Draft Day

When Will had a tough time dealing with the end of the NCAA football season, Tom and I tried to lift his spirits by introducing him to the NFL Draft. Problem was, both Tom and I though the draft took place much earlier in the year (apparently it was held in April in 2013, but I could have sworn it all went down even earlier in 2011 and 2012), and starting our draft-related conversations with Will in March gave him two full months to obsess over the players, coaches, teams, and selection and trading processes. When Will goes in, he goes ALL IN, and the 2014 NFL Draft was no exception.

Will paid careful attention to the three Aggies - Johnny Manziel, Mike Evans, and Jake Matthews - invited to attend the first round, but cared most about where his beloved Johnny Football would end up. (Like many TAMU fans, Will desperately wanted Johnny to stay in Texas and play for either the Houston Texans or the Dallas Cowboys.) Tom and I agreed to let Will stay up until Johnny's destination had been determined, but only because we expected the 2012 Heisman Trophy winner to go in the top 10.

Pick #1…wasn't Johnny. Pick #2…wasn't Johnny. Pick #3…wasn't Johnny. By pick #4, Will couldn't take the stress anymore and started hiding behind the chair with his fingers in his ears from the moment the screen read, "Pick Is In" until the NFL Commissioner made an announcement.

As the night wore on and Johnny remained in his seat, Will grew more and more anxious. (And tired. By the time Johnny's phone rang Will had been up for close to two hours past his bedtime.) Both Tom and I breathed a sigh of relief when the Cleveland Browns finally chose Johnny as the 22nd pick, not so much for Johnny's sake, but for Will's - the wait was finally over and Will could go to bed.

After listening to the announcement and watching Johnny take photos with the commissioner, I turned to Will and was shocked to see huge, crocodile tears streaming down his cheeks as he hung his head over the arm of the couch.

"What's the matter?!" I asked. 

"I. Don't. Want. Johnny. To. Go. To. Cleveland!", he sputtered through his tears.

I gave Will a good long hug, walked him to his bed, and tucked him in. Then he cried himself to sleep.

We may skip the 2015 NFL Draft...

Deep Breaths, Deep Breaths

When I signed Hallie up for dance last fall I did so with hesitation, as I was worried about introducing her to what I referred to at the time as "dance culture". I wasn't necessarily concerned about dance moms (have you seen that show?! Those are some crazy ladies. Thankfully the moms with whom I converse during Hallie's dance lessons are nothing like that), but the focus on appearance. The focus on costumes and make-up and hair and perfection.

I found myself pleasantly surprised, however, once Hallie's dance lessons began. Back in October I wrote the following on our family blog:

"So far (we're only a month in) she loves it, and I've seen very little of the culture I feared. We've yet to experience a recital though, and I worry that when performances roll around, that focus on turning four-year-olds into teenagers will rear its ugly head."

Turns out I was right to worry about the recital, but it wasn't costumes and hair and make-up that rubbed me the wrong way…it was something else entirely, something completely unexpected.

Our family's morning was busy. Tom had a commitment until 11am (the time at which we were scheduled to arrive for the dance rehearsal), so he and I decided that I would bring Will with me and then set him up with something to do until Tom could pick him up no later than 11:30am.

When the kids and I arrived at the rehearsal venue, we joined the crowd of parents and dancers and siblings filing into the building and down the hallway toward the dressing room. I knew Will shouldn't come into the dressing room with us, so I asked him to sit in the hallway and either read his book or play a game on my phone until I could get Hallie ready and come back for him. 

10 minutes later, as I was helping Hallie into her tutu, two individuals (both affiliated with the studio and who shall remain nameless) turned off the lights in the dressing room (to quiet the nearly 100 moms and dancers milling around) and announced that they needed "Erin, who has a little boy in the hallway" to immediately come speak with them.

I jumped up and hurried over, worried that Will had misbehaved, and then had this conversation with one of the women while Will looked on and listened in.

Woman: Do you have a little boy in the hallway?
Erin: Yes, I do. Was he misbehaving? 
Woman: No, he wasn't misbehaving. He's being very good.
Erin: Well, is he in the way then?
Woman: No, he isn't in the way.
Erin: I'm confused then - what's the problem?
Woman: He's a boy.

The tone of her voice made it sound like she was referring to a predator rather than a seven-year-old little boy who just moments earlier had been completely engrossed in trying to beat my phone at Wheel of Fortune.

I just stared at her, completely confused, until she spoke again.

Woman: You need to move him. Now. Out of the hallway. He can't be in the building.

Yes, he's a boy. A seven-year-old little boy, who I had to bring with me because of a scheduling conflict, who wasn't in the dressing room, who couldn't see into the dressing room (and couldn't have cared less about what was going on in the dressing room, for that matter), who wasn't misbehaving, who wasn't in the way, and who - in my opinion - was too young to sit outside the building next to the busy parking lot and wait for his daddy BY HIMSELF.

With tears of anger, frustration, and embarrassment stinging my eyes, I quickly passed Hallie off to a friend, grabbed my purse, and left the building with Will. I texted Tom and asked him to hurry, not so much because I was worried about Hallie and wanted to get back to her, but because I was afraid I would unintentionally take out the unpleasant emotions I felt on my confused, hurt, and innocent little boy.

To be clear, I understand that there comes a point when boys and girls should be separated. Little boys should stay out of the dressing room while little girls are changing, which is why I parked Will in the hallway, where he was unable to see anything and fully engaged in a quiet activity. But to ban them from the building in which the dressing room is located? To require them to remain outside, unattended, surrounded by strangers, and next to a busy parking lot?

After all this, I sat in the auditorium and discussed what had happened with my friends. We wondered what a single dad or a dad whose wife had to work on rehearsal day would do? What about single moms, or moms whose husbands had to work on rehearsal day, who have young sons as well as daughters?

No mention of the "no boys allowed" policy had been made prior to rehearsal, though after rehearsal I saw on the door of the building a sign that read NO MEN OR BOYS ALLOWED. (Yes, it was in all caps, and yes, it looked like it belonged on the wooden door of a little girl's treehouse.) I hadn't seen the sign the first time we'd entered the building because of the huge crowds of people blocking the door. If I'd seen the sign, maybe I would have waited to take Hallie in until Tom arrived. Or maybe I would have sent Hallie in with a friend. Or maybe, just maybe, I would have done exactly what I did do, because while there is certainly a line of which to be mindful, I honestly don't believe I crossed it.

I began the 2013-2014 dance year hesitant but hopeful. As the year went on, my hesitation slowly waned and I found myself enjoying the experience much more so than I ever though possible. My sweet girl loves to dance, and watching her plie and twirl and tap as though doing so is the reason she was put on this earth fills me with joy and pride.

But after today's encounter, dance is just a little bit tainted. I tried to forget about the conversation, the anger and frustration and embarrassment I felt, the confusion I saw in Will's eyes. I tried to push all that aside to allow only joy and pride to fill the void. But I couldn't quite beat back the hurt I felt for my little boy who, before he left with his daddy, asked me to hug Hallie and wish her good luck since he couldn't do it himself. I couldn't quite subdue the hurt I felt for my little girl who, upon learning that her big brother hadn't seen her dance, tried to hide her disappointment from me.

After today, dance is a little bit tainted and it's all I can do to just take deep breaths. 

Oh Happy Day!

When God Created Mothers
By Erma Bombeck

When the Good Lord was creating mothers, He was into His sixth day of "overtime" when the angel appeared and said. "You're doing a lot of fiddling around on this one." 

And God said, "Have you read the specs on this order? She has to be completely washable, but not plastic. Have 180 moveable parts...all replaceable. Run on black coffee and leftovers. Have a lap that disappears when she stands up. A kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair. And six pairs of hands." 

The angel shook her head slowly and said. "Six pairs of hands.... no way." 

"It's not the hands that are causing me problems," God remarked, "it's the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have." 

"That's on the standard model?" asked the angel. God nodded. 

"One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks, 'What are you kids doing in there?' when she already knows. Another here in the back of her head that sees what she shouldn't but what she has to know, and of course the ones here in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and say. 'I understand and I love you' without so much as uttering a word." 

"God," said the angel touching his sleeve gently, "get some rest tomorrow..." 

"I can't," said God. "I'm so close to creating something so close to myself. Already I have one who heals herself when she is sick...can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger...and can get a nine year old to stand under a shower." 

The angel circled the model of a mother very slowly. "It's too soft," she sighed. 

"But tough!" said God excitedly. "You can imagine what this mother can do or endure." 

"Can it think?" 

"Not only can it think, but it can reason and compromise," said the Creator. 

Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek. 

"There's a leak," she pronounced. "I told You that You were trying to put too much into this model." 

"It's not a leak," said the Lord. "It's a tear." 

"What's it for?" 

"It's for joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness, and pride." 

"You're a genius," said the angel. 

Somberly, God said, "I didn't put it there.” 

Happy Mother's Day to all those celebrating (and hugs to those for whom today hurts), especially my mom, grandma, mother-in-law, sister Sara, and last but not least…my lovely sister-in-law Chandi, who will become a mom for the first time in just a few short months.

That last picture of Hallie and her Aunt Chandi picking and smelling bouquets of Sweet Williams (affectionately known as "Will Sweeties" in our family) is one of my all-time favorite pictures of anyone, anywhere. I hope to someday capture a similar shot of Chandi and her little girl…or boy!

Thank You, Mom, for this Extraordinary Life

When we lived in Michigan I worked for the American Red Cross as the Director of Volunteer Resources. I loved nearly all of my responsibilities, as well as the people with whom I spent my time, and because I knew my work made a difference in my community, I had absolutely no reservations about sending my kids to daycare three days a week so that I could spread my professional wings. As a working mom, I sought out magazine, newspaper, and online articles and stories offering "proof" that my decision to spend significant time away from Will and Hallie in order to further my career wouldn't leave them permanently scarred. I found plenty and breathed a sign of relief.

When we moved to Texas I walked away from my "office job" and, after a great deal of thought and prayer and multi-atribute utility theory calculations (I'm married to a super nerd), opted not to apply for a new position with the Red Cross...or any other organization, for that matter. I chose to stay connected to the Red Cross as a local volunteer and national contributor, and began to dedicate more time to my dream, long-shot, side, part-time, and/or work-from-home job as a freelance writer and blogger. And while I write for as many hours as my schedule allows each week, I am, for all intents and purposes, a stay-at-home mom; at this point in my life I can relate to parents who stay or work from home much more so than I can relate to parents who spend their days working in an office. I still search for magazine, newspaper, and online articles and stories to support my role, only now I look for material offering "proof" that my decision to spend significant amounts of time away from the full-time workforce in order to further my relationship with Will and Hallie won't leave my future career options permanently scarred. Unfortunately, there isn't much.

Interestingly, nearly everything I read indicates that while staying home with my kids is a completely legitimate (and for some parents, a necessary) choice, my decision to do so will greatly impact - and not in a good way - my ability to rejoin the full-time workforce in five or 10 years.

And to be honest, right now that "fact" doesn't bother me. I know that, at least for the time being, Tom and I have opted for the arrangement that makes the most sense for us.

Sometimes knowing in our hearts that we've chosen what's best for our families isn't enough, and we feel like we need to justify our decision - whether it be to work outside the home, stay home full-time, or something in between - to parents and non-parents alike. Recently, for example, I've heard a number of stay-at-home moms make comments (and I've made similar comments myself) like, "I'm raising our country's future leaders" and "little Jimmy will change the world when he grows up". I've heard myself and others justify our seemingly ordinary lives with the extraordinary lives our children will someday lead.

This started me thinking about my mom, and what she envisioned "adult Erin" accomplishing back when I spent most of my time playing with Barbies and running through the sprinkler in the backyard. Did she use these phrases to justify staying home* with me and my sister when we little, instead of working full-time? Did she proudly say to those who questioned her decision, "I'm raising our country's future leaders" or "little Erin is going to change the world"?

And now…now that I'm a stay-at-home mom and not a national leader or changing the world, is she disappointed? Have I failed her by choosing an what might appear to others as a terribly ordinary life over an extraordinary one?

I hope not.

I came across this poem a couple of months ago, and I hung onto it knowing that at some point I would share it here.

Make the Ordinary Come Alive

Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is a way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples, and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.

- William Martin

I ask myself again…is she disappointed? Have I failed her?

I know not.

Why? Because this poem had to have been written about her. Perhaps a young William Martin watched her raise her two daughters and then captured the foundation on which she parented in poem form.

She taught - and showed - us that life is about the choices we make. She taught us that we can choose to work full-time, to stay home full-time, to work part-time, or to throw up the hail mary pass and pursue the careers we always wanted but thought we could never have. That we can choose how to best support and nurture our children. That we can choose who to love, how to worship, when to give, and when to walk away. That we can choose resilience, perseverance, generosity, and kindness as our guides. That we can choose to see beauty around us and find joy in the most fleeting of moments. That we can choose to be happy.

She taught me that if ordinary is what makes me happy, I can choose ordinary and make it extraordinary along the way.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Thank you for this extraordinary life.

*My mom is a Registered Nurse and worked part-time throughout my childhood. In my eyes she was a stay-at-home mom, but I viewed her this way only because she created for herself a work schedule that allowed her to stay home with us most of the time and work weekends and nights when my dad could take care of us. I realize now how significant her sacrifice, and I have tremendous respect for her commitment to both her family and her life-saving career.

Note: Please don't think that I am not in any way pitting moms who work in different ways against one another. I have been on both sides of the fence and therefore know firsthand that each choice comes with its own set of positives and negatives. My goal in writing this post was simply to thank my own mother for giving me an extraordinary foundation on which to build my happily ordinary life.

So THIS Happened...

You know when you love an article of clothing, and you follow the cleaning instructions closely to take really good care of it so you can continue to wear it for years to come? But then for a reason that can't be identified, following the cleaning instructions closely to take really good care of it goes array, and just like that the article of clothing you loved now fits your five-year-old daughter instead of you?

Yep, that happened to me.

I loved my orange and gray striped sweater. I washed it, per the instructions on the label, in cold water on the gentle cycle in the washing machine and never dried it. And after each washing it came out looking like new, until that one time it didn't.

Flattering pic, I know.

That one time it came out looking like a sweater that belonged to Hallie, or maybe even a sweater that belonged to one of Hallie's dolls.

Tom and I stretched it out just enough for me to get it on, hoping that by wearing the damp sweater I could ease it back in the direction of my size. Ha.

It took both of us to pull the sweater over my head and jam my arms into the sleeves. Once I had the sweater on, it was so tight that I could not put my arms down. They stuck out like scarecrow arms and stayed there without me exerting even an ounce of effort. I looked like that little boy in A Christmas Story, except where he was immobilized by his winter snowsuit, I was immobilized by my shrunken sweater.

And then it took both of us to get me back out of the sweater after my attempt to stretch it out failed.

It just goes to show that sometimes, following the instructions doesn't work out for the best...

On the plus side, at least I won't need any sweaters for the next seven or so months…the 90's have arrived in Texas!

The Long Road Home

Though our surprise trip to Illinois in February revolved around a sweet little boy's first birthday party, our visit lasted long enough for us to fit in more than just present unwrapping and cake eating. (Though I did spend A LOT of time eating that delicious cake.) In between celebrating Carter's birthday, playing countless games of Go Fish, watching the Olympics, swimming in the hotel pool, watching Frozen for the second time, and playing basketball and with hula hoops in the gym at Sara's school, Sara, my mom, Will, and I squeezed in a drive past their house the lot on which Sara's house used to stand.

On that Saturday afternoon, the town of Washington stood empty and eerily quiet. Most Texans would blame the shortage of people outside on the multiple inches of white stuff covering nearly everything in sight, but I knew better; it takes more than a foot of snow and temperatures in the 20's to keep Midwesterners indoors. (On a related note, Texas is rubbing off on me...I had absolutely no desire to spend any time outside while in Illinois in February.)

No, the emptiness and the silence - no sledders, no cross-country skiers, no Saturday shoppers or shovelers or snowman builders could be found - was because there simply were no people. 

Everyone had gone. 

Because when your house goes, you go too.

Three months after the tornado, I finally laid eyes on the aftermath of the one-sided fight between all-powerful Mother Nature and unsuspecting Washington, Illinois. I saw what little remained of Sara and Jeff's home - a damaged foundation and back deck - and I pictured them huddled in the basement, clinging to one another and their sweet babies and praying that the wind would take only things and not people. I pictured them walking up the stairs from the basement after the winds had quieted, and stepping not into the light but into a black hole of shock and awe followed by anger and sadness and pain and overwhelming loss.

Only the damaged foundation - and part of the back deck - remained.

A view of the back of the house three months prior to the tornado.

I stood there, in the middle of the street. I looked to my right, and saw nothing. No houses, no trees, no signs of life. I looked to my left and saw nothing. No houses, no trees, no signs of life.

To the right.

To the left.

My heart hurt in ways I can't describe.

Now, three months later and nearly six months after the tornado reared its ugly head, the snow has melted, the ground has thawed, and physical rebuilding can begin.*

The view from the street.

The view from the backyard.

The view from the left of the house.

The view from the right of the house.

* You might be wondering, as I was, why the houses surrounding Sara and Jeff's are further along in the rebuilding process. There are a couple of reasons… First, after the storm, many of Sara and Jeff's neighbors sold their homes to builders. When builders own houses, they make all of the building-related decisions themselves and can therefore move the process along much more quickly than when they have to communicate with homeowners about every little detail. Second, before they could start rebuilding, Sara and Jeff had to first resolve a structural issue with their foundation and then come to an agreement with the insurance company on what the house was worth. Thankfully, both the foundation issues and the insurance issues are resolved, the architectural plans are finished, and framing will begin very soon.

I bring all this tornado business up again for two primary reasons. First, a number of my friends and acquaintances have recently asked me about Sara and Jeff (y'all are so kind - thank you!), which makes me think that others who followed along via Chasing Roots at the beginning of Sara and Jeff's journey might appreciate an update.

You can read Sara and Jeff's story from the beginning by clicking here.

Second, last week a number of massive tornadoes caused horrific damage (16 people lost their lives) across Arkansas, Missippippi, and the US Southeast. Seeing the photos and hearing the stories of both triumph and despair brought me right back to where I stood and what I felt when those on the television screen weren't strangers, but my family.

Today these folks are exactly where Sara and Jeff were six months ago. They kneel in what remains of their living rooms, feeling shocked, angry, and sad. They hurt. They grieve. They have to - at least temporarily - leave their homes behind while they figure out what to do and how to begin again.

Sara and Jeff got through the worst of it with help from the family members, friends, and complete strangers - all of you fall into one of those categories - who showed up when the going was toughest and carried a bit of the burden on their shoulders. And I want those affected by the recent tornadoes to know that they too will get through the worst of it, with help from the family members and friends and complete strangers who will show up when the going is toughest.**

The road Sara and Jeff have traveled since that cold, November morning has been rocky, and it continues to stretch out in front of them, much farther than their eyes can see. The road is long, but they know that if they stay the course, it will eventually lead them home.

**If you would like to help the victims of last week's tornadoes, you can do so by making a donation to the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund. As of Friday afternoon, more than 1,200 Red Cross trained relief workers and 60 Emergency Response Vehicles are providing shelter, food (70,000+ meals and snacks), relief supplies (11,000+ clean-up kits, rakes, shovels, mops, and trash bags), health services, mental health services, and emotional support to victims across 13 states. Click here to learn more.

High Five for Friday (5.2.14)

Strange, right?

1. Last week my phone broke. The screen just popped up out of the frame while the phone sat quietly on the table at Starbucks (yes, I still go there, but only once a week and because I must have a Petite Vanilla Bean Scone on Thursdays), so the damage had nothing to do with how I treated or took care of the phone. Dealing with Verizon and Apple to replace the broken phone gave me heart palpitations and nightmares, but since this is a "high five" post, I will overlook all that and focus on the positive…which is that my new phone arrived not broken and Apple paid for me to ship the broken phone back to them. A second high five will come when Apple releases the $700 hold they have on my credit card…

That was a terrible "high five" entry. Let's go in a different direction.

2. Last Friday night Will graduated from a camo belt to a green belt in Tae Kwon Do! He completed his forms with strength and accuracy, and actually got a few good kicks and punches in during his sparring rounds. (Will is the smallest kid in his class, and though he won't admit it, sparring kids who are bigger and stronger than him makes him nervous and consequently timid.) I love watching him on the mat, and was so pleased that my dad - visiting on his way home from a business trip to Mexico - could attend the graduation as well. Hallie, completely worn out from a busy day playing with Grandpa, saw very little of Will's demonstrations…

 

3. On Saturday morning I bit the bullet and dolled my Hal Gal up in full hair and make-up for her dance pictures. I hated every minute of turning my newly-five-year-old into a dancing princess, not because I dislike styling her hair or applying make-up, but because she's FIVE YEARS OLD and I don't think five year old little girls should wear make-up. I understand why dancers are required to wear make-up for recitals though - I've been on stage and know the importance of stage make-up - so I went along with it and did my best to find a happy medium between a completely clean face and one that looked like it belonged to a hooker.

When we arrived at the studio for pictures, both the owner and Hallie's teacher (and then later in the day a friend of mine whose four daughters all dance) told me that Hallie's make-up looked perfect. And while I still prefer Hallie sans make-up, I couldn't deny that my little dancing princess looked truly stunning.

For the record, Hallie loved every single aspect of her made-up face and cried when I washed off the eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, and lipstick. Deep breaths, deep breaths... 

4. Did you have as rough of a week on the parenting front as I did? My sister and I spent 40 minutes on the phone yesterday afternoon. The first 20 minutes revolved around her giving me advice on how to deal with a problem I'm having with Will (as an elementary school teacher, she's an expert on addressing issues in preschoolers through fifth graders), and the second 20 minutes revolved around me giving her advice on how to deal with a problem she's having with Lily. (I'm no expert, but Hallie was a peach of a three-year-old so I have a few "been there, done that" theories, ideas, and suggestions to offer.) This short piece - entitled, "Parents: You're Doing it all Wrong" - picked me up a bit and give me the chuckle I needed to survive the rest of the day. (I especially love the picture the author used…maybe Tom will buy me a coffee mug that reads "World's Okayest Parent" for Mother's Day.)

5. Happiness Highlights:

Will, working on pop-ups with Grandpa. 

He may be small when compared to his baseball teammates
and opponents, but he's working so hard to become stronger.

And he's working on his fielding (with the Aggies!) too. 

Hallie thought this bench needed dressing up.

As a last resort, I bought the first set of BOB Books for Hallie.
Miraculously, they worked for her and now - just like that - she can read. 

Will styled Hallie's hair into this
be-ee-u-tee-ful ponytail all by himself. Clearly.

Happy Friday, friends!

Linking up with High Five for Friday!