The third act on This American Life yesterday presented the reality of autism and the family.
The subject is of great interest to me in that I majored and taught in special education in my life before children and remain fascinated with the potential of people with handicaps.

The family openly spoke about life with their autistic son Benjamin, whose autism must have reached "severe" on the broad spectrum. The father explained his son as a giant with a toddler's brain. The family referred to their bruised and scratched skin from Ben's violent outbursts as "benjuries". The mother was quite frank about the utter rudeness of complete strangers toward them in public.

I contrasted Ben's story to a little guy with autism I am friends with at church. He's been in my Sunday School class for the last two years and now I am his official one on one "hang out" buddy in his new class. In contrast to the many intensely frustrated people with autism I've met over the years, this boy is miraculously and remarkably joyful.

Dave, the person with the most severe case of autism I've met, lived in a group home where I worked when I was in college. Even sedated on psychotrophic drugs, Dave was horribly self abusive. He obsessed over Mountain Dew to the point that we installed alarms on all doors as he'd run to the nearest convenience store a mile away and guzzle down as many two liters as possible before anyone knew he was missing. He walked around signing the word "pop" constantly as he had no speech and would sometimes begin a destructive pattern of behavior when he didn't get Mountain Dew. He'd fall to his knees on the blue shag living room carpet, rub a circle with his thin hand until his palm became bloody. His body perspiration and odor released and angry grunting built to screaming. Then begin beating himself in the head with his hands leaving knots and bruises. Eventually he wore a helmet to prevent brain damage. Eventually, Dave was moved to an institution.

When I hypothetically consider if I could handle Dave as a member of my household now, I seriously doubt my capabilities. Each day, everything would revolve around his urgent needs and the rest of the family would be shoved to the back of the line. Every person would be forced into the survival mode.

From my previous experience with Dave, I completely understand Ben's family's eventual choice to place him in a structured program away from home. They believe he is happy there.

I do not know Dave's status these days, but when I get to heaven, I imagine a conversation with him and the others who could not find paths for communication with me when I worked in their home. Will Dave say, "True, you were off the mark. I was really thinking...", "Why didn't you ever...", or "About the times I'd press on your throat till you awoke simultaneously screaming and gasping for air on your overnight shifts- I'm sorry about that."?

It's not a surprise that Ira Glass' story about Heidi brought me to tears. To tell the truth, I haven't been listening to Ira in a silent never before mentioned boycott, since he hasn't gotten back to me about the story I proposed in April.

And you thought I was incapable of holding a shallow and petty grudge? Even if it's against a famous person I've never met from an NPR Saturday radio show. It's hard for me to comprehend that Ira has apparently ignored my request to interview the man I found who constructed an entire town of Christmas houses sprawling across the lawn on one side of his house, and his mother who constructed an amazing dinosaur village on the other in an itsy bitsy Tennessee town I pass through on the way to Deerlodge.

However, I've grown entirely bored of the 150 eighties songs in the mp3 player in Buck's Honda, and I'm a such sucker for good story. So, I ended my magnificently successful private boycott by swallowing the lump of my pride in a single gulp and intently listened to This American Life on my drive home this afternoon. In all seriousness, Ira has a way of choosing incredibly meaningful stories that immediately penetrate my sometimes stubborn heart.

Today he began with a the story of the mid twentieth century scientist who worked to contradict existing research proving that love was not an essential for babies. In fact, in the days before the 50's, scientists, psychologists, and physicians taught parents that love was actually harmful to infants- more than one kiss a year was to the detriment of a child.

The scientist in Ira's story studied Reece's monkey babies by putting them with two dummy mommies. Wire Mommy, equipped with eyes, nose, mouth, and a bottle of formula protruding from her middle sat beside Soft Mommy made of cloth featured cuddling arms. The test baby monkeys spent 23 hours a day snuggling with Soft Mommy and less than one hour a day getting milk from Wire Mommy. If that wasn't enough to prove his theory, the scientist fitted Soft Mommy with a mechanism to trigger dull barbs to jab the baby intermittently, shake the baby till it's teeth rattled, and toss the baby across the room. Still the test monkeys went back again and again to Soft Mommy's lap to try to gain her love after abuse while Wire Mommy sat still and unattended. I probably need to look up this scientist's name and thank him when we meet at Parousia. Interesting.

Act II of This American Life featured an adoption story of an incredibly strong woman named Heidi, someone I'd like to shake hands with one day. She's a special ed teacher who fell in love with an orphaned Romanian child's picture, so she and her husband adopted him at eight years old from an orphanage. He'd spent the previous seven and a half years before without leaving a crib he shared with another boy.

From what I know about many Romanian adoptions in particular and studies on issues facing children never given opportunity to bond, I predicted "attachment disorder" from the start, and I couldn't have been more on target.

Heidi recalled the horror of anger and violence which overcame her new son as he settled into his first chance at family. The boy wondered why these two awful people he lived with would abandon him for all of his years to a 3 foot cage in Romania. Once he was able comprehend he'd been born to other people who had cast him off, his rage grew unmanageable. He tore over a thousand holes his the walls of his room, and eventually his mother hired a bodyguard to protect herself.

Heidi pursued every therapy to address her son's attachement issues. I'd read a powerful book titled Children Who Are Not Yet Peaceful, and I felt an inkling of hope for this boy consumed with pain. While the book was unrelated to the story, I knew the "cure" to attachment disorder lay in something larger and absolutely more relationally basedl than behavioral reward/punishment therapy. Again, I was right on.

Heidi found an intense treatment which lasted eight weeks. Heidi began the "3 foot therapy". She stopped working her job for those weeks and focused totally on her son. You may not believe this, but her son was within three foot of her at all times! They'd wait outside the bathroom for one another all those weeks. The point was for the two to bond and have him become utterly dependent on her for all his needs just like an infant, so he wasn't allowed to ask for anything. He had to wait and trust her to provide. When he resisted, he got "time ins" in which she'd fold him into her arms and hold eye contact. Eye contact was an essential to the whole program. By the end of the third week, her son decided he didn't hate her anymore. He mentioned he used to go to another room to hate her, but with the therapy he didn't have the chance and decided she was good afterall.

When the eight weeks was up, he was a changed boy. He wasn't violent anymore.

But a bump in the road rose some time later at around age thirteen when he began to steal and enter the juvenille justice arena. Heidi and her husband began another therapy with him in which each night for twenty minutes, his long body would cover over their laps as they embraced him in their arms, fed him icecream with a spoon, and chatted. Love won him over again.

He's since won an award at his synagouge in which he quite obviously choked up during his acceptance speech over deep love for his parents.

Heidi spoke something like this, "You can't teach love. I was only aiming for a little attachment. And now my son does not want to hurt me, and that is love."

Talk about transformation.




My son wrote in his journal a few weeks ago, "Everyone wants to feel different." I interpret "different" as unique or special. Heidi's stubborn and pragmatic approach to love pierces me. She successfully helped her boy become special- see himself as worthy to be loved.

Sincere thanks to Ira for presenting Heidi's story. It's the kind which spurs me away from thinking like a cold dictator orchestrating my mundane life toward the higher ground of my work in the incredible beauty of humankind and unsinkable love.

Honey

I mentioned our crazy schedule for games last Saturday to my small group, "Pooh Bear has her very first game ever. Buck will not be able to attend, because he's taking Tater to a tournament. Wise One has a soccer game at the same time as Pooh Bear, so I'll have to divide myself between the two and miss some of Pooh Bear's first game."

Honey, a quiet friend in the group for several years now, surprised me with, "Where is Pooh Bear's game? I'd like to come."

Honey and her husband Hal have grown children, but no grandchildren, yet. Though our group plans things together several times a year, soccer games have not made it into shared events.
I wondered, "Does Honey really like soccer? I've never heard her say a thing about soccer before. Or is it Pooh Bear?" Either way, I was overcome to see Honey's cute PT Cruiser waiting for us in the parking lot at the fields at the crack of dawn (okay, 7:45 a.m.).

Turned out that Wise One had to be there early for pictures, not a game afterall, so Honey and I didn't miss a moment of the action packed five year old match. Soccer at this age consists of the team with the ball kicking it into the goal. Maybe later in the season we'll be treated to some tough defense action.

Honey and I laughed. A lot. What a pleasure to spend the morning with her sweet countenance presiding.

At some point Saturday morning, Honey told me about how she'd stepped on a nail years ago which nicked the bone, and was in the hospital waiting for surgery when her son had his first football game. And that God had miraculously healed her the day of her surgery. She sure didn't want Pooh Bear's first day to be unobserved either.

So, Honey, thank you for caring for my family. It is an honor to call you friend.

Nightmare

What is a twelve year old boy’s nightmare?

Last night Peace stood huffing by my bed after 4:00 am, “Mom, wake up. I need you.”

My abruptly woken thoughts raced, “Who’s hurt? What‘s wrong?”

“No, it’s not that.” Peace reassured.

My mind turned another direction. Must be the cats. Our felines have learned to push open doors to the garage which are not always tightly closed. Often, Patches brings in a mouse with which to “play” and madly chase through the house, and Peace wakes up in distress. It used to be that Peace’s gerbil escaped and was being terrorized by Janet, but a new and improved lid on his cage solved that problem fairly well. I don’t even think Peace has to put the gigantic family Bible on top of the rodent’s cage to keep the cats from lifting the lid.

Peace snapped me back to the reality of the present with “Mom, I was having a nightmare, and I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Oh, so you need me to pray for you?”

“Yes, and tell me again how to stop thinking about the bad stuff.”

“What is it exactly we need to chase from your dreams?”

Peace’s voice breaks a little, “Mom, it’s terrible. In my dream, I get addicted to cigarettes and I can’t stop smoking. Now I can‘t stop thinking about it.”

Whoa. I know the child does not smoke, but I wonder if something silly I said last week triggered the dream. On the way to Wise One’s soccer game Saturday, I joked, “Peace, looks like all the Lenoir City kids your age are hanging out at the basketball goal, smoking, cussing, flirting. Don’t you want to join them? Maybe they’ll give you a cigarette or teach you some new curse words.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, “Mom are you crazy? Why in the world would I want to do that?”

I continued, “I know how much you like to smoke, and since your parents don’t smoke, I know how tough it must be for a kid your age to get cigarettes.”

Peace scoffed, “Yeah, right, Mom. You are nuts.”

We made our way to the fields, unfolded our chairs and cheered Wise One on as he played. Silly words forgotten.

Until last night.

So, smoking is a nightmare to him.

It had been to me as a child as well. My family moved when I was in the fifth grade, and the first friend I made, Kelly, snuck me into the rafters of an outbuilding by her house and she lit up. I was terrified and stunned. How is it that a sixth grader smoked, and why the heck did I, Goody Two Shoes, find a hood for a friend? I kid you not when I tell you she called for her little brother, took down her pants and peed from the rafters on top of the boy. Gaarrrossss! What kind of juvenile delinquent town had I moved into? I made some excuse to leave and never played with Kelly again though I watched her carefully from the corner of my eye on the bus to see if she held any interest in beating me up. I cried for days after the trauma out of fear that I’d never find a nice friend who wanted to play Barbies. Fortunately, I met Asenath at school, and she did like Barbies and jacks, and most importantly, she did not smoke. In fact, her big and kind family were my introduction to the word “Holy Rollers”. And I really liked them and the safety of all their rules.

Last night Peace experienced something I imagine was a warning dream. Makes me wonder if there is more to the story, or if it was simply my teasing Saturday provoked the nightmare. Could he have been offered something at Scouts, Co-op, church youth group, or somewhere else? It’s possible and worth talking over with him.

I prayed with Peace last night to dispel the leftovers of the dream, and then we discussed a strategy to help him “take captive his every thought.” He agreed each time the nightmare was remembered, he’d shift his thoughts to a precious song he was making up about our family and cats.

My thoughts turn just now to the youth on that basketball court, and the question of “Where are the parents, and do they know what their children are doing? Do they care?” The only young girl on the court made plenty of physical contact with as many of the ten boys in the basketball game in wrestling for the ball and cigarettes. All I can think about is, “How soon till she is pregnant. Or worse, raped?” Real life nightmares.

I consider the naivety of my son compared to these people. While I see sparks of manhood, he’s still allowed to be a twelve year old boy- losing school assignments, playing cards, chess, backgammon, kicking soccer balls, building forts and contraptions, playing with our menagerie of animals, eating junk food, needing redirection of sarcasm, all that.

It wasn’t too long ago that I blogged about not being able to find Peace’s heart. His trust in me to solve his nightmare proves otherwise. For now.

Forget equations, predicates, and pronouns.

We're going to the fair. The Tennessee Valley Fair.

Our family favorite is the animal show. Last year, we hung around after the seal show and spoke at length with the keeper. She told us how the seals travel. That they hit 30 fairs a year all over the states. The keepers must stop and wet the seals every few hours. About the tricky balance of their water. We saw and heard genuine love and care in the keeper's eyes and speech.

I also love going into the exhibit hall to see whose peaches won the blue ribbon. And the amazing designs quilters craft with leftover scraps of fabric.

It's a welcome change from the solemnity of yesterday.

Nine Lives- one

Helen reminded me about something I'd completely forgotten as we dangerously talked on our cell phones driving down the interstate in opposite directions. My husband made an 80's mp3, and I had to call Helen to belt, mostly in tune, a Journey song into her ear, "Someday love will find you. Break those chains that bind you. One day will remind you, how we touched and went our separate ways." The next Night Ranger song instantly triggered Helen's memory. We are children of the eighties.

The phone call sparked an idea in me to blog about how I've used up more than my share of nine lives. I'm thinking of posting reasons I should probably be dead, mostly from stupid things I did as a rather naive and inquisitive teenager.

So, here's the first installment of my Nine Lives. Considering sharing the same type of story on your blog and letting me know in the comments, so I can learn about how you narrowly escaped the Grim Reaper's death grip.



Somewhere around my high school graduation, Helen and I purchased tickets to The Cars concert at Riverbend in Cincinnati. We'd already listened to our "Heartbeat City" LP endlessly and seen the slanky sleek Rick walk on water across a pool in his MTV video more times than I'd like to admit. Oh, the tragedy of misspent youth.

On the night of the Cars concert, I dyed a streak of my hair blue to match my snazzy white dress with faint blue stripes. Isn't that how girls in the eighties always gussied up in the eighties? However, the strand of dyed locks turned a bit green as my hair was naturally blonde (imagine that), a lesson for me in the color wheel. Helen and I climbed into my '72 Duster which we affectionately called "The Greenie Weanie". On I-275 near the exit to Riverbend, my beloved army green car overheated in the long line of cars crawling down the off ramp . We opened the hood and puzzled over what to do as smoke poured from the engine. About that time, another car door opened beside us, a different kind of smoke poured forth, and some young man in a union jack t-shirt with cut off sleeves shouted, "Hey, you girls need a ride into the concert?" Being the responsible and wise type, Helen and I abandoned my car, and squeezed into a car full of long haired scruffy young men, with the exception of one girl whom I chose to sit next beside, everyone smoking pot. Roach clips were hanging off every available surface. "You want a hit?" offered the generous driver. Helen nor I were stoners, so we declined their hospitality. Draped across the front of the car, I noticed a Union Jack, and their radio blared the very famous group Night Ranger. "Motorin'. What's your price for flight? To finally see the light?" Something like that.

No, those people didn't seize the opportunity drive off to a remote location and proceed to torture, rape and kill us. Fortunately. They simply drove into the parking lot of Riverbend, Helen and I sweetly thanked them and waved goodbye concert tickets in hand.

Wang Chung opened. What was their hit song? Buck would remember in a heart beat.

The Cars played like robots in black.

We found another friend's boyfriend Joe and his pal Palmer at the end of the concert in the crowd to take get water for the radiator and drive us back to my car. Yes, I did have AAA, but weren't boys better?

How many of my nine lives do you suppose I used up in that memorable evening?

And after rocking out to Night Ranger on my car stereo yesterday, what was the following song on the mp3?

"Drive" by the Cars.

I do not lie.

Svet said I could blog about something terribly clever she said at the coffee maker in Helen's kitchen, but I can't seem to remember what it is. So Svet, if you could just remind me...

The Vyne family spent Labor Day weekend in Deerlodge sans Mr. Vyne, who worked under the new and improved iron fist of the FAA. Buck mentioned the fact that air traffic controllers in Denver International were thwarted by airport security when trying carry bring in their drinks and meals to the tower; Sunday FAA implemented it's new "rules" including a spiffy dress code, and no controller being able to leave the facility during his or her shift for meals or otherwise. So no breaks, no drinks, no food for those folks, but they will look nice...

Controllers in charge across the nation are no longer permitted to leave tracon (radar room) at all in their 8 to 10 hour shifts except for one brief potty break. Alrighty then!

FAA are flying all the managers and supervisors to St. Louis for briefing of these fantastic rules for the very low, low cost of $28,000,000 over the course of three weeks. Oh yeah, now there are some well spent tax dollars. Buck says, "It may have been easier for the FAA to make a DVD and send it to all the facilities, but then they wouldn't have been able to teach the supervisors the super secret FAA handshake." Methinks the shake includes a heavy emphasis on the middle finger.

I better stop now before I begin to sound bitter.

Deerlodge was fabulous as usual. My children misplaced thanks to me on the way home when all the thanks belongs to Clay and new guest (old friend) Solomon. They took the boys fishing, target shooting, and riding four wheelers.

Helen and I began catfighting at first sight of Svet and Bary's car; we clawed, scratched and kicked one another for dibs on holding itty baby Kat. I won the first day, so Kat, cradled in her sling around my neck, and I enjoyed a peaceful walk around the pond together just before sunset. The crickets lulled the tiny creature to sleep. Today, Helen knocked me out on the way to grab Kat up after a midday nap. I'll get you Helen, and your little dog Max, too!

I felt the first nip of fall this weekend and wore long sleeves for the first time in a very long while today.

If you could see her now. She's tucked the spotted stuffed bunny her dear friend Anna gave her and puffy pink Olivia from her sweet friends Leesa and El under one tiny little arm. Her other hand cradles her perfect little girl face. She's snuggled and completely zonked under the rosy quilt on my bed, at least until daddy gets home and moves her to her own little pink palace.

Precious. A pearl. Glorious. My little girly.

It was Pooh Bear's very first soccer practice ever this evening, and she's plum tuckered out. She had to wear the entire game day outfit even though game day is next Saturday. It took her half an hour to get dressed. The shorts, the smallest AYSO has to offer, are far and away too large, so we gathered the waist to half it's size with a draw string. It took two tries to get the neon orange socks as long as the Amazon River to fit just right in her new pink soccer shoes. The shin guards velcroed around and met at the back of skinny her calves. I stood amazed at practice as she jumped at every command of her terrific coaches like the best dog in obedience school.
Pooh Bear shares the team with another splendid tough girl and some very aggressive real little boys, but she's hanging right in there. Personally, I'm not sure how I'd handle four pint sized monsters stomping around my legs, but she plowed her own way through the mob like the boy in Where the Wild Things Are.

There's probably nothing much more humorous or spellbinding than a hive of familiar five year olds buzzing around a ball.

I can go to bed now. I've documented another first on my blog for her. I get a hint of melancholy realizing she's my last chance at firsts. Time's a swirling away and I'm running after his old coat tails...

Inside Scoop

Fatigue. Is that something you want the air traffic controller or pilots to be experiencing while you fly?

So did fatigue play any role in the plane crash in Lexington, Ky. last week? You bet it did.
The pilots flew on the turn around shift after little sleep. Normal? Oh, yes. The air traffic controller had a grand total of two hours sleep in 24 hours. A common occurance? Absolutely.

Anyone out there wonder why there was only one air traffic controller on duty in Lexington that morning? The FAA is cutting costs and corners all over the place including in refusing to staff two controllers during the quiet hours of midnight to six a.m. The controller in that tower was forced to consolidate his tower and radar duties as noone else was scheduled to help. It happens everyday across this nation. Do you think him checking the radar or on some other plane after confirming the correct runway with the pilots of that flight puts him at fault? Marian Blakely, head of the FAA, is either blatantly lying or does not have the slightest understanding of how air traffic controlling works when she proclaimed something along the lines of, "Whether or not another person had been there, the crash in Lexington would have happened anyway." That unfortunate controller could have visually followed that wayward plane if he had not had other duties, like radar, for which another controller could have been responsible.

This summer, 36% of congress failed to vote for further negotiations between the FAA and the National Air Traffic Controllers Association (NATCA) specifically on the issues of safety and fatigue imposed by the FAA cost cutting measures. The FAA painted air traffic controllers as whiney, greedy and lazy, and for some unknown reason, 36% of congress agreed. Maybe, just maybe congress will wake from its slumber to re-evaluate. The FAA is becoming an enemy of the people rather than the government servant it is intended to be.

A personal reflection
My sweet husband leaves the house a little after 5 a.m. on Monday to be at work by 6 a.m. He arrives home around 3 p.m. He rarely tries to nap as it's the middle of the day and because we'll have a family dinner, soccer for Wise One, Scouts for Peace, dance for Pooh Bear, and soccer in another town for Tater in the few hours between his next shift. He'll leave the same Monday evening for work around 10 p.m. and return after 7 a.m. on Tuesday. Though study after study indicates a nap produces better work, the FAA has completely ruled out napping on breaks. And of course, no breaks are allowed when the last controller leaves my husband at midnight in the tower alone until the next shift workers appear at 6 a.m. Yes, you read that correctly. NO breaks, not even for the potty or a drink from midnight to 6 a.m. in the event no other controller is scheduled or one gets sick. My buddies Helen and Clay tell me they'd be sued to kingdom come if they didn't provide appropriate breaks for their private business employees. However, my husband's employee IS the government and the FAA makes the rules.


Why so much fatigue in air traffic controllers besides the crazy hours?

There is a national shortage of air traffic controllers.
Philadelphia is 40 controllers short. No to worry, Albaquerque Center lacks 100 necessary employees. Even little old Knoxville will be short very soon as many retire under harsh FAA treatment. And the FAA has the nerve to insist NATCA consider their unwanted measures to be some sort of contract without any kind of vote. Believe me, the FAA would not get a favorable vote from NATCA members at this point.

And the strategy of the FAA to overcome the shortage?

Pay new people off the street less than miniumum wage to train and offer the top salary of $31,000 per year after whether they work at O'Hare or Knoxville. And how safe does it sound to hire people off the street to work at the busiest airport in the nation anyway?

AND

Mandatory overtime for controllers, 10 hour shifts, 6 days a week.

I am not joking.

No guaranteed vacation. If a family plans a trip, air traffic controllers can be called back to work smack dab in the middle.

Breaks, which formerly were scheduled every two hours for safety reasons, are no longer neccesary at all according to the FAA.

Sick days can be denied. Wouldn't a nice case of diaherria coupled with no breaks equal disaster?

FAA policy: Work ones who hold thousands of lives in their hands harder and longer.

If you think this is a bad idea, you might just want to drop a note saying so to your congressman. Ours apparently finds my husband and all others in his professsion to be whiney, lazy, and greedy.

A friend of mine is teaching Good Shepherd work in Uganda for one month. This was something she sent from her journal today:

Peace is the source of life. (Kenya)
If you cannot resolve your problems in peace, you cannot solve war. (Somalia)
The weak long for revenge but the strong seek justice. (South Africa)
Those who refuse to forgive break a bridge on which they must pass. (Cameroon)
Peace is like a treasure that shall never part from you. (Kenya)
Never break the pot that keeps you together. (Kenya)
Peace is the mother of friendship. (Sierra Leon)
To agree together is to make progress. (Tanzania)
A united family eats from the same plate. (Uganda)
If there is love there is peace. (Swahili)
If you offend, ask pardon; if offended, forgive. (Ethiopia)
The happiness of a single [wo]man causes peace to all. (Ethiopia)

Claire thinks I need some serious sensitivity training. She agreed to rehabilitate two abandoned newborn squirrels, and finds my objections to be profoundly sad. Rehabilitation means feeding the varmints formula every three hours by a syringe and doing what their mother would normally do to get them to eliminate afterwards, cleaning their cage, regulating their temperature, clearing up their diarrhea, and other endless tasks I can't fathom doing for a creature that looks just like a nasty rat. Claire insisted I drop by and see how very cute and cuddly they were. Call me crazy, but I have no interest in baby squirrels unless it's to watch them do what squirrels do in the wild. On rare occasions, I find the creatures to be amusing to observe. I certainly don't want to ever touch one. It gives me the hebee jebees just thinking about it.
Apparently the squirrels have opened their eyes, and are becoming much more active this last week. All the more reason for me to stay clear. Imagine one escaping and madly racing about the house.
Claire has a grandma who has passed on, and Claire thinks when I meet her grandma in the afterlife, (she was another bright woman who also did not dig squirrels either) we'll walk together down a glistening heavenly path to a squirrel refuge to snuggle and care for baby winged angel squirrels who departed earth too soon. Claire believes the scales of squirrel prejudice will melt away from my heart when I set foot through the pearly gates. She thinks I lack squirrel compassion.
Personally, I think Grandma and I will slap our knees, hoot and holler over the fact that God will not allow squirrels upstairs, because they simply aren't as cute, let's say, as goats. Now there is an animal in which to dedicate one's time.

The more I think about it, the funnier it gets.

Picture this in your mind's eye. My sista's biker husband, Harley, most likely wearing black leather, enters the airport the very first day of the "liquid scare" holding my bouncing baby niece dressed head to toe in pink. Noone knows why, but suddenly all liquids are banned from carry on bags. Harley immediately becomes uncomfortable realizing he's carrying a very important yet odd liquid which must pass through security. He asks a security guard who assures him the liquid may NOT board the plane, but Harley knows hell will pay if this particular substance is left behind. Harley is directed to a posted listing of possible exceptions. He wipes his brow in relief, kisses baby Kelby on her tiny dainty nose, and proceeds to the security checkpoint when he finds his cargo listed as not banned. He reaches the security persons busily checking bags, takes in a deep breath, and opens his carry on.

Security Person: "Sir, all liquids are banned. You may not take these items on the plane as they contain liquid."
Harley: "I checked the list, and this is an exception."
Security Person: "What exactly is this?"
Harley coughs and mutters into his leather jacket's arm: "Brmlk."
Security Person: "Please, speak up sir."
Harley looking around and sighing: "It's my wife's breastmilk."

In England, he would have had to take a sip to prove it harmless. So, did Harley raise his fist in the air and proclaim, "God bless America?"

My Tator turned eleven yesterday. Buck wondered out loud if his birthmom may have been thinking of him. I paused to bless her again for the gift he is to our family.

Tator invited a whole slew of boys to the Cove, a lovely park with a nice swimmin' hole. Then the crowd came home with us for an overnight.

The boys stayed up late and got up early as any group of friends might to pack the most fun into a day. When I sleepily made my way to the kitchen this morning some were playing board games quietly and some were sharing comics on the couches, "Do you like this- when Calvin pretends to be rabid by foaming his mouth up with toothpaste?" and "My move. Spy disarms your bomb." I am amazed at the maturity of these young men. They all used to run around like screaming madman day and night, inside and out, but those times have faded and made way for a more civilized troop. They self limit their riots to the outdoors now.

Buck dug up a hilarious video from Tator's birthday seven years ago which only one of the bunch hadn't attended. Everyone laughed until we cried. The little ones have turned into mighty awesome young men. And talk about polite! How many boys between ten and fifteen nowadays speak in complete sentences let alone remember to include "Please" and "Thanks" to boot?

We are blessed to have these families in our lives. Blessed to call them friends.

Why? Why on earth did critics pan it? Did they feel fooled by the poor marketing strategy into thinking it would be a horror film of some kind? Is that what disappointed them? Did they fall asleep watching? Though I can’t see how? Was it the plain title? Buck had a very funny explanation, but it gives away a tiny secret in the movie, and I couldn't do that to anyone. My guess it that these movie critics went in spiritually deadened or dull. They did not have ears to hear or eyes to hear the incredibly powerful message of hope and destiny in parable form.

I went into Lady in the Water hoping it might just speak to Buck’s heart for his forty second birthday. We both walked out after the movie choked up, unable to speak for a while. Then once we began to unravel the parable together, we couldn’t stop. I was caught up for a while in the character of Story and her unfolding meanings- the poor, the vulnerable, sacred history, the church , the innocent, those who cannot speak for themselves but impact our world with their very presence. Buck was undone by the respected man who exclaimed, “We want all it to be true!” Yes, we do, sir.

I wouldn’t dare ruin anything for you with details. Every inch tells us the best and only way it will all work out is to discover for ourselves in community.

One caution for sensitive viewers- the lurking enemy in the story is terribly frightening, much like our very real enemies. I for one, did not think this to be overdone or just for effect. There seemed to be purpose and meaning in every particular of film; where there was evil, special provision was given to overcome it.

I do not enjoy watching movies a second time, but when this one comes out on DVD, I’d like to buy it- and I have never once bought a single movie for myself before. Then I intend to share it with two or three particular groups of dear friends and asking the following questions,

“What is it that we going to do as a community?”

and

"What are the gifts we've laid down and refused to use because they've became to painful?"

What questions did the movie bring up for you?

techincal blues

Why haven't I blogged lately?

I haven't had time. I've spent every last free moment performing multiple tasks to enable my computer to continue service with the rather unhelpful and unmoveable online-school-who-shall-remain-nameless-for-the-moment. Last weekend, the nameless-and-obviously unconcerned-online-school updated their security which left "a handful" of unimportant and insignificant dial-up homeschoolers coughing in the dust!

Have I mentioned before how very much I'd like to have DSL in my home, but Charter, the only company who would actually came out and survey the prospect, considers my home to be in an inaccesable location? I'm thinking of sticking my three boys in overalls, forcing shovels into their grubby little hands, equipping the trio with a strand of cable a half mile long, handing the rascals a cellphone with the number for Charter on speed dial, then barring the door until I can casually sit at my desk and access the internet through a cable in less than the twinkle of an eye. Don't worry, the working children can drink all they want from the green garden hose, there are plenty of tomatoes in the garden to eat, and they can kill a chicken and cook it over a fire if they develop a need for a protein source while digging to China and back.

OR maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to commit my boys to a chain gang if the unmentioned-and-currently-extremly- irrtitating-online-school could come up with a simple way for me to log in again. Like, for example, the simple way that existed before their updates last weekend?

As it stands now, I must dial up AOL and then disable the accelerator. To tell the honest truth, before Thursday I didn't know what or where the accelerator was located, but with some quality time spent with a chipper technical help assistant, I got an education. The techie, however, did not inform me that if I disable the accelerator before I log on to AOL, AOL would pitch a hissy fit and toss me offline every five seconds and subsequently would desperately try to reconnect in some vicious circle which lasted as long as the contestant played. (I competed more times than I'd ever like to admit.) Now after the accelerator is disabled, I cruise right onto the online school's website. No problem. The page boast on the best of education, great service, easy access blah, blah, blah. Next I click ols (online school) which may or may not lead me to a log in page. My husband says, "If you stick out your tongue and lift your right foot while pressing the keyboard key, it most likely will work." If the computer gods are with me and in a good mood, I might be able to cheerfully type in my username and password. But here's the major hitch, mostly the page loads, and loads, and loads, and loads, until well, it doesn't really load. Carefully and constantly repeat these steps for between one half to one full hour and maybe my account eventually pops up. Buck thinks pointing at the screen, winking, and yelling at the top of his lungs, "That's what I'm talking about!" enhances the process. I suppose he's right, because it definately gets a giggle from me.

Did I mention that last week, before the online school made updates, the process was quite mundane? Painless even?

I have left a message for a technical supervisor to call me back. I'm quite certain this will have absolutely no effect, but when I mention my highly public blog disclosing the name of his company, that'll get some action, boy howdy!

School woes

My oldest son Peace is wrestling with the whole "school is boring" thing. And it's not because he has a huge load of work. His co-op doesn't start till next week, so I've given him a little writing, dictation, a few problems of math, a simple assignment to help his sister, and a science or history diddy due every day until he begins his courses.

I do not remember ever even thinking, "Why do I have to do schoolwork?" or "Algebra and writing are useless." I just went to school and did the best I could in every single subject. Everyday.

So what do I do with an apathetic seventh grader? We attended orientation at the co-op last night, and I watched in horror as the teachers went over their expectations while he played with the lead in his mechanical pencil. Good night! Not a great start.

This is my child who attended a public magnet school in kindergarten and first grade. He intimately knows the tedium of school and begged me to never send him back- Peace wanted to be outside in the spring, not stuck at a desk, same as me. So a one day a week co-op with four days of assignments to follow seems like a good compromise for this year. I spent the last few years stalking him during homeschool to keep him on task which made me feel like some kind of academic ogre. Now I've enlisted the help of four other monsters to take over torturing the boy.

I worry I won't find the fine balance between supporting him and doing for him in order that he'll make the grade. Grades for him have been in my hands for the last five years, and I simply had him do his work until it was correct. Now I have other teachers in the mix who'll evaluate.

I suppose transition is always an unfamiliar and therefore a somewhat uncomfortable place. I'm in that awkward place as a mom and feel the chaffing rub. God help me get things right with this son.

Write Away From Singapore

I'm adding a dear friend, new to the blogging world, to my blogroll.

Write Away From Singapore

Heather and I met a zillion years ago- yes, dinosaurs walked the earth. She volunteered for me in an inner city afterschool program I administrated, my former job in a faraway life before I became entirely consumed by motherhood.

Heather and I became friends as a result of our work together. The kind of friend who'll dash over in the middle of the night to take care sleeping babies, so my husband could rush me to the hospital for a medical emergency.

Now Heather is raising her own babies in Singapore with the dearest of husbands. And blogging about it.

The Shepherd's Call

I took a little child’s hand in mine. We were to walk together for awhile. I was to lead him to the Father. It was a task that overcame me, so awful was the responsibility. And so I talked to the child only of the Father. I pointed to the sternness of His face were the child to displease Him. I spoke of the child’s goodness as something that would appease the Father’s wrath. We walked under the tall trees. I said the Father had the power to bring them crashing down with His thunderbolts. We walked in the sunshine. I told him of the greatness of the Father who made the burning, blazing. Sun. And one twilight we met the Father. The child hid behind me. He was afraid. He wound not take the Father’s hand. I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had been so conscientious, so serious.

I took a little child’s hand in mine. I was to lead him to the Father. I felt burdened with a multiplicity of things I had to teach him. We did not ramble. We hastened from spot to spot. At one moment we compared the leaves of different trees. The next moment we were examining a bird’s nest. While the child questioned me about it, I hurried him away to chase a butterfly. Did he chance to fall asleep, I wakened him, lest he miss something I wished him to see. We spoke of the Father. Oh, yes, often and rapidly, I poured into his little ear all the stories I thought he ought to know. But we were often interrupted by the wind blowing, of which we must trace its source. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child merely glanced at Him and then his gaze wandered in a dozen directions. The Father stretched out His hand. The child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned in his cheeks. He dropped exhausted to the ground and fell asleep. Again I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many things.

I took a little child’s hand to lead him to the Father. My heart full of gratitude for the privilege. We walked slowly. I suited my steps to the short ones of the child. We spoke of many things the child noticed. Sometimes we picked the Father’s flowers and stroked their soft petals and loved their bright colors….Sometimes we watched one of the Father’s birds. We watched it build its nest and lay its eggs. We wondered, elated a the care it gave its young….Often we told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and the child told them again to me. We told them, the child and I over and over again. Sometimes we stopped to rest, leaning against one of the Father’s trees and letting His cool breeze cool our brows, never speaking. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child’s eyes shone. He looked lovingly, trustingly into the Father’s face. He put his hand into the Father’s hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content.

Journals of the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd 1984-1997, page 16

These words sum up my passion. Sometimes, this is what I eat, drink, and sleep for days at a time. I know many might find my work to be one great big yawn or even offensive. And I can't explain "the why" behind how children's spiritual formation interests me so, except to say, it's way down deep inside me.

Though I have many irons in the fire, my calling lately is concentrated on The Shepherd's Call, a project to invite Protestant Evangelicals like myself to reflective ways of working with children in ministry. When my dear friend and Shepherd's Call partner and I launch our website, I'll let you know.

I have a confession to make. Hopefully, we can still be friends even though I've openly disclosed a severe character flaw.

I like Woody Allen movies. Not all of them, but many. Yes, he's a morally depraved individual, but he makes me laugh. Hard. And I like to laugh, even if the jokes are written and spoken by a man who has sex with his adopted daughter.

Here's a blurb from a scene in Scoop which made me guffaw at the theater with Buck on Sunday.

Woody: "What persuasion are you?"
Upper Class English Woman at a fancy party: "Persuasion? Do you mean religion?"
Woody: "Yes."
Woman: "Christian. And you?"
Woody: "I used to be of the Hebrew persuasion, but I've since converted. Now I'm a narcissist."

Yes, he is. And he even jokes about it on screen in front of millions of people. I think he may have written the entire movie on the off chance that he could get some action on the side with his co-star Scarlet Johanson.

Though Manhatten Murder Mystery and Bullets over Broadway (don't you just love John Cusack?) are my all time favorite Woody Allen films, I enjoyed Scoop, another quirky whodunnit.


So, can we still be friends? I promise never to invite Woody over for dinner while children are present.

Fall is upon us

In examining my fall schedule, I find myself filled with angst. Maybe I feel this way every year, but I can’t remember exactly. Finally after three years, we’ve decided to do local AYSO soccer instead of driving into Knoxville for our old soccer league. This means I and my children won’t see our dearest of friends every Saturday game day. Pooh Bear is finally old enough and interested, so we’ll have four completely different AYSO teams to keep up with. Is that even possible? Especially since one child has a three day a week practice schedule for a competitive team. What are the chances I could ask one or more of my children to stop loving soccer? Or stop being a boy full of energy to burn? Include Scouts, a one day co-op for Peace, my Shepherd’s Call work, and ballet and I’ve got my hands completely full.

What. Am. I. Thinking?

School is kicking my tail already. I mentioned how we’ve moved to an academically challenging plan, and I am definitely on task of teaching four or more hours a day. The semi-unschooling approach I used last year, worked but not well. This year I’m hoping my children make leaps instead of steps. I suppose we’re off to a great start seeing the work they’ve put in so far.

The final piece to the madness is that Buck’s schedule has changed to the very unrelaxing days of Wednesday and Thursdays off. We must get all our family business done during school days which is completely unsettling for me. We like to work and play together and then kick back, but this set of days off won’t permit. (Buck tells me in October he’ll start working mandatory overtime, because the FAA has once again ignored the air traffic control union’s warning to plan ahead for a shortage of personnel. Don’t worry, air traffic controllers are in short supply everywhere now, and it’s only going to get much worse as those who are eligible retire to free themselves from the new unreasonable FAA stipulations. How could it matter that the people who keep our skies safe are dreadfully tired from overwork? Some facilities are literally lack a hundred workers with no promise of more to come. Buck and I voted against our congressman yesterday in the elections, because he did not take the time to understand the situation when it was put before congress last month, but he somehow managed to win anyway without our votes.)

One thing I’ve introduced to my family this week is savingdinner.com. The company provides a menu and organized shopping list for six dinners and sides a week. Takes the thinking out of “what’s for dinner?” for a woman who hates to figure dinner every. Single. Afternoon. It’s helping keep my family well fed in the chaos.

I know I get snippy with my husband’s shift change every year, and I today I promise my family to do better than the last few grumpy days. Hopefully I’ll find grace and peace again in the midst of such busyness.