Where Summer and School Collide

Today's the day. It will be spent in that strange no-man's land between the end of summer and the start of fall... Ok, not fall officially, but the start of third grade.

It's the end of laying around watching cartoons. Soon we'll hoot and holler at The Boy's fourth and final soccer game of this weekend's tournament. They'll walk away with first or second place.

Next up ... Haircut. The shaggy 'do will be done. He'll be ready for a clean look. Ok, I'm the one who's really ready.

The rest of the day will offer up opportunities for prepping school supplies, school uniforms, a backpack and lunchbox. And maybe a little final summer reading.

We'll squeeze in a little basketball too, promise.

Summer of 2010, farewell. You treated us well. You offered cool weather in July but brought the heat in August. You gave us family time, a vacation to see more family, and great summer concerts.

See ya in 2011.

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Shadow Lost

I've been without my shadow for five days now. When we brought Sadie Rose home from the rescue agency, she chose to attach herself to me and never looked back. We weren't looking for a dog for me, but she decided for herself who she would belong to. When her adoration became apparent, I worried that my son would be disappointed. He accepted her choice with amazing dignity, and was still so very happy to be the one she turned to when I was away or busy.

Last week I had to make the decision to end her suffering. She was just two years old, but was born with two malformed and defective kidneys. We didn't find out about her illness until we had fallen in love with her and made her a part of our family for several months. And although we ended up spending thousands of dollars in special medications and treatments to make her months on earth comfortable and happy ones, we wouldn't have changed a thing.

Even thought it's just been five days, I wonder how long it will be before I walk straight into the kitchen, instead of making a wide arc around where her dishes used to sit. How long before I don't stretch my feet in front of me at the dinner table, looking for a tail to nudge or an ear to scratch. How long before I stop reaching my hand out from under the covers at night to search for her head near my side of the bed on the floor.

After she left us, I sat on her bed for quite some time and held her favorite toy. She used to play with it for hours, finally tiring but not willing to leave it alone. She would fall asleep with her mouth wrapped around it. In the week before she died, she didn't go near that toy. That was the first sign for me. Her eyes always sought mine, and she wouldn't break eye contact with me ... I always had to be the one to look away first, until the very end.

Her toy has become a talisman of sorts for me. It sits on my bedside table when I go to sleep at night. It is sitting next to me at my desk now. That toy serves many purposes for me. It brings to mind some of the most joyous and peaceful moments I've had in the last 18 months. It reminds me that life can be fleeting, whether it is that of a person or a pet. And it symbolizes the truly faithful and unconditional love that I was blessed to enjoy. Not many among us can say that they've experienced that pure of a love. We enjoyed a lifetime in just a year and a half with our Sadie Rose.

Do dogs go to Heaven? How can they not? God blessed us with her joyous soul for but a moment. But I'll hold onto her toy until she needs it again.

Big Things, Little Things

I had another blog entry mostly written that I was going to upload this week. It's about my husband, who has been gracious with the knowledge that he hasn't been the focus of too many writings in the past. Actually, I think he's relieved. But something else has been consuming my life of late, and I thought that today was a good day to get it out.

I -- like most of you, although I'm kind of hoping it's pretty much all of you -- have a hard time staying focused on what's really important in life. In my job, we have a saying. When we're preparing for battle (a discussion with a school principal, an employee, a colleague), we ask, "Is this the ditch I'm willing to die in?" I need to do a better job of asking myself that question on a regular basis.

At home, sometimes it's shoes. Shoes end up in every nook and cranny of our home. Under the desk I'm sitting at now (two pairs), under the dining room table (three pairs), in the family room (two and a half pairs ... really). In my better moments, I just deal patiently with the perpetrator. In my so-not-winning-mother/wife-of-the-year moments, my head actually pops off of my body and I convince myself that my house is crumbling down around my ears because there are shoes left willy-nilly about the floor.

I spend some of my downtime on Twitter (@falulaminute, in case you're wondering). A while back, I stumbled across a Twitterer called @liftupellie. Ellie is a beautiful young girl -- eight years old, like my son -- from North Carolina. Her passions were like any young girl's. Disney, girlie stuff, good family fun. A couple of years ago, she was diagnosed with cancer. She has dealt with more pain, misery and suffering than many of us will see in a lifetime. We've all heard of kids like Ellie. We sigh in sympathy, we send up a quick prayer to Heaven, and we get back to whatever we were doing. Like planning summer camp schedules . Or rounding up shoes.

Because of Twitter, however, I've spent a lot of my free time checking in on Ellie. I learned of doctor's visits, her sense of humor, her up days and her down days. I read a post telling us how much longer she might be with us. I read of her trip to the doctor's office two days ago, and how a tumor on her hip burst open in the waiting room. I marveled at her mom's amazing words to calm Ellie's nerves at seeing the blood, because she knew they had a lung scan to get through. I saw the lung scan, and my heart broke in two.

I saw all of this online, or on my phone. I read updates at stoplights, in bed before turning out the lights, or in the morning before turning the coffee pot on. When I read that Ellie's family was counting down their time left with their angel in hours, not days, I wept. I awoke at 2:30 this morning, and reached for my phone. I saw that Ellie's mother was praying for her to finally accept the wings that Jesus was offering to her. And later this morning, she did just that. I got the notification on my phone while I was responding to e-mails at work. And I wept.

Ellie's family welcomed us into their pain. Not to gain sympathy or to "trend" on Twitter. They laid their tragedy out for us to witness. So we could pray with them and learn about other Ellies in the world who need our prayers. And so we could get a glimpse at God's work. We all wonder how God could take a child so young, after so much pain. But that's the miracle of it all.

If it weren't for Ellie, and her story, I wouldn't be contemplating the priorities in my life, looking for imbalance. I wouldn't have had daily conversations with my son, Jacob, about appreciating all of God's gifts. I wouldn't be sharing this with you.

So thank you, Ellie. Thank you for allowing your voice to be heard. Thank you, Potvin family, for letting strangers in to the most painful and tragic part of your world. And thank You, God, for reminding me of Your plan and greatness.

Fly, Ellie, fly.

The Sounds of Mother's Day

This past Sunday was a milestone of sorts for me. I celebrated my 10th Mother's Day. (Before you math whizzes start questioning whether I realize my son is only eight, just know that I found out I was expecting Jacob in May 2001. )

Sunday began with an oozy, scratchy voice appearing just inches away from my face. The Boy was trying his hardest to share the cold he was trying to get over. "Mama, can I sleep with you?" One eyelid opened enough to let the harsh morning glare in and I could see that it was about 5:30 in the morning. I knew that if I didn't give in, I'd be giving up on any idea of sleeping in I had. The Man was already up and about, so this was my last chance at rest.

A blissful hour and a half later ... "Mama, will you make me pancakes?" Of course I will.

And then ...

"Mom, I need help with my book report."

"Pyu, pyu, pyu, pyu!" {my best phonetic interpretation of an inter-galactic weapon sound}

"I'm on chapter 21. What chapter are you on? Oh. The newspaper doesn't have chapters?"

{singing} "He's got the WHOOOOOOOLE world in His hands! He's got the ... "

"Mom, my voice hurts."

{back to singing} "Just a small town boy ... born and raised in south Detroit ..."

"Oh. I guess singing hurts my voice when I'm sick."

"Wanna play Uno?"

"Can you finish putting the Cub Scout patches on my vest?"

"Mooooooooo-ooooooooom.... I can't find my ... "

"Mom, Dad's not sharing!"

"Mom ... Mom? Are you there?"

And this was all before my first cup of coffee was finished. Typical day.

Our Mother's Day celebrations are simple. I get lots of hugs and kisses (whether they are cold-laden or not). I usually get a big show of "please" and "thank you" responses when I ask for things to be done. I get to pick the Sunday movie we watch as a family. But most of all, I get to hone my mad skills at mothering. It's not something I'm anxious to take a vacation from.

This year, the boys were particularly excited for the "big reveal" ... the gift they had picked out together to honor my mom-ing. A beautiful silver necklace with 3 rings on it ... they argued quite a bit over whether to interpret that as past, present and future or Dad, Mom and son.

And they're both right. I wouldn't change a thing.

Will Jog for Pokemon

This weekend was pretty darn spectacular. Yesterday was crazed from sun-up to sundown. We raced through camp sign-up, errands, Jacob's afternoon soccer game, then to the Cub Scouts Pinewood Derby Race.

Phew.

Today was the polar opposite. Breakfast out, then a movie, then a couple of hours taking our aggressions out on the weeds that have snuck into our yard, entwining themselves around every cherished (and accidental) shrub, tree and flower.

As I was crouched in the front yard, trying to tell apart the greenery that belonged to clover and that of my purple verbena, Jacob cruised up on his bike. He told me that he was wearing the new Pokemon gadget that he got with his new Nintendo DS game, and that it wasn't registering his activities on wheeled toys like bikes, scooters and skateboards. So he asked me if he could just run.

"Sure," I said, thinking of a peaceful evening ahead once he was tuckered out. "But what does your Pokemon game have to do with running?"

He explained to me that the new toy was like a pedometer, and the more he moved, the quicker he could "level up" and catch new Pokemon. He tried like the dickens to explain that to me, but I cried uncle. And just in case any of my dear readers understand the concept, and might be tempted to teach me, I beg you to think differently. If I dedicate any more of my brain to understanding Pokemon, what will I have to give up? Remembering my password to my computer at work? Knowing what day it is? I give.

As he revved up and tore around the driveway for the next 20 minutes, it dawned on me that my weed-pulling wasn't really cutting it as far as calorie burning went. I hate exercising, like most people. Every now and again I guilt myself enough that I get on the elliptical, strap on the Wii Active remote, or take a walk. But my incentive is entirely self-motivated.

But what if there was an incentive like Jake's? Only instead of catching Pokemon, my activities would be recorded on my pedometer and would sync with discounts at Nordstrom's, or The Man doing an extra chore of mine?

I'd be a size zero in no time.

Legacy of Love

I'm sitting in an airport, reflecting on the last two weeks. Actually, I'm reflecting on the last 38 years (sinced that's really all I have to go on). Yesterday we said our goodbyes to Granny, my mother's mother. She had spent the last year of her life in struggle ... standing on the dividing line between her family members here and the love that awaited her in Heaven. My mother and her three living brothers were able to spend her last hours with her and allow her the grace that she needed to go home. Home to her husband, her parents, and her two sons who went before her.

My sister and I were blessed to be able to spend some of her last days with her as well, just a week before she passed. She laughed at stories of our youth and shared memories of growing up in Michigan and spending summers in Arkansas. And when she was too tired to talk, she simply gazed into our eyes and spoke volumes in love.

She passed last Saturday night, and my sister and I made our travel plans to celebrate her life within hours of her welcoming to Heaven. We spent five nights in the last room that my grandmother called home. I was uneasy at first, sleeping in her bedroom. Granny's hospital bed had been dismantled and her twin bed was placed in a corner of the room. Tracey and I shared an air mattress on the floor. I fell asleep surrounded by her treasured notes, photos and trinkets, and I awoke to the same sunlight streaming in that she used to enjoy.

Mom and her brothers and sisters-in-law had the difficult task of going through Granny's belongings. I don't think I was alone in feeling like an intruder. There were countless tears and laughs at remembered items unearthed in boxes and drawers. I often wonder if, after my own passing, my family will learn things about me that they never knew. I was filled with amazement at the discovery that what we learned about Granny was nothing new. She lived as she loved. Every single item that she held onto--every card, Post-It-written "I love you" by a grandchild, every drawing--reminded us of her love for her family.

The pastor who spoke at her service spoke of her fierce love and her devotion to Christ. He may not have known her at her best, but through speaking with her family he knew her legacy. Today, as my sister and I were lugging our suitcases out the door of Granny's apartment to head to the airport, we were surrounded by love. Granny's love, passed through her children and grandchilden. It's common knowledge that most men have difficulty expressing their feelings. I've always been touched by the fact that my uncles and male cousins have never hesitated to tell me that they love me, just like my aunts and the girls. Each and every relative today sent with me their love and affection, so that I can pass that on to my family as well. How many people can say that?

Over the entertainment stand in my grandma's living room stood seven picture frames. One for each child--my mother's and her five brothers' families--and my grandparents. Yesterday and today I watched as, one by one, each photo disappeared, packed away with each branch of the family to be taken home. I was struck by the fact that there would no longer be one place for all of these memories. Mementos and history were divided up among six smaller segments of the family. Those seven frames will never live together on a shelf again. We'll no longer have one common place we can all call home. My eyes tear up yet again as I type this.

But this is where Granny's legacy--and Grandpa's, too--takes hold yet again. We'll all need some space after this week. I never would have guessed that so many adults could congregate in a two-bedroom apartment to honor a woman's life and enjoy some much-needed laughs. We will take some time to breathe, to process, to continue the mourning.

And we'll all be together again. Whether it's in Michigan, Arkansas, Louisiana ... even California ... we will honor our grandparents and continue their work of love wherever we are.

Granny's Lessons

Sometimes I don’t realize how much a person has touched my life until what they have ingrained in me becomes a part of what I give to others. My mother’s mom—or “Granny,” as her grandkids affectionately call her—has been an integral part of my whole me for nearly 39 years. Her life lessons are interwoven into my very fibers now. She scrubbed my face when she thought it needed it, gave amazing Granny hugs, and made ever-lasting hiccups seem OK because they meant that I was growing (there may be no medical proof to support that, but I sure believed it because Granny said it).

Although she never lived very close to us, my sister and I enjoyed a unique relationship with her. Granny had six kids, our mother being the only daughter. When my sister and I came along, we were the first granddaughters. Once in a while, in the summer, my parents would drive south towards Arkansas and my grandparents would drive north towards Michigan. They’d meet in the middle … a town called Effingham (the name of which brings my sister and I to hysterical laughter, and we wondered why we never found it funny as kids). It was in Effingham that my sister and I would transfer our traveling pillows, Walkmans and bags to Grandpa’s car and we would begin the transformation from Midwesterner to Southerner for a couple of weeks. My friends said it would take another two weeks for me to weed the twang out of my voice after we returned.

Those summer vacations were a highlight for us. Granny gave us the run of the house. We got to spend quality time with our uncles, enjoying a Jonesboro summer. Grandpa spent a good deal of time covering for my troublemaking with Granny, and Granny spent a good deal of time pretending she didn’t know what I had gotten into.

As we grew older, our stays in Arkansas became shorter. But we still looked forward to holiday visits and road trips to the south. After Grandpa passed away, and Granny moved north to stay with us for a time, our relationship changed. How could it not? But it only changed for the better. Granny couldn’t ignore my troublemaking as much as before—since she had the opportunity to spend way more than two weeks at a stretch with me—but I also enjoyed spending time with her day to day. She became a confidant, an advisor, a referee … all the while still being Granny.

The other night, my son called to me from his room, long after he should have been asleep. “Mom,” he said, “I just can’t fall asleep. These hiccups are driving me crazy!”

“That’s good news, Jake,” I replied. “The hiccups just mean you’re growing.”
I love you, Granny.

"It's Just Business"

Those might be words you'd expect out of Donald Trump's mouth. Not my dad's. But utter them he did as he drove up the bid for a piece of green-tabbed property on the Monopoly board and watched my son count up every last dollar he had. The property was worth $300. My son had $222 and wanted it bad, since he already had the other two in the set. In the end, Jacob forked over every last dollar and ended up mortgaged to the hilt within minutes.

Dad spent two nights with us this weekend, having just arrived from Arkansas where Mom has spent all but a handful of weeks since June of last year caring for my grandmother. I guess Dad was through being polite.

When Jake proposed a game of Monopoly, I thought back to the board games we played when I was young. I didn't remember much Monopoly time with Dad. But he sure took the opportunity to school us last night.

"I don't care about any properties except the yellow and the green," he said, as he rolled the dice for his first turn. And, true to his word, he passed up on purchase opportunities for every other color on the board. I didn't quite get it, but I pressed on, buying up the blues and reds. Jacob, on the other hand, bought every single property he could afford, including the greens that Dad never seemed to hit.

Soon enough, Dad had purchased the trio of yellows--aptly named after racing sponsors, since this was the NASCAR version of Monopoly. I stocked up on utilities, racetracks and other sponsors. I was a land baroness.

Dad must have tired of Jake's victory whoop and foot-stomping every time he demanded $12 in rent, because he sighed and said to me, "It's time to put a cease to this madness." He proceeded to dedicate every big bill he had to equipping his three yellow properties with garage after garage (no wimpy "houses" or "hotels" in NASCAR Monopoly ... it's garages and race shops, thankyouverymuch). I have NO idea where I got that game.

Within a few rounds of the board, Jacob had been tossed in jail no less than three times and had spent most of his cash (yes, a proud moment for a mother to witness, as she prayed this was not a sign of his teenage years). Jacob rounded the board and waited his turn on the Free Parking spot. He paused just before casting the dice for his next turn and whispered ... "oh no ... the obstacles of terror!" He was facing the side of the board dominated by reds (which I owned and had populated with three garages) and yellows (which now boasted nine garages ... Dad's pride and joy). There was no escaping.

Soon enough, Jacob was mopping sweat off his brow and counting out how many properties he could mortgage to afford the $850 rent he now owed his grandpa.

"And I do NOT give credit," Dad added. When I gave Dad a look that admonished him for stripping his only grandson of all his worldly possessions, he said,"Hey ... I'm teaching him a life lesson. Not being his mommy."

Ouch.

In the end, after Jacob was left with mortgage notes up to his cowlicked hair and I was counting out my own $800 in rent payments to Dad, we agreed to call it quits.

I may have doubted his methods, but his business plan proved to be a winning strategy. What stung the most was that he played the entire game with about 15% focus. The rest was on the Vikings-Saints game.

But you better believe that Jacob and I will be honing our real estate skills before Grandpa visits again. And maybe working out fake fainting maneuvers to move the pieces.

Does The Boy Believe?

Jacob has grown so much this last year, taking on so many activities and new concepts in his eight years on this planet that I wondered ...

Does he still believe in fairytales? Would he still be willing to put out milk and cookies for Santa? Would he still look for a basket of goodies from the Easter Bunny?

My concerns were put to the test shortly before Christmas. I was frantically making my list and checking it twice when I heard a cry of exultation from the living room ... "MOM! I PULLED A TOOTH OUT!"

After I verified that it was indeed his tooth, and not the dog's, I congratulated him and gave an obligatory look-see at the bloody gap in his mouth and the gross little tooth he had gripped between his thumb and index finger. I reminded him that we'd have to dig out our bedazzled tooth bag to put it under his pillow for the Tooth Fairy. I'm sure at that moment that the Tooth Fairy herself was making a mental note to pack an extra gold dollar coin to bring to San Diego that evening for The Boy. He must have been thinking the same thing, because he told me that he had written a note to leave for the Tooth Fairy. It read...

Dear Tooth Fairy,

I keep getting gold coins. This time may I please get either $2, $5, $10, $20, $50 or $100 dollar bills? And thank you for all the money you give me!

Jacob Sevilla

Humph! He woke me up at 5:00 a.m. in tears, telling me that good ol' T.F. had forgotten him. Shnikeys. I insisted he lay down in my bed and hurry back to sleep, because it was still dark out... T.F. probably had a long night and was still out making deliveries. Sure enough, he awoke to find four singles in the bag, with a note that said "Looks like I'll need to pack more dollars! But at least they're lighter than the coins! T.F."

The following week brought further confirmation of his faith in all things holiday. In November he had informed me that he was too old to go visit Santa at the mall. Besides, he knew that the mall Santa was really just a go-between for the Big Guy. But he did agree to writing Santa a letter. In it, he told Mr. C that he was a cool guy. He promised him nine carrots and ten chocolate chip cookies if he could take a break at our house in the wee hours of the morning on Christmas Day.

The week before Christmas, his letter was answered. Santa wrote to him to thank him for his kind letter and the treats he had promised him. He also praised him for being a good boy and an excellent student.

I was thrilled for him, but even more so because it further cemented my knowledge that my boy is still a little boy. Thinking that this was the end of the lesson, I counted down towards Christmas Eve.

That night, Jacob counted out carrots and cookies, and then bolted from the living room, returning with a pack of lined college rule paper. He told me that he knew that he was supposed to be asleep quickly, but warned me that I might awaken in the middle of the night to find a guest. I wondered aloud who that might be.

"Santa, of course!" he said. "He and I communicate now. He might want to stop in and wake me up so we can meet in person. But in case he's too busy, I think I'll leave him another note."

I was running through the list of to-do items still on my checklist for that evening, and made a mental note to deal with "Santa correspondence."

His note said:

Dear Santa,

Thank you for that wonderful letter. You're too kind. Yes or No ... does Rudolph exist? Circle one.

Your dear loving pal,

Love,

Jacob

Santa obliged him by circling the large Yes on the paper and wrote, "You bet!" He also left Jacob a note thanking him for the goodies, telling him that he was going to take some of the cookies home to share with Mrs. C, and that Cupid shared a carrot with our dog, Sadie.

The holidays were a big success! Jacob is truly a believer, as I still am at heart. But he's hoping that Santa takes him up on his offer to vacation in San Diego during his off-season. I'd better get the guest room ready.

An Eight-Year Journey

November and December are amazing, awe-inspiring months for me. Of course, they boast a few prominent holidays, filled with perfectly packaged opportunities to give thanks for the people in our lives and rejoice in Christ's birth.

For me, though, the holidays really kick off with a true miracle. My son, Jacob, was born the Tuesday after Thanksgiving in 2001. We were expecting a holiday baby, but it was the wrong holiday. His due date was actually in early January. But six weeks early we had an extra-special reason to be thankful. His years that followed have been full of joy, heart-ache (ours, as we realize he is growing up so quickly), and wonder.

Most kids just take turning a year older for granted. Jacob did. Just imagine his surprise when I told him that the state of California was taking a new stance on aging. It's not a given, it's an earned right. So he had to apply to the state to turn eight years old.

"What?!?!?" said he.

"Yup," I replied. "It's a new thing. Sorry buddy, but you're not grandfathered in on this one. The state's website tells us that you've got to collect three letters of reference, and they can't all be from Grandma. And you've got to write a letter as well."

About a month before the big day, he got serious. He thought long and hard about who he would solicit words of praise from. He called to our next door neighbor over the backyard fence, explained his strange request, and a letter appeared in our mailbox just a few days later. She extolled his virtues, including Cub Scouts popcorn salesmanship, hoop-shooting in the backyard, and his artistic renderings of her cats.

Next he called Grandma. She was flying in the day before his birthday, so the response time from the state would be sketchy. After all, they're short-staffed and are closed every other Friday for budget cuts. She came through with her letter, praising the skills he mastered as a seven-year-old and was quite ready for the responsibility of being eight.

The third letter came from his father and me. That was an easy one, of course, and we threw in a few promises that we'd encourage him to continue to excel in school, soccer, and not get married until he was in his 30s.

When it came time for him to write his letter, he poured his heart and soul into it. OK, that's a blatant lie. By the 26th, he wasn't so sure that this whole application process was true. I overheard him telling his grandma this over the phone. When I asked him later on why he was working on his letter, he said, "well, what if it IS true, and I didn't do it? I'd be seven FOREVER!"

Here's what he came up with:

"My name is Jacob Sevilla. I want to turn eight. I talk like an eight-year-old. And I'm good at basketball and soccer. I'm always nice to other people, animals and nature. I'm about to receive first communion in second grade. Please let me turn eight tomorrow!"

The Governator's team pulled through in the last hour, and e-mailed an approval to us on Friday. It was pretty touch and go, though.

The other day I told him that the state was considering making a new law about turning nine that would involve either interpretive dance or becoming a mime.

He's considering his options. He might enjoy eight for a while.