does her nest look like?

We look in the palm trees. We Google “where do squirrels live.”

My daughter disappears into her room to finish her lesson on negative and positive numbers --  added and subtracted, multiplied and divided.

It sounds easy enough until I have to explain how a negative number divided by a negative number becomes a positive number – every time. It is not enough to know that it happens. She has to know why and in what real life situations. I didn’t buy the teacher’s guide.

It comes down to a comparison with “I don’t have no cookies,” and she accepts that for now. I return to focusing on my son and his times tables. He has gone to wash his hands and returns 10 minutes later with a bubble delicately balanced between his thumb and forefinger. He is grinning.

“Look Mom!”

He explains how he did it.

I try to listen and not be irritated because I really had planned on him learning his times tables, maybe just one of them, this afternoon.

I had also planned on writing a little this afternoon. But of course, five minutes into the writing project my thoughts are interrupted by something important like a sudden need to fold laundry or update Facebook with a pithy little status about feeding saber-toothed squirrels.

I know that planning and taking deliberate steps toward a goal yield success. So I worry that all this distraction is hampering my children’s overall education.

There are those comforting unschooling “folktales” about children who follow their passions and arrive in adulthood with their creative energy and self motivation uninhibited.

But then there are also people who can’t keep a job because they are bored and distracted. Somehow I am hoping this is different.

Currently my favorite absolution on distraction comes from the highly imaginative writer, Norton Jester, who wrote The Phantom Toolbooth.

Apparently he wrote that book when he was supposed to be working on another project. Ironically his little escape became his greatest work. He has been quoted as saying “I find the best things I do, I do when I'm trying to avoid doing something else I'm supposed to be doing.”

So yes, we never get as much done as I plan. But I’m hoping that my kids schooling experience is better because of the distractions and not in spite of them.

Three hours later, my daughter returns from the bedroom, half-finished math assignment in hand.

“Mom, I just wrote the best song!”

More Distractions

And now more distractions to entertain you and keep you from what you should be doing.

He was suppose to be coping the paragraph from the whiteboard behind him. I left him alone and found him like this 10 minutes later. It's a Cheerio map to the treasure.

What do you do when you find your kids and their friends walking on the wall?

You try it too!

How much time can you "waste" on time lapse photos of the electric trains in the night? When was bedtime suppose to be?

And since when does "clean up your toys," mean wash and dry the entire army?

And if all else fails, quick, find a tree and climb it before you get too old.

Lost Opportunities

I had a funny conversation with my 11-year-old daughter tonight.

I was being characteristically silly, singing, but really hamming it up.

My daughter looked at me curiously.

"Mom, if you practiced, I bet you could be a really good singer. If you were younger, you could be like a Real Singer…like a rock star."

I thought, “Oh goodie, like Hannah Montana?”

But I just said, "Really?"

Then she dashed my dreams.

"Yeah, but people in their 30s can’t be rock stars because they can’t sing cool lyrics. You know .."

That’s too bad.

She was laughing, but still trying.

"Well, if you were a teenager you could be cool."

I had to level it with her.

I wasn’t cool, when I was a teenager. I was too busy trying to be REAL to be cool.

"Oh…Then I guess you missed your chance."

The Great-And-Dreadful Day of Judgment On Mess

This past week several of our regularly scheduled classes and activities were canceled due to rain and spring break vacations, and I found myself face to face with the depressing reality of our gluttony of stuff stuffed into our two-bedroom apartment.

During the middle of a math lesson I sent one of the kids into their room for a ruler. He came back empty handed.

“We don’t have one.”

Yes we do. We have several.

I pulled apart my desk, the homeschooling box, the junk drawer.

Nada.

I offered a dollar to whoever found a ruler – metric or standard.

Math was forgotten. We went on a quest.

I had to push piles of things out of the way to slide open the closet door, only to find that the closet was crammed with labeled boxes of disorder.

The bin labeled Lego, was not all Lego, not even majority Lego. There were Barbies, dirty socks, puzzle pieces, Lincoln logs, marbles… etc. And that was just the beginning.

I opened my daughter’s drawers, still in search of the ruler. In one drawer I found every different kind of clothing she had, plus books, games, craft supplies, my long-lost, good scissors and other things that had no business taking up the drawer space and evicting the socks into the toy bins.

I was getting mad. No one got a dollar.

And that was the beginning of the Great-and-Dreadful Day of Judgment on mess at our house. When I got over being mad about the cacophony of clutter we had created through our basic neglect, I decided to make April our clean-it-up-or-clear-it-out month.

For my own sanity I set some personal ground rules.

1. I would do one job at a time. I would not start clearing out one area and start another before one was finished.

2. I would not buy any new organizational infrastructure until I had “earned it” by substantially decluttering.

3. I would bravely give away things we didn’t need anymore – like the little blue wooden table I built for our daughter when she was two and the toys that she no longer cherished but reminded me so tangibly of my little girl so rapidly fading.

4. I would not even try to do it all in one day.

5. If I needed to, I would go to IKEA and buy all the organizational stuff I wanted, after I cleared out what we didn’t need.

I also kept the kids on my side of the battle by promising not to give away anything they were not ready to part with. And they surprised me with their maturity in giving up things they had outgrown.

That first day I cleared out the box of homeschooling books and supplies in our living room. But I didn’t get through it easily.

Luckily a friend called mid afternoon and rescued me from my freefall into despair. So reluctantly I stopped daydreaming about getting a maid, putting the kids in school and getting a job where I would be “loved, appreciated, well dressed and unharassed by messy children.”

And then I found three rulers.

Then the next day the kids and I went through their clothes and bagged up enough grown-out-of things to comfortably fit the rest of their wardrobe back into the drawers. (The games, books and craft supplies were given new, more appropriate homes.)

By mid week I had taken on the kids’ room full throttle and gone through every miscellaneous box, every hiding place under the bed and every corner of the closet. I re-labeled boxes and rearranged things in a better way for my son to reach his toys and put them away.

We excavated two bags of recycling/trash and six bags of give-away stuff out of their room. It felt great. I could see their walls and carpet. They loved it. We were on a roll.

I was so happy I even finished the taxes and filed them on-line.

I still have a long way to go. It’s easy for me to get frustrated when I realize how many more places need to be organized and decluttered, but at least we have started the spring cleaning fever.

Now tomorrow -- the cabinet of forgotten projects and unrequited love – aka – the craft closet.

Running with my Daughter

I ran 8 miles with my daughter this morning.

Last night I went to a fabulous little work day/dinner party, and consequently slept in, only to be awoken by my I-hate-mornings daughter standing beside my bed jubilantly singing along to my CD alarm clock.

“Take me above your lights…. Carry me through the night!”

I glanced at the clock. Owl City had been playing for 20 minutes and my daughter was fully dressed, running shorts and sneakers.

Are we still going to run?

I really didn't feel like running. But the Students Run LA team I have been training with were meeting in less than a half hour at their high school, and it was the last weekend training run before the marathon next week. So I got up and got out the door.

The sun was bright this morning, taking full advantage of a cloudless sky, and by mid run it felt more like a July afternoon.

Every few minutes I looked over at my daughter, game-faced, charging up the hills through Griffith Park, and asked, "How are you doing? Are you ok?"

And it was always the same.

"Great!"

We passed the trains at the south entrance and I told her how we rode those when we first visited LA seven years ago. When her brother was barely sitting up on his own. She didn't remember.

I pointed out the snow-capped mountains in the distance. The horses on the trails. The picnic area where we had her brother's 4th birthday party, complete with a jumpy and a pinata.

She showed me where her girl scout troop rode horses. I was not part of that trip and I had forgotten that she had done that.

I thought about how our memories converge and part and overlap. I remember some things and she remembers others. It's special to run together. It is only a few years that we parents and kids run on the same road.

By mile six she stopped saying "Great!"

We had been going uphill in the sun for the last few miles. Her cheeks were flushed. I gave her the last of our water.

It was my turn to tell her she was doing great, that I was proud of her.

Only two weeks ago, I had felt the same agony, charging up the same edge of the park, only then I had been near the end of a 20 miler. I could tell her with honesty, "We're not that far. Not that close either. But not that far. You can make it."

The road dipped into a gentle downhill and we ran under the shade of overhanging trees. She sensed the change and perked up for the last bit, but not without admitting, "this is alot harder than I thought it was going to be."

I understand that.

She was pretty wiped out at the end. Although a banana, more water, trail mix and promise of a barbecue with the students seemed to help.

I felt bad though. I was afraid I had ruined running for her. Letting her join me on a long run, a run much longer than I had ever attempted until about a year ago.

When we got home I asked her what was hard about the end of the run, what hurt.

I don't know. I can't remember. It was just hard. But I'm glad I did it!

Yeah. I understand that too. That's why I keep running marathons.

Death of a Pet Rat: Part II

A few weeks ago I posted about my daughter's pet rat dying.

When my dad read the blog entry he sent my daughter an e-mail response with his thoughts on animals and death. My dad is not a theologian or a pastor, but a physician who deals with life and death daily. His love for scripture and life and everything in between came through so beautifully in this response that I asked him if I could post it here.

So here are Dad's thoughts.

We're sorry to hear about the premature passing of your beloved pet.
It was nice that you were there to comfort him at just the right time.

May I give my opinion about animals and heaven?
It is, of course, just opinion, but based on the Bible, so I think you can trust it.

God's Word (the Bible, words Jesus said would never pass away - see Matthew 5:17-20, for example) talks about animals living together peacefully, not hurting each other. When Jesus brings in the new heaven and new earth, I believe that everything that is wrong with the world will be corrected and restored, like it was in the garden of Eden, before Adam and Eve sinned. At that time there was no reason to be afraid of a talking snake, until Satan deceived them. Anyway, here's a picture of the kingdom of God, from Isaiah's prophecy, chapter 11:


11 The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,

and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat,

and the calf and the lion and the fattened calf together;

and a little child shall lead them.

7 The cow and the bear shall graze;

their young shall lie down together;

and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.

8 The nursing child shall play over the hole of the cobra,

and the weaned child shall put his hand on the adder’s den.

9 They shall not hurt or destroy

in all my holy mountain;

for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord

as the waters cover the sea. (esv, copied from http://bible.logos.com )


So, I think all the animals and insects, all the life-forms God created will be there, but restored to their original, beautiful, harmonious purposes, including rats and spiders.

Once I heard a man talk about having a vision of heaven in which he walked across a field of beautiful flowers. He was afraid to step on them, but when he did, and turned around to see where he'd walked, the flowers stood back up and smiled at him. Jesus knows that we love our pets, and I trust that he'll satisfy our desire to have them restored in heaven. It may not be exactly the way we imagine it, it will be even better.

God will comfort you about losing George. He even comforts us about people who have died. In fact, I think God lets us go through grieving about losing pets to prepare us for losing people. It is especially comforting to understand that we'll see them in heaven, restored, never to get sick and die again. Isn't God good to us, to give us those promises? Jesus even went through death for us, to show us a glimpse of what it is like on the other side (we're told that our new bodies will be like his).

I love the pictures you've had on the blog of you and George.

Love
Grandpa Bob

Death of a Pet Rat

This morning one of my friends told me the story of how his daughter found her beloved pet rat dead and how they had held a simple backyard funeral service for it, complete with a star-shaped, gift-box coffin.

I thought it was sweet, but I didn’t really relate.

We had recently lost a pet rat too. But it was the mean one, the one that the kids quickly shut into the cage and hoped it would not try to get out and bite them. When he died in the middle of the night, Kip double bagged him and slipped him into the dumpster. We told the kids in the morning, and they seemed relieved. Now they could play with the nice rat without fear of his vicious roommate.

But this afternoon, when we came home, I noticed our precious little furry friend looked strange. His body seemed contorted and he looked emaciated. I tried to break the news gently.

Sweetheart, I don’t think George is doing too well.

We brought him his favorite foods and tried to coax him into drinking from his water bottle. He let us pet him, and I told the kids I thought he might be dying.

NO! NO! NO!

Can we take him the emergency room? Can we call 911? Can we get a pet doctor to come here?

I called Kip for the ok on the vet. He had grown to love George as much as the kids and he okayed a potential vet visit for our $5 pet store rat.

I started calling around to find a rat doctor, and even made an appointment. But when I went to check on George, I realized he was not going to make it to the vet. His breathing had slowed and while my daughter was petting him, he died.

She wouldn’t believe he was dead. His eyes were still open. He was supposed to live for five years.

He didn’t even have a birthday! January 7th is his birthday! We never finish anything we start!

In a torrent of emotion she began to list disappointments and heartaches I had not realized held a claim on her soul.

He knew his name. He stood on his hind legs when he wanted us to pick him up and pet him.

She was crying. I was crying. The little brother was wailing, wrapping himself in his baby blanket.

My son said, “I loved him, but I don’t want to look at him anymore.” So I covered George with a piece of newspaper. He was quickly becoming much more dead looking.

I felt like I should say something parental, something spiritual, something meaningful.

I didn’t have anything. I was sad too.

He was a rat with a creepy long tail and beady red eyes, and I really liked him.

The only thing that came to mind was a Bible verse about giving thanks in everything. So we made a little mommy-and-kids huddle and thanked God for letting us have such a nice pet rat.

My son asked if George was in Heaven. My daughter looked at me with big soulful eyes and answered him, “No, I don’t think so.” She later explained that it wouldn’t make sense for rats to be in Heaven because some people might not like rats and it would not make sense for them to be there if other people didn’t like them.

What if a boy had a pet spider that died? Would God let spiders in Heaven?

It made sense to me. The brother, however, continued to talk about George being in Heaven. (FYI -- He is double-bagged in the dumpster.)

I decided it would probably be kinder for me to clean out the rat cage myself, so I downloaded some episodes of a Disney comedy sitcom that the kids really like and I let them watch that while I took on the worst part of pet ownership.

Even with yellow rubber gloves, I could hardly bare to pick up the now cold, stiff body of the rat that no longer resembled our furry, fat friend. I don’t deal with dead things much. But I could hear the children laughing in the living room and I powered through it. Sometimes I don’t like being the adult.

As I finished rinsing the cage in bleach, I heard my son yell.

“I’m over him now. Can we get a new one?”

Haunted by Halloween

My family didn’t celebrate Halloween when I was a kid, a decision I understood and supported as a child, seeing how it was the Devil’s holiday and all.

We didn’t trick or treat. We didn’t carve pumpkins. We didn’t dress up as scary, ghoulish things. And we didn’t drape our home in orange and black, spiders and skulls, witches and death.

I heard all the stories of how Halloween originated with Druids collecting blood from door to door, medieval Christians scaring away evil spirits in preparation for All Saints Day, people praying to dead ancestors, and more recently, Satanists sacrificing babies on Halloween.

It all seemed like good reasons to abstain. And I hated the whole Halloween season.

I hated when strangers in the grocery store asked me what I was going to dress up as. I hated feeling left out in public school when teachers assumed that Halloween was a safe, nonreligious holiday that everyone could celebrate. I hated candy corn because it had that guilty orange and yellow coloring.

The whole month of October made me uncomfortable.

But ironically, I actually looked forward to Halloween night, second only to Christmas, birthdays, Easter and maybe the 4th of July.

On Halloween, in the buckle of the Bible belt, Evangelical churches out did each other every year with their “Harvest” parties. There were carnival games, costume contests, mazes, prizes and candy galore. And it seemed that every sizeable congregation from the tongue-talking Pentecostals to the Bible-quoting Baptists had something going on that night.

And I loved it.

But when I became a parent, far from the Bible belt, I hated Halloween season even more. I hated the costumes coming out in stores. I hated how every ugly display frightened my pre-school age daughter. I hated how strangers in the grocery store always asked us what we were going to dress up as. I hated that friends made me feel like I was depriving my children of an American rite of passage.

So I avoided Halloween altogether.

But the problem I had was that the church culture around me was changing its opinion of Halloween and I had to deal with it. By this time I was involved in Evangelical church communities who were questioning a lot of what we had previously accepted about the intersection of faith and culture.

Very subtly I had grown from being a child basking in the warmth of an isolationist family to a parent discovering daily what it means to follow Christ in all things and to live faithfully in this culture that God has placed our family in.

I’m currently learning how to not separate and live a monastic, culture-free life, but to become a culturally-engaged part of the greater community while being faithful to God and His redemptive purposes.

Yeah, headful isn’t it. I’m not sure what it means yet either.

Part of that means I question the value of restricting myself to the boundaries of Christian art and culture – Christian music, Christian books, Christian T-shirts, Christian lingo. I think some of that is nice for the Christian community, but it seems to alienate everyone else and that seems counter productive for a community called to emulate the man who was “a friend of sinners.”

So six years ago, when a friend invited me to a kids’ Halloween party at her house, I went.

I was a little uncomfortable, but appreciated the creative energy poured into making crafts and themed food for the kids. But I still declined invitations from other friends to join their families for trick or treating. I just couldn't embrace that.

During this time I talked to lots of different people about Halloween and I read a Catholic priest’s (unfortunately I can’t remember who!) perspective on the history of Halloween and its place in the Church. He made an interesting point of the significance of medieval Christians using Halloween as an artistic way to recognize their own mortality. We all die. We all face judgment for our moral decisions. I can understand that.

But maybe more importantly, I came to accept the concept that children dressing up as imaginary characters and gathering candy from neighbors was not inherently bad.

Two years ago our family dabbled in trick or treating, hitting up a couple blocks with our pastor and his four kids. And then last year we went all out, everyone dressing up, attending a community Halloween carnival and trick or treating with a large group of families. It was kind of fun and my kids loved it – especially the “with a large group of families” aspect of it.

But honestly, Halloween still makes me a little comfortable. And I think the caveat is that I believe in a literal Satan – not a comical red-horned, pitch-forked cartoon, but a real evil force waging war on humanity. I don’t think celebrating Halloween is tantamount to worshiping the Devil, but it does seem to mock spiritual things in a discrediting way that undermines our struggle against evil.

And Now .....

This year Kip carved pumpkins with the kids. The kids each designed their own costumes and we went to two Halloween parties.

The first was on Friday night at the Nickelodeon studio. One of our friends works there and gave us tickets to their in-house party. The kids decorated cookies and “trick-or-treated” through the office cubicles. Ironically, having grown up watching Nickelodeon, I was more impressed with the location then they were.

As my 11-year-old daughter pointed out, It’s just Sponge Bob.

But it was a fun party and a nice family time.

On Saturday night, actual Halloween, we went with Kip and his band to a Harvest party at a church in Ventura. Unlike the parties of my childhood, this one was in the church’s parking lot and was a clear, open invitation to everyone in the neighborhood. The costumes weren’t restricted to Biblical characters and there was no one distributing anti-Halloween cartoon tracks.

There were moon bounces and face painting, cotton candy and carnival games. Last year at the community sponsored Halloween carnival my kids bought tickets and got to bounce for a couple minutes while a sweaty line of costumed kids impatiently waited for their turns. This year the kids played in the moon bounce for hours, stopping only to run over to the cookie decorating booth and pumpkin bowling.

My kids and the friend we brought along loved it.

Everything was given as a free gift to the community and the only advertisement for the church was a banner across the band stage that announced the services at 10 a.m. If I lived in Ventura, I’d visit that church. The people there clearly wanted to get to know their neighbors. Maybe they are finding a better way to inch toward a healthy balance of faith and culture.

Kip and our daughter at Nickelodeon.

Jedi Anakin and his friend the Mummy at Nickelodeon.

Kip and Beautiful Criminal rocking the block at Ventura's Calvary Chapel party.

Happiness in the moon bounce

It's an old fashioned doughnut eating contest at the Harvest party.

Decorating cookies at the Harvest party. Is that candy corn? Jack-o-lantern cookies?

Best Thing About Today

When my daughter was about two, and her bed was a little toddler bed and her room was less cluttered with toys and craft creations and a brother and a couple pet rats, when both of our lives were simpler, I started a tradition.

When I put her to bed, I always asked her “What do you want to remember about today?”

And we talked about the good stuff – little details of I can’t really remember anymore.

The last couple of days have been a little rough with my son, lots of asking him to do the same things over and over, lots of conversations about how you can’t punch someone (or pretend to hit them with your light saber), even when they say something that makes you mad.

I’ve been frustrated with him and he knows it.

So tonight I took a few extra minutes to lie down next to him on his bed and read The 10-Step Guide to Living with Your Monster and then we read it again, and talked about all the funny monster drawings.

And because I wanted to remember the good stuff today, I asked him our old question: “What was the best thing about today?”

I thought he might say making apple sauce with you mom or playing at the park with my friends, maybe even going to drama class.

But he said, “When dad talked to me about that stuff.”

Stuff?

"Soccer stuff"

Right after dinner, just before Kip had to leave to go to music practice, he sat our son down on the couch and talked to him about soccer.

He said something like, “I want you to know that I think you are a really good soccer player. You are one of the big kids, and if you want, I believe you can kick that ball all the way down the field.”

That is my translation because I was doing the dishes and not really paying that much attention, and I don’t speak soccer well. But I do know that Kip didn’t say “Why are you so timid? Why are you afraid of the ball?”

He just said something positive to effect of “I believe in you.”

Our son listened intently, nodding his head.

“I am a great soccer player,” he agreed.

And that was it, just a couple of minutes.

But words are powerful, especially daddy words. And that was our 7-year-old’s favorite moment today.

PreTeen Drama Queen

A couple weeks ago my daughter stormed into the kitchen around breakfast time. She is often grumpier in the morning than the rest of the day, but this was different. She was mad at the world.

“I just feel like hitting something!”

She went on to rail against every personal and global injustice and then argued with me about her assigned chores. She complained about her brother. She announced that she wanted her own room.

When she stormed off stage Kip looked at me.

“Were you EVER like that? I don’t think I was ever like that to my parents.”

I stopped loading the dishwasher to make appropriate eye contact.

“Hell NO.”

I only mouthed the word “Hell” because I believe that I am still a good girl. Besides it is true, I was a very good little girl and I would have never been so rude to my parents, especially at 10.

Later that day I began to remember being 10 and 11.

I remembered a lot.

It was probably a God thing, because I remembered things I had forgotten for a long time, like arguing constantly with my mom and my siblings.

In a house already full of verbal females, I might not have “mouthed off” as much as my little drama queen, but I got physical. I actually kicked my mom in the shin – at least once. One day I gave my big sister a bloody nose and my little sister a black eye in the same day! (Well, she was stupid enough to be standing behind the door when I yanked it open. Too bad she was so small that her eye was at doorknob level.) Poor thing, she must have only been three!

I must have fought constantly with my older sister because I remember my visiting grandmother sitting us down, opening the Bible and telling us a story about a group of people who didn’t get along and how they worked out their differences.

My parents had a very low tolerance for any kind of physical fighting, so I am sure my sudden surge of outbursts must have been frustrating for them. But I never thought about it until now.

Around this age I also became a vagabond in our house. I moved out of my sisters’ room with the homemade Barbie house and into my little brother’s room. That didn’t work out too well because I had to clean up after him. So I moved into the study for awhile.

I got my last spanking from my mom about this time too. I was bigger than her by then, and one morning I decided not to get spanked any more. I grabbed the wooden paddle in mid swing, ran out the back door and up my favorite tree. After a few hours, under solemn promises of amnesty, I dropped the paddle and agreed to come down.

I remember telling another adult that I hated it when my mom was mad at me. We were really close, so I'm sure this part of growing up, growing apart must have been difficult for both of us.

And now that I am on the other side of it, I think I understand how she felt. She was probably just frustrated. I know I am . Disappointed too. I just can't help but feel personally insulted by every complaint, every sassy remark, every unkind word.

Yesterday, after a classic confrontation, I found myself on the verge of swatting my daughter. I couldn’t believe the angry back talk and defensiveness that was coming out of her little mouth. After I had more than I could tolerate, I ordered her to leave. I would finish cleaning up the kitchen alone. She fled to her bunk bed.

I finished the dishes, calmed down and went to sit on the end of her bed. She was curled up in a ball, hugging her teddy bear.

Oh, Jesus, she is just a little kid. I forgot.

“I’m sorry,” she said first. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

I hugged her.

“Me too.”

I need a huge dose of extra grace and wisdom these days.

I know that the way we deal with conflict now will set the stage for the next decade, and I want to have a great relationship with her. I want to give her the space to grow and become the beautiful, independent woman that she was created to be. I want to be friends.

But somehow, I know that right now I need to be her mom.

And I know that I am going to have to expect respect, but not take it personally when she doesn’t give it. And I am going to have to “roll with the punches.” It should help to remember that I had my turn throwing them.

Not Running in the Rain

It’s a beautiful rainy day.

I love the rain. It doesn’t rain enough in Southern California, so when it does we celebrate.

But the bad side of rain is that sometimes I use it as an excuse to skip the morning run. (I use anything for an excuse to skip the morning run.)

Running in gentle spring rain is exhilarating. I actually love it. But this morning Kip didn’t want to run and I didn’t feel like running alone, so I tried something I haven’t in a very long time – an exercise DVD. I don’t really like exercise programs because I have to constantly pause and concentrate on whether or not I am doing anything resembling the perfectly agile host. But I probably need to learn a few new stretches, crunches, whatever those exercises are called that tone and firm all those problem areas.

So here I am in the living room, with my exercise ball, two little free weights, staring at the TV. Denise Austin, no relation to Jane, is clapping and smiling at me.

“Great Job!! You’re doing great!”

Liar.

The rapidly deflating exercise ball slips out from under me and I flop to the floor. I’m no longer tightening my abs, working my glutes.

My six year old, who is sitting on the couch dutifully watching my contortions and pushing pause on the remote every time I scream, “Stop it! Am I doing it right?” looks at Denise.

“Is she a mom?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“She seems like it.”

My husband, who is effortlessly doing a 100 or so sit ups, stops to check out the TV.

“She has had kids?”

I’m fighting to keep the ball under my lower back.

“Don’t say it.”

My sleepy 10 year-old daughter wanders through the living room.

“Cool you’re using the ball.”

”Go get dressed,” I grunt, desperately trying to emulate a very easy looking crunch.

“She’s weird,” my daughter comments as she wanders back through the living room five minutes later.

“Why is she all like, “Yeah!!””

She does a frightening impression.

“Yeah I don’t know, I think she was a cheerleader or something.”

My daughter smiles and I am amazed at how she has come to accept my dry sense of humor, my slight sarcasm. She seems to know when I’m trying to be funny. But somehow she knows when to take me seriously too. I wonder how long she will let me paint her reality. I respect her intelligence, and I try to always tell her the truth, as far as I can. So maybe she’ll let me have a voice in her heart for a long time. I hope so.

So that is how I started my day. In my world, a simple exercise DVD is a family affair. And what should be a personal struggle has become a family learning experience. As annoying as it is, it is kind of what I idealize, living life together, transparently, letting my kids see me try hard, maybe even fail.

On the other hand I like the relative peace of running through our neighborhood – alone.

If it rains tomorrow morning, I’m going to run.