Prom Was Hard

Saturday was Prom Day....Kate's first. I truly tried to share her excitement. It was more than a little hard. It's always hard to let go, to get through those rites of passage. We as parents all understand. We as parents learn to get through them. I shared in the dress selection. I loved her choice. We looked for shoes and earrings. We talked about hair and make-up. We arranged photography. We discussed her night...her dinner plans, her curfew. We planned. We laughed. We yelled.

Saturday morning came. Prom Day was here. I slept in, but only briefly. So much to be done. Should teens who can't drive go to prom? I suppose that's for another blog. But, as I awoke, in my groggy dreaming of more sleep state, I was startled by two huge brown eyes with their beautiful gold flecks and long, thick lashes staring hard into mine. We were almost nose to nose, Kate and I. My beautiful daughter, she of the prom, had silently, secretly crawled into bed beside her worried mom and was staring intently.....waiting for me to wake....waiting for me to share. The hush spoke volumes, for Kate had done this when she was little....staring hard as I slept, until I on some level felt her stare.....she not saying anything....waiting....eyes saying everything. My mother always said she had never seen a child love her mother more than Kate loved me. And in this tiny moment before this biggest day, I feel that. Her eyes say it all.

I was reminded that although my daughter is going to prom and although I sometimes feel her slipping away, there are those times even now....those moments in time when she is still my precious child....this one I waited forty years for.....this child born of loss and pain, of struggle and tears but at the same time of conviction and strength and resolve and faith....this child who shares so many of those same attributes...my Kate.

She sometimes doesn't understand why my love is so hard. She sometimes doesn't understand why my answer is no or why my expectations are high. Frankly, I don't care. My mother's love was hard. My daughter will one day realize, as I have of mine, that her mother wants so very much for her and sees how very special she is. For even through my groggy, blurry morning eyes, I see the dancers in hers. I know she can do anything. I just pray those dancers are always there, in those deep gold brown windows to her soul. I hope she finds her way. I hope many, many mornings begin with her staring at her sleeping mom....waiting for my wakening to share her day.....her moment in time.



Note: The phrase "dancers in her eyes" is borrowed from a lyric of the new band Autopilot. My nephew Carr, soon to be featured by Dee, is a member.

Tiny Dancer

April 15, 2013. It's Patriots Day in Boston. For many, it's the much dreaded tax day. For Bostonians, it's quite simply the best day of the year. It's Patriots Day.....Patriots Day. The Red Sox play. This year they win. It's Marathon Day. In spectacular temperatures and conditions, the iconic Boston Marathon is run. Serious athletes compete in one of the most illustrious races of all. Perhaps less accomplished but even more motivated runners run for causes of the heart. They run for cures. They run for loved ones lost. They run. They glory. They glory in the moment. They glory in the day.

It's a school holiday. A six-year-old, her mother, her brothers head to Copley Square. They'll watch the Marathon. They'll meet her dad. She's so excited. She reaches for her mom's hand. She skips along. She cannot imagine a more perfect day. They find the perfect spot near the finish line grandstands, all set for a perfect view. They soak up the sunshine. They soak up the energy. They soak up the joy. They take in the perfect moment. Until the moment is shattered.

Suddenly, in a sonic like boom, innocence is lost. Perfection is lost. A second explosion, and life as the beautiful six year old....this one who loves and lives to dance, this most precious Tiny Dancer.....has known it is obliterated. In a senseless moment born of a coward's sick mind, so much is lost. Frightened beyond imagining, she looks behind to see her strangely still big brother Martin. She cannot feel her leg. She's terrified to look, but she must peek down. It isn't there. Bewildered, she feels herself being scooped up, up in the arms of a fireman as her brother peacefully rests in the arms of the angels. Wide-eyed, shocked, she stares quizzically into the tearful yet strong eyes of one of Boston's finest...one trying to help her, trying to save her. He calms her. He speaks in hushed tones. He sees the horror. He thinks of his grandson. He knows the tiny dancer has lost her leg. He worries about her other, for he sees through his own tears and shock that the remaining leg is seriously injured. He is haunted by her innocent eyes, by her missing leg. She wants her mom. But on this day her mom, too, will fight for life.

Six year olds don't experience this. Tiny dancers do not experience this. Not in America. Not on Patriots Day. Not in Boston. It's a day for hot dogs...for baseball....for the exquisite athletes of the Marathon.....for school holidays....for tiny dancers.....for everything we hold precious.....for innocence.

Heroes are born. Bostonians show their grit and their resolve. America falls to her knees to pray for strength, for comfort, for justice. And I pray for a tiny dancer.




This blog post is based on bits and pieces of the hours of news coverage I have seen and heard this week and born of the pain and hurt I feel for the most innocent victims of the tragedy in Boston.

Shop Local

For several years there has been a Chamber of Commerce sponsored "Shop Lancaster" effort. And I am all for that. As a realtor, I clearly understand the importance of supporting local businesses. But this morning, I found myself wishing I had shopped far, far away from my beloved home town corner drug store.

I realized I needed stamps. Then I realized I was much closer to the drug store than to the post office. And while at the drug store, I could also pick up body wash, another item on my to do list for today and something I definitely could not get at the post office. As I made my way quickly through the drug store, I also remembered that I needed some feminine hygiene products. Without thinking much about the choices and more importantly without my trusty reading glasses, I grabbed the first I saw.... which sadly turned out to be of the "Sweet Romance" variety. Finally, as I rounded the last aisle toward check-out, I noted that my favorite wine was on sale, and at a great price no less. I just couldn't pass it up. Note to readers: It is probably not the best idea for the pharmacy to sell wine. I'm just saying.....

So, let's get the whole picture......it's 10:00 am. I am in the local drug store where like Cheers, "everybody knows your name." I think half the staff has told me they graduated from high school with Adrian. And remember my basket...my basket for check-out that now consists of several (but who's counting) bottles of wine, my "sweet romance" feminine product, body wash....and, oh yes, the stamps which were the reason for my trip to begin with.

Now, it's a sunny almost spring Friday morning in LA, and I suppose I am looking fairly cute in my salmon colored cropped skinny jeans. As I stood at check out, I suddenly regretted that I also was wearing my hot animal print slingback pimps....um that's pumps.... you know, the ones with the three inch heels. As the suddenly quite disapproving clerk peered over her glasses I thought let's just get this check out done and get out of here. But she intentionally it seemed oh so slowly took each item ceremoniously out of my basket.......first the body wash....then the Sweet Romance......then the several bottles of wine. Just as I thought it couldn't possibly get worse, and with my little cluster of shame sitting not so ceremoniously now on the very public counter, it happened. She was yelling "Could I Get a Price Check on the Big Bottles of Moscato Wine? Denise's got several here." I am sure she is thinking girl, you are way too old to be planning a party like the one these purchases indicate.

I arrived home, opened my bags, still shaking my head, when I suddenly realized, I had left my stamps. Had my sale actually managed to close last week, I might have chosen to just leave the stamps. As it were, back I went, back to the scene of my earlier shame, back to my favorite corner drug store.

Oh well, at least I shopped Lancaster.

Alopecia,Introspection, and The Oxymoron That is a Teen

This morning I am....pensive. Introspective. Not sure why. I just am. As I showered and shampooed, I thought of Kate. Admittedly, this is not unusual. Almost every day, as I shampoo my hair, I think of Kate and her alopecia. I say the alopecia prayer. Hair. I would gladly give all of mine, if only she might no longer deal with her lack of it. I see her looks as she watches me blow dry my hair. She doesn't say anything....she doesn't have to. I'm her mother. I know.

I asked Adrian yesterday if he had noticed how suddenly beautiful this daughter of his and mine is....our strong-willed child with her gorgeous, nearly perfect face.....and her nearly bald head. As I have said so often, we are blessed and grateful this is not a life threatening diagnosis. But how hard it must be for a soon to be fifteen year old girl to cope with this particular malady. Maybe that's it....maybe that's why today brings such odd feelings. Kate's fifteenth birthday is fast approaching. With it come all the usual fears....fears of her driving, fears of her dating, fears of the disappointing choices she could make. Have we done enough?

But in Kate's case, there are additional questions. Who is going to one day hurt her feelings about her hair loss? What boy will break her heart because he can't understand or deal with her alopecia?

She wants to be a doctor but sees no reason why doctors should understand algebra, or any math. She wants to save puppies from the cruelty of the death rows of animal shelters, but she seems to feel her responsibility ends when the puppies are home. She wants to volunteer at the hospital, but she sees no reason an essay is required with the application. She wants to work at Carowinds. She wants to go to Prom. She wants to be in Cotillion. She wants....hair. Like all the other girls her age, she wants hair. She's an oxymoron of understanding and lack of, of hurt and strength, of a child and a blossoming young adult.

I can hire an algebra tutor. I can help with her hospital essay. I can support her soft spot for animals in dire straits. I can help her choose the perfect prom dress and try to help her into Cotillion. But hair.....I am helpless.

She's KK to some, Aunt Kate to others. She is daughter, sister, student, Christian. And she is an alopecia patient. As her teenage years come into full swing, just who will this girl become? And how will her hair loss affect her?

Yes, today, I am introspective. And my very strong daughter is out there.....doing what she does.....being who she is ....probably worrying far less than her mom. Tomorrow will be better.

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!