There but for the grace of God…

Last night I was watching my oldest walk through the family room.  It is a nightly ritual – I come home from work, cook dinner, we clean up from dinner, and then, when the last bubble from the last bit of suds isn’t even popped, Michael will venture out into the kitchen and shove his head into the pantry.

Unlike me, he is lean and athletic.  Oh sure, I suppose there was a day when you might have said I bordered on athletic.  I played baseball, golf, and softball and I lettered in tennis in high school.  But never in my life would I have ever been described as “lean.”

Michael on the other hand is lean and strong.  When he went for his snorkeling badge at Boy Scouts his scout leader was worried that whenever he got into the pool he sunk like a lawn dart.  No fat on the kid whatsoever. SO maybe I shouldn’t worry so much about the constant grazing, but I do.

Every night I watch him go through the house, growing by the day, with his cheery smile and perfect posture.  In the blink of an eye he has gone from being my cute little side-kick to being every inch of 5 feet tall and encroaching on the frontier of adolescence.  He is well on his way to being a fine young man.  I watch him move through his world and I just want everything to slow down. He teeters on the abyss of puberty.  He has been such an excellent boy that I long desperately for that little boy to hang around just a bit longer.

And the girl, his sister – the four year old who I am certain will some day be a pharaoh somewhere; I watch her and it is obvious that she is growing by leaps and bounds.  The pajamas she got for Christmas are now fitting her about like they are clamdiggers.  Two weeks ago I stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched her descend early on a Saturday morning.  My brain literally came to life in my head and, as if it had a separate personality, began hammering away on every frequency shouting to me an urgent message to remember that moment, to freeze its quiet and rare beauty forever in some less traveled part of my brain.  There she stood, stuffed animal and pillow in arms and slippers on feet she tip-toed down the stairs, gave me a hug, and whispered “good morning daddy, I love you.  How’dya sleep/”

Again I told myself to stretch out time, play the four corner offense, use every second of life’s shot clock to my advantage.  I cannot believe the great good fortune I have to just share in the beauty of these two kids.

So it was this morning when we all awoke to the news of Japan’s horrible earthquake and the subsequent devastation of the resulting tsunami that I was reminded to take nothing for granted.  The kids all got extra hugs and kisses this morning.  The “I love yous” were pronounced and embellished with good eye contact and a warm embrace. With each kid I indulged in a final intoxicating inhalation of their hair.

I couldn’t get over the haunting vision of that mass of debris moving relentlessly in slow but unstoppable motion across the Japanese countryside.  It reminded me that there is no stopping nature.  There is no pause button while you gather your thoughts, collect your wits, or rearrange your plan.  Living is doing, loving is a deliberate commitment, and legacy is a luxury not all are guaranteed.

So today, in the shadow of great suffering and loss of life in Japan, my only plan is to kiss those two little farts squarely on their faces, tousle their hair, hug them like there is no tomorrow and to let them stay up munching popcorn until their mom says it’s way too late for little people to be up.  Tomorrow we wake up to a day of ballet, and baseball camp, and then a family outing to the movies. Because what we do becomes what we are, and what we are eventually becomes what we were.  So today we will honor those in Japan and everywhere, by making the most of our lives together. Today we will live reverently the words “there, but for the Grace of God, go I.”

We’ll laugh and hug and share inside jokes.  And that will be the only plan.  The solitary mission – to revel in each other.  Because today is all that any of us are ever promised – no matter how much we wish for it to slow down, to stop, to live on forever unchanged.  Today is the best chance we’ll ever have to be the best we can be to each other.

Wherever you are today, thanks for stopping in and sharing this moment with me and my family.  I hope you are well and that those you hold dear are safe and free from harm.  Wherever you are today, I hope you take a minute or two to find the best you can be to those you love, and then to make it a plan to be that.

Dennis

smalltwondad@hotmail.com    

How to help (I have not checked all of these out, this list is reposted from another blog):

United Methodist Committee on Relief (UMCOR) – This is the United Methodist Church’s disaster response organization, and is one of the best church-based response groups in the world. Donations can be accepted through the International Disaster Relief fund.

Red Cross: The American Red Cross, according to its website, have opened up emergency operation centers. Donations to relief efforts can be made here. It may also be appropriate to look into the International Federation of Red Cross, as well. You can also try the Japanese Red Cross Society here. (However, I am not finding a solid place to donate just yet to the Japanese Red Cross, which is understandable.)

AmeriCares: You can donate to relief efforts that are ongoing by AmeriCares by clicking here.

World Relief: You can donate to relief efforts here.

World Vision: According to the organization’s website, the group is preparing to respond to the disaster. You can make a donation by clicking here.

Samaritan’s Purse: The North Carolina-based organization is still considering what relief efforts it will undertake, but you can donate here.

Operation Blessing International: The organization says it has teams standing by to respond. There is a Disaster Relief fund that you can contribute to here.

Giving Children Hope: This California-based organization is in the process of sending emergency relief to Japan. You can donate here.

For a more general list of disaster relief organizations, you can click here.

Waving just makes me smile...

I love waving.  It's part of me - whether it is a big, dopey, "hale fellow well met" kind of wave; or the more subtle thumbs up I give my son, or even just the subtle nod of the head I give to a stranger at the four-way stop sign by my home, I am a waving/gesturing kind of guy.

When I think of waving, I always think of my good friend, Amy. Years ago I bumped into her walking down the street in a busy metropolitan area.  Really I should say she saw me and then I heard her before I saw her.

"Dennis!  DENNIS!" she yelled and, hearing my name called with such urgency, I turned and saw this buddy of mine walking fast, both hands over her head, seemingly waving with her entire body as she walked quickly over to say "hi."  It was such a great moment then and is still today a warm and happy memory - I think of it often when I am waving "hi" or "bye" to someone.

My mom is one of the best wavers I have ever met.  She waves as if there is nothing more important at that particular moment than you realizing that she sees you being wonderful, and she wants you to see that she sees you.  She waves and calls out "Hello you!  Do you see me seeing you!"  I see her do it with the kids and I can tell it makes a difference with them as well.  Even as a grown man it makes me feel like I am about 10 feet taller than I actually am.

And both of my kids are ardent wavers.  Kristin, the four year old, stands in the window every time I leave the house and waves furiously until I am out of sight.  In return, I wave as if I am trying to swim through the air to get back to her - alternating between waving like a lunatic and blowing a million tiny kisses in her direction. And Michael - the cool 10 year old - well secretly he is a crazy waver too.  He and Kristin fit right in - never, ever do they forget to kiss good night, or hello, or to wave to loved ones arriving or departing.  I love the idea of one of the grandmas or grandpa leaving for the long drive back to the city, and the last thing they see at my home is their grandkids waving from the porch like they just saw their granny or grandpa score a touchdown and spike the ball.

For many years I worked at a University here in Michigan.  I can honestly say that my favorite days were either the days the moms and dads dropped their kids off for the first time; or graduation days.  On the drop off days when I was working in the dorms, I got to see the kid side of the equation - kids and parents hanging on, standing in the lobby, giving hugs and kisses, then watching the moms fuss and worry.  Before long the parents would walk reluctantly to their car and slowly drive off, honking horns, flashing brights, waving out the windows as if to say "make sure you see me, please don't forget all we taught you, be good, wave, remember I see you and please see me seeing you!'  Such a gift to be a regular eyewitness to that wonderful view of humanity. 

The kids, for their part, would generally return the wave in earnest until the parents were gone and then immediately have some plan; food, girls, athletics - rarely, if ever - did the kid get dropped off for the first time and then retire quietly to the comfort of his room and study his Latin.  That part was fun to watch too,

But for me, graduation days were the absolute best.  The kids walking in with all the pomp and circumstance, energy pouring out of every person in the room.  And here and there parents standing up, on tip toe, craning their necks urgently to see their kid, the kid they taught to ride a bike, tie a shoe, use a spoon - that kid - walking through the door in cap and gown.  Invariably there was crazy waving - "...do you see me seeing you be wonderful? I love for you to see me seeing you!"  And the kids would wave back, happy, excited, perhaps a bit embarrassed "yes, I see you mom, but DO YOU SEE ME?!  Check me out!  Look here, I see you but are you seeing me? Can you believe this?!"

That gesture of waving, under the happiest of circumstances, is so golden, so precious.  It is perhaps unchanged in all of humanity.  A precious gift, to wave and see someone waving back as if it really mattered. I think it does really matter 

Today, don't squander those opportunities to wave like you mean it, wave like a dirty little kid for whom the mere sight of his parents is the vision of home, and happiness, and security.  Wave like a proud parent searching the crowd for that beloved familiar face, so you can say "I see you!  Do you see me seeing you?!"

See the one you love and run like a wild person, arms over your head, and tell them how happy you are to see them; and let them know how happy it will be for you to see that they see you being happy to see them.  It's not hard - little kids do it all the time.  If it was that hard how could they do it? It just might make you feel happy, beloved, charmed.  You'll never know until you try it.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today and for sharing the blog and passing along all the wonderful comments and emails.  Each one of them is as welcome to me as is the wave from a dear friend on a busy street.  I am so glad to have the chance to visit with you (and yes, I do see you being awesome, and I am sure that you see me seeing you be awesome, too).

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

"...it came without packages, boxes or bags..."

That was the text my wife sent to me around 9:00 pm Saturday night.  The words wrapped me up like a warm blanket.  It was a perfect "pull" - a quote from a movie perfectly insinuated into the context of a real life event.

The quote is pulled from Dr. Seuss's famous scene in the Grinch.  You know the one, the Grinch, at his grinchy best, believes he has frustrated the Whos in celebrating Christmas by stealing all the physical trappings of the holiday, only to be perplexed by the fact that they celebrate none-the-less.

The entire quote is:

And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?

Saturday was my birthday.  And I suppose like a lot of people, the celebration of my own birthday is a bit more complicated for me than is the celebration of someone else's birthday.  It all works its way back to expectations really.  Mine are that no fuss be made.  I would much rather spend the money, time, and energy planning a party for one of the kids than I would spending it on myself.

So Saturday was always going to be a kind of muted affair.  As it turned out this year, the muted affair happened to coincide with the annual meeting on the grid-iron between the University of Michigan (boo, hiss) and the Spartans of Michigan State University.  

I was raised in a Green and White household by a decidedly Green and White mom.  Both of my brothers are graduates of MSU, I live 10 minutes from MSU's campus.  I take more than a passing fan's interest in the outcome of these contests.  I admit, I am a bit of a fan.

So, in my mind, the idea that my birthday and it's self evident promise of "indulging Dennis" falling on the day of the UofM/MSU football game made me see visions of hot-wings, cold pop, and couches when I imagined how I might spend my day.  Such was the quiet fantasy I maintained until about Tuesday of the week before my birthday.

Then, of course, Jeanine, my wife of 19 years and the organized one of the bunch reminded me of...duh...duh...duh-duhhhhhhh...the camporee.

We talked a bit about the importance of this event.  Pretty much the last thing my 10 year old needed to complete this year to be able to cross over into Boy Scouts this Spring.  It was a no brainer that he and I would go. He and I would go.

I am not an outdoor person.  Sure I love to golf and to coach baseball, and to cook out.  Those are all outdoor activities.  But hiking?  Canoing?  Chopping wood?  Carrying stuff?  Sorry, but to my old and comfortable butt, these activities sound like work, not recreation.  Throw on top of that my allergies, which are nearly legendary, and you do not have the makings of an Eagle Scout in me.

Case in point - the camping equipment.  It is stored in the attic above the garage.  It has not been touched in exactly 9 years.  We took it out once to celebrate my son's FIRST birthday and then packed it all away in a gigantic Tupperware bin.  Two years ago I moved it from the garage to the attic thinking to myself "Note to self, when we sell this house 20 years from now, remember to get this stuff out of the attic - it'll likely be worth something on E-Bay as it is all in pristine condition..."

On Friday, I borrowed a ladder to fetch the gear from above the garage.  My allergies, sensing something was brewing, decided to remind me how much I hate dust and fiberglass and conspired to create an itch so powerful that I sincerely thought about just lopping off both hands at the wrist.  But, I survived and the gear, undisturbed in the last 20% of my life...made it safely down from the attic and into the car.

Just let that thought soak in a minute.  I was 36 the last time I had this stuff out. On the Friday before my birthday, I was still 45.  36 is 80% of 45 - I think.  Life is screaming at this point that I am not destined to do this.  This is not my purpose.  The very fact that I have not touched this equipment for any recreational purpose should establish my lack of credibility in building a fire with sticks or wiping with leaves.

"But," I reminded myself "...my son was counting on me to do it; my wife was expecting me to do it." So, on I went.

The local scout master is a great guy and was good enough to pick my son up early that morning so I could take care of a few appointments Saturday morning and then head out to the State Park in the early afternoon.  The schedule was such that we would stay over night Saturday and return Sunday morning.  Just long enough to miss every part of the game and related commentary.  Swell, I thought, grinchily.  Just swell.

So Saturday, after a drive through what even the hardest corners of my grinchy outdoor heart conceded was some spectacular Michigan autumn colors, I showed up at the park, alone, wondering if I could set up the camp and retire to my inflatable mattress in time to follow the game on my smartphone.

As I drove the lane down to the campsite, there passed me a group of boys so rough and tumble; so scratched and dirty and obviously outdoorsy that I actually smiled as they walked by.  The last one in line, arm looped over his buddy's shoulder and walking along laughing without a care in the world caught my eye.  He was handsome with blond colicky hair going wild in every direction. Filthy - yet he looked somehow familiar.  It wasn't until I saw him waving at me that I realized it was my son.

My grinchiness abated somewhat - I was delighted for him, and torn for myself.  "He loves this" my grinchy outdoors heart told me.  And at the same time, my rational brain was telling me "he loves this...", meaning "you better get good at it, Chuckles, because welcome to your future - he loves this."

I smiled my big smile and hollered out the window at him secretly hoping the extra volume in my voice would be mistaken for unrestrained enthusiasm rather than a disguised and uncontrollable cry for help.  My mind was racing,

"...I don't know the first thing about any of this stuff...." I thought,  "...when I was a kid we went camping with my dad and he shaved using a mirror stuck to a tree and his hunting knife! A HUNTING KNIFE!"  Quickly, my mind racing, I reached into my pocket and found "Old Sven", the Swiss army knife I bought after seeing a movie about a plane crash in the Alaskan wilderness.  It was there but was about as dull as a lint covered JuJubee.  "DAMN!" I thought, "Good luck shaving with that." 

I waved to Michael and his pals and then drove into the campground.  The parking lot was at least 6000 feet from our campsite.  And, Scouts being Scouts, no driving through the campsites was permitted.  You loaded up and hiked into your bivouac.  A quick check of my supplies did not yield any surprise inclusion of an automatic heart defibrillator, so I resigned myself to making several small trips at the end of which my muscles felt like I was a gun bearer on African safari.  The cooler of pop, juiceboxes, pudding, yogurt and 40 pounds of ice seemed like a good idea in the Meijer parking lot - but that was before I knew I was "hiking in" to my campsight.

So, having made camp without a soul in sight, I was confident a) that my heavy wheezing, unobserved by any live humans, had none-the-less scared off any wildlife that might otherwise want to come and add the vision of me to the tales they told their woodland buddies, and b)  I could struggle in solitude, unobserved and unjudged, with the giant bin of camping equipment - none of which I had any idea how to assemble.

I looked around me and observed there were several scout tents already assembled.  They were cute and efficient.  Little one or two man tents all ship shape and sides as tight as a snare drum.

I unpacked my tent - filling a space about 13 feet by 13 feet - it looked obviously larger than the run of the mill tents.  Adding to my joyous outdoor birthday adventure was about a 20 mile an hour "breeze."

I wondered, half-way through my "no holds barred" wrestling match with the tent, what would be easier.  Smoothing out this tent in a 20 mile per hour wind, or smoothing out a giant octopus on a 13 x 13 foot patch of white hot concrete. Every corner of the tent lashed at me in the wind like the tentacles of an angry beast.  The zippered door opened wide and rose up all at once as if to gobble me up and end the fight there and then.  Resolute, I grabbed the bag of stakes in my teeth and with my trusty red mallet, I rolled, squashed, and smoothed my way around the fabric, pounding, hammering, and cursing until I subdued the nylon devil and had it staked firmly to the ground.

"Not so tough," I thought smugly looking at my handiwork. 

"Idiot" thought the wind as it promptly snapped one of the tent poles holding the tent up.

"It's my birthday, you sonofabitch." I thought as I watched the listing corner of the tent swing lazily in the breeze.

"I know," said the tent. "Go Blue."

The listing tent now standing large over my campsite like some kind of billboard for woodland incompetence, I urgently set about creating the rest of our campsite, knowing after my two hour battle with the nemesis tent, my son and his pals would soon be back in camp.  Not having any outdoor skills at all, I wanted to finish work before they had a chance to actually see me in action. 

"After all" I thought, "...we could have some disaster out here and, God forbid, if it comes down to eating people, they will eat me first realizing that my only discernible skill really is in mediating employment disputes."

So I attacked the listing tent with the only duct tape I could find and raised our lodging once again.  Seeing it there, amid the small, perfect tents erected by my son's scout friends, I was reminded of the old WWII photos from Pearl Harbor.  Here were the bombed out hulks of America's largest ships scuttled in the attack, surrounded by smaller, undamaged, sea worthy vessels.  In both images, it was easy to see at a moment's notice that something had gone horribly wrong.

My spirits were lifted when my son returned with his pals and was both excited and impressed with his impression of my handiwork "Lookit our tent!" he screamed.  "It's huge!"  Yes, it is sad but true, the boy has as little sense of the outdoors and structural integrity and camping as do I.  He did not for one moment realize how woefully pathetic my construction skills were.  He bragged and bragged about how much space we had all the while other scouts were quietly asking me "Dude, why did you bring such a huge tent out into this wind..."  Fortunately for me they had good graces enough and were kindhearted enough to not raise the issue publicly.

So, first order of business taken care of (shelter), I sought out facilities to take care of another order of business.  "Where's the Bathroom?"  I asked.

"Follow the path until you smell it" someone said.

The path led back through the camp on off into a clearing next to a beautiful, tree lined lake.  My dim expectations were buoyed when I saw a clean, well maintained structure on a cement pad, about 100 yards from the field where we were camped.

I opened the door and reached for a light switch.  Despite my fumbling and reaching, no light switch was obvious so I brushed passed it urgently wanting to address other pressing matters.  I rushed to the nearest stall and cast open the door.  Taking in that tableau, my first thought was:

Thank God there was no light switch.

The bathroom was actually the fanciest primitive latrine I have ever been in.  But....how can I put this delicately...you remember how much was made last campaign season about the phrase "putting lipstick on a pig..." Well, you can put cement, and boards, and fresh paint, and stall doors around an open pit latrine, but the moment you lift that lid and are looking down into an open pit latrine, well it's still an open pit latrine. 

"It's my birthday," I thought.  "All I wanted was to ..."  Well...it doesn't matter what I wanted to do, I sure as hell wasn't doing it there. It's just not how I imagined spending any part of my birthday.

So I walked back to the camp, my thoughts occupied by a) a mental note to eat and drink as little as humanly possible until we broke camp the next morning, and b) actually a wonderful, loving memory of my own dad, who was camping with me when I was about 7, and a time I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night at a campground where the facilities were called "rustic." 

I can distinctly remember going in there, him holding the flashlight for me and me taking care of my business.  He then handed the flashlight back to me as he washed his hands at which point I shined the light down into the latrine.  He laughed out loud, took the light gently and said "Denny, for God's sake don't shine the light down there..."  He and I laughed often about that moment for many years after that.

When I got back to camp, it was obvious that my son and some of his buddies (and their dads) had helped square things away with the tent.  I was moved by their kindness.  My spirits lifted by their generosity, and the fact that they did not judge me for my lack of woodmanship.  Perhaps, I thought as I watched the kids making camper pies for the grown ups, they won't actually eat me first.

We settled into our chairs and ate the dinner the boys made over an open fire.  Later there were skits, and laughter, and warmth all around.  I noticed that I was not sneezing, my hands weren't itching, I did not die of a heart attack lugging anything.

Then as the sun set slowly on a cloudless Michigan evening, and in that gloaming moment when the first few stars winked in to ensure all was well and good with our scout troop, I realized that I never once missed watching that football game.  I had no great longing to know the score or to count coup over my friends who were Wolverine fans.

Michael came back from a canoe ride and in front of God and everybody told me he loved me, wished me a happy birthday, and gave me a hug and a kiss.  I realized at about that moment, I had had perhaps the greatest birthday of my adult life.

About a minute later, my wife, as if knowing the exact words coursing through my brain, texted:

"...it came without packages, boxes or bags..."

She knew.  How she knew is probably part of how she is a great mom.  But she just knew.

Later that night, we snuggled into the leaning cavernous edifice that was our tent, giggling like a couple of campers - him with my iPod and permission to run the battery down to nothing, me with my smartphone and finally catching up on the headlines from the game, my son said to me "Thanks, Dad, for sharing your birthday with me.  I think this is my favorite night ever."

He's a good kid, and Halloween and Christmas are coming so who knows if it will long remain his favorite night ever.  But that night, and the fact that I let him pee in the woods rather than go back to that latrine, may just hang with him as a good memory for a long long time.

And that will be the best birthday present I could have imagined.

So thanks for coming by my blog today, a little longer than what I try and post but there was just perhaps a little bit more that I needed to say.  Here's hoping that whatever you do this week, you do so immersed in love and laughter, and are lifted aloft on the warm currents of a family's love.

Dennis

Each of these family rules is the product of some untellable story

So my daughter ran in front of a car last night at the local supermarket.  Admittedly it scared at least 5 years off of my life.  Hours after the event, my chest still hurt.

I was unloading returnables from the back of the Queen Family Truckster while my wife and son went along to gather a cart.  The four year old generally sticks very close to me whenever we take back returnables because she likes to help feed the disgusting, disease ridden bottle counter.  So she was right on my side, eagerly awaiting the Petri dish experience of counting returnables.  I turned to grab the last bag of bottles at the same moment she decided she wanted to go with her mom. So, darting from the lee of my considerable blind spot, she sprinted out into the lane of traffic like Jackie Robinson breaking for home.

Unfortunately she sprinted right into the path of a passing car that was less than ten feet from us.  It all happened so fast that the only thing I could do was to yell "STOP" in my dad voice.

The dad voice only comes out once in a while, and it never really works.  It is the voice that begins somewhere down around my groin, propels itself upward via a tightening of my diaphragm, surges through my neck like water rushing through a firehose and then explodes out of my mouth like a ship's horn.

Oh sure, without a doubt, it always seems to draw a crowd and inspire stares and the awkward looks of passing strangers, but it almost never works. It almost never ends up achieving the desired result.

Thank God, last night, it did.  My daughter froze in her tracks.  The woman driving the car, thinking I was yelling at her, stopped in her tracks.  People loading their groceries all over the parking lot froze mid-lift.  The sign flickering above the McDonald's half a block away stopping flickering.  A barking dog silenced himself in the back of a dirty pick up truck.

Thank God, all was safe.  I have to admit, without boasting, that there are probably only two really impressive things about me; I make a pretty mean steak on the grill, and the dad voice.

After the close call in the parking lot, my voice returned to normal except that it gave wings to yet another empty lecture about what one of our cardinal family rules is:  "The only purpose of walking through the parking lot is to get from the car to the door safely, nothing else matters if you can't manage that, take nothing for granted, one moment's inattention, blah blah blah..."  I wondered later if any of it sunk in.

That got me thinking about the cardinal rules in my house when I was a kid, and wondering if I ever listened to them.  They were almost always born of some unspeakable event.  My brothers, if they read this, will see the one about "blue shag carpet" and immediately remember a particular family incident which grew so greatly in our family lore that it even had its own name; "The day Dennis exploded..."

Yes, I am laughing hard writing this, but it has taken me 38 years to get to that point.  As a kid, being the kid who "exploded" at a gathering of Indian Guides was not good.  No one wants that on their "kid" resume.  I can hear my father now - "Who puts blue shag carpet in a bathroom when there are kids in the home?..."  And I also recall him asking me how "it" got on the ceiling.

Here, then, are a few of our family's rules - just the tip of the iceberg really, but they got us through some life learning events.  I already told you about the first one.

1)  "It is never a good idea to put blue shag carpet in a bathroom when kids are in the house."

2)  "We don't ever shoot BB guns in the house."

3)  "In the absence of matches, the stove is a poor alternative if you are trying to light a firecracker with a short fuse".

4)  "Despite what you see in the cartoons, a garbage bag or umbrella will not act like a parachute if you jump off the garage roof holding one."

5)  "Always check your speedo for holes BEFORE you get to the beach."

6)  "No matter how good it looks, a dog treat is never suitable for human consumption."

7)  "No toys at the table" - this rule has been revisited now that we are in the age of smartphones, facebook, and blogging.  For the record, my mom still tells us, her grown children, "No toys at the table."

8)  "Don't hold your sneezes in, especially if you have the runs." (neither my rule nor my words, but the wisdom in it I thought speaks volumes).

9)  "Words that make people defensive never work, it's a terrible way to communicate."  Actually this is a pretty good one.

10)  "Hands at 10:00 and 2:00, check your mirrors & gauges, keep your eyes in motion, leave yourself an escape route, drive like it's your family in the other car..." are also all proven ideas that work.

So thanks for stopping by my blog today. Whatever sun shines through your windows today, here's hoping that the rules that govern your roost make sense, to you, and are fun and enduring ones.

Suicide at Rutgers; and the essence of hope

So, an aside from the usual fare for these pages today.  We are all reading today that on the evening of September 19, Rutgers University student Dharun Ravi is believed to have sent a message by Twitter about his roommate, Tyler Clementi.

Tyler it seemed wanted some privacy in their dorm room for an intimate encounter.  Not an unheard of circumstance at any college dorm.  Only with Tyler, the intimate encounter was with another man.  So kids being kids, and technology being technology a bad plan was hatched to webcast Tyler's private moments to the world wide web.  That bad plan was made worse when no one thought to say - "this is too much."

News of the broadcast reached Tyler and the supposition is that he killed himself rather than face the scandal of engaging in intimate acts identical to those being engaged in by thousands of college kids on hundreds of college campuses nationwide.

We know that Police pulled his body from the Hudson river yesterday after he left a note, on Facebook, that he was jumping off the George Washington Bridge.  "Sorry" was what it said.  The Middlesex County Coroner identified his body today.  By all accounts he was a terrific kid.

So today. along with the student's family and friends, my thoughts are with the residence life staff at Rutgers.  For eight years I was an RHD (Residence Hall Director) at a university in Michigan.  In those eight years, it was one of the thoughts that scared me most - some student - feeling isolated, alone, would act out in desperation.  You can see it in your mind - if someone had just been there to say "Tyler, are you ok?" maybe things would be different.

As a matter of fact, when I was a hall director most of the kids that came my way were terrific kids. There were loving, adoring, families behind them overflowing with pride at the accomplishments of the child they dropped at my doorstep.  My commitment to the parents, aside from trying to engage their progeny to become more solid citizens, more independent critical thinkers and responsible adults, was that they would be leaving their kid someplace safe.

In training I used to tell the story that my dad told to me about the tanker in WWII who looks down at a paratrooper manning a foxhole and asks "Hey Mack, where's a safe place to park this tank?"  To which the trooper replied "Right behind me, buddy."  The same was true, to a far less dramatic degree, with the  residence life staff at any given university.

The parents show up and, if you were able to strip away all the other worry and posturing, what you would see is that what they ultimately want is a safe place to leave their kid. 

The res life professional's job is to look at them and say "right behind me, buddy."

So when we would meet with kids at the beginning of each school year, I would always include a couple of extra things in my annual speech to them:

1)  There are mistakes you can make here that will follow you around the rest of your lives; try not to make them.  The truth about college is that just about 6 out of every 10 kids who start college will graduate in 6 years.

Tyler's roommate and his friend have made just such a mistake.

2)  Nothing will happen here that will justify suicide.  Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.  If you are feeling like this might be a solution you are considering, then come and find somebody, an RA, me, a professor, a counselor - whoever.  No one on a college campus or in a dorm is ever alone unless they want to be.

Tyler, sadly enough, chose suicide. Let me say it again, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.  That is the essence of hope. No matter how bleak your present is you cannot determine with any accuracy exactly what your future might be.  But you can hope.

So maybe one of my nieces or nephews will someday read this; or perhaps too soon for my own comfort my son or daughter will be heading off to school and wanting to read dad's blog entries.  To them I would say this:

Nothing can bring this student back.  Nothing can restore his devastated parents.  No miracle will act to reinstate the innocence of the kids involved in this. But I hope all kids contemplating college learn from this story.  Learn that no matter what there is always hope.  And if you are tempted to pull that prank, or victimize another for the "fun of it", then know that there is no right way to do a wrong thing.  There is always the path to sound judgment, critical thinking, and leadership if you look for it.  Learn to try hard to make good choices, whatever you do. ANd learn to avoid the bad choices.

Finally I hope residence life professionals view this story and re-dedicate themselves to creating University communities abundant with tolerance, acceptance, and learning.  Make sure you keep open the doors of out-reach.  Remember the starfish parable.  If your res life program is any good, they taught it to you.  If not, then here it is.

One morning an elderly man was walking on a nearly deserted beach. He came upon a boy surrounded by thousands and thousands of starfish. As eagerly as he could, the youngster was picking them up and throwing them back into the ocean.

Puzzled, the older man looked at the young boy and asked, "Little boy, what are you doing?"

The youth responded without looking up, "I'm trying to save these starfish, sir."

The old man chuckled aloud, and queried, "Son, there are thousands of starfish and only one of you. You really think you can make a difference doing this?"

Holding a starfish in his hand, the boy turned to the man and, gently tossing the starfish back into the water, said, "I can to this one."

So anyhow, thanks for swinging by my soapbox today.  I did not intend on an entry for today, and certainly not on such a topic as this, but even small town dads are not immune.  My mother told me once that when you have kids, you're never the same - everybody's kids are your kids.  Everything that happens to somebody else's kid could some day happen to your kid.

Wherever you are; whatever you are facing - please know this - no person ever walks alone.  We are today reminded that, no matter what, there is always hope.

Dennis

Politics; religion; and small towns.

Well this being a small town, there are a few things here about which people have very strong opinions.  First and foremost is anything you are doing that seems weird to them.  Small town folks just want to understand, and part of understanding is watching their neighbors for any signs of weirdness.  Yes, we notice things like the wife who mows the lawn, the husband who cooks, or the stay at home mom who also happens to have a housekeeper AND a lawn service.  We can make an entire evening's conversation out of who threw out a perfectly good washing machine or which mom was acting insane at the local basketball game.  Speculating on the weirdness of people is probably the source of about 65% of any small town's collective conversations. 

And youth athletics - all manner of youth athletic programs are very important in our corner of the world.  Small towns make for great kids.  I know, I have met a lot of them in the last three years.  Great kids who learn all about life on the gridiron, ball diamond, hardcourt, or soccer pitch. As a town we love all of these kids, want them to be challenged, to have opportunities to work hard and succeed, to be treated fairly and to work with coaches who care.  And yes, we wanna win and we all have lots of opinions about how to go about getting there.  So sports are very important at all levels here.

And, pretty much like everywhere else, religion and politics are important here.  Nothing more important to people than to have their faith affirmed; either their faith in the almighty, or their faith in their political representatives.

Yesterday was the third annual "Pulpit Free Sunday" - an event created by some in the National religious community to provoke a lawsuit with the federal government so they can challenge the constitutionality of a 56 year old amendment to Federal tax law.  The amendment, promoted by LBJ when he was a senator from Texas, holds that pastors may not engage in political advocacy from the pulpit while at the same time enjoying their tax free exemption.

Like all, I have strong feelings about both politics and religion.  I also have strong feelings about the interplay of both and the high degree of mischief that may be engaged in if political leaders are allowed to manipulate churches; and church leaders are allowed to manipulate politics.

So, of the issue let me just say this - my wish for all of America, small and big town alike, is that for my church to get out of the government business, and my government to get out of the church business. But I don't see that happening any time soon.

Now, having gotten that out of the way, anyone want to ask me how our football team fared over the weekend? :-)

Thanks for stopping by my blog.  I hope, whatever your faith, you find it affirmed this week.

Dennis

"Yep, that's about right." Kids laugh at, and with, their parents

Humor was a staple in my house growing up.  Both the deliberate and the unintentional kind.

My dad was one of the funniest human beings I have ever met.  A master of impersonations and improvisation, he was quick witted and funny on his feet.  His ribald sayings are not appropriate for this forum, nor would they be among a gathering of longshoremen or most cowboys, but the recollection of those raw and insightful "Bob-isms" is enough to have me and my siblings in stitches within moment of someone saying "well you know what dad always said..."

And he was also Tim Allen before anyone ever heard of Tim Allen.  One of my most cherished memories of my life with him comes from YMCA Indian Guides camp when I was about 7 or 8.  I was sitting on a large rock just off the lakeside path at Camp Ohiyesa, a YMCA camp in Michigan's Livingston County.  As I sat there, I observed silently, save the muffled snickering that was building in chest, my dad, staggering down the path like a drunken sailor wearing a canoe for a hat.  He did not see me (he had a canoe on his head) and I quickly surmised that he was going to take the canoe out for a spin on the lake.

So I watched him walk by.  I knew it was him because of his Chuck Taylor high tops (he only wore gym shoes on weekends and on vacation), his distinctive short sleeved Ban-lon orange polyester shirt with its usual pack of smokes rolled up on the left shirt sleeve, and, well, because he was walking like a tipsy version of one of those big-headed parade characters with a canoe on his head.

Knowing him as I did, there was not one chance in hell (yes, I believe at age 7 or 8 I thought it exactly that way) I was getting in that canoe with him.  This is the man who once zipped a certain part of me up into Dr. Denton pajamas and, later in life, blew himself up trying to light a boiler on a diesel burning furnace.  This is the man who every Saturday would venture into the basement to work on a project and within an hour would be coming upstairs, hands dripping with blood, in search of paper towel and Mercurochrome.  No, I am certain I knew enough about his habits to believe there was not a chance in hell I was getting in that canoe with him.

So I watched him wobble on by with that canoe on his head, and then not five minutes later watched him storm back passed me; talking...more or less mumbling really...to himself without even acknowledging that he saw me, and he was completely soaking wet from his arm pits down to his canvas high tops.

I remember distinctly thinking "yep, that's about right..."

As I said, there was my dad, who was funny.  And then there was my mother, who was more classically funny.  Bill Cosby funny, "Your Show of Shows" funny.  She loves a good joke, or a good prank, or a funny bit just as much as anyone.  I can recall vividly a trip we were taking to my grandmother's house and the four of us; both of my brothers and me, and my sister were all complaining about how "boring it was there" and how all Grandpa ever watched on TV was British comedy and opera.

So she made us a wager.  She said that when she was our age there was no such thing as television and that when we got to Grandma and Grandpa's house, she would play some records (RECORDS?!) for us that would make us think television was boring.  I remember thinking she had been riding in one too many canoes with my dad and had probably hit her head on something.

"Records?  Better than TV?!" we said.  "Ha! - okay mom, what's the bet?"

The wiley schoolteacher bet us that if we agreed, after an hour of listening to records, that they were better than TV, we would give up our TV after school for a week.  We all agreed because we knew there was no way we were losing that bet. 

So after our arrival and hugs and kisses were passed out all around, we settled into the living room with the record player and four records.  I remember them to this day:  The Wonderful World of Jonathan Winters, The Button Down Mind of Bob Newhart, Bill Cosby is a Very Funny Fellow, RIGHT!, and an original recording of Detroit's WXYZ radio's Lone Ranger serial.

We listened to Winters first and were all hooked, immediately.  Each album seemed better than the last.  We gladly gave up our TV privileges in exchange for being able to listen to that Lone Ranger recording all by itself. 

So, as a parent myself, I can see there was some kind of plan to raising kids who weren't just plugged in to the TV, but who understood and appreciated funny things.  Everyone in my family has a sense of humor so it is natural for me to try and raise my kids with that same appreciation for playfulness and good humor.  I can also see that my siblings have a plan for raising funny kids - my older brother, himself also an educator - has what he calls the Canon for American humor that he works his way through with his kids.  Must see movies on his list include Young Frankenstein, It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad Mad World, and Some Like it Hot.

For my family, we try our best at having good humor and laughter as a part of our household routine.  It makes a difference, I can tell already.  I can remember one New Year's eve not long ago, my daughter was about 16 months old and my son about 7 and a half.  We celebrated and let the oldest stay up past midnight when he and I lit off fireworks in the street, another staple of my family.

As we counted down the minutes to midnight, talk turned to New Year's resolutions.  Now I have kept exactly one New Year's resolution in my entire life, switching from regular Pepsi to diet Pepsi many many years ago and I believe I was aided in that only by the addictive properties of my "dark master, Diet Pepsi."

Nonetheless, I make resolutions every year.  So I told Michael "This is the year that I am cleaning up my language, no more swears." 

Now talk about having a house full of humor, my wife and son laughed out loud at that mere fact that my tongue did not leap from my lying lips and run screaming down the street at the absurdity of that proclamation.  But, I figured, what the hell?  It couldn't hurt to try and ease up on the bad language.

So, after kissing us all good night and wishing us a Happy New Year, my wife climbs the stairs with the 15 month old, tucks her in, and goes to bed herself.  Junior and I light off our fireworks, cleanup and are headed to bed about 45 minutes later.  I say to him, about 50 times, to keep quiet once we are in the house.  "No lights, no noise, we'll brush our teeth extra hard in the morning. The last thing I need," I said, "a crying 15 month old" who has been awakened from her cozy slumber.

So my son tip-toes upstairs without turning on any lights and I hear him very quietly getting ready for bed.  I follow behind him but somehow manage to kick a stainless steel cookie sheet holding the dead bodies of all the fireworks on it into a picture frame, with glass, that sits at the bottom of our stairs. 

The quiet of our New Year's eve home was shattered and, all of a sudden, our house sounded like Chinese New Year for about 1/10th of a second.  I waited for the sound to settle to see if the little one was stirring, which, of course, she was, and then let out in a loud stage whisper:

"FUDGE!"

Only I didn't say "Fudge."

It's true.  Sad, inexcusable, but altogether true.  I considered the swear words in my arsenal and as a first strike reached immediately for the atom bomb.  It was out of my lips before I even knew it was coming up my throat.

The dim hope I had that no one heard me faded fast when, from my son's room through the darkness, I heard a little giggle and him say to himself "Well, that didn't last long."

I wonder if he also thought to himself, "Yep, that seems about right."

So thanks for stopping by my blog today.  Whatever it is you are up to today, I hope there are some laughs and the foundations for some warm memories involved.  Take good care of yourselves.

Dennis

Fencing, really?

My son, age 10, is an athlete.  Well, perhaps I should refine that statement.  He is incredibly fit, almost impossibly so. He has been blessed with foot speed, coordination, and an athlete's lean body which, aside from the striking resemblance of my "Fred Flintstone" big toe to his, would have me seriously questioning his paternity.  He is also pretty smart - all in all a good combination for most sports.

So when he begged for a year straight to play football, I gave-in and vowed to go to his mother, the lady who brought him forth into this world, and say "He gets to try it.  If he likes it, fine, if not - well at least he will know why not." 

Fifty years ago, in my grandfather's generation, they would have called it "putting your foot down."  In 2010 we call those ancient times "the good old days."  But after a much more cosmopolitan discussion with his mom, and no putting down of feet, his mother relented and agreed to let him play. I am certain she did it just to shut us both up.  She also let me know in no uncertain terms that if her beautiful boy suffered any injury that it would be my...well...let's just say she used a word not fit for a lady or for this family column...but she made her point well known that she expected her son to finish football in the same fine condition physically that he was in when he started.

Along the way she also said he did not have the temperament for football, was not aggressive, "did not spit."  I wondered what "spitting" had to do with playing football in her eyes, but ultimately we all threw ourselves into almost three months of football together.  We worried about him plenty, but, just looking at him, I knew he could keep up with anyone out on the field, right? Strong, smart, and fast.  Exactly what he needed.

Well, you know how they say that nobody knows their child like a mom knows her child?

Football season rolls around and we sign the boy wonder up.  And the first five practices are all fitness and conditioning - he loves it - he is a running, push-up, jumping jack doing machine and is having the time of his life.

Problem was, eventually they issued helmets and pads and started expecting the kids to hit each other. The boy wonder, who was raised "...not to solve problems using his fists..." didn't really understand the concept of hitting.  After the first practice in full pads I am sure, however, our first born firmly grasped the concept of "being hit."

So football was not an easy experience for our family.  His coaches, I am sure, sensed his unique brand of "Woody Allen-like" ferocity, I was terrified that if he didn't get more aggressive he wouldn't be able to protect himself, and his mom was spent emotionally over the concern that her terrific little kid would somehow be morphed into a flesh eating axe killer by three months of Rocket Football.

So over the course of the season, while I argued with his coaches for more playing time, and with him to protect himself, and his mom to not worry so much, he seemed to be working on his own agenda - survival.

Please understand that he is a beautiful kid inside and out. Ten times - no - scratch that - 100 times the child I was when I was his age.  But let's just say this; he is not overly burdened with aggression.  

He is incredibly competitive but his is ultimately a compassionate soul.  Turns out his mom did indeed know him better than any of the rest of us.  By the end of football season we were all ready to celebrate - him for surviving, and me and his mom for making it to the end of what was a contentious season for our family.  Contentious because I kept wanting him to play harder and play more; and for her wanting him to come home with all his Chiclets front and center and his bones, tendons, and ligaments still attached in all the right places.

I have to share that, after the second to the last game of the season, having watched him practice just as hard as any other kid on the team, I told him he could quit the team if he wasn't having fun.  That was a reversal of my deal with him when I told him I would "go to bat" for him with his mom over football.  I said I would do that but if he played, he couldn't quit.  He had to stick it out for the season.

I told him I thought he was being taken advantage of.  He never missed a practice, never talked back to his coaches, never quit.  He just wasn't real big into the whole "football aspect" of football.  Consequently, the coaches never played him. Understandable and true if you are coaching at the high school level, but this was a community league and this was his first exposure to the sport.  So I was miffed.

My miffedness escalated dramatically when family traveled from all over to an away game and my son got put in with 17 seconds to play in the 4th quarter and our team up by three touchdowns.  It was the only game that team won all season.

So after another game where he was only allowed in on a couple of plays; after working his butt off for the better part of two and half months, I said to him that if he wanted to quit I would turn his gear in myself.  I expected him to jump at the chance.

Instead, he looked up at me, arms covered in bruises from practice, after having played exactly two snaps in the previous game, and said "Dad, this is a little town.  I am going to see those guys at school for a long time. No one out there is going to be able to call me a quitter.  They can do whatever they want to me, but I'm not quitting." 

I was proud and relieved and angry all at once.  Proud because of how insightful he was at just 9 years old. Relieved because I was secretly hoping he would stick it out; and angry because I felt the coaches were just wrong.  None of it matters now, but I was livid then.

But that moment when he told me he wasn't quitting revealed more character in him than would have been created if he played every snap of every game all season.  I could not have been more proud of him.  So we agreed that his last game would be fun. He could do whatever he wanted, play if he wanted, sit if he wanted.  He was expected to give a good effort in practice and also if he got to play, but we weren't going to have any more fights, either me with his coaches or between him and me, about football. 

He played a lot the last game of the season - even made a spectacular tackle that he never got credit for.  I remember that they did not win but I don't remember the score.  What I do remember is that I saw in him what he was really made of that day he refused to quit and how happy we both were driving away from the grid-iron that day.  High fives and laughter all around, I remember that scene vividly.

So fall rolls around this year and we asked him what does he want to do.  He plays basketball and baseball but with no football this fall, what did he think he was going to do with all his free time?

"Fencing, dad."

"Fencing, really" I said to him.  "Son, we live in a small town - this is not exactly the fencing capitol of the world.  In fact our small town is probably not the "anything" capitol of the world so how the heck are we going to pull off fencing?"

Well, as it turns out we are close to a town with a major university and there is a fencing coach there who teaches youth fencing as part of the community recreation program.  So this fall I am proud and happy to report that my son, who attacked offensive lines with all the aggression and ferocity of your average cat burglar sneaking through a darkened museum, is Zorro when you actually put a saber in his hands.

Thanks for stopping by my blog.  Here's hoping that whatever you are doing with your kids this fall, it is fun for all and that everybody comes home with all their "Chiclets front and center."

Dennis

P.S.  What prompted this entry today was my reading of a news article about the suicide of a Penn State University football player who, after his death, was discovered to have chronic traumatic encephalopathy - a disease of the brain associated with repeated injuries.

I do not question the judgment of any parent letting their kids play football or any other sport, it's up to the parents and the kid.  But I wanted to throw this out there in the hopes that, as we continue to raise the awareness of kids playing while hurt, we also raise the awareness of the long term consequences of concussions and other chronic brain injuries associated with sports.

The miracle story of my miracle daughter, on her fourth birthday

My daughter is 4 years old, today.  She is everything you would imagine in a great kid.  Bright, funny, cute with huge blue eyes and the personality of a dolphin.  She is our miracle.

I used to joke, after my son was born, that the miracle of childbirth wasn't that anyone would ever have one baby. It is that anyone would ever have a second.  It is a scary thing bringing a child into this world. So much responsibility and so many what-ifs.  That, along with the actual act of carrying a child to term and then actually delivering it is enough to scare many away.

When our son was born, the pregnancy was uneventful aside from the run of the mill stuff.  No real scares. We conceived the first month we actually set about trying to start a family and the pregnancy was pretty much textbook stuff.  There was, however, just one brief scare during his delivery when the bloodflow from mom to baby was obstructed and his heart rate plummeted in utero, but that was about it. In hindsight, comparatively speaking, it was hardly even a bump in the road.

But you know what they say, sometimes you just don't know what you just don't know.  Such was the case with the relatively minor scare during delivery.  As it was, that one little scare terrified me.  The thought of what might have happened was enough to convince me that one was enough.  I hated the hospital, the monitors, the not knowing if everything would be OK.  When our son was born I thought we took home the pot on our first round of blackjack against the house and that we should walk away from the table right then.  I told my wife I would be perfectly happy raising just that one wonderful child we had.  She said she was not sure just yet.

So after our son was about 2, we started talking about having another baby.  My wife, the organized one in the family (if we lived on Sesame Street, she would be Bert and I would be every bit of Ernie and then some), started planning for a second child.

"We'll start in December," she said "so we can have a September baby."

I recall laughing and saying that there was no guarantee that would work.  Nonetheless she was confident and we started in December...of 2002...so we could have a September baby.

By September of 2003 we were concerned.

By September of 2004 we had watched every TV special on infertility, worn out several computer keyboards searching the Internet, and tried just about every home remedy short of voo-doo ritual aimed at engaging the fertility gods and blessing us with a second child.  No luck.

By 2005 we were at the threshold of the dreaded "specialist."  Specialist is Latin for a place where "there is no modesty."  I recall she was a humorless, brilliant woman with cartoon sperm all over her office.  Ceramic sperm, cardboard sperm, sperm in bas relief coming out of the walls.  There were even several "sperm mobiles" hanging from the ceiling.  If it was in a movie it would have been hilarious.  I think there was even a sperm puppet but my memory might be wrong on that one.  My reaction to all of it was one of dread.

"How much hope, and how much money." Those were the thoughts that dominated my mind on the trips to the specialist.  I had a definite budget for both.

My wife, Jeanine, for her part, was as courageous as I have ever seen any person about the process. "Whatever we need to do, we'll do it," she said.

Yeah, easy for you to say, sister.  You aren't getting sent into the room with vinyl couch, dirty magazines, and Tupperware and everyone knows what you are up to in there. 

Honestly, talk about the place where shame goes to die, the "collection lab" is the epicenter of the "no humility" zone.  On my first visit, I walked into my private room, took one look at the vinyl couch and began to laugh so hard that the 20 something female lab technician came back to check on me.

"Yes, ma'am, of course I am OK" I recall saying. "No ma'am, I'm just laughing at the couch...I don't know why I am laughing at the couch...It's a funny couch...No, I don't need any help and I don't think my wife would appreciate you asking me that question in these circumstances..."  I told her.  After that I heard her walk away laughing.

So after all the tests, two surgeries for my wife, and more "procedures," plus the addition of a second job for me to help pay for the procedures, it was now September, 2005.  Along the way, in July of 2005, my dad died unexpectedly.  I felt like quitting.  We were broke, financially and emotionally.  I was working two jobs, my wife had already had a miscarriage, we had a five year old boy at home who was perfect in every way you could expect a five year old boy to be perfect - handsome, funny, strong, smart, well mannered, compassionate.  I was ready to quit. I wanted to quit and I told my wife I was quitting.  She was faithful and said, "not just yet."

It was late summer in 2005 that my wife, unable to sleep and channel surfing after midnight, made a significant discovery watching one of those morbid TV medical shows. You know the ones, they show you all the physical torment a person is going through and you see how all the doctors along the way have screwed up diagnosing their condition until that one special doctor sees something that fixes it.  She was watching this show and I heard her say "This is me, this is what I have..."  Skeptical and tired though I was, I had to admit that the symptoms described did seem like her in a mysterious, unsolvable inability to become pregnant kind of way.

So she, the "A" student, took copious notes and we made an appointment with our "specialist" and our family doctor.  Both  gave us a collective "m'eh."  I was going on 41, my wife just turned 39 and I think they thought it was time for us to start looking at other options (the specialist was talking "IVF" to which our bank account said "NFW" and our family doctor was talking about adoption).  But, the Nurse Practitioner, an enthusiastic force to be reckoned with, had heard of this condition, had seen it in her own family, and, after a simple blood test and the writing of a 7.00 per month prescription, ultimately got us on what we thought was the right path.

So meds in hand, we started a new course of medicine and procedures.  The specialist's fees were not enough to make us go broke all at once, but just enough to bankrupt us slowly over time.  By November, 2005 we started talking about what seemed obvious - if we weren't pregnant by December then we were done.

When the middle of December, 2005 came and the monthly pregnancy test came back negative, we decided we had had enough.  We were done.  Jeanine, earlier in the summer had another miscarriage, there was thousands upon thousands of dollars spent at the specialist, horrible fights, horrible tension, the romance gone from our marriage. We decided "enough."  Our November visit to the specialist would have been our last. That is, except, as it ultimately turned out, for that one part of living where, just when you've made up your mind to quit, hope has a way of tip-toeing in and whispering softly, "not just yet."

After 4 years of trying, our minds were made up. We resolved to meet our family at Christmas, 2005 and just get on with our life.  We gathered at my oldest brother's home for family Christmas - the first time we had all been together since my dad died. 

As one of the executors of his estate, I had a modest amount of his money to distribute to each of my siblings and thought this would be the perfect time to do it.  Dad's passing was a surprise and hit us all very hard, so I sought out each sibling privately and delivered to each, individually, an envelope with a little money in it from Dad.

My oldest brother, himself a family man, in the quiet of his beautifully appointed dining room, looked at me as I handed him the envelope and said "Denny, you got bills?"  I actually laughed out loud and said, "Yeah, Pat, you could say I got some bills..."

He met my gaze and handed his envelope back to me without even counting what was in it, and said "well then take this, and do something nice for your family."  It was a gesture so kind and generous and unexpected that I didn't know what to say.  I was embarrassed. Not wanting to refuse his generosity, I thanked him and put the money in my jacket pocket.

On the way home I told my wife about the encounter.  I am not too proud to admit that we both cried a bit as our son snoozed in the car seat behind us.  Without either of us saying it out loud, we both knew what we do with that sudden, lovely, unexpected gesture. We both knew what the "nice thing" would be that we would do for our family.

The next morning we called the specialist and arranged for an appointment the following week, the last week of December, 2005.  The money was just enough to cover one more "procedure." So once again we threw our modesty out the window, handed over the money, and said a little prayer.  That prayer was answered 10 months later when we welcomed a fantastic daughter into our family.

In the end, it turned out that we started in December (2002) to have a September (2006) baby.

The birth announcements we sent introducing our miracle daughter, the daughter who came home after we had all but given up dreaming about her, read "Sometimes, when life tells you to quit, hope walks in on tip-toe and whispers "not just yet." 

She is four years old today and, along with her big  brother, stands as the greatest thing I have ever done with my life.  She is a pig-tailed, giggly, wonderful slice of Heaven on Earth. 

Happy Birthday, little frog. Your mom, dad, big brother and all of your family loves you. Even the cats think you are cool.

Thanks for stopping by my blog and sharing this story of how the frog came into our lives.  I hope all is well with you and yours and that during your journey you take the time to remember that hope, just after love, is the greatest of all gifts.

Dennis