Celebrating "Lasts"

As of this past December, Gerald and I have been in the parenting business for exactly 26 years. It doesn't seem like nearly that long, but indeed, that's how long it has been. By the time Seth leaves home (assuming he goes off to college at 18), we will have been parenting for 34 years. Not that parenting ends when kids turn 18; it most certainly does not. In fact, in some ways it becomes more complicated with young adults. As I've said before, my absolute favorite time of life was the three years I had all five kids home, after Seth was born and before Luke left for college.

In many ways, I'm sure we are typical parents. We think our kids are the smartest, most talented, best looking, most amazing kids ever born. We know full well we're not objective, and we really don't care. In other ways, though, we are somewhat unusual. We have always embraced a parenting style that assumes the kids, themselves, generally know best what they need. I've sometimes referred to it as “live and let live” parenting. Love them. Serve them. Make sure they know we're there for them, and then basically sit back and let them live their lives. Neither of us is or ever has been a disciplinarian. We have no idea how to do that and no real desire to learn. We tried to model self-discipline and then hoped they would each learn that for him/herself. And they did. We could not have been blessed with easier kids to raise, and though we're not nearly finished (thank goodness!), Seth shows promise of growing into a wonderful adult one day just like his siblings.

One part of “live and let live” is trusting that young children generally know for themselves when they're ready for the next developmental step and allowing them to develop at their own rate without pressure to achieve milestones on our (or others') timetable. That can be challenging sometimes when parenting can feel like a race to see whose child is first to do this or first to do that. Surely the kid who sits up first, crawls first, walks first, talks first, or is the first out of diapers is superior and more intelligent, right? WRONG. Human development is not a race. Parenting is not a race.

Along this line, I was thinking the other day about how each of our kids has his/her own personal “last.” Each reached a particular development step at an older age than all the others. Luke, for example, was the last to walk. At around a year old, he mastered crawling, and by the time he was 17 months when Shulamith was born, he was crawling everywhere, but nowhere near ready to walk. Anxious new mom that I was, I asked our pediatrician, “Is this normal?” because all around me were children much younger than Luke running around. “Absolutely!” she replied. “Walking is a neurological process, and when Luke is ready, he will stand up and walk.” And so he did. At about 18 months.

If you know Shulamith at all, you probably won't need to think too hard to discover her personal “last.” She was our last child to eat. Okay, yeah, all my babies nursed from infancy, a couple to ripe old ages, but I mean actually eat...like food. As she approached a year old, we knew she needed to get going with some solid food. At about a year, babies need a couple proteins not found in breast milk. Near the end of her first year, we started to introduce some solid foods, and guess what? She hated everything! She spit out all baby food and threw finger food on the floor. Without pressuring her, over time we found a few things she would eat, and today, she is still the pickiest eater on the planet. Whenever we discover yet another food she doesn't like, Matt jokes that of course she doesn't like it: it's not meat, peanut butter, eggs, bread, or rice.

Then there is Isaiah. If you read this post, you already know his personal “last.” He was by far the last of our kids to talk. At age three, he spoke nine words. We had a list on the refrigerator because we were so excited over all nine of them. When he went to preschool, his teacher greeted him at the door on the first day and said, “Can you tell me your name?” Isaiah replied with the sweetest, quietest little voice, “saiah.” (Isaiah pronounced without the “I”). That was the one and only word he spoke in preschool the entire year. I can't really remember when he started to talk more, but he did, at least a little bit. He is still a quiet kid although, ironically, he's an excellent writer and public speaker.

Eli holds the record in the family for the last child to wean. When I said “ripe old age,” with Eli, I wasn't kidding. I decided to let him self-wean. I know that, for so many reasons, it isn't always possible, but when it is, I absolutely believe in child-led weaning, and I love toddler nursing! Here's a funny story about Eli, well a couple funny stories actually. From the time Eli was two, I stopped ever suggesting or encouraging breast-feeding. When he would ask for milk, I'd say, “Okay, let's get you some milk” and head for the refrigerator. More often than not, this was fine with Eli, but occasionally, he would inform me, “I don't want milk from the frigerfrator, I want milk from YOU!” As is typical in natural weaning, over time Eli chose to nurse less and less often. He was about 3-1/2 the very last time. But here's the funny part. About six months after that, my visiting teacher came over with her newborn baby. While we visited, she nursed her baby. When Eli saw this, he was very curious. “What is she doing?” he asked. “She's feeding her baby. That's how babies eat. They drink milk from their mommies. You used to drink milk from Mommy, Eli,” to which he replied indignantly, “I DID NOT. I would never do that.” Short-term memory problem??

That leaves Seth. Can you guess what his personal “last” might be? I'm pretty sure it's the thing new moms fret over the most. For some reason, it can be such a sensitive and emotional issue and, sadly, can feel like the absolute definition of good parenting. What am I talking about? Yep, bathroom independence. There is this underlying (and totally false!) notion that the true indication of a good mommy is how quickly she can get those babies out of diapers. Seriously, these little people have so little control over their lives, can we at least give them this? Can we at least let them decide for themselves when they're ready to give up diapers and use the bathroom. I realize it's no fun changing toddler diapers, and I know diapers are expensive, but well, it doesn't last forever. They truly don't wear them to kindergarten. Oh yeah, how old was Seth, you are wondering. He was 4-1/2.

So while most parents celebrate their kids' “firsts,” I decided in this post to celebrate my kids' “lasts.” If my words can help even one new mom chill over one of these issues and just enjoy her child, my purpose is served.

Seth and the Bee

Okay, so it doesn't have quite the same ring to it as Akeelah and the Bee, but his name is Seth, so yeah.

Can I start by telling you how much I HATE spelling bees. Seriously, they are right up there with other things I passionately hate like Cub Scout pack meetings, punctuation errors, and snakes on my walking trail. Uh huh, I hate them that much. I have been subject to these awful spelling bees for the past 16 years, ever since Luke was in the fourth grade. They are positively miserable for moms. You sit there as your precious baby marches to the center of the stage to spell his word. You pray fervently that the word will be easy or at least one your child knows. You hold your breath, letter after painstaking letter, as he so carefully spells the word.....and FINALLY, you are flooded with relief when he gets it right. And you do this over and over again, round after round after round. What could be more torturous?

Luke competed in his school's spelling bee every year from fourth grade on. Every year was more painful for me than the one before, because every year he was more desperate to win, so of course I was more desperate for him to win. Motherhood is certainly not for wimps! I'm pretty sure I lost a year of my life watching Luke in those stupid bees. In particular, I remember his sixth grade spelling bee. This was his last year in elementary school, so his chances of winning were optimal. Then came the fatal word: almond. Yes, Luke knew perfectly well how to spell the word "almond." He marched up to the stage and declared, "Almond. A-L-O...no wait...A-L-M-O-N-D." Ack! If you are familiar with the rules of spelling bees, you know that if students start over spelling a word, they must spell it exactly the way they did the first time; they may not self-correct. It was over. Luke went out on "almond."

In middle school, the competition was stiffer, and Luke came close to winning in seventh grade, but not quite. He placed second or third. Then came his final spelling bee in eighth grade. It would be then or never. I was a wreck. Other parents, including Gerald, were actually able to sit quietly and even calmly on chairs in the auditorium. Not me. I stood outside in the hallway and listened. And paced. I listened, and I paced. One by one, he spelled word after word successfully, and one by one other kids were eliminated. Finally, it came down to the last round. He would need to spell two consecutive words in order to win. Teeth clenched and tense from head to toe, I listened. He did it! He got both right. The entire auditorium exploded in a chant: "Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke." This mom was overcome with joy, so much so I had to fight back the tears. He won. After five years of spelling bees, he won.

The three middle kids are not quite the natural spellers that Luke is. They participated in spelling bees, but never made it to the end. I honestly thought (hoped?) my days of spelling bees were happily behind me. I was wrong.

Now we have Seth, who is apparently as much a visual learner as his oldest brother and hence a natural speller. When he came home last week and told me he got first place in his class bee and would be competing in the school bee, I cringed. I hugged him and told him how proud I was, but inside, I cringed. I have to go through this all over again? Keep in mind my heart is now 16 years older than when Luke first began competing in these things. Would it survive another round of this? Then Seth told me the date and time of this year's school bee: February 22nd at 2:00 p.m. God is good. I'm in class at exactly that time. I immediately texted Gerald to see if he might be able to go to work a half hour late, so he could watch Seth compete in this spelling bee. Yes!

So today was the day. I wished Seth good luck and sent him off this morning brimming with confidence. Then I promptly forgot about the whole thing. Perhaps I subconsciously blocked it out? I taught my 1:15 - 2:45 class as usual, and when I returned to my office, I found 24 new text messages from Gerald. "What on earth is so important that he needed to send 24 texts?" I wondered. Gerald had sent a text in each round, telling me the word Seth spelled and another text telling me how many kids were left standing. Thank heavens I was safely upstairs teaching and didn't have to receive these text messages live.

Wizard (practice round)
Harmonica
Priest (Six left standing)
Preacher (Five left)
Hazardous (Four left)
Waffle (Three left)
Arena (Two left)
Devoid
Enjoyable
Croupe
Domino
Loathing - missed
Malign - missed

Seth made it through several rounds battling just one sixth-grade girl, but ultimately, she was the winner, and Seth was was pleased with 2nd place. And I, the Queen of Anxious Moms, missed the whole thing. Will this be the last spelling bee Seth competes in? I doubt it. Will I be so lucky next year and have to miss it? Not likely. Will I survive another kid in spelling bees? I don't know. If this blog abruptly ends about a year from now, you'll know I didn't.

Schadenfreude

I have probably mentioned at some point in this blog my love affair with the German language. I studied German for four years in college and fell in love. For me, it was more than simply satisfying my foreign language requirement; I desperately yearned to learn this language. In pursuit of that goal, I did several things: I hung out with German foreign exchange students. I listened to cassette tapes (yes, I'm that old) daily to perfect my pronunciation. I covered the walls of my dorm room with German vocabulary. I was, indeed, one serious German student.

By the time I graduated, I had perfected my German "ziemlich gut." I was far from fluent, but I could get along okay in basic conversations. At that point I honestly believed I would one day speak the language fluently and flawlessly. I wanted to live in a German-speaking country long enough to make this happen, and I seriously planned to one day do just that. Over two decades later, that has not yet happened. What happened instead was marriage and five remarkable kids, who obviously trump studying German any day. Still, it is an unfilled dream, one I expect will remain with me forever.

Every now and then, I get the chance to test my oh-so-long-ago German skills. Last summer when we were in Costa Rica, we stayed at a small hotel owned and managed by a German couple. I spent hours just listening to them. The sound of the German language still captivates my soul. And though I couldn't catch even half of what they were saying, I felt at home listening. This is my foreign language. I used to know it well. I still know it to some extent, and I still love it. One of the things I love most is the way many German words are so vivid and so precise. A television, for example, is a Fernsehapparat. Fern = picture; seh = seeing; apparat = machine. So literally, a Fernsehapparat is a "picture seeing machine." How perfect!

Some of these words are so descriptive that they've made their way into the English language because we simply don't have anything that translates well enough. One such word, angst, I wrote about earlier. Another one comes to mind because of an experience I had last week:

Schadenfreude.

Literally, Schaden means pain or discomfort or sadness, while Freude means joy. Putting the two words together, we get Schadenfreude, which refers to the feeling of joy over someone else's pain or misfortune or suffering. Have you ever felt Schadenfreude? Have you ever rejoiced inside over someone else's unhappiness? Okay, you don't have to admit it. You're quite right; it isn't a kind feeling. It isn't the least bit Christlike. In fact, Schadenfreude represents the natural man at his (or her) absolute worst.

Last week, during a conversation, I have to confess I felt pure Schadenfreude. It was an uncomfortable conversation for the other person, although not for me. The longer it went on, the worse it got for him. I could have jumped in and said something to lessen the angst, but I did not. Not particularly fond of this individual, I chose instead to sit passively and watch him squirm and sweat. And the longer I watched him squirm and sweat, the more overjoyed I felt inside. Pure Schadenfreude. I am not proud of this reaction, but it was very real. Thankfully, I don't feel Schadenfreude often. In fact, I can't even remember the last time I felt it before this conversation last week.

No, Schadenfreude is not a feeling to be proud of. It is not kind, loving, or charitable. It's downright mean if you think about it. Nevertheless, it's awfully human. And leave it to the Germans to find the perfect word to describe it.

Source!

I have it. I have the source. I have the source of the quotation I included in my most recent post. Actually, Gerald found it for me. I'm not sure how he did it, but he did it. And the poem the quotation comes from is so lovely, I wanted to share it with you. Enjoy!

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL
by
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

A man fails in his search for the Holy Grail, has a mighty change of heart, begins to identify with the poor and gives of his bread and water to a leper in need. Then this is what happens:


As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,
A light shone round about the place;
The leper no longer crouched at his side,
But stood before him glorified,
Shining and tall and fair and straight
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,--
Himself the Gate whereby men can
Enter the temple of God in Man.


His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine,
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine,
Which mingle their softness and quiet in one
With the shaggy unrest they float down upon;
And the voice that was calmer than silence said,
"Lo, it is I, be not afraid!
In many climes, without avail,
Thou had spent thy life for the Holy Grail;
Behold, it is here,--this cup which thou
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now;
This crust is my body broken for thee,
This water His blood that died on the tree;
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,
In whatso we share with another's need,--
Not that which we give, but what we share,--
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three,-
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me."

You Gotta Have Heart and Music...

It is not so much what we give but what we share,

For the gift without the giver is bare.

I've loved this quotation for years, but I can't remember where it came from or how I came to know it. I tried googling it, in hopes of finding an author to credit. You can be sure that the English teacher in me has little tolerance for plagiarism. But I couldn't find anything even close. So I'm going to leave it without an author, but I want to be clear: I can't claim it as my own. I know I didn't write it.

This weekend we had the privilege to watch Eli perform in Skyview High School's production, "Broadway Bound," a delighful review, with performances from 14 Broadway musicals. This photo shows Eli in his costume for the song "Heart and Music" from the play New Brain. This was a new one to me, and I was so invigorated by it that I could barely refrain from singing right along with the cast.

Watching Eli perform is pure joy. The kid positively comes to life on stage. This show had considerable diversity. At one point Eli stands high on a platform and sings a solo about an upcoming attack in "One Day More" from Les Miserables. After a 15-minute intermission, he comes crawling across the stage, holding his stomach, singing about having just been in a fight, part of the song "Rent" from the musical of the same name. Then, just two numbers later, he comes out dancing in a group of eight boys, all wearing goofy crowns on their heads with equally goofy expressions on their faces, doing the can-can while singing "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" from Spamalot.

I laughed. I laughed to the point of tears. I cried. And then I laughed some more. Both nights.

I enjoyed all 14 numbers without exception. These kids did not merely give a good performance; they shared their love of music and their love of life with the audience. Lucky us!

You gotta have heart and music. The cast of "Broadway Bound" most certainly had both.

Caved

Have you ever caved? Have you ever sworn you would never do something but then caved? I hope you have. I hope I'm not the only one.

Here's some history. My three youngest sons, along with Shulamith's husband, are serious video-game players. I almost used the word "addicts," but I thought better. They all four live productive lives despite their affinity for playing games. "Addict" implies otherwise. No, they are not addicts, but get any two or more of them together, and let the gaming begin! In our house I'm pretty sure we have every system known to humankind, both hand-held and console. Scattered everywhere are those tiny squares that fit in the Nintendo DSI. When the Wii system was released a few years ago, Isaiah and Eli spent the night in a line at Walmart to get their Wii just as soon as it was available, while Seth waited impatiently at home. Yep, my sons are serious game players.

I, however, have remained video-game sober. It's true. I have been able to proudly declare that I have never played a video-game, nor did I have any games downloaded to my phone. Nope! Not gonna do it. Shulamith and Matt have allowed Seth to download and play games on their phones, but not me. My phone was a "no game zone." Until about a week ago.

I caved. I can't even believe I did it, but I must come clean with my beloved blog readers. I caved.

About a week ago, I received a text from Shulamith: "You should download Droidwords on your phone. It's just like Scrabble, it's free, and we can play on our phones!" Oh no! The pressure! What was I to do? Stand firm in my "no games" policy or download this game, so I could play with my daughter?

No contest. I caved.

As you might remember, I already play Facebook Scrabble with two friends from the distant past, Rebecca and Elisa. Now I have Droidwords games going on my phone with both Shulamith and Gerald (once he found out what we were up to, he immediately downloaded the game to his phone too). And I have to admit, it's really fun.

But please tell me it will end with Scrabble. Please! Tell me that next week I won't be shooting zombies or catapulting angry birds or punching anybody.

Tell me it will end with Scrabble. I beg you.

Wealth

This is a picture of Isaiah on Christmas morning just after he opened his new backpack. Believe it or not, he had been going without one all school year, somehow carrying all his books and supplies in his arms. Isaiah is a kid with few needs. He makes no demands. But he knows what's important. His values are pure. You've heard the expression, "Out of the mouths of babes...." Obviously, nineteen-year-old Isaiah is no longer a "baby," but still, I'm always surprised by how much our kids have to teach us regardless of their ages.

A couple days ago, he and I were texting back and forth. He had just finished up his long weekend working 13-hour shifts both days at KFC. I thought labor laws prohibited this sort of thing, but apparently not at KFC in Utah. He was tired and desperate for a different job, yet his attitude remained steady. At one point I texted him, "I'm so sorry you have to work so hard at that stupid chicken place. I wish we were wealthy, so you didn't have to do that." To this he immediately replied, "Mom, we are wealthy in so many other ways besides money."

He is so right. Thanks for reminding me, Isaiah.

Isaiah has always been a man of few words. When he was three, we had a list on the refrigerator of all the words he knew. There were nine. Yep, nine. He was obviously intelligent and understood everything we said to him; he just didn't have much to say back. I've joked that he spoke nine words at age three, and he hasn't said a whole lot more since then. But as you can see above, when he does say something, it counts.

The classic middle child, he stays in the background mostly. Once when he was around 10, he was sick and home from school. I had mentioned this to Gerald on the phone early in the morning. At lunchtime, Gerald called and asked, "How's Isaiah feeling?" You guessed it. I had totally forgotten he was even home. Any of my other children would have made their presence known all morning long, requesting food, drink, or just some "mom sympathy" to sooth their sick bodies. Not Isaiah. I threw down the phone and rushed into his room to find him quietly reading a book.

I doubt Isaiah will read this post because I don't think he reads my blog, and that is okay. It might embarrass him if he did, and that is not my intent. But this is a record for posterity, and I want it written how proud I am of my middle kid. In May he will be half way through his undergraduate degree, earning stellar grades in rigorous computer courses while working 13-hour shifts selling chicken.

More importantly, he knows what truly matters in life. He knows what real wealth is.