Happy Birthday to My Teenager

Thirteen years ago we had a daughter. She was not the prettiest newborn we had ever seen, if fact I was a bit horrified by the way she looked. (I wish someone had told me about newborns with gorilla heads.) It didn't matter to me, I had a girl, someone to wear pink with bows in her hair.

We were smitten, but were warned "Just wait until she turns 13."

Our funny, ugly baby became our golden-haired sweetheart. She adored her father and he delighted in her. She knew when it was getting close to the time for him to arrive and she would stretch up onto her tiptoes to peer out the window. There is no sound on Earth quite like the squeal she made when his truck pulled into our driveway at the end of a long day of work. There is no love quite like the love of a daddy for his tiny daughter, or her love for him.

We couldn't imagine loving anyone more, but people tried to prepare us, "Just wait until she turns 13."

She was eight and an accomplished dancer. We traveled the country so she could compete. She was my delightful companion. I relished seeing the country from her perspective. What to me was a dirty train was, to her, a grand adventure to be retold with breathless excitement. Her favorite thing in all the world was to be in the car with her best friend and "the moms." Oh, how I loved eight.

Everyone agreed with me about the wonder of this child, but they shook their heads in sadness and with knowing voices said, "Just wait until she turns 13."

We reached 13 this week and a part of me wanted to hide for fear of the monster I had been warned to expect. No villain appeared at the kitchen table, just my own sleepy daughter in her baggy pj's and socks. She sleeps a little later now, is capable of better conversation, and has developed impeccable taste in shoes, but is still the kind and wonderful person we have always known. She does get moody and weepy at times, but the change from adored child to confident woman is a confusing one.

The fabled monster does not exist in our house. I don't know how we have escaped its wrath, but so far we have. Instead, we have this mature girl who daily moves closer to the woman God has planned for her to be.

Happy Birthday #1! I look forward with breathless anticipation to all that this year holds for you. You've already come so far, from ugly baby to lovely young woman. I can't wait for the rest of the journey.

Our Men

**I wrote this yesterday, but couldn't post it because the power went out. The power's back on, so Happy Veteran's Day a day later.**

There has become a tendency in American culture to assign the label "hero" to anyone who does the difficult, the frightening, or the unpleasant. Our society has become so hungry for heroes that we give the label to anyone and render it almost a useless word.

Lest we forget what a true hero looks like:

He marched for months in the snow with nothing but rags covering his frostbitten feet, leaving bloody footprints behind him, to cross a frozen river and finally win the right to govern himself.

He fought the British in New Orleans, in the oppressive Southern humidity, to ultimately defeat the army of thousands with only a small band of men because "By the Eternal they shall not sleep on our soil."

He put on his uniform of blue and battled the heat, the humidity and Johnny Reb to keep this nation together so that he could leave it, intact, to his children and grandchildren who were yet to be born.

He put on his uniform of gray and fought dysentery and damn Yankees because he believed people had the right to govern themselves as they saw fit.

He rode across the plains risking capture, torture, death and an unmarked grave to protect his fellow Americans as they sought to win for themselves their future and freedom in the West.

He charged up San Juan Hill with the Rough Riders and helped to drive the Spanish out of Cuba because he knew from his history books that the oppressed heart yearns to be free.

He marched across Europe with its horrors of barbed wire and mustard gas to protect our brethren across the sea because people should have the right to live in peace with their neighbors, so he willingly offered his life and twenty years later would send his own son to do the same.

He crossed Europe in a tank fighting harder and longer and bloodier than he ever could have imagined he would be asked to do, to liberate a people hunted and gathered into concentration camps by their fellow countrymen. He braved the horrors of war for years knowing that his loved ones waited at home but he had to finish the job before he returned to them; because, he knew that there is no "master race", truly all people are beloved in the sight of God.

He fought in the Pacific and raised that flag over Iwo Jima then dropped to his knees as Fr Suver said Mass, because freedom is a gift from the Almighty and even as it is defended in battle it must also be defended in prayer, and the American soldier has always looked to his God for the strength to do what is good and right in His eyes.

He fought in the sticky heat of Korea, a place he had never even heard of in school, fighting for the right of freedom and self-determination for people he didn't know; because, no one should have to live under Communism.

He fought in Vietnam for people who spoke a language he didn't know, who weren't sure they trusted a man with blue eyes who was so tall, because liberty is worth dying for and should be protected at all costs. Only to return and be spat upon by his fellow Americans. He wore their insults with pride because he knew that only in a country protected by men like him would people be free to spit at soldiers.

He went to the Middle East, twice, once to help an ally and once to liberate a people. He lived with sand fleas and enormous spiders and carried heavy gear in 130 degree heat because he knew that all people really want is to be able to get up every day and raise their children in peace without worrying about religious fanatics or crazy men shattering their lives.

He has walked and fought for freedom, liberty, and self-determination and the dignity of human beings everywhere he has gone. These battle hardened men who willingly offer up their own lives and futures so that nameless strangers can speak and think and live exactly as they wish. He does all of this without thanks, without recognition, without fanfare, but with honor...always with honor.

We should have a word bigger than "hero" for men like this, a word that swells the heart with pride that they are ours. Thank goodness we do...we call them Veterans.

My Heart Swells...

My eldest son served his first Mass today. Dressed in the traditional black and white, with his hands perfectly folded, he took slow, measured steps up the aisle as my heart swelled within me and my eyes brimmed with tears.

Here was my tiny baby, the one who should have died, the one who shouldn't be able to hear, the one who shouldn't be able to do so many things. Here was the boy who brought me faith walking solemnly behind the crucifix.

He snuck out of the sacristy before Mass to show me how splendid he looked this morning.

"Mom, I look like a priest. Did you ever think you would see me looking like a priest?"

How does a mother answer that except to smile with her heart shining in her eyes, caress a still smooth cheek and then hurry him back to where he should be?

I watched my class clown glow with pride and joy as he served his Lord this morning. His comic expressions traded for deep contemplation. All through the Consecration I watched him turning something over and over in his head.

I asked him later and he said he was thinking about the phrase "the Source and Summit of our Faith." He read it last week and I refused to explain it to him. "Pray about it," I told him. "It will come to you."

"I get it." He said in the car after Mass. "The Eucharist is the Source because it is Jesus Christ, and Jesus is where our Faith comes from."

I simply smiled at him.

"I couldn't figure out the Summit part." He continued. "The only summits I've heard of are the tops of mountains. Then I realized that they are the highest part and that bringing Christ into ourselves is the highest thing we can do. That's what I was thinking during the Consecration, the Source and Summit."

He sighed deeply, feeling his own new-found place in all of this.

"The Source and the Summit," he continued, "and I got to help."

Perspective

Yesterday was my birthday. It came and went without a lot of fanfare. We had big plans for dinner out with friends, but it didn't happen. We all got sick instead.

It started with the baby running a fever in Mass on Sunday morning, then one by one we all succumbed to it. Fevers, runny noses, sore throats, and crankiness. Norman Rockwell didn't paint this type of family scene for a reason.

It's hard not to be melancholy when the house is filled with sick children and you just want to go to bed yourself. This is not the way birthdays are supposed to go.

I had amazing birthdays in my childhood. Huge parties with the most amazing cakes. My mother was an artist with icing. She would begin planning our birthday cakes months ahead of time, long before planning for the actual party had even begun. The cake was everything. It determined the theme and decorations and how many people could be invited.

When you are a child, birthdays are all about the party and the presents. When you are an adult, they are a day for family and friends to call and touch base, a day for checking in and up. As my brother put it yesterday: "It's not about the presents anymore, it's about knowing you are remembered."

If that is the measuring stick, then mine went pretty well after all. I heard from both of my brothers and more friends and acquaintances than I can possibly count. I heard from childhood friends and adult confidantes. I was hugged by my children who all dragged themselves from bed at various times during the day to come and find me for a hug and a quick "Happy Birthday Mom" before crawling back to their own beds. I heard the drowsy voice of my love as he wished me a happy day when the alarm went off in the morning and as I snuggled next to him again in the evening.

It was not the most fun birthday I've ever had. I would be glad to never spend another one quite like this, and yet it was a blessing in its own way. It was the reminder that life is not about parties, or cute presents, or even the number of birthdays you have along the way. Life is about the other people you impact. It's about the friends and family who love you enough to take a moment to remember that you are here and be grateful for it.

A Dream Realized

#4 is a Daisy Girl Scout this year. We were looking for an activity she could do and my artistic child asked, "Isn't there one where I can just do arts and craft?" There is. It's Daisies.

I called the council and they matched us with a troop meeting just down the street from our house on the one night when nothing else happens. A perfect fit.

What I didn't know was that it was an all African-American troop. I have no problem with that, but worried about my shy child who is scared of anyone new and different looking. How silly am I?

She never even noticed that the other girls' skin was so much darker than her own. At least not enough to mention it to anyone then or later. All she saw was a table of girls her own age who welcomed her with bright, wide smiles. They allowed no shyness on her part. When she held back, the biggest girl picked up my teeny one and set her on the bench between herself and her own best friend. My girl was wearing the uniform, she was one of them.

I talked to one of the leaders later that first week, and she said none of the other girls seem to have noticed that my daughter was white. She said they've talked about her shiny, sleek hair and her big brown eyes. They've mentioned how she's so little "like a baby doll." They've pitied her because she has neither braids nor beads for her hair and because I just pulled it back with a simple clip.

My daughter noticed the same thing. She stood her ground this week when I put the pony-tail holders with bubbles on them in her hair. She wanted two different colors; I wanted them to match. She quickly told me that I had no clue because the other girls in her troop got to wear all the colors they wanted and even got beads. Life is no fair when you have a mother who gives you boring hair. She left the house with purple on one side and yellow on the other, looking "exactly like everyone else."

I remember hearing the "I Have a Dream" speech when I was in high school and doubting privately that people could ever really be color blind. Then my five year old showed me that the only color worth noticing was on the cute things in their hair. The rest of it is just the way God meant it to be, but oh....to have braids with pink shiny beads....that would be heaven.



Dr King, If you're watching...I think we might be there.

Born Alive

Heart-wrenching video about "Choice". No blood and gore.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Logic

This week, my two eldest boys have been studying the Aborigines of Australia with #4 listening quietly in the corner. They are fascinated by people who live a more.....simple?.....life than we do. Being boys, the grosser the information is the better it's remembered.

They especially like stories of survival. Bring on the Australian water frog. This big guy absorbs water during the rainy periods and stores it for the dry season. Think sopping wet sponge on four legs. It seems that when Aboriginal people are in need of water in times of drought they go dig up one of these frogs and wring him out for the water inside. Gross, I know. It doesn't hurt the frog and is useful information, I guess, if you're ever stuck in Australia in a drought and need water. Getting off-topic here, sorry.

This afternoon, PBS was showing a documentary about frogs and #4 was riveted. When I walked into the room they were showing a particularly large species of toad..or frog...I'm going with toad, I think.

"Hey, #4, is that an Australian water frog?"

Rolls eyes. "No, Mom."

"Are you sure? Because he looks like he could hold a lot of water."

"I know he's not."

"How do you know for sure?"

"Because the guy holding him is speaking English and I'm pretty sure people who speak English don't drink water from frogs."

There you have it, straight from my own frog expert. English speaking people don't drink frog water.