He's A Little Bit 'Kwerky'; She's a Little Bit Rock and Roll

Yep....that's my boy. He's a little bit 'kwerky'. I wouldn't have him any other way.

This past week, Drew participated in a school spelling bee. He breezed through the first round. But his second round brought t-r-o-u-b-l-e. The word was quirky. I love that word, always have. I have described myself often as a little bit quirky. But Drew's spelling.... you guessed it....was k-w-e-r-k-y. And with it died the spelling bee ambitions of my sixth grader.

Now, the blame for this bee boo boo falls squarely on an elementary education philosophy that teaches, even encourages, phoenetic spelling. I remember frequently hearing from both of my at the time elementary school students that they only had to spell correctly in spelling class. As long as the teacher could follow what the student was sharing, in other subjects there was no penalty for misspellings. As long as the student was communicating effectively...oh how my English teacher mother or my Advanced Composition teacher aunt would have had a field day with that point of view.

In this case, however, I will have to give my son credit for his rather, well quirky, spelling of quirky. I have to say that I like it, in fact kwerky may be a better spelling than the actual accurate one. Doesn't kwerky just elicit images of quirkiness? It does for me. Kwerky just seems to take quirky to a whole new level.

I have blogged before that Kate invented the word coincidink.....(pronounced co.ink.e. dink), and I am convinced we may one day find Mr. Webster recognizing that one. What a great word for the happenstance. Now the brother of the creator of coincidink has effectively retooled the word quirky. And a proud Dee beams. Who needs a spelling bee champ in the family anyway? Let's show a little creativity in our spelling.....as long, of course, as we are communicating!

The Pea Soup of Parenting

Like every mom, I marvel at how fast my children are growing up and wonder frequently where the time could possibly have gone. Last weekend at the beach, I found myself in that increasingly familiar yet still oh so uncomfortable place of knowing Drew is old enough to have a little freedom but still young enough to make me worry if he is really ready. More importantly, am I?

Sunday morning of our beach week-end arrived warm, with a bit of a misty fog....a truly spectacular beach morning. Drew, his friend, and I walked (in the interest of full disclosure, we actually rode the golf cart) down to the beach....I with my beach chair and book, Drew with a different plan. The two boys kicked around at the edge of the ocean, scoped out a few seashells, then hit me with the million dollar question....could they walk to the Surfside Pier. I was sure we were at least a mile from the pier....I thought we may be two. Through the misty morning, I could see the pier, but only just barely.

In a weak moment, I said yes. There, I had done it. I allowed the boys to go. I hedged my bet that they might make it a couple hundred yards up the beach before they tired and gave up on the adventure. As he so often does these days, my son surprised me.

I fretted every moment they were gone. I couldn't read. I couldn't relax. I looked so hard and so often to my right (I suppose sitting on the beach, facing the ocean that would be to the south, right?) that I earned both a crick in my neck and a weird mild sunburn on the left side of my face and shoulder. I peered and squinted and squinted and peered. I find parenting so much easier when you can actually see the child, don't you agree? An hour passed. I became increasingly afraid that I had made a mistake. I prayed that I had not.

Every appropriately sized pair of human shapes I could make out down the beach gave me hope that the boys were approaching. Over and over, I was wrong. Now they had been gone almost an hour and a half.

I was just before hitting the beach on my dad's golf cart, not caring if that is legal or not, when the mist seemed to lift ever so slightly higher, the fog became just a little less thick and....could it be that mixing with the shore smells of salt and sea I also smelled.....now I was sure of it..... IT WAS AXE! I detest that scent. Many are my headaches one whiff of Drew's "smell good" has birthed. I long for the day Drew outgrows his Axe Stage, as all my friends and sisters with boys assure me he will. But at this particular moment, I was not sure I had ever smelled anything more glorious than Salt and Axe. I suppose the ocean breeze had blown just enough and from just the right direction, for there, bursting through the clearing pea soup, there they were.....my two tired yet excited Axe-coated explorer boys. They had conquered the beach. They had run/walked all the way to the pier and back. And one relieved mother had survived the conquest and lived to parent another day.

"Drew is on fire......and he's not even Lutheran!"

Over the Christmas break, Drew attended a local Lutheran church with his friend Bryan. During Sunday School, the children were quizzed with Bible questions and rewarded with candy for correct answers. I am not quite sure how similar Lutheran and Methodist theology are, but they must be close enough. Drew returned home to proudly share that his correct answers scored five....count them FIVE.... pieces of Christmas candy! According to Drew, the leader proclaimed to the group of children, "Drew is on fire, and he's not even Lutheran!"

Drew is on fire, and I see it in him all the time. Like when he thoughtfully and painstakingly leads his church basketball team through the recitation of The Lord's Prayer before each game. Or when he announced at Audrey's recent pet funeral that he knew he would see her again one day in Heaven.

One of the true bright spots in our rather introspective Christmas of 2012 came in the form of a letter to me from Drew's ELA teacher. In her letter, the teacher wrote that her students had been asked to complete an essay as part of benchmark testing. The writing prompt was "Who is Your Hero and Why?"

As you would expect of twelve year olds, students wrote of personal heroes that included sports stars (in this Gamecock hotbed that I call home, I am quite sure there were odes to Jadeveon Clowney, Marcus Lattimore, and/or Steve Spurrier). Other students wrote of stars from the world of entertainment they considered heroes. I certainly hope she didn't get any 'Honey Boo Boo,' but who knows? Some children wrote of one or the other or both parents. Drew's Hero.....God. His teacher knew I would want to read and treasure this work from the pen of my sixth grade son. In five paragraphs of a child's grasp of his faith that gave his mother goosebumps, Drew explained his choice. Drew wrote, "God is an amazing person because He makes miracles happen." My son continued, "When you need someone because you are sad, just pray. God will answer, although it might not seem like it." So true, My Child, and an aspect of faith many adults struggle to understand.

Drew wrote, "God is my best friend. He watches over me. He keeps me, my family, and my friends safe from harm. I have never even broken a bone." Doesn't that just about say it all for a twelve year old boy? Especially one who recently wrote in another assignment that his biggest obstacle in life was "huge football players." There seems to be a pattern of broken bones and the fear of such imagery emerging here. More importantly, there is an image of a boy coming to terms with his faith. I couldn't be more proud.

What are the phrases......"from the mouths of babes........and a little child shall lead them......

This week as the children of Sandy Hook returned to school, a different school but school nonetheless, I was struck by a news photo....a young Sandy Hook survivor, looking out the school bus window, flashing peace signs and a grin. You couldn't see a parent or loved one in the picture, but I envisioned a worried mom waving a concerned good-bye to her little boy who saw far more and experienced far greater evil than one so young ever should. And yet, there he was, grinning out the bus window, waving those peace signs. Drew is right. God makes miracles happen.

God Bless our children and those of us entrusted to love and protect, to guide and to teach, to lead them in the way He would have them go. And, Dear Lord, thank you for my children, for this one on fire for You.....even if he isn't Lutheran!

As Sisters ....And Cousins... We Make It Through

We three dreaded it... I think Daddy did too.....Christmas Day 2011. Maybe dread is not quite the right word. Perhaps apprehension...uncertainty..... better expressed our feelings. What we found were indeed a few moments of joy, of laughter, of being together, of peace. But all were interspersed with a sadness.... a something missing.

Kate and I went to Christmas morning services. We left our significant males at home and found an often elusive moment of peace for a mother and daughter struggling to reach a meeting place in our often volatile teen/mom relationship.


As always, I saw and revelled in that look of pure excitement that only Christmas morning can bring as it was reflected in my children's faces and eyes. Their joy is always my joy at Christmas, and for last year's Christmas, that was very important.


Times shared with my sisters are always special, and last Christmas Day was no exception. Thinking our day might be easier if our setting changed, we opted not to gather in my mom and dad's home, but instead to meet at my youngest sister's, a strategically central and yet "removed" location for all involved.


We shared gifts and stories, love and support, laughter and teasing, a glass of wine, fun. But there were moments when last Christmas was everything we had worried it would be. That striking moment we three saw our daddy leave our Christmas gathering alone, lip quivering ever so slightly, to travel home alone. At that moment, everything came flooding back. The especially emphatic hug and kiss he gave each of us three before he left.... yes, it was getting easier, but not easy yet....

There were moments I will always remember. Cousins Andi and Lori had earrings made for Di, Donna, and me.....earrings designed from a strand of beads Mother often wore. There each Christmas are gifts. There are only occasionally gifts that transcend gift giving. The beautiful gesture of our precious cousins was most decidedly one that transcended.

Now, quite unbelievably really, Christmas 2012 has come and gone. Again this year there were gifts and stories, love and support, laughter and teasing, possibly more than one glass of wine. (Note to Dee...keep imbibing husband and my sisters apart as much as possible to avoid unintended and/or unwanted sharing of secrets.) In 2012, amidst a little more fun and a few fewer tears, an at least partly healed trio of daughters and a husband, their father, were finding a new path.

This year, Daddy arrived at our holiday soire' bearing fifty years of Mother's and his Christmas ornaments. Three sisters gleefully pounced on the sentimental, and some not so much so, treasures. Some were lovely. Umm....some were not. We argued over which sis had made the pretty ornaments and accused the presumed maker of the ugly ones, each sister refusing to admit creatorship, instead pointing at another. I myself remain quite convinced that all the lovingly, delicately cross stitched ornaments meticulously made with care and pride were without doubt produced by Dee. I likewise am sure that anything that involved cotton balls was undoubtedly born of Diane's artistic endeavors. All Clemson ornaments were attributed to our youngest, the rally cat of the crew. A few rather unfortunate incidents of ornament comingling had occurred in the big box, but we shall save that story for a future blog.

We had FUN! But, through our scrumptious dinner, our chatter, our gifts, our great ornament divide, it was still there. I heard it yet again in my father's voice as he said grace before our Christmas meal. As Daddy asked God to continue to be with us and to see us through another year, there it was......that same quiver......the one I had noted in his voice and lip as he left our gathering last year.

For those who experience loss, especially around the holidays, I am not quite sure any Christmas is ever the same. Nor, I suppose, should it be. We love you, Mother, and miss you still. Some things will never change. Two years....and counting.