...That's not great.

Mother's Day.

My mother raised her children to be independent. She stayed home with us for nine years; returning to work when I was three years old and entering pre-school. We learned to do a lot of things by ourselves, for ourselves. We served our own Cheerios for breakfast (although I could usually talk my dad into pouring me a bowl); we made our own lunches and cleaned (or not) our own rooms. This is one of the reasons I never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before my senior year in college; my mom never made our lunches (the other reason is that I used to think salty and sweet didn't go together, but now I have seen the error in my ways). When I was in second grade she stopped bringing our clean laundry to our rooms, opting instead for bins in the basement with our names on it. This did not work as well as she wanted, as I just started getting dressed in the basement. This push for independence was not due to a lack of love, but an abundance of love. She was at every athletic event, every concert, every dinner. She was not like other moms I knew, who gossiped right along with the kids; seeing who was dating who, who failed math, etc. Rather, my mother almost would disappear when the kids were around, quiet and listening. She told me once that she always learned more that way. I think she was pushing our independence as a way for forgiving herself for the choices that she didn't feel that she had.
 

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As close as I consider my family to be, communication can be a problem. Case in point, when my father had some unfortunate family news to share (a relative made some bad choices), he causally mentions it to me when he dropped me off one morning my freshman year in high school. "You might hear rumors about it around school, so I wanted you to know", he said, as he dropped the bombshell. My father took this same approach when he explained that my mother had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I was sixteen years old and it was the spring of my sophomore year. This was our conversation dropping me off for softball practice.

"You know all those tests and doctor's visits your mom has had recently?"

"Yah..."

"Well, they think they know what it is. They're pretty sure your mom has multiple sclerosis. Have a good practice."

Going home that night, the first thing that my mom said to me was, "No need for you to worry; it's not genetic." And so that's the way it was; she was still my mom, still putting us first, still pushing us towards the independence that she craved.
 

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Life for was normal for a few years. She started taking medications and we continued on. I moved to on to college out of state; my siblings continued their education in other parts of the country. Her limping became more pronounced; she had a seizure, then she could no longer teach. She would get a bit better for a while, the have another episode of increasing disability. These episodes began getting closer and closer in time until they blurred together. Her stubbornness would continue to show through; after more than one occasion she would exhaust herself from some activity and have to wait there, on the floor next to the bed or out on the deck, until my father returned. They moved across the country for eight years, returning three years ago. She had balanced out somewhat. She had her motorized wheelchair and could get around okay. The downward spiral came shortly after they returned; all independence disappeared. The exact detail of her disability is immaterial here. I will only say that it is devastating.

In the midst of her first long period of hospitalization, she and I lay in the her bedroom. I was on her bed; she in a hospital bed that had recently arrived. She asked me to pull out her multiple sclerosis journal. She wanted me to write in it; until now she had been able to keep it up herself. Looking at the writing through the years shows her handwriting failing as the disease overtook her nervous system.

"I want you to write what happened. Put the date, the number of days I was in the hospital and the medications that they gave me."

I do so. The tears slowly begin.

"Now, go to the very back of the journal. I want you to write down what songs I want at my funeral. Beautiful Savior and Children of the Heavenly Father."

I write.

"I'm sorry you have to be doing this," she says, her tears starting, too.

"I want to be doing this; this is why I am here. This is why you moved here. What else should I write?"

"I want my ashes to be put in the river; where the kids were baptized."

It's almost too much for me to hear.

"Okay,” I say.

Thank you, mom, it is all you have done to prepare me for this. I am not strong enough and strong enough all at the same time. I love you.

Kindergarten tears.

I cried everyday of kindergarten for the first four months of the school year. Every. Single. Day. Even though I had spent the past two years attending Montessori preschool at my church with no adjustment issues, something was markedly different in my kindergarten experience.

My mother was my teacher.

She was an experienced teacher by the time I entered her classroom in September of 1981, but this was a new challenge for her. She taught elementary school right out of college while my dad was in the Lutheran seminary, facing the needs of kids in St. Louis, Los Angeles and the Bronx. After my sister was born in 1970, my mother stayed home with us until I (the baby of the family) went to preschool at three years old. Because of this, she never had the opportunity to teach either of her other children.

As I recall, I cried because she did what all kindergarten teachers do: they make every single child in their class feel capable, special and important. In layman's terms; my mommy hugged other kids. And I was NOT happy about it.

"But you get to go home with me everyday!" my mother would tell me, "Next year these kids will move on to first grade, but I will be your mommy forever!"

When dealing with me rationally didn't work, she did what any other self-respecting mother would do in these circumstances: bribery. Apparently, I'll do anything for a set of Strawberry Shortcake Colorforms. I was able to pull myself together and end the daily flow of tears.

I've been thinking a lot about this situation because my son will be entering kindergarten next fall. Will his teacher provide an environment that feel as special as my mother did for her students? Will he or she care and nurture my son the same way my mother cared for her students during her thirty years of teaching? I'm hopeful that they will, and I'll be there every step of the way to ensure it. I believe that it's our job as parents to work with our children's teachers in ways that assist them in enriching the lives of every student in the classroom, not just my own.

And even though you think that it's odd enough that my mother was my kindergarten teacher, I'll also share this with you.

My father was my high school principal. Discuss.

Chicago, a summary in one photo.

Not to spill the beans before I tell the entire saga of what could be described as both an eventful and uneventful trip to Chicago, here's a photo that sums up the entire trip.  Well, at least for The Sister.

It will all make sense after you read my post tomorrow.

Easter Round-up.

How was your Easter? Our was great, although I am still recovering from eating the better parts of two separate Monkey Bread creations.  I've been so good on my "non-diet" diet that I honestly think all that sugar was a nasty shock to my system. Let's just say the gastric impacts were less than pleasant, for sure. We attended a brunch on Saturday with a bunch of friends and kiddos, and the kids were able to get outside and do a good ole, old fashioned egg hunt.

No such luck on Sunday, where were were greeted on our drive to visit Grandpa and Grandma with rain, rain, and more rain. The egg hunt at church had to be moved inside, which as fun as it sounds, is limited by the fact that there are only so many places to hide eggs in the nave; above the pew or below the pew. 

We got back to my parents house to settle the kids with lunch and then naps.  The first part (lunch) went well, the second park (nap) did not. Bubba will be five in a few months and could go a day without a nap (although, he still naps everyday, you would not be a mess if he missed one), so it's always hard to get him to sleep when not at home.  Sissy would. just. not. go. to. sleep.  We can't do what we do at home: which is unscrew the light bulbs and close the door. At Grandpa and Grandma's she's in a walk-in closet (with a sink) on a mattress.  Not ideal.  It took us an hour and a half to get her to sleep.  By that time, Bubba was awake.  The Easter Bunny was supposed to visit during nap, so when Sissy finally got up (rather, we woke her up), I had to keep the kids in the master bedroom while RD hid the eggs.  You can see how happy they were with their loot. 

Today my sister found my blog.

I shouldn't of been surprised that she found it; it was hiding in plain sight.  Here's the e-mail I received this morning on the way to work:

Is there a reason I didn't hear about this from you?

http://thatsnotgreat.typepad.com/bethany/

Or am I not supposed to know?  :)

I surprised myself my NOT being freaked out about it.  I didn't intend to not tell her about it; but I honestly thought she would think it would be sort of "lame" (meaning, I was sort of "lame").  While she reads blogs, I didn't know how she would feel about ME having one.  I hadn't written anything scandalous or embarrassing; my blog fodder is mostly self-centered (my sister wasn't the least bit surprised).  Plus, I was just starting out and I didn't know if ANYONE would ever read it. 

But why would I be worried about what she would think?  I guess I wasn't, really.  And if I was at all it's because I love and respect her very much.  I've always looked up to her, even when I was the pre-teen and she was the college freshman.  We've grown closer as we have grown into 30-something adults with families of our own.  I'm blessed to have such a close relationship with her; not one that is strictly determined or dictated by our family ties. 

So, read on dear sister, read on!

Picture cop-out post.

Family has arrived, and so I'm sneeking away to get a quick post in.  Here's a picture of my friend, Noreen, from her baby shower.  She has since given birth to a splendid baby girl.

40 years this past July.

Today, I'm thankful that my parents have lived up to the commitment of marriage they made with one another 40 years ago. 

(My mom was tiny back then - I tried on this dress when I was preparing to get married and it would not zip up in the back.  She still holds that over my head!)

Today, my son's head almost exploded.

Bubba and I joined some friends to attend "Go, Diego, Go Live!" at the Paramount in Seattle. 

He's never been to a movie theater before (don't get me wrong, however, he's watched plenty of DVDs, etc.), so I didn't know what to expect in terms of his response.

He LOVED it.

We had a wonderful time.  The production was quite good, although there was quite a bit of overacting, but what would you expect when it's for kids?  (Sidebar to Noreen: it was very much in the "acting" - hands up; "not acting" - hands down territory).  I was quite entertained by it, as it was very interactive with the audience.  I sang along with Bubba, clapped and shouted when commanded to by Diego. But alot of the parents just sat there while their kids watched; what's up with that?  The set and set changes pretty nice (no "The Lion King" or anything), but Bubba had a fantastic time and that's all that really matters.

   

After all the fun and excitement, he crashed and burned a bit at home.

The end.

Criminal Intent is starting, but I'll leave you with this.

This is for my friend Noreen.  Hard to believe it's been twelve years since we first met at PLU.  I love you, Noreen, we'll always be friends.

Here's two things that are always funny:

Don Knots.

Underwear on the outside of your clothes.