He's Decided to Be All That He Can Be

You know how you get caught up in the craziness of life, to the point where you sometimes forget that not everyone is living it with you?  Or how you make so many updates on Facebook, that you neglect the poor blog you started as the original update location?  Well, that's how it's been here. 

The biggest thing right now?  The Teenager enlisted in the Army.

Yes, I know the original plan was the Navy.  But after three attempts to get an ASVAB/AFQT score high enough for them to take him, he decided that maybe they weren't quite the right fit for him.

You will note, however, that he didn't give up altogether. Oh no. Not this boy. Man. Whatever.  No, he just went shopping for the branch that WAS the right fit for him. He found that with the Army. And so he took the physical. Signed the paperwork. Swore the Oath. Chose a career. Received a deployment date for basic training. He made it completely official.

My starter baby is leaving me in just a few short months. He is leaving me, to go learn how to protect and defend all of you. 

And I honestly believe I just may be more proud of him for this decision that I would have been if he had received a full-ride athletic scholarship to the college of his dreams. Well, if he'd ever dreamed of colleges and not the military.  Apparently, he IS going to be living his dream. Or at least, setting forth on the path towards it. Regardless, I AM so ridiculously beyond proud of him.

This may sound silly, but it occurs to me that this is one more thing in his life that we get to do together: learn to be Army Strong.  He as a soldier; me as a soldier's mom.

This is what he will be spending a very large chunk of his time in. Only, you know, a real tank that's not made out of Legos. 

My Thursday Night Was Awesome....How Was Yours?

Ready or Not.....

Here it comes.....

Five short weeks to go.

I look at this picture, and I see so many things. I see how ridiculously happy and excited he is. How proud of himself he is. I see him at five years old, at twelve, and now at *almost* eighteen.  I see that little boy who crawled into my lap every night, for one more snuggle; and the teenager that lays his head in my lap almost every night still, asking for one more back rub.  I see that brand new teenager, struggling to understand enough of the class to do his homework; and the young man who has learned how to push himself to succeed, giving up so much to better himself scholastically. 

He is one of the most amazing things I have ever been a part of.  He is beyond awesome. And in five short weeks, everyone who knows him will get the chance to celebrate just what a wonderful, amazing, awesome and just plain cool young man he really is.

Hey, Teenager?  If I haven't told you lately?  I am more proud of you than you will ever possibly realize, and more thankful to God for giving you into my care than I ever believed I could be. You are the epitome of strength of character, endurance of spirit, and beauty of soul. 

Mama loves you, baby. 

Spread the Word to End the Word

In my little world, this blog is really just a place I run to when I want to preserve some random memory of my boys, or put something down in writing that maybe they can look back on when they're grown and realize that Mom had some good ideas.  In my little world, my boys not only get along with each other, but they get along with the rest of the world.

Sadly, the rest of the world doesn't live in MY little world.

In the rest of the world, my boys face things like prejudice and intolerance, ignorance and selfishness. When it's directed at them, my boys can usually stand up for themselves, or for each other, against that ugliness. But when faced with ugliness geared towards others in the world who are too trusting and deep-down-to-the-soul innocent to stand up for themselves?  I'm hoping I've raised my boys to stand up for them, too.

My Bug, he's smart as a whip. But most people wouldn't know that if all they did was take a quick look at one brief snapshot of his life. If someone caught him off-guard in the middle of a massive meltdown caused simply by being too young and inexperienced to adequately cope with being Bipolar?  A meltdown moment when all he is able to hold himself together enough to do is cry, pull his hair and try to curl into a ball small enough to be overlooked?  What do you suppose would be said about him then? What names do you imagine people who didn't know any better would call him?

And that's just MY son. My son, who 98% of the time is fully able to communicate clearly and concisely with the general population. But for those who can't?  Well, that's when the rest of us need to stand up, pull up our big-girl pants, and do it for them. We need to strongly, clearly and unflinchingly tell the world to do what's right.

We teach our children to "use their words" when they're frustrated, angry or impatient. But do you stop to make sure you're teaching them the RIGHT words?

Today, I'm asking a favor of anyone who reads this. Take a minute to go to www.r-word.org.  Take the pledge. And then HONOR and LIVE that pledge.

Because a world full of people who use the right words? Who stand up for those who otherwise can't?  Make it easier to let my boys leave MY world and head out into the REAL world. And know that they won't be alone in it.

Dear Teenager.....

We're in the home stretch now, kiddo.  Only four months left until you graduate. Add a few more days to that, and you'll (finally!) be 18. Where have the years gone?

You were my first personal miracle; given to me when science had said you never would be; given to me again when medical experts said you should have been taken in that fall from the window.  You were my starter baby, my guinea pig, my "grow up quick" guide to adulthood. You were all that often kept me locked to reality when you were a baby; you still often are.  You were the highlight of my existence in those early years. You helped me remember that what I did mattered to someone. That I mattered to someone.

When your brother came along, you might possibly have been more excited than I was. Well, after you accepted that we weren't going to exchange the baby for a puppy.  You were my little helper, feeding him and keeping him happy.  You used to love it when he trailed around after you, and even though you will never admit it now, I think you still secretly smile when he talks about how awesome he thinks you are.

You never really were one of those difficult children that so many parents get to experience. You've always been loving, generous and open with your affection. Remember that afternoon you proudly called out to me from the street where you were riding bikes with your friends "Love you, Mom!"; and how they teased you? Do you remember your response? "What? Don't you guys love YOUR moms?" 

You have turned into one of the most amazing young men I've ever been blessed to know.  You are honest beyond measure, trustworthy, reliable, and still so amazingly generous with your love and affection.  If you care about someone, they know it without a shadow of a doubt. Your friends admire your dedication to making the right decisions, and your commitment to following through on your choices. Your little brother STILL knows he can count on you to steer him in the right direction, whether you want to--or even know you're doing it--or not.  Adults seek you out, because they know that when you say you'll do something, you'll do it. Even your dad and I know that; even if the dishes are still done with a little bit of grumbling.

Son, you are, without a moment's doubt, one of the very best parts of my life; of me. You are the keeper of a very special section of my heart that has belonged only to you since the doctor told me you existed when everything else said you shouldn't have.  You make me prouder than proud; more proud than I ever realized I could be. I am proud of who you were, more proud of who you've become, and I can't even fathom how proud I will be of who you will continue to grow into.

From singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" when you were three, to our weekly "dates" after your football games in high school, you have given me more memories than anyone would have ever believed a heart could hold. I can only hope that I have given you just as many to take with you on your journey into adulthood. 

I don't just love you, baby, I adore you.....

--Mama

Survivor's Guilt?

If you've got kids, there has been at least one instance, one moment in time, when you've had the thought Thank God that wasn't my kid. Be honest; you know you've thought it at least once. If your child plays a contact sport, you've thought it more times than you ever want to admit.

Thursday night's football game was a good one. My kid scored the first touchdown of the game, and our team won. And yet those stats aren't going to be how the game is remembered by most. See, Thursday's game was also an extremely hard played game. Football, by it's very nature, demands extremely hard play. Injuries, while not eagerly anticipated, are not unexpected either. Thursday's game had two; one from each team. Two instances where a player went down, and the trainer went out. Two instances that would cause the clock to stop for however long it took to assess the injury and get the player off the field. Two teams who went down on one knee, showing respect to their fellow athlete. Two players who had mothers in the stand, hands clenched together, chanting under their breath Please let him be okay; Please let him be okay.

One of those mothers, after five minutes, was able to breathe a bit easier. Her son was able to walk off the field; he just had to remove his pads-which he did on his own, albeit with some difficulty-and have his shoulder wrapped in ice for the remainder of the half. She was able to remain in her seat and watch the rest of the game.

The other mother, after five minutes, was called down to the field; where she sat with her son as he lay face down on that field. That mother had to sit there with her boy for another 25 minutes waiting for the ambulance; watching as the first arriving paramedics cut off his pads. She got to follow that ambulance to the nearest hospital; fervently praying the entire way that he would be okay, I imagine.

I have never been more proud of a group of boys, both boys I know and boys I probably never will, than I was on Thursday. To watch the opposing team drop their helmets and all move closer to their teammate, going down to one knee while they waited to see if he would move at all; watching our team, as a whole, down on one knee in a show of respect to a fellow athlete; was so heartbreakingly moving. When the first boy walked off the field, both teams and parents in both stands applauded. When the second boy was rolled off the field on the stretcher, both teams applauded and parents in both stands gave him a standing ovation. Small comfort for his mother, I'm sure.

As I sit here writing this post, its Sunday night. It's been three days since that game, and our school has no more information about that boy now than we did that night. Which might be part of why I am still feeling so anxious for that boy, and still somewhat hovering over mine. Feeling guilty for being grateful.

You see, it was my son that was able to walk off that field on Thursday night while hers couldn't.

Everything Ripples

Dear History Teacher,

Even if you had been teaching for several decades now, instead of just a few years, I would probably still be writing this letter. But the fact that this is only your second year of teaching in the public school system (despite a small handful of years teaching in a charter school; which, let's face it, operates on an entirely different plane than the public school system), well....just further compels me to reach out to you.

See, I've got one of "those" kids. I'm sure you remember them from your own years in high school. The kids who would rather be anywhere but in the classroom, because they either don't get it, or don't want to. (And no, I'm not one of "those" parents, who refuse to believe that their child could be one of the latter; but I do believe that he is PRIMARILY one of the former.) Worse, he's an athlete; which means he HAS to be there whether he wants to or not, inviting the bitter attitudes so many of "those" kids have. You know, the kids who will tune you, as their teacher, completely out.

Last year started just like so many years have before. School was a place he had to be, and classes were something he had to pass, in order to play football and baseball. With the exception of the weight training class, he had zero expectations of getting decent grades. He expected to get just enough of a passing grade to maintain his eligibility, and that was it. And having already been well trained in how teachers tended to just give up on "those" kids, he had resigned himself to a year-long struggle reminding himself that class was necessary.

Then there was you. You, Mr. History Teacher, who dared to do something that no other teacher had for as long as he could remember. You pushed him. Pushed him to participate in ways that incorporated his other interests. Pushed him to take an active interest in the subject being taught; and learned. You pushed him to believe in himself. You believed in him, Mr. History Teacher, when so many teachers before you had given up on him.

And so he started actively participating in class. He would do his history homework before anything else. He put extra effort into your class projects and assignments, which his high grade all year reflected. He even brought his new found interest in history home with him, where it began to take root. Soon, he was watching the History Channel before school and in the evenings. He began to actively search the History Channel for specific events in history; even when those events weren't being discussed in class. He even began recording shows and movies from the History Channel to watch later. His dad was so in awe of his son's heretofore unheard of interest in anything historical that HE began watching the History Channel. First with our son, later by himself. Which led to our YOUNGER son beginning to watch with his dad.

Mr. History Teacher, what you have done is nothing short of amazing. Because you dared to believe in a student that other teachers would have, and had done in the past, given up on; our household has gone from one that watched, almost exclusively, ESPN, Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon to one that actively watches the History Channel several times a week. You have ignited a spark in these three to learn more about their world. You have given my oldest son a newer, stronger belief in himself that will see him push himself to finish high school with the best grades he can, not just to merely finish. You have indirectly pushed my younger son to push harder, sooner; as he wants to be just like his big brother. You have pushed my husband to branch out in finding ways to connect with our boys OFF the football field. And in all of this, you have given me a gift beyond measure. This is the first time in more years than I can remember that my son was eager for the school year to start, so that he could be in your class again.

I'm sure that as an educator, you more often hear how you are possibly failing your students. Especially in the public school system, which is over-crowded and under-funded. So, Mr. History Teacher, I just wanted to make sure you heard how you have made a POSITIVE difference. There is a saying that a pebble tossed into the ocean off the coast of New York causes tidal waves in Australia. You are one heck of a pebble, Mr. History Teacher.

Thank you for being that pebble. Thank you so very much.

Sincerely,

The Sports Mama

WonkaVision

Every child has the right, the indisputable right, to be innocent for as long as they possibly can. To believe in all things good, all things fanciful, and happily ever after. They deserve to be able to walk through life wearing rose colored glasses; until adulthood, if possible. They not only deserve it, I honestly believe they need it to grow into the kind of adults that the world needs more of. The kind of adults that foster dreams and fairy tales, and the belief in happily ever after.

Without going into a lot of personal details, I'm going to tell you that events this weekend brutally and unforgivably stripped a few layers of innocence from both of my boys. Not just my boys, but other children we care deeply about. I thought my heart broke all it could break while all of this was unfolding, but I've found that it keeps cracking every time I look at my boys and realize that they've had to see a little bit of ugly in their world.

As a family, we had gone to the home of another family that we absolutely adore. The husband and wife, the little ones. My boys spoil these little ones, and love the fact that they are looked up to, and adored in return. We had a pretty good time, watching the boxing match and enjoying good food, drink and friendship. When we left to make our trek home a few hours later, it was with full bellies and full hearts. Coach and the boys fell asleep in the car on the way home, and all seemed right in our world. And then Coach's cell phone rang.

We were told we needed to turn around and hurry back to the home of our loved ones, there had been a horrible fight and someone needed to intervene; get them all settled down, and get the kids to a less stressful situation. Without hesitation, we turned right around and headed back. Bug continued to sleep, but Jock woke up wondering what was going on. After a brief explanation, he was just as concerned as we were.

When we arrived, it was to find the house locked up tightly; the wife in the backyard, yelling at the husband through the patio door. They were both angry, and it was probably a good thing that glass door separated them. When you combine stress, alcohol and anger you have the potential for an ugly situation. We were desperately trying to avoid that. We got the wife away from the door, and got her to walk out front with me. She was crying, sobbing really, but I did get out of her that half of their children had been taken to a neighbors because they had woken up. While that relieved me somewhat, my worry was for the other children still in the house. I went to the neighbors to check on the children there, gave great big hugs, and promised them a fun sleepover. They got bundled into the back of my truck with my boys. Bug was still sleeping, but I wondered for how long?

I was going to leave Jock at the truck with the kids, since the neighbor's husband had walked back with me. We could hear Coach and the husband in the house. The doors were all locked again, and I was determined to get in to remove the other children. The neighbor was at the patio door, and he thought it would be a good idea for Jock to come on back. The thinking being that if things inside had gotten volatile, Jock's presence might calm them down. No one involved wanted to do any of this in front of any of the kids. While I wasn't sure I was totally on board with this idea, I still had Jock with me--trying to find an open window. Fortunately, the bedroom for the kids still inside was able to be opened.

Let me interrupt here for a minute to tell you how amazing my son is. Always level headed, we still had no idea how he'd be in a crisis since he's never faced one. Oh, how calm he was! How absolutely, amazingly calm. He reached in the window, and with a playful tone of voice told the little ones to come outside to him. He grabbed them, and handed them to me to wrap in a blanket I'd grabbed. He ruffled their heads and told them to go with me, he'd come play with them in a minute. I hustled those kids to my truck, to climb in with their siblings and Bug, who had woken up by this time and was--without knowing a single thing about what was going on--keeping the kids in there occupied and distracted. He looked up when I added the newest little ones, and kept right on being Bug. Making them smile, keeping them at ease.

Goodness, how my kids make me proud.

I walked back around the house, only to find that the neighbor and Jock had climbed in the window and walked right into the living room. And the neighbors' hastily devised plan had worked. With Jock there, tempers were able to take a step back and rational thought was able to step forward. As rational as it could get when the main players were still clouded by alcohol, at any rate.

They let me come into the house to gather things for the kids, and we were all able to sit and talk. I had at this point sent Jock back out with all the kids, so it was just the adults. In the end, we left Coach to stay overnight, for support or whatever was needed, and I took off with a bunch of kids, who ended up sleeping at their grandma's house. Well, except for my two, who went home with me to their own beds.

I am beyond saddened at this loss of innocence, of those kids and my own kids. Innocence isn't something you can get back, and that breaks my heart. And I think it bothers my boys, too, while they might not know it or admit it. I think they're reaching for any slice of that innocence that they can get back. That ability to believe once again in all things fanciful and unbelievable.

The two of them are sitting here next to me on the couch, watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory*. And if chocolate waterfalls, candy daffodils and fizzy lifting drinks don't leave you feeling just a little cleaner and more innocent inside, I'm just not sure what will.

*The original with Gene Wilder, not the creepy remake with Johnny Depp.

Blame the Typos on the Tears

Before you were born, we knew you'd be something special. You weren't expected, you weren't planned, you weren't counted on. But you were hoped for. Prayed for. Dreamed of. Having been told for years that you simply "couldn't be", that I shouldn't get my hopes up, I had to keep telling myself that you were real. Every second of every day of every month, I reveled in the changes my body was going through, as those changes meant you were really there. I would watch your little foot travel across my stomach, and I'd laugh out loud. You were never still, always moving. And I loved every bit of it. You were my miracle.

And then you arrived.

You were never content to be like the other babies. You were always one step ahead of every other baby we knew. You were rolling over at 6 weeks. Sitting yourself up at 3 months. Crawling at 4 months. Walking at 9 months. Talking in simple sentences before you were even a year old. Everything fascinated you, and everything about you fascinated me. Everything about you STILL fascinates me.

When you were almost 5 years old, you were so excited to be planning for "your" new baby brother. You did have a brief moment where you told me you had decided that a baby wasn't right for us, and that maybe a puppy would be better; but you came around when you got to see him on the ultrasound. And when, three weeks before Bug arrived, we were reminded just how precious you really were to us. That fall out the window, and your walking away from it, reinforced to your dad and I just want a miracle you truly were.

Kindergarten brought you a little more independence. You didn't rely on me for everything anymore. That was so exciting for you! And heartbreaking for me. But I didn't realize the pride that I could feel watching you grow in school. Always the first one to make friends with the new kids in class, always the one who stood up for the underdog, always the protector of innocents. School has never been just about the grades you can get, or the sports you can play; but about the beautiful heart that has grown and developed.

Watching you with Bug when he was so tiny filled me with so much joy. You never noticed that he was born "different" and not like the other babies we knew. You treated him like the precious, unique little boy that he is. He was your buddy, and your shadow. And you still get very upset when people refer to his "birth defect", reminding them that he's NOT defected, just different.

We've grown up together, you and I. In the beginning, it was you and me against the world. I now know it is totally possible for your best friend in the whole world to only be 2 years old. You had this way of looking at me while I was talking; I felt like your soul was listening to mine. You were my comfort, my joy, my heart. You are still one of my favorite people to spend time with.

As you've gotten bigger, you've moved from games on the living room floor to games on a much larger playing field. While I've always been a sports fan, I never knew I could find such beauty in watching an athlete. You are so full of grace out on that field, that it still surprises me, and yes--brings me to tears, sometimes. And while you might claim in front of your friends that you can never hear me when I'm screaming like a loon up in the stands, we both know that you know I'm there and that I'm cheering you on.

This next year is going to be both incredibly long for you, and amazingly short for me. In one year, you'll no longer need me for yet one more thing. Once you're driving, you're more independent. I have to warn you now, baby.... I plan on milking this last year of your dependence on me to its fullest. It boggles your father, but the current $4.25/gallon price for gas doesn't make me near as heartsick as you turning to someone else to take you where you want to go.

You are 15 today. I know you know that. You've been counting down the days for so long now. I want to tell you to slow down, don't grow up so fast on me. But then I want to encourage you to spread your wings and fly. I want to wrap you in bubble wrap and make all of your decisions for you; but I want to watch how your incredible mind works as you learn from your mistakes and become a better person for them. So really, I'm not going to beg you to slow down. Its your time. Your time to move forward boldly. Your time to stretch and grow. Your time to become the man I know you will be. Just please, don't speed so quickly past me that I become nothing but a blur in your rear view mirror.

Happy Birthday, Jock. You're still my miracle, and I love you.

I Never Wanted To Teach This Lesson

Last night here in my corner of the Phoenix Valley, a car load of teenagers was involved in a serious accident. A fatal one, actually. I don't know what exactly happened, and I'm not sure anyone knows everything yet, but there are two things about this that stand out to me. One, a teenager was driving. And two......

The lone fatality was one of Jock's friends.

We first met this boy the summer of 2006, when the boys played on the same football team together. The coaching staff included both Coach and this boy's father, "Joe" (not really his name, but by now you all know I don't give those out here. However, I did provide the link to the story up above.). Joe was a divorced dad, who obviously adored his son. He took the time to volunteer coach for a city team in a city he didn't even live in, just so he could be as involved in his son's life as possible. And his son quite obviously adored his father. There was respect there, as well as affection; which is hard to see in a pre-teen/teenage boy. This boy, we'll call him "D", was also respectful to the other coaches, myself as Team Mom, and his teammates. I'll also point out that his teammates respected him as well, and they all genuinely liked him.

D was also an incredibly gifted athlete, and I enjoyed watching him play as much as I enjoyed watching my own son. He paid attention, and he knew the game. It was my understanding that D was also a good student, and had a full life ahead of him. And now its all over.

Jock is shocked. This is the first time he's lost a friend to tragedy. I'm praying it will be the last time, while worrying that it won't. I remember my high school years, and losing two people I cared about: one, a close friend of my younger brother's who was hit and killed by a drunk driver; and one of my very best friends who had just turned 18 and was working the graveyard shift at the local convenience store when it was robbed one night. He was shot and killed.

The oldest boy in this car was 16. The driver of the car was D's brother. They were going too fast, and only one was wearing a seat belt. If Jock takes any knowledge away from this heartache, I want him to always remember to wear his seat belt, and to not drive like Speedracer.

Losing a friend in these ways is definitely a life lesson you remember. To this day, I am vehemently against driving while under the influence of any substance at all. I am also a very big supporter of working in pairs, or more!, if you have to work at a convenience store overnight. But as much as these events shaped my life and my opinions, I never wanted my children to experience anything like it. Ever.

My heart is breaking for this family. For the community. For the other boys this group played football with. And my heart is breaking for my son, and the lesson he is hopefully going to learn here. Its one I had prayed he never had to.