So often, when I meet and am getting to know someone new, I find myself asking them what they do for a living, or where they live. I find this habit interesting, as it doesn’t really tell me much about the person. For example, I work for Papyrus in sales for their Wholesale division. My basic line is that that I am a glorified stocker of greeting cards. My current position sheds little light on who I am. These are the 5 questions that I would really like to ask people, both new acquaintances and friends.
1. What were you like as a five year old?
2. What music album never grows old for you?
3. If money were no object, what would you be doing right now?
4. Where are your favorite places to be?
5. If you had to pick a theme song what would it be and why?
Answer those questions and I’ll certainly know more about you and who you really are. I’ve asked these questions of many people, specifically #3. It’s exhilarating to hear what others secretly dream and long for in life. One friend wanted to open her own store and run the business with her sister. She is doing just that today. Another, an attorney, dreamed of owning a dairy farm. Among my friends there are budding student advocates, bed and breakfast hosts, painters, musicians, art critics, owners of summer camps, forest rangers, photographers and writers, just to name a few.
I’ve come back to this question quite a bit this week. As with so many people, I’ve received news about my job, our company has been sold and we’re all feeling just a bit nervous about whether or not we’ll keep our jobs through the transition. What will I do if I lose my job? I’m weighing my options. My hope is to stay as close to my dream job as possible.
And if money were no object for me, what would I do you ask? I would write, learn to play the guitar, sing in my family room and take dance classes. I would join a storytelling group and perform stories to groups of children wherever they would listen. I would walk through my days with a camera around my neck to take photographs. I would learn to build bicycles and work in a bike shop. I’d start a writer’s workshop for adolescent girls to foster a sense of empowerment and community.
That’s a start at least.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
A cup of coffee
It is a few days after Easter, and as it goes with my job, I’ve been busy. As with much of retail business, the tide rises and falls with the given holiday. The day after Easter I am out working 14 hour days rushing around to get Mother’s Day set for all of those over achievers that must choose their greeting card way ahead of time.
I walked into my Target store in Kokomo with my normal stride and efficient manner. This particular Target is attached to the local mall. Almost every time I’ve been there, a man who looks much like a version of God, with long white hair and matching beard is sitting in the café area. I say he looks like God, but he really looks like a dusty God. A White Bearded wise man that started out clean at some point, but managed to collect some dust and dirt along the way, a God that shrugged off the white robes and pulled on some worn demin jeans and a soft royal blue flannel shirt. His hands are thick and callused, dirt sits under his nails, but they are clipped in smooth ovals.
Each time I walk into the store, I look for him, just as I am always shocked by the overly tanned older woman who works the service desk. Her burnt orange skin the result of countless hours in the nearby tanning bed a few stores down. He sits facing the registers, usually alone in the café. I’ve smiled at him several times in a way that makes me somehow feel like a overly perky cheerleader for life and living it. He does not return the smile.
I’ve often thought, I should offer to buy him a cup of coffee, maybe even get a cup myself and sit with him and talk. But quickly my inner critic takes over and says, that is so offensive to assume that he cannot buy his own coffee. My mind wrestles with the two view points, one quietly prodding me to approach this man, the other screaming that I am a naïve person who is simply oversensitive.
I’ve looked to the Target employees for signs. None of them look at him; don’t even seem to notice him sitting there. It is like he is a fixture in the store, another endcap that just never changes. I refuse to do that. I make eye contact with him each time even if he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t seem dazed or confused. He just sits and watches the Target customers flow in and out of the store.
The last time I was at the store, he sat with two younger people. As I walked past I could smell the cigarette smoke wafting off of their clothes and I heard the woman say to “God” , “So, is this what you do all day? Just sit here?” in an angry, frustrated tone. Slowing down just a bit to hear his response I heard him calmly say, “No,…” but I didn’t catch the rest.
I am guessing that the woman was his daughter and the man her husband, stopping in to talk to him. He is someone’s father, was someone’s son. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about this man. I am trying to work up my courage to buy him a cup of coffee the next time I go there, maybe even sit and talk with him if the moment lent itself to a conversation. The thought of him haunts me at times as I cannot imagine feeling like I was not being seen, of sitting in such a busy place, and having everyone ignore you, look past you in order to buy that egg wreath to put on the door. He isn’t disruptive, isn’t smelly, he’s just a little dusty.
It reminds me of the day my sister and I were getting on the train in Chicago after hearing Maya Angelou speak downtown. It had been a dream of mine to hear her speak, and I felt light and energized by the evening. As we rushed to the train a homeless woman eyed my doggy bag hungrily from The Cheesecake Factory and asked us for any change. We uncomfortably said no and go on the train. My stomach turned as we sat in our seats waiting for the train to leave. “I’ll be right back,” I said to my sister. “I’m going to leave this with that woman.”
I ran down the corridor of the train station back to the woman sitting on the floor. “Here you go.” I said. She looked up at me and said, “Thank you.” And I ran back to catch the train. As I remember that incident, I wanted to help her in that moment, but offering my leftovers hardly seemed honorable. Maybe it was the right thing, maybe it was really an insult. Maybe I should have insisted we purchase a sack lunch for that woman and take a later train home. We all struggle with those issues of what to do when we’re faced with someone else’s hardship. I guess in my mind I welcome that struggle because the alternative is to ignore or blame others for their problems and just breeze past using those excuses to minimize others’ pain.
Next time, though I know it will take some courage, I will offer a coffee. The worst he can say is no.
I walked into my Target store in Kokomo with my normal stride and efficient manner. This particular Target is attached to the local mall. Almost every time I’ve been there, a man who looks much like a version of God, with long white hair and matching beard is sitting in the café area. I say he looks like God, but he really looks like a dusty God. A White Bearded wise man that started out clean at some point, but managed to collect some dust and dirt along the way, a God that shrugged off the white robes and pulled on some worn demin jeans and a soft royal blue flannel shirt. His hands are thick and callused, dirt sits under his nails, but they are clipped in smooth ovals.
Each time I walk into the store, I look for him, just as I am always shocked by the overly tanned older woman who works the service desk. Her burnt orange skin the result of countless hours in the nearby tanning bed a few stores down. He sits facing the registers, usually alone in the café. I’ve smiled at him several times in a way that makes me somehow feel like a overly perky cheerleader for life and living it. He does not return the smile.
I’ve often thought, I should offer to buy him a cup of coffee, maybe even get a cup myself and sit with him and talk. But quickly my inner critic takes over and says, that is so offensive to assume that he cannot buy his own coffee. My mind wrestles with the two view points, one quietly prodding me to approach this man, the other screaming that I am a naïve person who is simply oversensitive.
I’ve looked to the Target employees for signs. None of them look at him; don’t even seem to notice him sitting there. It is like he is a fixture in the store, another endcap that just never changes. I refuse to do that. I make eye contact with him each time even if he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t seem dazed or confused. He just sits and watches the Target customers flow in and out of the store.
The last time I was at the store, he sat with two younger people. As I walked past I could smell the cigarette smoke wafting off of their clothes and I heard the woman say to “God” , “So, is this what you do all day? Just sit here?” in an angry, frustrated tone. Slowing down just a bit to hear his response I heard him calmly say, “No,…” but I didn’t catch the rest.
I am guessing that the woman was his daughter and the man her husband, stopping in to talk to him. He is someone’s father, was someone’s son. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about this man. I am trying to work up my courage to buy him a cup of coffee the next time I go there, maybe even sit and talk with him if the moment lent itself to a conversation. The thought of him haunts me at times as I cannot imagine feeling like I was not being seen, of sitting in such a busy place, and having everyone ignore you, look past you in order to buy that egg wreath to put on the door. He isn’t disruptive, isn’t smelly, he’s just a little dusty.
It reminds me of the day my sister and I were getting on the train in Chicago after hearing Maya Angelou speak downtown. It had been a dream of mine to hear her speak, and I felt light and energized by the evening. As we rushed to the train a homeless woman eyed my doggy bag hungrily from The Cheesecake Factory and asked us for any change. We uncomfortably said no and go on the train. My stomach turned as we sat in our seats waiting for the train to leave. “I’ll be right back,” I said to my sister. “I’m going to leave this with that woman.”
I ran down the corridor of the train station back to the woman sitting on the floor. “Here you go.” I said. She looked up at me and said, “Thank you.” And I ran back to catch the train. As I remember that incident, I wanted to help her in that moment, but offering my leftovers hardly seemed honorable. Maybe it was the right thing, maybe it was really an insult. Maybe I should have insisted we purchase a sack lunch for that woman and take a later train home. We all struggle with those issues of what to do when we’re faced with someone else’s hardship. I guess in my mind I welcome that struggle because the alternative is to ignore or blame others for their problems and just breeze past using those excuses to minimize others’ pain.
Next time, though I know it will take some courage, I will offer a coffee. The worst he can say is no.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Moving right along
Hello there! Did you think I abandoned this blog? Nope, I am still here, just busy working on projects. Per my New Years Resolution, I am working away on rejections #2 and #3. I received my first rejection of the year a couple of weeks ago, and TA-DA, I survived!
The best part of it, is that is has really motivated me and helped me get on the right track I believe. I am working on a particular children’s book right now. A literary agent is coming to Carmel in May to speak. She is offering to critique drafts of books for a small fee. She also just happens to specialize in Children’s Picture books. I’ve done many outlines and drafts of books. So, I went back and chose one to really work on. Hopefully next week it will be ready to submit. I cannot express how alive and joyful I feel just to have the ability to do all of this, and give it a shot. Hopefully each rejection will lessen in it’s sting, but at least I am taking the chance and for that, I am proud of myself.
Elizabeth took a trial electric guitar lesson this week. When she walked out of the lesson, she wore her characteristic blank face that comes out around new adults. Once the instructor bid us good-by she looked up at me with a huge smile and said, “Ask me how it went!”
“How did it go?” I laughed.
“It was AWESOME!” She proclaimed, her eyes twinkling in a way I’ve never seen before. I thought to myself, this could be it, this could be another creative outlet for her. That sparkle and joy radiating from her, that is what I want for my kids, for myself and for Josh. Josh and I have talked so much over the last few years about what we really want out of life for ourselves and for our kids. Here it was, shining in my daughter’s blue green eyes. Creativity, passion and joy to express oneself in the world, that is our goal, not a bigger house, not a stunning wardrobe, not plasma televisions. In our own way, we’re all working towards that goal right now and although it can be frustrating and daunting at times, it is also thrilling.
The best part of it, is that is has really motivated me and helped me get on the right track I believe. I am working on a particular children’s book right now. A literary agent is coming to Carmel in May to speak. She is offering to critique drafts of books for a small fee. She also just happens to specialize in Children’s Picture books. I’ve done many outlines and drafts of books. So, I went back and chose one to really work on. Hopefully next week it will be ready to submit. I cannot express how alive and joyful I feel just to have the ability to do all of this, and give it a shot. Hopefully each rejection will lessen in it’s sting, but at least I am taking the chance and for that, I am proud of myself.
Elizabeth took a trial electric guitar lesson this week. When she walked out of the lesson, she wore her characteristic blank face that comes out around new adults. Once the instructor bid us good-by she looked up at me with a huge smile and said, “Ask me how it went!”
“How did it go?” I laughed.
“It was AWESOME!” She proclaimed, her eyes twinkling in a way I’ve never seen before. I thought to myself, this could be it, this could be another creative outlet for her. That sparkle and joy radiating from her, that is what I want for my kids, for myself and for Josh. Josh and I have talked so much over the last few years about what we really want out of life for ourselves and for our kids. Here it was, shining in my daughter’s blue green eyes. Creativity, passion and joy to express oneself in the world, that is our goal, not a bigger house, not a stunning wardrobe, not plasma televisions. In our own way, we’re all working towards that goal right now and although it can be frustrating and daunting at times, it is also thrilling.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Chew Stick Update
When I went to pick Kai up from school, his teachers told me that the stick worked like a charm. "He chewed on it a lot of the day and didn't put anything else in his mouth." His teacher glowed. Then, giving me the thumbs up sign she said, "Way to go on finding that little thing."
So, I felt better. Ironically, the very next day, yesterday, he wanted nothing to do with it. In fact, when I asked him if he wanted it he said, "No, we return it."
I am not returning it. It will be another tool to use if he needs it. It's funny, it has really gotten me thinking about how we all have out little regulating strategies. I'm the queen of self-regulation actually. I have to get up early for alone time in order to not want to snap people's heads off each morning. I need to eat frequent small meals or else again, snapping people's heads off. I often feel like I'll explode if I don't get outside or workout for an hour each day. Kai is much the same, as is Elizabeth, in different ways. As their mom, I just need to help them find the activity or timing that helps them to feel better. Like me, Kai's an eater. He needs plenty of good food a the right times to avoid meltdown.
In other "Kai" news, I've finally started writing his adoption story book. You'll remember this was one of my New Year's resolutions. I struggle with how to verbalize his story in an age appropriate manner. I plan to scan pictures into Snapfish and then make a real book for him to read. I have a rough draft of it as of this morning.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Chew Stick
Peanut butter and jelly and a hot mug of peppermint tea should do the trick. That’s what I eat when my stomach is nervous and rejects the idea of any other source of nourishment. This morning it stubbornly refuses to settle down. I cannot decide if it is a result of nerves or a flu bug of some sort. Probably nerves.
Last Friday Kai’s teacher pulled me aside to talk to me about an “issue” in class. No parent wants the quiet confidential chat in the corner of the room. Sometimes it occurs just outside of the classroom door. It means your kid did something he was not supposed to do, signaling the “Uh-oh” response in every parent alive.
In this particular case, Kai apparently decided to lick the length of his neighbor’s arm at circle time last week, picture a deer at a salt lick. “Yuck!” I said. “What did the kid whose arm he was licking do?” I believe in natural consequences. I hoped she would tell me that the kid yelped, “Grooooooss! Kai is licking me!” and Kai would then stop. Either the kid didn’t mind the impromptu cat-like bath or his teacher didn’t want to get into it, because she gently waved the question away as if a sudden puff of smoke had blurred her vision.
“Kai seems to put a lot of items in his mouth,” she went on in a soothing soft tone. “I spoke to the assistant director about this and the licking. She wondered if maybe be might have a vitamin deficiency?”
“Yes, we’ve also noticed that Kai is very oral and puts everything in his mouth at home. For some reason we’ve also noticed an increase in the mouthing of different objects in the last week or so.”
His teacher listened intently and nodded her head in agreement. I love his teacher. She has smooth cream colored skin and bright hazel eyes. I imagine Kai pressing his cheek into hers enjoying the velvety sensation against his own rounded cheek. Her boys are grown. I can tell she sees the magic of childhood with experienced eyes. Openly embracing all of the children, she tries to frame even the most horrible behavior in a gentle manner.
I went on. “I don’t think it is a vitamin deficiency though because he had a ton of blood work done when we brought him home a year and half ago. Plus, he is a really healthy eater and takes a multi-vitamin already.” She didn’t quite look convinced, but at the same time I could see she wondered if she should press the issue.
“I’ll call his pediatrician and check up on it, see what she says. We have noticed this issue at home too but when we asked his doctor about it she felt that it was a result of being in the orphanage for the first two and half years of his life and that he is developmentally trying to catch up since he was never able to go through that phase of mouthing objects as a child.”
“Oh,” her eyes widened with patient understanding. I didn’t really want to be talking about it all here suddenly. I don’t like to think about Kai in the orphanage. I felt flooded with memories of visiting the orphanage days after getting Kai in China. How he screamed with grief when he mistakenly thought we were bringing him back. How we aren’t sure how he came out as adjusted as he is. How we were told he was taken home by a caretaker often. How he called her mom. We met the caretaker that day and we have a picture of her with Kai, her eyes looking straight at the camera, not smiling. Did she want to adopt him? Could she? How tough it was to see his steel barred crib, with just a wooden slab to sleep on and imagine him there all that time before we arrived. How most of the children in the orphanage had a range of special needs and this overwhelmed and scared me. How my reaction of fear flamed up, my face hot with shame.
Sensing my pause she said, “That sounds good. You let me know just what you hear from her.”
I left the classroom holding Kai’s hand, lost in my own thoughts. I would call the doctor as soon as we got home. I would get this stored out. The thing was, Kai DOES put a lot into his mouth. I jokingly refer to him as our little goat when I talk about it to friends. I laugh about it, but at times it has been frightening. It isn’t just the small parts that you have to worry about. He once was playing in his room with Elizabeth and she came running to find me. Kai had bitten the night light bulb and broken it. Luckily no one was hurt. For Christmas I bought him a huge dry erase board to hang on his wall in his room and color on. We opened it up, and in about one nano-second he was putting a nickel sized magnet into his mouth. It came with the board and I didn’t notice it until that moment.
After I unpacked Kai’s bag and put the snack out, I dialed the pediatrician’s number. After explaining the situation to the nurse, she consulted with the doctor and agreed with my initial reaction. No, his blood work is fine and recent enough, but it is probably a delay as a result of the orphanage, talk to his speech therapist and she should be able to help you.
I did, I spoke to the speech therapist, my sister and my mom, well I left my mom a message. It turns out that my sister helped the most. She recommended something called a “Chew Stick” for Kai. Basically, it turns out that some kids need a lot of oral stimulation. They call it oral motor. These kids need to get a lot of exposure to chewing in order to feel regulated. Apparently, if I provide enough opportunities for Kai to get the chewing and exploratory mouthing in, then he should be able to “catch up” to where he should be in this regard developmentally. His speech therapist thought it was a good idea as well.
So, I ordered one for him as an experiment. It arrived last Thursday. I will admit, I felt a little skeptical about the whole deal. Despite all of my reading about the brain development and delays associated with being in an institution like an orphanage for any length of time, I just wasn’t sure I bought it. When I gave the chew stick to Kai and explained that it was meant for him to chew on or put in his mouth, and he could do so as much as he wanted to, he went right to it. I mean immediately, like a dog to a bone.
At first this validated me and I felt like a good mother. “Ok, well he obviously needs this, so good for me for finding it and getting him one.” But that thought quickly turned into, “Whoa. He obviously needs this. Is this a problem? Are there more delays the doctors missed? Does he have sensory issues? How long will he need this chew stick?” And those thoughts were quickly followed by, “He looks like he is autistic, like he has a disability or something, chewing that stick. People are going to wonder what his problem is. “ And that was followed by a rash of self-bashing for thinking such thoughts. My mom is a special education teacher. I have an endorsement in special education and have worked hard as a teacher and as a parent to not discriminate, to value how we are all different learners, value the diversity of the brain. Here I was getting paranoid about my son with a chew stick! Again, I felt fear balance by shame in regard to my first gut reactions.
Today is the first day he has the chew stick at school. Hopefully it helps and isn’t a distraction. I have been so humbled by this experience. It can be really tough to do the right thing with your children. Goodness knows I am trying my best, but some days the negative self-talk that can kill you. I understand in the grand scheme of things, this whole chew stick deal is small beans. Kai is a sweet, loving, healthy young boy. He’s been doing find in school and his vivacious personality is contagious. Everywhere we go, people remember Kai. He is such a huge blessing in my life and has already taught me so much.
We’ll see what happens. It may be that the extra mouthing exposure will help to catch him up in this instance, and then that will be it. We may find out that there are other adjustments in other areas that we need to make down the road. We’ll have to wait and see. I would be lying if I said that I am not really all that concerned. Still, for today, I’ll drink some peppermint tea, take a few deep breaths, write a little more and pray that the day went well. Then I’ll pick him up and I’ll hold his hand in the parking lot and come home.
Last Friday Kai’s teacher pulled me aside to talk to me about an “issue” in class. No parent wants the quiet confidential chat in the corner of the room. Sometimes it occurs just outside of the classroom door. It means your kid did something he was not supposed to do, signaling the “Uh-oh” response in every parent alive.
In this particular case, Kai apparently decided to lick the length of his neighbor’s arm at circle time last week, picture a deer at a salt lick. “Yuck!” I said. “What did the kid whose arm he was licking do?” I believe in natural consequences. I hoped she would tell me that the kid yelped, “Grooooooss! Kai is licking me!” and Kai would then stop. Either the kid didn’t mind the impromptu cat-like bath or his teacher didn’t want to get into it, because she gently waved the question away as if a sudden puff of smoke had blurred her vision.
“Kai seems to put a lot of items in his mouth,” she went on in a soothing soft tone. “I spoke to the assistant director about this and the licking. She wondered if maybe be might have a vitamin deficiency?”
“Yes, we’ve also noticed that Kai is very oral and puts everything in his mouth at home. For some reason we’ve also noticed an increase in the mouthing of different objects in the last week or so.”
His teacher listened intently and nodded her head in agreement. I love his teacher. She has smooth cream colored skin and bright hazel eyes. I imagine Kai pressing his cheek into hers enjoying the velvety sensation against his own rounded cheek. Her boys are grown. I can tell she sees the magic of childhood with experienced eyes. Openly embracing all of the children, she tries to frame even the most horrible behavior in a gentle manner.
I went on. “I don’t think it is a vitamin deficiency though because he had a ton of blood work done when we brought him home a year and half ago. Plus, he is a really healthy eater and takes a multi-vitamin already.” She didn’t quite look convinced, but at the same time I could see she wondered if she should press the issue.
“I’ll call his pediatrician and check up on it, see what she says. We have noticed this issue at home too but when we asked his doctor about it she felt that it was a result of being in the orphanage for the first two and half years of his life and that he is developmentally trying to catch up since he was never able to go through that phase of mouthing objects as a child.”
“Oh,” her eyes widened with patient understanding. I didn’t really want to be talking about it all here suddenly. I don’t like to think about Kai in the orphanage. I felt flooded with memories of visiting the orphanage days after getting Kai in China. How he screamed with grief when he mistakenly thought we were bringing him back. How we aren’t sure how he came out as adjusted as he is. How we were told he was taken home by a caretaker often. How he called her mom. We met the caretaker that day and we have a picture of her with Kai, her eyes looking straight at the camera, not smiling. Did she want to adopt him? Could she? How tough it was to see his steel barred crib, with just a wooden slab to sleep on and imagine him there all that time before we arrived. How most of the children in the orphanage had a range of special needs and this overwhelmed and scared me. How my reaction of fear flamed up, my face hot with shame.
Sensing my pause she said, “That sounds good. You let me know just what you hear from her.”
I left the classroom holding Kai’s hand, lost in my own thoughts. I would call the doctor as soon as we got home. I would get this stored out. The thing was, Kai DOES put a lot into his mouth. I jokingly refer to him as our little goat when I talk about it to friends. I laugh about it, but at times it has been frightening. It isn’t just the small parts that you have to worry about. He once was playing in his room with Elizabeth and she came running to find me. Kai had bitten the night light bulb and broken it. Luckily no one was hurt. For Christmas I bought him a huge dry erase board to hang on his wall in his room and color on. We opened it up, and in about one nano-second he was putting a nickel sized magnet into his mouth. It came with the board and I didn’t notice it until that moment.
After I unpacked Kai’s bag and put the snack out, I dialed the pediatrician’s number. After explaining the situation to the nurse, she consulted with the doctor and agreed with my initial reaction. No, his blood work is fine and recent enough, but it is probably a delay as a result of the orphanage, talk to his speech therapist and she should be able to help you.
I did, I spoke to the speech therapist, my sister and my mom, well I left my mom a message. It turns out that my sister helped the most. She recommended something called a “Chew Stick” for Kai. Basically, it turns out that some kids need a lot of oral stimulation. They call it oral motor. These kids need to get a lot of exposure to chewing in order to feel regulated. Apparently, if I provide enough opportunities for Kai to get the chewing and exploratory mouthing in, then he should be able to “catch up” to where he should be in this regard developmentally. His speech therapist thought it was a good idea as well.
So, I ordered one for him as an experiment. It arrived last Thursday. I will admit, I felt a little skeptical about the whole deal. Despite all of my reading about the brain development and delays associated with being in an institution like an orphanage for any length of time, I just wasn’t sure I bought it. When I gave the chew stick to Kai and explained that it was meant for him to chew on or put in his mouth, and he could do so as much as he wanted to, he went right to it. I mean immediately, like a dog to a bone.
At first this validated me and I felt like a good mother. “Ok, well he obviously needs this, so good for me for finding it and getting him one.” But that thought quickly turned into, “Whoa. He obviously needs this. Is this a problem? Are there more delays the doctors missed? Does he have sensory issues? How long will he need this chew stick?” And those thoughts were quickly followed by, “He looks like he is autistic, like he has a disability or something, chewing that stick. People are going to wonder what his problem is. “ And that was followed by a rash of self-bashing for thinking such thoughts. My mom is a special education teacher. I have an endorsement in special education and have worked hard as a teacher and as a parent to not discriminate, to value how we are all different learners, value the diversity of the brain. Here I was getting paranoid about my son with a chew stick! Again, I felt fear balance by shame in regard to my first gut reactions.
Today is the first day he has the chew stick at school. Hopefully it helps and isn’t a distraction. I have been so humbled by this experience. It can be really tough to do the right thing with your children. Goodness knows I am trying my best, but some days the negative self-talk that can kill you. I understand in the grand scheme of things, this whole chew stick deal is small beans. Kai is a sweet, loving, healthy young boy. He’s been doing find in school and his vivacious personality is contagious. Everywhere we go, people remember Kai. He is such a huge blessing in my life and has already taught me so much.
We’ll see what happens. It may be that the extra mouthing exposure will help to catch him up in this instance, and then that will be it. We may find out that there are other adjustments in other areas that we need to make down the road. We’ll have to wait and see. I would be lying if I said that I am not really all that concerned. Still, for today, I’ll drink some peppermint tea, take a few deep breaths, write a little more and pray that the day went well. Then I’ll pick him up and I’ll hold his hand in the parking lot and come home.
Monday, March 16, 2009
My bicycle maintenance class
I remember my Dad saying he quit playing golf because he wanted to play for fun and relaxation, but got so frustrated that he ended up leaving the course angry and wound up tighter than John McEnroe after a questionable call. I am finding myself feeling the same way about bicycle mechanics. The more I read about cycling and repair the more I want to learn how to do all of those things myself. Recently, I read an article about a sixty-one year old woman, who rode her bike to work every day in Boston! She got on that thing and rode through the snow and the rain and all the mushy, messy weather that is New England. The bike she rode on her daily excursions she made herself!!! That woman picked out every aspect of her bike down to the type of fenders hovering above her tires. With her own two hands she pieced that puppy together. Am I the only one who thinks that is incredibly and amazingly cool. I doubt it. After reading that article, I slapped the magazine across my legs with a firm determination and thought, “Well, darn it, if that woman can do it at sixty-one, then I should be able to do it too.” HA! So far, it turns out age has very little to do with mechanical ability. At thirty three, I was hoping for somewhat of an edge over this woman. Unfortunately, I am not proving to be much of a mechanic.
To my credit, here is a list of bicycle maintenance items I currently perform fairly well:
• Remove my front and back tire
• replace a flat tire
• Pump my tires
• Put on brand new tires
• Adjust my breaks (I just learned this in my class this weekend)
• raise and adjust my saddle and seat stem
• clean my chain
• lube my cables
• adjust the tension on my pedals
• install my own cleats
As I write all of that down, I’ll admit, I do feel a little bit better. It reminds me of all my years of teaching and how we were always told to approach our students with a “strengths based” attitude. In essence, start with what they know and can do well first, then more onto their “challenges”.
My challenge is that the more I learn, the more I realize I know nothing. For example, before this weekend I thought my bike had Shimano components. Don’t ask me why I thought this. I just never thought to look at my components on my bike to double check. It says about 5 times on my bike, Campagnolo Veloce. Not Shimano, but Campy components. As it happens, these are pretty decent components.
Also, as long as I am coming clean, before this weekend I had NO IDEA that the cables on a bike not only work the breaks, but TA-DA, they also are what shift your gears up and down! And it works strictly by adding or releasing tension, which was really cool for me to learn actually. How did I miss all of this? Do you people know this? Not only have I missed this in the past, but I asked our poor instructor about 46 thousand follow up questions to really understand how it all works. Let me tell you, that was one patient man!
Maybe the secret in life is that I should feel like a dumb ass for at least part of the time, just to remind me that yes, there is a lot out there that has been right under my nose that I never took the time to learn about. Really, if I take the “I should know this…” factor out of it, it’s really like being eight years old again, playing in the garage and seeing just what will happen if you loosen that bolt and pry off that washer?
The thirteen year old boy in our bicycle class this weekend was by far the most confident and the most at ease with the new material. He patiently played with his bike as his Dad, my Dad and I all frowned at our mounted frames, silently mumbling to ourselves as we tried to perform the tasks we’d just been taught. I’m hoping that learning more about bikes and what makes them work doesn’t leave me like my Dad and golf, throwing tantrums and cursing into the wind.
Instead, I’ll try to remain “strengths based”, and look at my “I can do these things “list frequently. So even though I can’t seem to figure out how to raise my threaded stemmed handlebars, at least I can say that I know the difference between a threaded and a threadless stem, for the most part at least. From what I can tell so far, the one I don’t have would be easier to adjust!
To my credit, here is a list of bicycle maintenance items I currently perform fairly well:
• Remove my front and back tire
• replace a flat tire
• Pump my tires
• Put on brand new tires
• Adjust my breaks (I just learned this in my class this weekend)
• raise and adjust my saddle and seat stem
• clean my chain
• lube my cables
• adjust the tension on my pedals
• install my own cleats
As I write all of that down, I’ll admit, I do feel a little bit better. It reminds me of all my years of teaching and how we were always told to approach our students with a “strengths based” attitude. In essence, start with what they know and can do well first, then more onto their “challenges”.
My challenge is that the more I learn, the more I realize I know nothing. For example, before this weekend I thought my bike had Shimano components. Don’t ask me why I thought this. I just never thought to look at my components on my bike to double check. It says about 5 times on my bike, Campagnolo Veloce. Not Shimano, but Campy components. As it happens, these are pretty decent components.
Also, as long as I am coming clean, before this weekend I had NO IDEA that the cables on a bike not only work the breaks, but TA-DA, they also are what shift your gears up and down! And it works strictly by adding or releasing tension, which was really cool for me to learn actually. How did I miss all of this? Do you people know this? Not only have I missed this in the past, but I asked our poor instructor about 46 thousand follow up questions to really understand how it all works. Let me tell you, that was one patient man!
Maybe the secret in life is that I should feel like a dumb ass for at least part of the time, just to remind me that yes, there is a lot out there that has been right under my nose that I never took the time to learn about. Really, if I take the “I should know this…” factor out of it, it’s really like being eight years old again, playing in the garage and seeing just what will happen if you loosen that bolt and pry off that washer?
The thirteen year old boy in our bicycle class this weekend was by far the most confident and the most at ease with the new material. He patiently played with his bike as his Dad, my Dad and I all frowned at our mounted frames, silently mumbling to ourselves as we tried to perform the tasks we’d just been taught. I’m hoping that learning more about bikes and what makes them work doesn’t leave me like my Dad and golf, throwing tantrums and cursing into the wind.
Instead, I’ll try to remain “strengths based”, and look at my “I can do these things “list frequently. So even though I can’t seem to figure out how to raise my threaded stemmed handlebars, at least I can say that I know the difference between a threaded and a threadless stem, for the most part at least. From what I can tell so far, the one I don’t have would be easier to adjust!
Friday, March 13, 2009
Write about your reaction to a crisis you experienced: This was a writing prompt from “The One Minute Writer” blog.
Not many people can claim that two of their college roommates dropped out of school, but I can. Not that I really want that particular claim to fame, but it remains true all the same. My roommate sophomore year just couldn’t get to class. During my senior year, a different roommate experienced a mini-meltdown and moved home.
As a result of my disappearing roommates, I lived alone in an apartment on campus for part of my senior year. During this time, I would set my alarm for 5am and go out for a run before my classes each morning. One October morning, I put on my shoes, bending over to tie the laces as I have since mastering the task in kindergarten, two bunny eared loops, cross them in an X, then wrap one ear down and through. Pull both ears and you’ve got tied laces! Grabbing my walkman I quick footed it down the stairs out onto the quiet street.
I never quite caught on to the college habit of embracing the wee hours of the night. My habit to rise early in the morning as a college student wasn’t one I broadcasted to my peers. It seemed like doing so would be the equivalent as getting the following tattooed on my forehead. “I would rather greet the day cheerily than party with rigor through the night.” and in italics underneath it would say, “I swear I’m not a boring loser-really.” Being a morning person in college takes a lot of explaining. I often found myself backpedaling furiously when the topic arose, hoping to convey that I was not in fact antisocial or weird. Sometimes I just didn’t have the energy or desire to defend my preferences.
Heading out into the run for the day, my lungs gratefully sucked up the inky autumn morning. As I turned right onto the main drag in campus, congratulating myself on another morning out of bed and into the world before all others, I realized that I hadn’t yet turned my walkman on. The silence of the dark morning had felt so good, peaceful and whole. I relished those sensations as my legs warmed up.
The well-lit street main drag of campus was lined with old houses on the right and the expansive Dunn Meadow on the left. I chose the open side. My skin pleasantly began to perspire under my IU rowing t-shirt. Without looking in the mirror, I knew my cheeks would have the bright red glow that earned me the nickname, “Tomato Face” in my high school gym class. It didn’t take much effort for my complexion to flush. PE teachers sometimes would furrow their brow during class and ask me if I felt ok.
My thoughts broke off as the scene before me shifted suddenly. A man in a grey sweatshirt popped up out of the bushes lining the small front lawns of the houses on the right side of the street. He must have been crouching behind them. “Hey there,” he whispered. My heart slammed against my chest. You have got to be kidding me I thought. Quickly, I scanned the street. No one in sight. No lights on inside any of the houses. There I was, on the main street of Indiana University’s campus, normally packed with people throwing Frisbees, sitting in the sun reading, smoking cigarettes and laughing with friends, and the road was barren and silent. It struck me as amazing that this man and I seemed to be the only ones awake, the only ones pulling the air through our noses into our bodies, the only ones in this sudden show-down.
Without moving my head, I looked out of the corner of my eye, he’d begun hop skipping sideways in an aerobic like manner, watching me, sensing my fear, smiling. I believed he thought my walkman was on, that I wasn’t quite aware of him. I knew I would have to cross the street and try to bang on one of the houses doors. But which one? Many were simply offices for various campus groups. No one would be there at this hour. At the end of the street Sigma Chi’s front light shone brightly. Although no lights glowed from the windows, I felt confident that if I pounded hard enough and screamed, they would come to the door. Just as I made this decision and picked up the pace of my running, the man made his own decision and darted towards me from across the street.
I remember thinking, “Oh my God, this is like a bad afterschool special. This cannot really be happening.” In that moment, a figure appeared to my left and as the man’s hand reached out for my arm, calmly said, “Scream, now.” And I did. I opened my mouth and the scream enveloped the spaces left open, spaces that would be filled in just a few hours with backpacks and bleary eyed students. I felt as an opera singer must feel on stage. The scream completely took over my body. Shocked and wide eyed, the man turned to flee in the opposite direction. Still screaming, I somehow found myself at Sigma Chi’s door, where I pounded on their door with my closed fist. After what felt like a decade, hand flew up the stairs from behind me and wrapped his arms around me, “Hey, it’s ok, you’re okay.” he said. I collapsed in his arms. The door opened and several Sigma Chi guys dressed only in their boxers stood looking down at the two of us with concerned expressions on their pillow creased faces.
The police were called. The president of the house led me to a ridiculously formal red velvet chair in the fraternity’s front room. The boys milled around, unsure of what to do. The man who found me was from the local ROTC. He told me that they were two streets over, doing their morning run, when they heard my screams. Half of them took off towards me and the other half spotted a man running away and pursued him.
The police officer arrived and I gave a description of the man and recounted what had happened. He shared that a man with a similar description was wanted for various sexual assault charges occurring over the last few months. The officer recommended not running the same route each day on my runs, that I should switch it up. He felt that the man had probably noticed I ran the same loop about 4 days a week and then just waited for me to show up. He questioned me and a few of the ROTC men, then drove me home to my apartment.
After walking into my apartment and securely locking the door, I picked up the phone to call my parents. Before I could finish the story, I started crying. I didn’t want to burden m y parents with worry, but I knew I needed to tell them. My mom said she could come out for a few days, but I flatly refused. Even though I was living by myself at the time, I felt that if I didn’t push myself to get through it, I wouldn’t ever feel safe by myself again.
Ironically, the next day at school, my mom’s assistant, Beth told my mom that her daughter, also a Kate, had called her concerned about an incident on campus. Kate also attended IU. Her boyfriend, a ROTC guy, called her the night before pretty upset. He explained they were out for their morning run, and a girl started screaming. “I’ve never heard screaming like that before,” he told her. He got to the girl in time, but that could have been Kate. Some of the other ROTC guys went after him, but guy got away. He wanted her to be careful. It shook them all up. Kate called her mom, feeling a bit freaked out. Of course the girl was me.
What pissed me off the most was not the actual experience of fear, because I had been really lucky. I felt incredibly grateful for the ability to scream and the ROTC’s presence just a few blocks away. What pissed me off was the fear that lingered for years afterwards. Anytime I found myself outside after dark, my heart pounded. Later, when I lived in an apartment with street parking, I found the need to work up my courage to walk down the dark staircase and unlock my car. I will never forget the joy I felt when Josh and I moved into our first townhouse. We had a garage! I no longer had to scope out an area before heading to my car early in the morning or at night. I can still identify a blind spot a mile away. I am constantly aware of my surroundings as I walk or bike anywhere. Because, ultimately, I think that awareness also helped me. Had my walkman been on, he may have been able to surprise me, but that day for whatever reason, it wasn’t.
I did get a new and wonderful roommate, Heidi. Was the figure that showed up next to me a figment of my imagination? A guardian angel? I don’t know. But I found myself asking for its protection and help the next week when I forced myself to get up at 5 am and take a run. I did not bring a walkman. I took a different route. I ran for about 15 minutes. The whole time I chanted the following phrase over and over in my head, “I am not scared of you. You did not win. I am not scared of you. You did not win.” And when I walked back into my apartment around 5:17, I knew I wouldn’t be lacing up my shoes early in the morning again anytime soon, but it felt good to make the point. You did not win.
As a result of my disappearing roommates, I lived alone in an apartment on campus for part of my senior year. During this time, I would set my alarm for 5am and go out for a run before my classes each morning. One October morning, I put on my shoes, bending over to tie the laces as I have since mastering the task in kindergarten, two bunny eared loops, cross them in an X, then wrap one ear down and through. Pull both ears and you’ve got tied laces! Grabbing my walkman I quick footed it down the stairs out onto the quiet street.
I never quite caught on to the college habit of embracing the wee hours of the night. My habit to rise early in the morning as a college student wasn’t one I broadcasted to my peers. It seemed like doing so would be the equivalent as getting the following tattooed on my forehead. “I would rather greet the day cheerily than party with rigor through the night.” and in italics underneath it would say, “I swear I’m not a boring loser-really.” Being a morning person in college takes a lot of explaining. I often found myself backpedaling furiously when the topic arose, hoping to convey that I was not in fact antisocial or weird. Sometimes I just didn’t have the energy or desire to defend my preferences.
Heading out into the run for the day, my lungs gratefully sucked up the inky autumn morning. As I turned right onto the main drag in campus, congratulating myself on another morning out of bed and into the world before all others, I realized that I hadn’t yet turned my walkman on. The silence of the dark morning had felt so good, peaceful and whole. I relished those sensations as my legs warmed up.
The well-lit street main drag of campus was lined with old houses on the right and the expansive Dunn Meadow on the left. I chose the open side. My skin pleasantly began to perspire under my IU rowing t-shirt. Without looking in the mirror, I knew my cheeks would have the bright red glow that earned me the nickname, “Tomato Face” in my high school gym class. It didn’t take much effort for my complexion to flush. PE teachers sometimes would furrow their brow during class and ask me if I felt ok.
My thoughts broke off as the scene before me shifted suddenly. A man in a grey sweatshirt popped up out of the bushes lining the small front lawns of the houses on the right side of the street. He must have been crouching behind them. “Hey there,” he whispered. My heart slammed against my chest. You have got to be kidding me I thought. Quickly, I scanned the street. No one in sight. No lights on inside any of the houses. There I was, on the main street of Indiana University’s campus, normally packed with people throwing Frisbees, sitting in the sun reading, smoking cigarettes and laughing with friends, and the road was barren and silent. It struck me as amazing that this man and I seemed to be the only ones awake, the only ones pulling the air through our noses into our bodies, the only ones in this sudden show-down.
Without moving my head, I looked out of the corner of my eye, he’d begun hop skipping sideways in an aerobic like manner, watching me, sensing my fear, smiling. I believed he thought my walkman was on, that I wasn’t quite aware of him. I knew I would have to cross the street and try to bang on one of the houses doors. But which one? Many were simply offices for various campus groups. No one would be there at this hour. At the end of the street Sigma Chi’s front light shone brightly. Although no lights glowed from the windows, I felt confident that if I pounded hard enough and screamed, they would come to the door. Just as I made this decision and picked up the pace of my running, the man made his own decision and darted towards me from across the street.
I remember thinking, “Oh my God, this is like a bad afterschool special. This cannot really be happening.” In that moment, a figure appeared to my left and as the man’s hand reached out for my arm, calmly said, “Scream, now.” And I did. I opened my mouth and the scream enveloped the spaces left open, spaces that would be filled in just a few hours with backpacks and bleary eyed students. I felt as an opera singer must feel on stage. The scream completely took over my body. Shocked and wide eyed, the man turned to flee in the opposite direction. Still screaming, I somehow found myself at Sigma Chi’s door, where I pounded on their door with my closed fist. After what felt like a decade, hand flew up the stairs from behind me and wrapped his arms around me, “Hey, it’s ok, you’re okay.” he said. I collapsed in his arms. The door opened and several Sigma Chi guys dressed only in their boxers stood looking down at the two of us with concerned expressions on their pillow creased faces.
The police were called. The president of the house led me to a ridiculously formal red velvet chair in the fraternity’s front room. The boys milled around, unsure of what to do. The man who found me was from the local ROTC. He told me that they were two streets over, doing their morning run, when they heard my screams. Half of them took off towards me and the other half spotted a man running away and pursued him.
The police officer arrived and I gave a description of the man and recounted what had happened. He shared that a man with a similar description was wanted for various sexual assault charges occurring over the last few months. The officer recommended not running the same route each day on my runs, that I should switch it up. He felt that the man had probably noticed I ran the same loop about 4 days a week and then just waited for me to show up. He questioned me and a few of the ROTC men, then drove me home to my apartment.
After walking into my apartment and securely locking the door, I picked up the phone to call my parents. Before I could finish the story, I started crying. I didn’t want to burden m y parents with worry, but I knew I needed to tell them. My mom said she could come out for a few days, but I flatly refused. Even though I was living by myself at the time, I felt that if I didn’t push myself to get through it, I wouldn’t ever feel safe by myself again.
Ironically, the next day at school, my mom’s assistant, Beth told my mom that her daughter, also a Kate, had called her concerned about an incident on campus. Kate also attended IU. Her boyfriend, a ROTC guy, called her the night before pretty upset. He explained they were out for their morning run, and a girl started screaming. “I’ve never heard screaming like that before,” he told her. He got to the girl in time, but that could have been Kate. Some of the other ROTC guys went after him, but guy got away. He wanted her to be careful. It shook them all up. Kate called her mom, feeling a bit freaked out. Of course the girl was me.
What pissed me off the most was not the actual experience of fear, because I had been really lucky. I felt incredibly grateful for the ability to scream and the ROTC’s presence just a few blocks away. What pissed me off was the fear that lingered for years afterwards. Anytime I found myself outside after dark, my heart pounded. Later, when I lived in an apartment with street parking, I found the need to work up my courage to walk down the dark staircase and unlock my car. I will never forget the joy I felt when Josh and I moved into our first townhouse. We had a garage! I no longer had to scope out an area before heading to my car early in the morning or at night. I can still identify a blind spot a mile away. I am constantly aware of my surroundings as I walk or bike anywhere. Because, ultimately, I think that awareness also helped me. Had my walkman been on, he may have been able to surprise me, but that day for whatever reason, it wasn’t.
I did get a new and wonderful roommate, Heidi. Was the figure that showed up next to me a figment of my imagination? A guardian angel? I don’t know. But I found myself asking for its protection and help the next week when I forced myself to get up at 5 am and take a run. I did not bring a walkman. I took a different route. I ran for about 15 minutes. The whole time I chanted the following phrase over and over in my head, “I am not scared of you. You did not win. I am not scared of you. You did not win.” And when I walked back into my apartment around 5:17, I knew I wouldn’t be lacing up my shoes early in the morning again anytime soon, but it felt good to make the point. You did not win.
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