tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18557319082331933052024-03-05T18:24:17.013-08:00A Minute With FalulaThoughts on my life (and sometimes yours, too) from the perspective of Falula, my Starbucks stand-in.Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-38069148973414085972011-11-27T18:15:00.001-08:002011-11-27T18:39:51.985-08:00GratitudeNo doubt about it. God has blessed me with more than I could have ever imagined, or deserve. I try my best to teach that concept to The Boy, and this past week helped to illustrate some of the finer points of gratitude.<div><br /></div><div>We packed up our Subaru on Thanksgiving morning and headed to Arizona to spend a few days with my parents. On our way out of town, we pulled over for a caravan of emergency vehicles that were on their way to some sort of tragedy or another. I said to Jacob, "Let's pray for whoever needs help," since that's our tradition when we see a fire truck, ambulance or police cruiser with lights and sirens ablaze.</div><div><br /></div><div>Breakfast bellies calling us, we whipped into a McD's to carb- and fat-load for our mini trip. As we pulled out, headed towards the freeway, there stood a man on the curb with a bent and curling sign asking for food. I don't always stop ... if you've driven through San Diego you know that nearly every major intersection is filled with the hungry and homeless. But I pulled over, rolled the window down, and handed him a 5. I asked Jacob if he wondered why I did it this time, when I hadn't the day before. He said, "No, Mom. I know that we have so much to be thankful for. What if he doesn't? And even if some people that ask for money don't really need it that much, or they'll use it on something that they shouldn't, that's not our place to judge."</div><div><br /></div><div>Three hours later, we were unpacking our 'Ru in AZ, and getting in Mom's way as she put the finishing touches on a traditional Thanksgiving dinner -- no small feat when accomplished in an RV. We spent the next few couple of days basking in the glow of family. Swimming, bike-riding and shopping were the most pressing agenda items. In the midst of our store-hopping, we were stopped by a major traffic accident at an intersection. Numerous ambulances, fire trucks and police were racing to the scene, and as we inched by on the shoulder, we could see that the emergency workers were trying to free passengers from a vehicle. I was more worried about getting by than anything else, but Jacob said, "Shouldn't we pray?" I told him yes, and that he should lead it.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Dear God, please take care of whoever was hurt. And if they've already died, may they rest in </div><div>peace and know that they are with God. Take care of their families. Please help them to heal."</div><div>I had a hard time making my "Amen" audible over the tears I was choking back.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 166px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-qYe-d31GTchPatHugMolbQqyFfmlKFW3RR17Mm0qTY2iOINT4hLMfitbqEozEUIsK1Yn5PpoA6TDUQtYWLwYXjJvg-69x1spR2iwsUOp9KIVbaM8Uo4e79GyVQJZhxqVxuBk4XsCes/s200/DSC01488.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679870543634518146" /><div>Today is Jacob's tenth birthday. I spent much of yesterday teasing him with "this is the LAST swim you'll have as a 9-year-old" ... and "that's the last hot dog you'll eat as a single-digit-aged kid" and .... well, you get the picture. </div><div><br /></div><div>As Joel and I watched him rip into presents, feast on cake and generally act like a 10-year-old, we know one thing... we couldn't be prouder of the double-digit-dude he's become.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-87165847750217634102011-10-11T17:37:00.000-07:002011-10-11T18:08:50.485-07:00'Tis the SeasonI got "the call" today.<div><br /></div><div>It's a call I start looking forward to in August. Once summer vacations are done, YMCA camp drop-offs are over, school is getting ready to start ... I wait for the phone to ring.</div><div><br /></div><div>It'll be Dad on the other line. He'll make small talk, chat about weather and work, and then he'll get to the point.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Getting ready to winterize the barn. Starting to think about packing for our trip. What kind of tools should I think about bringing?"</div><div><br /></div><div>My parents spend the greater part of the cold months in my general vicinity. The last few years, they've landed in Yuma, AZ for several months. I can always count on their arrival by The Boy's birthday (always around Thanksgiving). I can plan on them heading back east to get their granddaughter fix around December or January. And I can bank on them heading back to the southwest and hanging out until the threat of snow is all but past. </div><div><br /></div><div>My dad is a man's man. He knows something about everything. No offense to my husband, but I did not marry a tinkerer ... a builder ... a fixer. My dad is the guy who I call when my car is making a noise, I've got a door that sticks, or I need a cabinet built. And my husband's ok with that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Getting "the call" gives me a little thrill that has nothing to do with putting my to-do list together for my dad. But it has everything to do with knowing that my folks will be here next month. </div><div><br /></div><div>Can. Not. Wait.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-70103538394875003622011-07-10T18:17:00.001-07:002011-11-27T18:46:10.978-08:00Where Does the Time Go?Can't believe that my last post was at the end of the summer of 2010. Here I am feeling like the summer of 2011 is whizzing by now.<br />
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The Boy and I spent just over two weeks in Michigan. Whenever I would tell people where I was going on vacation, I would usually hear something along the lines of, "Visiting family? That's not a vacation. That's an errand. You're taking a long errand."</div>
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A lot of families can feel like a checkmark. Not mine. I count myself fortunate that I wouldn't pass up time with my parents or my sister for just about anything. I don't dread holidays with them. I don't tense up when faced with a long car ride with them. I look forward to those things.</div>
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I truly love San Diego, but I'm not sure I'll ever feel like it's home for me. My son can't run</div>
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down the street to visit friends because none of his buddies live in our neighborhood. We may not have mosquitoes, but we also don't have room to run. When I sneeze, it's often my neighbor who God-blesses-me.</div>
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My parents and sister humor my excitement at going back home to Michigan. They look for touristy things for us to go do, and we either all pile into a car to go see something, or Mom & Dad graciously entertain the kids for a day or two while we head out.</div>
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This year's My Michigan was simply beautiful. We went to the BalloonFest in Howell, an art fair in Northville and drove along the Old Mission Peninsula in Traverse City to check out wineries and take photos of the quilt barns. But that was just the on-the-road stuff.</div>
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627904000580595730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtdTYlhNQo50eKqTKMnFYgUgmVJwDhZJi2rZdTeelgmAPp4xZySPsVzDV5An8WWYmUltnQAkdQNbDISSGxc3XrV4Rd8i-W4HRe_P_GTVh7yo450j9ghWOLXEuXxka-fhBMr0owlma_tE/s200/DSC00286.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /><br />
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Back in Davison, I tried to maximize my son's Michigan summer. We caught lightning bugs, had a backyard camp fire, visited Sabo's ice cream shop and set up backyard soccer and baseball games. We kept watch over a nest of Robin's eggs in my parents' front yard, from which emerged the fuzziest littlest birds I've seen in a while. My mom even set up an all-nighter with the kids ... she fed them crazy amounts of sugar and yummy treats, arranged for bowling, movies and ice cream-making. Jacob had non-stop doses Vitamin D, and he didn't care how hot it got.</div>
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San Diego summers are different. We walk over to the park for concerts. We plan week after week of summer camps at the Y where he will get to skateboard, play soccer and even iceskate. At night we sit outside and listen to the crickets, bundled up because it gets pretty chilly when the sun goes down. It's not quite the same to me without the lightning bugs, though.</div>
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I often wonder if I'm as sentimental about my Michigan summers simply because that's how I grew up, or because they truly are better than our SoCal experiences. I guess Jacob will have to tell me when he's 40, and bringing his kids over to Grandma's house for their own summer vacations.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-53336707830533141382010-09-06T08:43:00.001-07:002010-09-06T08:43:22.642-07:00Where Summer and School Collide<p><a Href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ekNQDp398aSJ12a0P75UZ9fbqsz5rpgqqacrrH2d2OCwtW9l9X1mQ4Ndbv3O4GXMHwHcdPwEIEKLlZA23Vu8uyDTuLZGKvm9XWaSDkeLElfCYUPls-O_TlXWDeJmSxbPa9pO0egYgVY/'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ekNQDp398aSJ12a0P75UZ9fbqsz5rpgqqacrrH2d2OCwtW9l9X1mQ4Ndbv3O4GXMHwHcdPwEIEKLlZA23Vu8uyDTuLZGKvm9XWaSDkeLElfCYUPls-O_TlXWDeJmSxbPa9pO0egYgVY/s400/1283787673992.jpg' /></a></p>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. <br/> <br/> 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. <br/> <br/> 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. <br/> <br/> 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. <br/> <br/> We'll squeeze in a little basketball too, promise. <br/> <br/> 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. <br/> <br/> See ya in 2011. <div style='clear: both; text-align: center; font-size: xx-small;'>Published with Blogger-droid v1.5.8</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-45358843478455622462010-08-05T20:56:00.000-07:002010-08-05T21:35:27.048-07:00Shadow Lost<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7j5Dkjo0griXcOTf3mAcDXzXimhyphenhyphenR1VJ38aPm6vuFU1V_QANzZOizCwV6CVjFWojeTyCi7bDcuo598LRF4IoLqvVaeMZeWjaJVxORc1X0UL0DlGv3sCeZhxyUg12Z2ZS1E2bE32kAWo/s1600/DSC06264.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7j5Dkjo0griXcOTf3mAcDXzXimhyphenhyphenR1VJ38aPm6vuFU1V_QANzZOizCwV6CVjFWojeTyCi7bDcuo598LRF4IoLqvVaeMZeWjaJVxORc1X0UL0DlGv3sCeZhxyUg12Z2ZS1E2bE32kAWo/s200/DSC06264.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502149046045434034" /></a>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.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQD0qwxicvY50gjKgLQ3aZzoXQ3XVXxyHrMViosDQMtGSL5OhCt_jBEDgYND2GDYGBZ2CAJArpHCxEuRaGTQBbvXAsLmwtPxnQcKEu38C2VPxtx3oSllXj95LUMF8X9xcLYFGIpV6TXW0/s200/Sadie's+toy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502147637441894098" /><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-83985354067562919782010-06-23T17:39:00.000-07:002010-06-23T18:08:33.505-07:00Big Things, Little ThingsI 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.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fly, Ellie, fly.</div><div><br /></div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-74673321675773744982010-05-11T19:41:00.000-07:002010-05-11T20:12:36.971-07:00The Sounds of Mother's DayThis 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. )<div><br /></div><div>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. "<i>Mama, can I sleep with you?"</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>A blissful hour and a half later ... <i>"Mama, will you make me pancakes?"</i> Of course I will.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then ...</div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9rokM8FYQO2ULDQO4-o9TJdme7NyMiFUUj3QsOxw3_Znb7k7QSyVdFGcQmuxmCY8rBxky9brnXtUqsP6SNnRXA-IufoexfgpTv7QiM-RuygweUOzsn3oV4m5XvLArmkv1bWXH_ZVjVU/s320/DSC07179.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470215977079974914" /></div><div><i>"Mom, I need help with my book report." </i></div><div><i>"Pyu, pyu, pyu, pyu!"</i> {my best phonetic interpretation of an inter-galactic weapon sound}<i></i></div><div><i>"I'm on chapter 21. What chapter are you on? Oh. The newspaper doesn't have chapters?"</i></div><div>{singing} <i>"He's got the WHOOOOOOOLE world in His hands! He's got the ... "</i></div><div><i>"Mom, my voice hurts."</i></div><div>{back to singing} <i>"Just a small town boy ... born and raised in south Detroit ..."</i></div><div><i>"Oh. I guess singing hurts my voice when I'm sick."</i></div><div><i>"Wanna play Uno?"</i></div><div><i>"Can you finish putting the Cub Scout patches on my vest?"</i></div><div><i>"Mooooooooo-ooooooooom.... I can't find my ... "</i></div><div><i>"Mom, Dad's not sharing!"</i></div><div><i>"Mom ... Mom? Are you there?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>And this was all before my first cup of coffee was finished. Typical day. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>And they're both right. I wouldn't change a thing.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-27053761997951418992010-03-21T20:03:00.000-07:002010-03-21T20:17:19.961-07:00Will Jog for PokemonThis 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.<div><br /></div><div>Phew.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>"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?"</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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? </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd be a size zero in no time.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-78221134980936367282010-02-26T17:53:00.000-08:002010-02-27T09:19:57.431-08:00Legacy of Love<div><br /><div>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.</div><div></div><br /><div>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.</div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYzn-0CcMJkms3k10ZX8DCzB-ky6VnY1cLJtRRAKZ9b2UI9VcCmOP9IytiCREBEW9fcQJHfSMxJyRvT3hz0H1eV_twwA_VFXFF-rN_EFYL3v-G8fKncfuUtz2bB3vKHVkbZwSdiDc-xXA/s1600-h/Grandparents.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442743763936706098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 176px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 222px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYzn-0CcMJkms3k10ZX8DCzB-ky6VnY1cLJtRRAKZ9b2UI9VcCmOP9IytiCREBEW9fcQJHfSMxJyRvT3hz0H1eV_twwA_VFXFF-rN_EFYL3v-G8fKncfuUtz2bB3vKHVkbZwSdiDc-xXA/s320/Grandparents.jpg" border="0" /></a>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.</div><div></div><br /><div>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 <em>nothing new</em>. 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.</div><br /><div></div><div>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?</div><br /><div></div><div>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 <em>one place</em> 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 <em>all call home</em>. My eyes tear up yet again as I type this.</div><br /><div></div><div>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. </div><div></div><br /><div>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.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div></div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-9305386696955597422010-01-27T13:14:00.000-08:002010-02-26T18:29:40.048-08:00Granny's Lessons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hYw5qD2NLWQUVg0W2ImFl4oL_idVGaojDkcLhZlozInOoYZtiUN-E7VbedWsCnVDeP66IF7mhbugVQ8QOmjADTeqJD17DGjfScHHH33MaJhCbieL-AAP7ls1CAzpQC9KeAUP6k_fXRw/s1600-h/Jake+%26+Granny.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442744697551876946" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 238px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hYw5qD2NLWQUVg0W2ImFl4oL_idVGaojDkcLhZlozInOoYZtiUN-E7VbedWsCnVDeP66IF7mhbugVQ8QOmjADTeqJD17DGjfScHHH33MaJhCbieL-AAP7ls1CAzpQC9KeAUP6k_fXRw/s320/Jake+%26+Granny.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=1855731908233193305&postID=930538669695559742"></a>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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!”<br /><br />“That’s good news, Jake,” I replied. “The hiccups just mean you’re growing.”<br />I love you, Granny. </div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-18696648914931757082010-01-25T18:59:00.000-08:002010-01-25T20:18:03.392-08:00"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.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 101px; height: 94px;" src="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=1855731908233193305&postID=1869664891493175708" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430885026426481522" /><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>"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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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 ... <i>"oh no ... the obstacles of terror!"</i> 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 <b><i>nine garages</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> ... Dad's pride and joy). There was no escaping.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>"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."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ouch.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-83698709621261618672010-01-05T21:13:00.000-08:002011-11-27T19:03:09.457-08:00Does The Boy Believe?<div>
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 ...</div>
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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?</div>
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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!"</div>
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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...</div>
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<i>Dear Tooth Fairy,</i></div>
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<i>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!</i></div>
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<i>Jacob Sevilla</i></div>
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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."</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423496556210843458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx7P6UIjL_vk0WX9Dq_g4f9uGeq1BF_ir9b0EPSFg40nH5aCGf9tBTiGbbJw7sxwxf7nSsDply24DqgACT1SRvAI5m6jW6VkkbbtOSsGrY5cq-u1lxs7z4lDGWpLFDyS3M6CHA29C2xg0/s320/DSC06242.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /><br />
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"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."</div>
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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."</div>
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His note said:</div>
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<i>Dear Santa,</i></div>
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<i>Thank you for that wonderful letter. You're too kind. Yes or No ... does Rudolph exist? Circle one.</i></div>
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<i>Your dear loving pal,</i></div>
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<i>Love,</i></div>
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<i>Jacob</i></div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-25331296905446807102010-01-05T20:52:00.000-08:002011-11-27T19:04:49.944-08:00An Eight-Year JourneyNovember 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. <br />
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423490353399618082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJr9UNDzTn0vZf4lH33w7IRHokyZ0qzQF-QyYtuyBErCZIrmzcyn0NPsy0_CRaqIf_FODlEt5Cacnh-3j_Y3iaezNVyYbDg7PGgVgKTYiPCL7ZJLnsXSHSd99ziy13KYS11nSJ5k3EQ4I/s200/DSC06041.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 112px;" /><br />
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"What?!?!?" said he.</div>
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"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."</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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!"</div>
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Here's what he came up with:</div>
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"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!"</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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He's considering his options. He might enjoy eight for a while.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-60593947538473917182009-10-16T19:33:00.000-07:002009-10-16T19:42:17.684-07:00How Babies Are Made (*gulp*)On the way home from school today, Jacob asked me, "Mom, are you happy that you made me?"<br /><br />"Actually," I say, "<em>happy</em> isn't a big enough word for how happy I am that I made you. I'm much more than just happy. Are you happy that I made you?"<br /><br />Jacob gave me an enthusiastic "Sure! Who else would I play the Slugbug Game with?"<br /><br />I agreed, and we talked about how happy we were that we were a family. Still riding that emotional high, I asked him, "Are you happy that Daddy made you, too?"<br /><br />Silence in the car. His silence because he knew that he didn't come from <em>Daddy's tummy</em>, my silence because I had just walked right into the worst possible conversation I could have stumbled into with him on a Friday afternoon.<br /><br />"Daddy didn't make me," Jacob protested.<br /><br />I stammered back, "Uh, well, uh, no, Daddy made you, too."<br /><br />"How?" came the tiny, wondrous voice from the backseat. Oh, crap.<br /><br />"Well, you see, um, I mean, it takes a mommy and a daddy to make a baby." Ohhhhhh, crap.<br /><br />Nothing but thoughtful silence in the backseat. I start counting to myself, beads of sweat popping out on my forehead, <em>one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five ...</em> until he responded with ...<br /><br />"Slugbug blue. What are we having for dinner?"Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-1027059434526923802009-10-13T20:32:00.000-07:002009-10-13T20:54:15.127-07:00A Good Day<div>I knew that today would be different when I turned the shower faucet off. As I toweled off I could hear the strains of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" coming from Jacob's room. [It's my fault, really. I became pseudo-obsessed with the tune after seeing the Glee-inspired rendition last spring, and promptly put it on my ipod. Jake then stole it.]</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR__Xunbe11GySOHFHDdO3n24cYFgiIjrYN2LZQlU2LUfli9R-jiVL9TIQ6rWq5N9L3XzBdZU1Or1-XjlmPHDOVkUyyYlSduqmc7S-JYAvB1isUH8s4YVDSvJNhgJeAPDz18cEt1YEhl4/s1600-h/Jake's+bed.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 129px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392298784396243746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR__Xunbe11GySOHFHDdO3n24cYFgiIjrYN2LZQlU2LUfli9R-jiVL9TIQ6rWq5N9L3XzBdZU1Or1-XjlmPHDOVkUyyYlSduqmc7S-JYAvB1isUH8s4YVDSvJNhgJeAPDz18cEt1YEhl4/s320/Jake's+bed.JPG" /></a>I crept down the hallway, wondering if I'd see a Jake-shaped lump under the blankets or a boy half-draped over the end of the bed as he wondered how long he could get away with staying in bed. To my surprise, I saw a seven-year-old fully dressed for school, stacking Pokemon cards and placing them in his storage case. I watched him for a full two minutes before he noticed me. He said to me, "My alarm went off. You were still in the shower. I was bored. Already made my bed. Gonna get a jump on the day."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>A jump on the day? Was there some kind of mind-meld performed on my child while he slept?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It didn't stop there. He zoomed through his a.m. to-do list and was waiting for me patiently at the door while I scurried from room to room, turning off lights, searching for my pumps, lifting couch cushions for keys. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Fast forward to 7:00 p.m. I'm just getting home from an extra-long day at work, and he has just arrived from soccer practice. He greets me at the door with a hug and a kiss and asks me how my day went. I return the favor. He tells me that he got his homework done before recess, earned two tickets for good behavior in class and earned two "Caught Doing Something Good" tickets for helping others. And he wonders aloud if there are enough vegetables on his sandwich.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>7:30 comes, dinner is done and he's putting the finishing touches on his presentation of a diorama for tomorrow's class. His presentation is on a <em>Magic Treehouse</em> book about Louis Armstrong. I select "What a Wonderful World" on my ipod and we set it to repeat. I ask him to dance, and we twirl around the living room.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Sing it, Louis.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Tomorrow might bring the Jacob I'm a bit more familiar with. The one who whines about every third thing I say, the one who would rather burrow under his blankets than straighten them out. But I love that Jacob as much as the one I got to spend time with today. He may take a bit more patience those days, but he's worth it.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And that Jacob is just as good a dancer as the one I danced with today. Play it again, Louis.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-638795298748048932009-09-07T20:14:00.000-07:002009-09-07T20:35:27.212-07:00So Long, Summer<div>Today we closed the chapter on Summer 2009. Yes, I know that fall technically doesn't begin for a couple of weeks. But Jake starts 2nd grade tomorrow, after 12 loooooong weeks filled with theme camps and day camps and a few weeks in Michigan, Arkansas and here at home in between. </div><div></div><br /><div>For a last day of summer, it was a good one! Jake's on his first competitive soccer team, and they made it to the finals in the Labor Day Classic in La Jolla. That meant an early morning game against a <em>tough </em>team. They were tied at the end of the second half, resulting in a nail-biting sudden death period ... still tied up ... and penalty kicks. Although they lost by one goal, they fought valiently. </div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFLghZ55__B-NHilb4hlE2bQx61dM2xQtN39amCMs-01wPka-bPGiWWk8fsodO__UuU4hyXRxUYGb9ejLade3UKQT-CtXGzVyfJBB80GQPNRPgWhSWUS8Fe19DUMcKOBGwXGxtG7hRtQ/s1600-h/bike.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 156px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 167px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378932929500548530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFLghZ55__B-NHilb4hlE2bQx61dM2xQtN39amCMs-01wPka-bPGiWWk8fsodO__UuU4hyXRxUYGb9ejLade3UKQT-CtXGzVyfJBB80GQPNRPgWhSWUS8Fe19DUMcKOBGwXGxtG7hRtQ/s320/bike.jpg" /></a>Soccer brings out the hunger in The Boy, so we celebrated by going to breakfast. Followed by a nap. Followed by a long bike ride through the neighborhood ... the bikes must have gone ignored for a while, each and every tire needed a re-fill.</div><br /><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrrTJiTwuXvb6KTaRxLqjV5xcT31WTBbNnU799BXPAWSEqaGSxsfrFTEI-BhBO0UyNyZu1CijQdbnrsoYG5WS3oTS-nnJ4jnaTN12-sXCSgMse9bT2J4F8y0RdT9R-0YF2hBfFyu-WrY/s1600-h/air+guitar+Jake.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 190px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 179px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378933097716695010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrrTJiTwuXvb6KTaRxLqjV5xcT31WTBbNnU799BXPAWSEqaGSxsfrFTEI-BhBO0UyNyZu1CijQdbnrsoYG5WS3oTS-nnJ4jnaTN12-sXCSgMse9bT2J4F8y0RdT9R-0YF2hBfFyu-WrY/s320/air+guitar+Jake.jpg" /></a>We ended up elbow-deep in pizza toppings and salad greens as we made dinner. Once the pies were in the oven, Jake practiced his air guitar to Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." Good times.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The Boy is nestled snugly in bed, waiting for his fave Chris Rice song ("Love Like Crazy") to wake him up for his first day of school tomorrow.</div><br /><div></div><div>Loved today. Can we do it again tomorrow?</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-41220831057801224082009-08-30T21:21:00.000-07:002009-08-30T21:38:00.242-07:00Fiscal Lesson Too Soon?<div>On the way to church today, Jacob said, "I want to buy a house."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I could tell from the corner of my eyes that Joel lit up as I did with the opportunity for a life lesson here. I started off by saying, "That's a great goal to have, Jake! Start thinking about that now, because houses are really expensive today, and will be even more so when you're an adult."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-0q9vcKDUSgzC9pMGsIJ2MV_Ozwlmk91RVaULodEHVXU_MryDKiCt1w5X8hKp_0KDkiu5NvWqKTIorJJ72Qxrj9rWWCGLi5Py7xpXOk2PD915hHAK1kaSNn9eZIl3llZZyQZvws8ldM/s1600-h/0830092128a.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 183px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 142px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375982354328583714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-0q9vcKDUSgzC9pMGsIJ2MV_Ozwlmk91RVaULodEHVXU_MryDKiCt1w5X8hKp_0KDkiu5NvWqKTIorJJ72Qxrj9rWWCGLi5Py7xpXOk2PD915hHAK1kaSNn9eZIl3llZZyQZvws8ldM/s320/0830092128a.JPG" /></a>Joel took the baton from there, saying that college would be pricey, too. We tag-teamed with tidbits about fiscal reponsibility such as credit card usage, savings accounts versus stocks, how much of of his allowance he should be socking away in each jar (the "cross" jar is for church and charity, the "$" jar is for savings, the "Jacob" jar is for spending), how he really needed to strive to get his chores done every day, how financial guru Dave Ramsey's kid was challenged to buy a car and saved enough money for a luxury model, how he could get a lawn-mowing job someday, how his dad wishes he had bought a house decades ago, but that buying it together made it more "our" house, the proper order for life moments (read "college, career, marriage, kids") ... </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Amidst all this excited chatter from his parents, I noticed that Jacob was noticeably absent in this conversation. I glanced back to see his head tilted all the way back, mouth fully open, eyes closed. And I heard him mutter, "Or maybe I don't."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>OK, so maybe the stocks piece was a bit too much?</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-2894984022116703022009-08-04T17:24:00.000-07:002009-08-04T19:57:21.294-07:00So Far, Yet So Close<div>Have you met Tracey, my sister? If you happen to see me around Facebook, you've been subjected to a healthy dose of sisterly banter about everything from road trips to purses.<br /><br /><br /><br />Growing up, we were separated by just two years and 303 days. Sometimes a wall separated our beds, sometimes just a few feet. We fought. Oh, how we fought. The topics didn't always matter ... it might have been a snatched toy, a misplaced record. The fight that is perhaps best-remembered (especially by our grandmother) involved my sister screeching at me when I wasn't even home. She had painstakenly ironed her creme shorts, then jumped into the shower. While she was otherwise occupied, I spotted the perfectly pleated pair and -- without even a second's hesitation -- I grabbed the shorts, put them on, and left to go out with my friends. My grandmother still shudders at the aftermath.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRgnCDffzkvWF45aimFq2aeoMLcrC5fmMBNOsTZClJeB3FwrAYOD7OTNQrwcwWg3YaKP72ok3Bgs17B51ENWkQvX-b6uUcDPeXgV4uLFwbq9rQiJJha9TgrPC-Oi3XDGlqB0oC1pdvLU/s1600-h/imageCA6K2WUY.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hNqXLF1zgqkw92kUlDCGlj-iCXE7vsANAZZ7VdSGNdNnzdD2KVgzK6k00B9_d6xi9uTpc-v8XhzNScD0LtxCL3jVKpRyNPZGUtA0gNPTlQ-WK1ThhESuTvv6a736GG95DJfiyhww-zM/s1600-h/100_6356.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366308143523666162" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 185px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 245px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hNqXLF1zgqkw92kUlDCGlj-iCXE7vsANAZZ7VdSGNdNnzdD2KVgzK6k00B9_d6xi9uTpc-v8XhzNScD0LtxCL3jVKpRyNPZGUtA0gNPTlQ-WK1ThhESuTvv6a736GG95DJfiyhww-zM/s320/100_6356.JPG" border="0" /></a>We sleep a little farther apart now. About 2,342 miles apart, really. She's still in Michigan, I'm in San Diego. We're separated in other ways, too. She's a homeschooling pioneer and a Republican, I'm a school district administrator and a Democrat. But no matter how far apart we are in politics and lifestyles, I can't help but put her on my list of those I admire most. She's a fantastic mother, wife and all-around human being. She's not afraid to stand up for what she believes in, and her activism continues to grow. I may not always agree with the opinion she's voicing, but I love her conviction and courage. Tracey and her husband are the godparents to my 7-year-old son ... and I have no doubt that he would be in the absolute best of hands if something were to happen to my husband and me.<br /><br /><br /><br />My sister and I only see each other twice a year, and I truly hate that. Once we set dates for trips we begin to count wake-ups until we get to hang out again ... even if it's months in advance. Our sister time is often filled with boutique shopping, jewelry making, photography chatting and blog sharing (check out her <a href="http://cathedralbuilding.blogspot.com/">Building Cathedrals</a> blog). My folks love that their girls are best friends. And she truly is my best friend. She's the one I turn to when I've had a tough day, when I have a karaoke goof, when I want to share an experience from my travels, or when I need to make sense of a motherhood moment.<br /><br /><br /><br />During my last trip to see her in June, I vented about wishing we could live within driving distance. She agreed, but then put it all into perspective for me. She told me that she knows sisters who live a few towns away, but they spend less cumulative time together in a year than she and I do across the span of a couple of trips. Access doesn't necessarily mean quality time. She's right. And while I wish I could drop by for a chat or a hug, I know that she's just a text, tweet, status update or phone call away.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-14106362473946020092009-07-25T14:26:00.000-07:002009-07-25T14:53:15.866-07:00"Check Out My Dot-Com"<div>The Boy is about to hit a major milestone. He will turn seven and two-thirds on Monday. He thinks that sounds so much <em>older</em> than just "seven."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Like any typical kid, he just can't get older fast enough. When the neighbors across the street put their "slug bug blue" up for sale, he begged me to buy it for him so he had a car to drive when he got his license. He already knows who he's going to marry -- and has known this for about three years now -- and has, in fact, proposed. She accepted, but I'm pretty sure that she's not aware that this truly is a long-term plan of his.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2UHqGvNYAHkIfX4BASfNfwsxmXxwb8GY-GfxMYR_tzDclr7CLwQnB5bpsm06GlZWZUPUPSaNKCwUvwS6EVt-5EvjL2LTATJsXWXwDKD3CVIppGAV-tGWDHdxEthqIKqhMDx3vvq0HWlU/s1600-h/DSC04163.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362518746410176322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 181px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2UHqGvNYAHkIfX4BASfNfwsxmXxwb8GY-GfxMYR_tzDclr7CLwQnB5bpsm06GlZWZUPUPSaNKCwUvwS6EVt-5EvjL2LTATJsXWXwDKD3CVIppGAV-tGWDHdxEthqIKqhMDx3vvq0HWlU/s320/DSC04163.JPG" border="0" /></a>But this boy who would be a man in a heartbeat also has some trouble letting go of some of his more childish characteristics. Like his love for all things Pokemon (shirts, notebooks, video games). And his need to still burrow next to me on the couch, or crawl into bed with beside me when he wakes up just a little too early on a Saturday.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>One of my favorite things about all kids in general is their propensity to tweak the English language to their liking. <em>Pasghetti</em> is a nationwide phenomenon, but Jacob always used to enjoy <em>milkaches</em> (milkshakes) and <em>lalos</em> (balloons) on a weekend outing. He has since mastered pronunciation, but his awkwardness with some phrases leave me smiling.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Just today he was asking me about boxing gloves, and whether you could really open and close your hands when you were wearing them. I told him I didn't really know. So he grabbed his guitar and made up a song on the spot, that went something like this:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>Hey there, can anyone tell me about boxing gloves?</em></div><br /><div><em>I wanna know, wanna know, wanna know right now.</em></div><br /><div><em>Can you open your hands when you're wearing them?</em></div><br /><div><em>Send me the answer on my dot-com.</em></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>After I appropriately applauded, he took his bow, and said, "I really need my own dot-com, Mom. That way I can tell people to check out my dot-com." </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I still don't know whether he meant an e-mail address, a website , or -- gasp! -- maybe even a blog. But I didn't correct him. I love his phrasing. He still lets me kiss and hug him when I drop him off at school or camp, but he's starting to get embarrassed when I fuss over him at soccer. So while we're in this no-man's land between boy and man, I'm going to enjoy every bit of "childhood" that we have left.</div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-21674161290558480472009-07-10T20:39:00.000-07:002009-07-10T21:19:53.351-07:00Why Someone Calls Me "Mom"<div>Now that you've met my dad (through my eyes, at least), I'd like to introduce you to the inspiration behind my favorite job ... being a mom.</div><br /><div></div><div>My earliest memories of my mother are of her staying at home to take care of my sister and me. She sacrificed a lot to be our wake-up call, our welcome-home committee and our very own Cruise Director Julie. I give her a hard time because I can remember coming home from kindergarten (a TOUGH half-day!) and asking her for a peanut butter and jelly andwich, to which she replied that I'd have to wait for her to finish dusting. To be fair, I'm pretty sure my five-year-old mind warped that reality a bit before tucking it away to be brought up in times of adult whininess.</div><br /><div></div><div>As much as I love her dearly for being there for us as kids, I love her even more for her next sacrifice. Mom gave up her free time and even some of her family time to go back to school and to work. It took her years, but she earned her Bachelor's degree as a mom, juggling school responsibilities for both her and her daughters. </div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2S-mkaHp8JIqX4k8Gc5JV9JgR0idG78ny5E-fjds22W8nlivnFs5HBXTD-nEqhh9sKM1V3q_wNXQSr_Gj0fEH0GzhBYc7-t0jqlhDCsb3YDqCJc09Ki8zakrOSp28p1AHFzvTvpXFtCs/s1600-h/Mom+and+the+grandkids.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357051035959925090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 245px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 319px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2S-mkaHp8JIqX4k8Gc5JV9JgR0idG78ny5E-fjds22W8nlivnFs5HBXTD-nEqhh9sKM1V3q_wNXQSr_Gj0fEH0GzhBYc7-t0jqlhDCsb3YDqCJc09Ki8zakrOSp28p1AHFzvTvpXFtCs/s320/Mom+and+the+grandkids.JPG" border="0" /></a>Now that I'm a mom myself, I realize just how difficult that must have been for her. She probably worried she was giving up too much to achieve her goal, maybe even fretted over the time away from her husband and kids. What I do know is this: I waited far too many decades to tell my mom that I am incredibly proud of her for her sacrifice. What she imprinted upon me was an intense motherly devotion, the life lesson that becoming a student and a thriving member of the workforce as a parent does not mean you leave your innate "mother-ness" behind.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>After my son, Jacob, has been tucked in for the night, I spend much of my time reading books about leadership in education, learning how to navigate my team through a maze of state and local concerns. But I realize now that the person I have sought to emulate the most isn't a superintendent, a highly-paid consultant, or even an author. It's my mom.</div><div></div><br /><div>She made who I am today possible for me, a reality. She taught me that I can have it all... I can be a leader, a trusted friend, a creative soul ... but more importantly, I can be Mom, too.</div><br /><div></div><div>I love you, Mom.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div>Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-13825655156070270992009-07-05T17:36:00.001-07:002009-07-05T17:59:41.116-07:00The first love of my life ...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFOkMszine82aXx7vWK5uA3XJpKn9cgJaxvaVXq-rBACyQXU7qGGkhUtRAyIl0L4im6FCCplE_YTeg3As3484BUdqY1gy6BJLXnQBp5CIePy83mLGFhLNpfvWKGMgqBoUM0cWbl2ZmVc/s1600-h/DSC03542.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355145009261588402" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFOkMszine82aXx7vWK5uA3XJpKn9cgJaxvaVXq-rBACyQXU7qGGkhUtRAyIl0L4im6FCCplE_YTeg3As3484BUdqY1gy6BJLXnQBp5CIePy83mLGFhLNpfvWKGMgqBoUM0cWbl2ZmVc/s320/DSC03542.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />I know that every daughter loves her father. I would never assume to love my dad more than my sister does, nor more than any other daughter in the world loves her father. But my dad truly amazes me. He gives, and gives, and gives. And just when you think he's done, he gives some more.<br /><br />My dad had to put up with a heck of a lot of crazy antics when it came to rearing me in Michigan. For those of you who knew me at all as a child, a pre-teen, a teenager, a young adult, an adult ... wait, I'm not sure I like where that was going... well, you know what I'm talking about.<br /><br />I've never been the one to take the easy road. I didn't like to take my parents' advice as much as I liked to learn things the hard way. Of course, I didn't realize that's what I was doing at the time. My Dad dealt with the phone calls gracefully, and if he dreaded the ringing of the telephone, he never showed it.<br /><br />"Dad, I wrecked the car."<br />"Dad, I've got a flat tire."<br />"Dad, I wrecked the other car."<br />"Dad, my car's making a weird noise."<br />"Dad, what kind of tires should I buy?"<br /><br />When I moved away after college, if the phone stopped ringing for any substantial length of time, my mother would tell him to get in the car. She wanted him to "look at me" and make sure I was OK. Usually, this sixth sense of hers was on the mark. And he never questioned it, he just packed up the car and came for a visit.<br /><br />Four grandchildren later -- his four angels, as he calls them -- the man is still a force to be reckoned with. He's tough as nails when he wants to be, but gladly turns into a puddle of goo when my son or one of my nieces calls his name. And family is everything to him. When my mother needs to spend weeks and months away from him to take care of my grandmother, he sacrifices to make that happen. He's there for her with just a phone call, even though he'd rather they not spend that time apart.<br /><br />I'm 38 now, and my 66-year-old father is still a major guiding force in my life. And he still gets a few of those calls every now again, since my husband is admittedly not a handyman.<br /><br />But I know that whether I call him to ask about motor oil or just to tell him I'm thinking of him, he'll be there.<br /><br />I love you, Dad.Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-12988704628315977422009-06-29T21:30:00.000-07:002009-06-29T22:05:53.069-07:00There's Never a Dull Moment ...... when you travel with Jenee. This girl brings out a seriously silly side of me that I usually only get to display when my sister is in the vicinity.<br /><br />I first met Jenee when I got suckered into attending a weekend-long camp with a group of unruly high school kids. This wasn't your typical s'mores and campfire songs camp. There was some seriously in-depth subject matter on the agenda here ... race, religion, sexual preference ... and how the preconceived notions of both students and staff get in the way of a peaceful and nurturing campus climate. A truly moving experience. That was ten years ago. I didn't run across Jenee again until my first day on the job where I work now, three years ago. I was being introduced to my staff and to school personnel with whom I would be working closely, and there she was. Little did I know that our work together would take us across the nation. What I can say with great certainty is that cities such as Washington, D.C., Albuquerque, and now Dallas will <em>never</em> be the same after having known us.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZnQ1X6Wj2ifsk2iyegZbfrZv2PbCEGG3CZPqwHbqwU68PDVL_R3tpB8TiQ7S7vWI0hyphenhyphenewVJKFcSqJX5IbOtbEIk2k_d885nnwPdG1Sktez2gKm-wpx6w3hWlsdG66QyQTf-piPl56Bo/s1600-h/0629092133a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352982071585722962" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 251px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZnQ1X6Wj2ifsk2iyegZbfrZv2PbCEGG3CZPqwHbqwU68PDVL_R3tpB8TiQ7S7vWI0hyphenhyphenewVJKFcSqJX5IbOtbEIk2k_d885nnwPdG1Sktez2gKm-wpx6w3hWlsdG66QyQTf-piPl56Bo/s320/0629092133a.jpg" border="0" /></a>A few weeks ago -- and later this week -- when you run into Jenee or myself you will meet "WJ" (<em>Working</em> Jenee or <em>Working</em> Jodi). But when we're off to a conference, you will have the distinct pleasure of catching a glimpse of "VJ" ... <em>Vacation</em> Jenee/Jodi. We're away from the day-to-day stressors of the district, our minds are being fed by experts in the field, and we have plenty of time in the evening for good food, great wine, and thrills-a-minute karaoke.<br /><br />Tonight was one such evening (sans karaoke). The VJs were taxied to a Dallas mall to check out some Bobbie Brown wares at Nordstrom's and stopped first for dinner and La Crema chardonnay. Five glasses (combined) and two makeovers (also combined) later, we found ourselves back at the 7-Eleven across from our hotel. Jenee was having a serious string cheese deficiency and I fancied myself a fountain Diet Coke. While waiting in line to check out, a tourist in front of us began to search her backpack frantically for her wallet. Our super-hero counselor-like skills kicked into high gear and we told her to take a breath and search again... no need to worry and hurry quite yet. As we waited, the line grew behind us. A local with an armful of 7-Eleven fruit (I know, right???) and beverages began to display her impatience. Jenee turned to face her and said, "She think she's lost her wallet. We can all relate. <strong>YOU</strong> can relate. So you can <strong>WAIT</strong>."<br /><br />You see, Jenee has decided she needs to be more assertive these days. Standing up for her rights and the rights of those around her. So when she sees a fellow patron being hurried, or a conference-goer not rewarded for her participation as are the others around her, she speaks up.<br /><br />But the cape-wearing Jenee (HJ for <em>hero</em>?) has to fight for time alongside the giddy out-of-town Jenee on these trips. VJ often wrestles her way to the surface, because she's got a job to do. She hunts down karaoke joints for me to croon at, she startles serious presenters by loudly protesting "WHAT?!?" when he says that there are no youths in the room (she's sooooo anxious to avoid the big four-oh), she leans over my shoulder to ask about every magazine and sudoku puzzle I'm perusing on the plane, and, frankly, she needs to be entertained like my 7-year-old.<br /><br />I guess the upside to that is that she applauds loudest at my singing, breaks up the tension in a boring seminar presentation, and doesn't puke like Jacob does sometimes during landings.<br /><br />You gotta love her.Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-51015886315595743022009-06-27T22:00:00.000-07:002009-06-27T22:20:51.658-07:00What I Wouldn't Give for a Basement ...Really, can anyone explain to me why us Californians are relegated to above-ground living only?<br /><br />What I affectionately refer to as our basement is actually our nursery. Jake moved into a new room several years back, so his first space soon became a spot to put items that were "in transit." As in, "let's just put this box from the new vacuum cleaner in this room until we're sure it's working correctly." No surprise, I suppose, that the box is still there, so many months later. The room is now where treasures go to rest, then get lost, then die a slow, painful death.<br /><br />If I had a basement, I could close the door and not think about it. But the nursery is smack-dab in between my son's room and mine, and I have to walk by the door dozens of times a day. Sure, the door may be closed, but it taunts me ... after all, I <em>know</em> what's behind it.<br /><br />So a couple of nights ago I decided that I needed to see just how bad the room had gotten. Have you ever seen the TV shows where an organization and design team descends upon a family to "save" them from their clutter? And when they show you the "before" images of the room, you tell yourself that the mountains of junk just have to be for show. Surely the producers hauled in extra boxes and bags of dust-covered trinkets, kids' school papers and coupons clipped and never seen again for ratings, right?<br /><br />That's what I always thought. But I'm ashamed to say that our "basement" was starting to look like the trigger point for cameras and fuzzy microphones to suddenly appear on our doorstep. I had to take action.<br /><br />I warned the boys that I was going in. They weren't to bother me for anything. I cracked the door open and shoved a laundry basket full of Jacob's too-small clothes out of the way so that I could get in. As the door swung shut behind me, I knew I was trapped by my own despair. I wouldn't emerge from the room until I had made some serious headway.<br /><br />An hour in, my stomach started growling. I unearthed some Scooby-Doo fruit snacks from a bag brought in from the car that landed ... and lived ... in the nursery. I couldn't stomach the thought of it, so I ignored the hunger pangs. Anyway, I had brought in reinforcements (Diet Coke and a water bottle). They would have to do.<br /><br />The room was stuffy, so I dug through the closet for a small fan. Finding no flat surface available to set it, it perched precariously on a stack of magazines yet to be sorted through and recycled.<br /><br />Fan working ... but still getting warm. Locks of hair continued to fall from my ponytail, fighting containment. Much like the nursery. Resourceful as ever, I found the extra shoelaces from Jacob's school shoes in a plastic box filled with odds and ends. Oh yeah, you read that correctly. Shoelaces. Darn, I'm good. I tied it around my head as a makeshift headband.<br /><br />Two hours later, I had nearly burned up the shredder, filled several containers of recycling and fizzled out of all remaining energy. That was enough for one night. Plus, I had to use the restroom, and I could not come up with one logical way to solve that issue in MacGyver fashion in that room.<br /><br />Triumphant at all that I had accomplished (OK, the room <em>still</em> isn't ready for Martha Stewart's blessing, but Rome wasn't built in a day, right?), I threw open the door and stepped out into the hallway, breathing a deep sigh of satisfaction. I walked right into The Boy and The Man. They stopped, looked at my shoelace-tied hair, the sheen of sweat on my brow, and the cloud of dust accompanying me from the room.<br /><br />And Jacob looked into the nursery, looked back at me, and said, "So when are you gonna start cleaning out the nursery?"<br /><br />Uncle.Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-9002394065343354552009-05-25T08:27:00.000-07:002009-05-25T09:08:55.504-07:00Success or Failure? You Decide.Our 48 hours free of TV, video games and, in general, all things that beep and hum, began Friday night at midnight. We started the "OTG" (Off the Grid) experiment in the hopes of reminding The Boy that life isn't all about what's next on Disney XD or which video game to beg for next. To be fair, The Man and I were in on the punishment -- er, the plan -- as well. No net-surfing or soccer games for him, no blogging and texting for me.<br /><br /><strong><u><em>Friday</em></u></strong><br /><strong><em>11:03 p.m.</em></strong> I hear the drone of the TV in the living room, accompanied by The Man's snoring. Do I go in and turn off the TV so that it's already in its rest mode for the midnight start? Nah. I'm reading. And sleepy.<br /><br /><strong><em>Midnight.</em></strong> I wake up, pull the paperback off my chin, and realize that The Man has come to bed and the house is quiet. OTG is a "go."<br /><br /><strong><u><em>Saturday</em></u></strong><br /><strong><em>6:45 a.m.</em></strong> I awake to the sound of a toilet being scrubbed. I check my hands to be sure it's not me. Am I in Heaven? Back to sleep.<br /><br /><strong><em>7:15 a.m. </em></strong>Awake again, this time to the sounds of The Boy and The Man playing chess. No noisy cartoons in the background, no soccer game. Yep. It's Heaven.<br /><br /><strong><em>7:30 a.m. </em></strong>I'm up, I'm up. Time for coffee. The Pup, sensing the change in the air, gets antsy and promptly pees in the bedroom. Great. It was time to start cleaning the house anyway.<br /><br /><strong><em>8:30 a.m.</em></strong> Jacob: "I'm bored." Sigh.<br /><br /><strong><em>9:03 a.m.</em></strong> The Boy is heard playing his electric keyboard in his bedroom. Well, battery-operated. But it's a slippery slope.<br /><br /><strong><em>2:00 - 6:30 p.m.</em></strong> A flurry of activity commences. Run to Target, buy birthday gift for classmate, go to Cub Scouts meeting, then off to the birthday party. The Boy is accepting of our weekend rules. He doesn't whine and beg for anything at the store, even declines eating a cookie at Cub Scouts because he knows he's off to a party. I am triumphant.<br /><br /><strong><em>6:30 p.m.</em></strong> Joel: "I'm bored." Double sigh.<br /><br /><strong><em>8:30 p.m.</em></strong> I'm pooped, so it's back to bed with a book. The Boy is in a deep slumber, likely dreaming of the fence staining that Sunday holds for us. I suddenly hear the <em>creak </em>of the TV cabinet, the soft <em>click </em>of the TV turning on, followed by the murmuring of soccer scores. The Man has caved.<br /><br /><strong><u>Sunday</u></strong><br /><strong><em>5:00 a.m.</em></strong> Repeat: Creak. Click. Murmur. But at least the TV gets turned off again before The Boy gets up.<br /><br /><strong><em>9:30 a.m.</em></strong> When we are leaving mass, The Boy turns to me and says, "Know why I like church?" [I tense, wondering if your eyes can actually pop out of your head when you explode at hearing the word "donut."] "Why, Jacob?" I ask. "Because you get to learn more about God. Plus there's a lot of religion in there," he says. It's working!<br /><br /><strong><em>10:30 a.m.</em></strong> The first can of fence stain is popped open. Ah, the sweet smell of elbow grease. And since we have six elbows in action, this should be good.<br /><br /><strong><em>1:00 p.m.</em> </strong>Two elbows left working. Both mine. The other four bailed out on me in search of turkey for sandwiches about an hour ago. But we accomplished a lot and killed two cans of stain. Need more to finish the project anyway, so it's a good time to stop. I walk into the kitchen to see stain footprints on the wood floor. Grrrrrr.<br /><br /><strong><em>2:00 p.m. </em></strong>The Boy has decided to move out. To the patio. He cites his ability to hunt coyotes with trashcans and that he's willing to sleep on two chairs pushed together. I tell him that it sounds like he has a good, solid plan worked out, and I go take a shower. When I emerge, a decidedly happier person, he has moved back home and needs a bath and calamine lotion. Better not to ask at this point.<br /><br /><strong><em>4:00 p.m.</em> </strong>The Man tells me that he's bored and wants to check e-mail. I give him The Look. He says, "well?!?" "I'm not the boss of you," I say, continuing The Look. He sighs, returns to the living room, and I hear him taking turns reading a book about pirates with The Boy.<br /><br /><strong><em>6:45 p.m.</em></strong> I've escaped to my scrapbook room for some hard-earned crafting and glue-sniffing. I'm just hitting my stride when I hear the sounds of something being shredded. In the bedroom, The Pup is clearly done with the OTG experiment. One of my purse bags (yes, boys, there are bags to <em>hold</em> purses) is being ripped to pieces.<br /><br /><strong><em>7:00 p.m.</em></strong> While scrapping, I hear the telltale ticktock of the <em>60 Minutes</em> introduction and a deal being brokered to let The Boy watch TV starting at 8:00 p.m.<br /><br />Sigh. I give.<br /><br />For you doubters out there, I lasted the whole 48 hours. And when I woke up this morning, it was to the blaring of the Zack and Cody and a wrinkled brow when I asked The Boy what he thought of our experiment. Then I turned my phone on and saw 15 new messages.<br /><br />But what you could hear around our house for the two days before was on a whole different level. Conversations about inventors, God and animals. Prayers. The satisfying swish and swoosh of paint brushes and rollers, and occasionally a screech when someone got splattered. Birds, soooo many birds. And a ceiling fan that I really need to have looked at.<br /><br />If you ask me, it was a success. I can't speak for the other four elbows.Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1855731908233193305.post-63857824234882872132009-05-21T19:56:00.000-07:002009-05-21T20:16:14.415-07:00Survivor ... Sevilla StyleThis weekend you won't catch a glimpse of me around here. I won't be blogging, I won't text notes to my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">fam</span> and friends, I won't get caught up in even one iota of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Facebookery</span>. If you want to see me or say hello, you'd better catch me in person. Why such tech-free solitude? Because The Man and I have cooked up an experiment for our little three-being family (The Pup won't be implicated in this one) to get us back in touch with a simpler life and an "earn what you get" philosophy.<br /><br />For 48 hours, the televisions will be turned off, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ipods</span> left charging, the Nintendo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">DS</span> and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Wii</span> lying idle. The computer will be at rest. The cell phones will be off. Nary an electronic pulse shall emit from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Sevilla</span> household for entertainment's sake. And on top of that, we've selected a family household project to tackle ... staining the fence.<br /><br />Why the Laura <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Ingalls</span> Wilder transformation? I haven't turned total granola girl, believe me. The seed that grew into this experiment was planted about a year ago. Our 7-year-old has grown into a nasty phase ... the "because I'm worth it" phase. He has an incredible sense of entitlement when it comes to screen time and what he might gain out of every minute decision made. And it's been grating on my nerves. So much so that whenever he mentions being more excited about the donut after church than going to the mass itself, I snap like a school headmaster and screech, "That's IT! No donut for you. Do you think Jesus appreciates you choosing a fried ring of sugary bread over Him?!?!"<br /><br />To try to keep Headmaster <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Falula</span> (nice ring to that) at bay, we're trying a radical take at this weekend. We'll go for family walks and bike rides. We'll stain the fence. We'll play board games. We'll read as a family and pray as a family and enjoy some silence together.<br /><br />And if by Sunday at midnight, if we're all still alive ... and not in jail ... then we'll venture out of the compound for a matinee and lunch.<br /><br />So if it looks like I'm ignoring your texts, calls, messages and e-mails, don't worry. I am. But I'll get back to you on Monday.Falulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292843289251708948noreply@blogger.com0