Healing

Yesterday marked a year since our son, Chase’s injury.

Ironically, and providentially, the day before, Chase was extensively evaluated and determined to be fully recovered.

This past week, my husband and son flew to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, for an assessment at the University Of Pittsburgh Medical Center Sports ConcussionProgram. Through an intensive series of tests and evaluations, a team of six specialists examined Chase thoroughly over a period of two full days.

The conclusion these physicians reached will always make me weep in gratitude. This final determination will forever remind me of  how far we have come.

Chase had completely healed.

The past year has been a struggle, but a good one. It has been full of worry and angst, yet also full of joy and abundant blessings.  I have grown, my son has grown – our family has grown.  While the lessons have been many with details we will continue to share,  the summary of it all can be best written as this:

I’ve learned that I can’t parent in fear because Chase can’t flourish in it.  But I can parent in faith and Chase can walk in it.

That result alone was worth every step of our journey.

Behind

We are in a season of which other experienced moms have warned. It is when days fly by quicker than the law should allow, schedules are fuller than the reasonable should permit, and children growing faster than surely the Almighty intended.

Changes of all sorts have happened quickly –a new teenager, another in middle school, and an eight year old with continued flair for the dramatic. Additionally, I have taken a part time consulting position that requires a little travel as well as a writing project conducted during early morning hours that can only be seen as ungodly.  

A further change worthy of note is this:  my eyelids have begun to fall. I’ve been watching for new wrinkles, examining the folds of my neck for unwelcomed creases, and placing voodoo curses on the parentheses marks between my eyes. Who knew that aging kryptonite would be my weary eyebrows, dropping its hold on delicate skin like a twitchy wide receiver losing grip on a touchdown  ball?

My eyelids have fallen, and they cannot get back up.

Ours is a household in perpetual motion, one that requires intentionality, detailed calendars and an absurd amount of coffee just to keep pace. However, what I have learned over the past few months is that there is not enough intravenous caffeinated fluids to prevent the inevitable from happening, the unavoidable from taking place, the inescapable from occurring right before my droopy eyes:

I am behind.

Behind in blog entries, household duties, in empty photo albums that mock my very existence.  Behind in daily interactions with friends, in connections with siblings, in that lunch date just for laughs and frivolity. I am behind in thank you notes, in a well-stocked pantry, and in laundry that overflows to the street.

I am behind.

It happens. And when it does, it causes paralysis in the present because of all the junk involved as it pertains to your behind. (Not intended as a shout out to J-Lo.) I recognize these circumstances because this is not my first domestic rodeo where I find myself bucked about in the air and tossed haphazardly to the ground. 

What I know from experience is this: when you find yourself behind, begin again right where you are. Even if it means from where you lay on the ground.

Start with the friend you haven’t called in three months, the Bible unopened for longer than you would like to admit, the conversation that begins with asking forgiveness. The small group you always wanted to join, the encouraging note you would like to write, or the appointment you have avoided with your doctor, dentist, pastor or manicurist.

 Don’t let that which is undone behind determine how you will proceed  forward. Begin again right where you are.

"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."    
                                                                  - Theodore Roosevelt


And  this is where we are:

Chase is doing well. He has regained about 90% of his mobility....

...while maintaining 100% of his quick wit. 

                                                    

Picking up food from a busy restaurant in toboggan and rat tail wig is just an ordinary day for him.

Chandler is in his first year at middle school and doing well.

We have also discovered that he may just give Justin Bieber a run for his money:

(The annoying percussion courtesy of his dad)

(The video will only remain up as long as it goes unnoticed by Chandler.)

Mary Mac continues to bring us joy.

She plans to provide the Barbie Head some competition as well.

(The picture will only remain up as long as it goes unnoticed by Mary Mac.)

As for the two of us, we are doing great. I still try to get him to fire me  from working at his medical practice. He still pretends that I am not exceptionally  inept. It works.

Run

It was a sight that overcame me for a moment. Five months after a serious head injury, my son, Chase, could run. And he could do so well.

After months of rehabilitation, and continued struggle with both head pain and equilibrium, progress seemed to be so slow. A compensated gait gave us all the illusion that Chase was regaining normal mobility, but repeated tests and exercises in therapy would show that his balance was still very compromised.

With just a few weeks away from the beginning of his eighth grade year, Chase and I attended a physical therapy session, one that unbeknownst to the two of us, would be his very last.

Each test that had caused my heart pain now caused my heart relief.

Each exercise that had produced weariness in my soul now brought restoration to it.

And each exertion that had brought anguish to the face of my son now brought triumphant joy.

With tears in her eyes, the therapist watched my son jog the distance that once could have only been accomplished by wheelchair. Tears spilled over as she observed Chase sprint the final yards that once could have only been achieved with faltering steps.

When told by his therapist that rehabilitation was complete, the slow, wide grin that spread across the face of my steady, faithful son is one I will always remember. I knew exactly what he was thinking.

It was now time for him to soar.

"But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."                           Isaiah 40:31

Passion

It won’t be the last difficult conversation we will have with Chase. It also was not the first, but by far, the most trying. As a parent, it wounds your heart to initiate a discussion that will bring hurt and disappointment, even while understanding that it is for their good, their well-being , an unsatisfactory salve for the organ beating inside of you.

During the last seven weeks of recovery from an injury, Chase has never felt self-pity. His demeanor remained upbeat even as he watched games from the view of a wheelchair, an outlook that stayed positive while missing out on numerous end of school events. Even when I wanted to question our circumstances or allow fear to drive the unknowns, a glance in my son’s direction at the wry, sly grin that characterizes his personality and all futile, senseless thoughts would immediately evaporate away.

This laid back patient offset a high strung caregiver, allowing days together at home to be ones of easy companionship and enjoyment, a modern day miracle amid the throes of thirteen year old hormones and a pre-menopausal mom.

Chase is passionate about the sport of Lacrosse.  Free time is devoted to practicing stick skills and net shots in the yard or studying strategies and plays through the games he watches in person or on TV. This past Fall, he was selected for an Atlanta travel team that would play in tournaments all over the Southeast this summer, culminating the season in Baltimore, Maryland, where he would play against some of the best in the nation.

Not only will Chase not be able to participate in Lacrosse this summer, it is very possible that he may never play the sport, or any other, ever again. Only time will reveal the full extent of recovery, but at the very least he is a year away from participating in any type of sport involving contact.

Every parent wants their child to find their passion, the endeavor that they were born to do, that sweet spot that brings them joy, fulfillment and purpose.  Our bank accounts hope that these aspirations earn college scholarships, whether from the field or the classroom, a secondary gain from witnessing a child pursue their dreams.

While I would like for Chase to join the chess club or debate team, activities where brain injuries are non-existent, my desires, unfortunately do not match those of his. He is at his best when on a field, sprinting towards a goal, long legs moving with ease and determination. If lacrosse were a love language, his heart would spill over full.

Thus, the distress of the difficult discussion we would have with our son.

With wholehearted compassion similar to his bedside manner, my husband sat down with Chase and explained the unlikelihood of returning to the sport. In a shaky voice, John reminded our son of God’s unfailing love and that while it seemed hard and unfair and disappointing, the circumstances would one day be understood and used for good.

Chase listened with tears streaming down his face, nodding his acceptance of what had been dealt him. The boyish face looked directly at his dad and with earnest eyes that gave a glimpse of the man he will become, Chase responded, “It’s okay, dad. Don’t be upset. I would do it all again, I would stay exactly where I am today, if it meant that somebody got to know Jesus a little better because of it.”

It would appear that Chase found his true passion after all.

Seeking Answers

It has been six weeks since the lacrosse accident that caused Chase’s injury.

Six weeks occupied with highs and lows, discouragement and joy, laughter and tears. There have been moments of true clarity, where the lessons have never been more clear, even though I would have preferred to learn them during a shower of blessings rather than the downpour that is my current storm.

But that’s not how God works.

Six weeks defined by absence of any sense of control, of today or tomorrow or any days we’ve yet to see. Unanswered questions that only serve to add even more, leaving feelings of inadequacy in my inability to fix. If only I could take on my child’s symptoms and pain, allowing him the chance to run and play as I watch in perfect contentment, happy to be sidelined by the injury that once was his.

But that’s not how God works.

Six weeks filled with appointments, tests and scans that rule out but don’t answer, relieving us from the worse, but not leading to better. I want the easy, obvious path to recovery, one that guarantees full recuperation, a full return to what used to be.

But that’s not how God works.

The diagnosis remains unclear and appropriate therapy seems out of reach. The smartest minds we know have been consulted, but our son doesn’t quite fit the usual or present in a way that is common or like any they’ve ever seen. Physicians are gentle in their answers but they either don’t know or offer possibilities with uncertainty.

What I realize six weeks later, with both anguish and awe, is that the answer, the fix, may not come from the place that has earned our trust academically or provided for us physically. It will come from the One who already knows how this ends, allowing a great story to manifest from the hurt and the pain and the ambiguity of all that is unknown.

Whether it is through Divine guidance to the physician who has seen a case like our son’s, or through miraculous healing that will be difficult to explain to those who don’t believe, the recovery, the end result that is promised to be good, is going to come from one source. One where all glory, honor, and elusive answers belong just to Him. So that we know, as well as all those who have witnessed our struggle, that it was Christ who worked it all out for good for our son who loves Him.

Because that’s the way God works.

Unbelief

I am told often that Chase will get better, that with an element of time he will regain memory and mobility and find relief from the constant pain. However, four weeks into the injury, with limited progress and daily witness of my son’s physical struggles, weariness can set in and doubt becomes an unwanted companion.

Driving my youngest two to swim practice this morning, I found myself fighting the fear of what could be. What if Chase’s gait is permanent? What if he is never the same cognitively? What if he never runs or jumps or wrestles with his brother? What if……

My thoughts were literally interrupted by the following words, which clearly did not come from me as I am not nearly that smart or insightful:

“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief.”

In Scripture, this verse is the cry of a father desperate for healing for his son.

Jesus asked the boy’s father, “How long has he been like this?”

“From childhood,” he answered.“It has often thrown him into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”

“‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for him who believes.”

Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:21-24)

I can relate to this parent’s heart. I am a believer, steady in my faith, yet in the midst of difficulties uncertainty creeps in when I am most vulnerable. Watching pain in my child and I cannot offer relief. Answering questions that begin with why and my response feels so weak. The truth of the matter is that the outcome, the end result, which God already knows, may not coincide with the desires of mine.

I do believe, but what if he doesn’t fully recover?

And you may have experienced similar:

I do believe, but what if my husband never comes back?
I do believe, but what happens if my child always rebels?
I do believe, but what if the bills outweigh the income?
I do believe, but what if the cancer continues to spread?

It is the “buts” and the “what ifs” that interrupt my faith with fear. And fear is not from God. It takes intentionality and spiritual focus to reclaim what I know to be true. My security and that of my son’s is going to come from one place, the foundation of which is built on three powerful words: I do believe. I have to believe that His perfect plans supersede my hopeful ones and that the end result is good – very good.

I do believe, even if he doesn’t fully recover.
I do believe, even if my husband never comes back.
I do believe, even if my child rebels.
I do believe, even if the bills outweigh the income.
I do believe, even if the cancer spreads.

I do believe. Not only does it have to be enough, it has to be everything.

Even if it doesn’t look a thing like I had hoped.

Update

While I will continue to chronicle some of the details of Chase’s story, I want to pause a moment to give a current update on his condition. Since Monday, he has improved enough to return to physical rehab today, an appointment thought very unlikely by his physician. Head pain, double vision and mobility issues remain, but dependence on the wheelchair is no longer necessary. He can walk unassisted, although unbalanced, and in a gait that buckles with each step.

Despite the circumstances dealt him, Chase maintains an upbeat and positive attitude. He is still full of joy and personality, and looks for the humor in situations rather than pity. If you will allow a mom to boast for a second, I couldn’t be more proud of this boy’s strength, courage and faith which only serves to encourage my own.

Our family has been overwhelmed with the heartfelt prayers, kind words and sincere encouragement offered on the behalf of our son. From a missionary village in Rwanda, a friend fighting cancer in Miami, a twelve year old boy in front of his middle school in Texas, a church congregation that is more like family. From friends I see every day and those I haven’t seen in twenty years, from a fourth grade boy praying out loud in his mom’s car and from a little girl leading prayer in her family. From those I have just recently met and those I will never meet, from family close by and those afar, and those that consider us a part of their own.

Words are difficult to find to adequately express how humbled, how blessed, how grateful we are. Although our struggle is ongoing, we know that these prayers – your prayers – have held us, comforted us and changed us for the better.

The Worst

Of the many symptoms Chase has experienced from head trauma, loss of mobility has been the most frustrating for him and the most puzzling for physicians. Scans of his head, neck, spinal cord and hips all result in normal readings even when the presentation is anything but.

Our first visit to the neurologist happened the morning after Chase’s condition worsened. Because his gait was so compromised, a wheelchair was used to transfer him to the medical center. Biting my lip and struggling for composure in front of my son, I told myself that it would be just this once, as I straightened my shoulders and wheeled him through the automatic doors. Surely reliance on the chair would be just for a few days and Chase would soon be sprinting across the lacrosse field.

During the appointment, the kind neurologist examined our son, administering a battery of physical tests that Chase seemed to have difficulty completing. Touching his nose, following a light with his eyes, standing on his own, were just a few of the tests that proved impossible for him. How can this be? Just last week he was joyfully doing backflips on the trampoline and shooting foul shots in the driveway.

Next, the doctor sat Chase down at a computer to complete what is known as an Impact Test which is a computerized concussion evaluation system. The test would take twenty minutes and the physician asked that I leave the room with him. As we stepped into the hallway, the neurologist turned to me and said, “Chase is going to fail this test. There isn’t any possibility whatsoever that he is capable of answering any of the questions correctly.”

I looked at the doctor blankly, but I clearly remember thinking, “What are you talking about?! He is an A student! Not capable? But you just met him! And he was a verbal toddler, not to mention reading by the age of five. I knew I should have brought his report card….”

As I silently stared, the physician continued, “I talked to your husband yesterday but I did not expect that Chase’s condition would be as severe at is. This concussion is the worse I have ever seen.”

It is both a blessing and a curse to be the spouse of a physician. A blessing in that medical care and advice is readily available. It’s just a short cell phone call away, a brief discussion in Sunday School, a question answered in carpool line,or a consultation on the ball field.

It can also be a curse. Patients under your spouse’s care assume incorrectly that you know all of their medical maladies and want to update you with additional details. I have been standing in line at Kroger and been told about rotten gall bladders, pumped gas and listened to a description of reoccurring phlegm, and ordered coffee at Starbucks while hearing of the discomfort caused by constipation.

As the neurologist led me to a small waiting room, a comforting hand on my shoulder, I could only think of the blessings that had come in the form of physician friends during those first forty-eight hours of the injury. The many that called, those that stopped by and the ones that examined Chase’s condition from up close and from afar, I knew I would always be so very grateful.

Tears streaming from my eyes, I called my husband from that little waiting room and relayed the sentence that would follow me around unwelcomed for the next twenty-four days:

“This concussion is the worst the neurologist has ever seen.”

The Injury

Parenthood brings frightening moments that either scare you into paralysis, or make you scream like a banshee: a child running after a ball towards a busy street, a fevered forehead that burns to the touch, the surprising phone call from school to report an accident, the frantic search in the store for a wandering preschooler. Your heart stops and there is the real possibility that it may not beat again.

It was the first middle school Lacrosse game of the season. I was at a women’s conference in Chattanooga with fifteen other women from my church. That Saturday morning, I left the session early to travel back home for Chase’s game. My plan was to return to the conference after he played to glean more wisdom from Christian author, Kay Arthur, and her love for colored pencils.

Chase has true passion for the sport of lacrosse. It comes to our son naturally and it brings pure parental joy to watch him play. Although the sport is somewhat new to us, we understand most of the rules thanks to the purchase of the Lacrosse for Dummies book which makes us appear legitimate as we cheer from the bleachers.

With a few minutes left in the game, Chase sprinted down the field in anticipation of the pass that would allow him a shot at the goal. Catching the pass, he turned towards the net and shot, and then immediately was hit by an opposing player. Already off-balanced by the throw, Chase’s body was flung backwards, his helmet catching the brunt of the fall.

And then he was still.

There is very little to prepare you for the sight of a child lying listless. Sounds no longer exist and oxygen seems to be unavailable. Those first few seconds last longer than should be allowed, an excruciating moment unnaturally prolonged. Somehow I found myself standing, unaware that my spouse was already running towards the field.

As coaches and officials swarmed around our son, I could only see his motionless legs. My husband was kneeling beside Chase, and an illogical string of words reverberated inside of my head, “Please God, please no, please move, please God…”.

Finally, and mercifully, there was movement.

Once carried off of the field, Chase was examined by the team trainer. Classic symptoms of dizziness, nausea and head pain confirmed suspicions of a mild concussion. Later that day, he would have an MRI to ensure that his brain had not been further injured. It came back clear and I began to breathe normally again. For the rest of the weekend Chase would rest and engage in little activity and looked forward to returning to school and practice on Monday.

But Monday morning came, and Chase’s symptoms had worsened. My strong, twelve year old boy could not stand or walk on his own.

A Setback

Struggle can sometimes initiate an out of character response. Typically forthright with the embarrassing mishaps and blunders that seem to define my everyday existence, I find that difficulties generate a guardedness that is adverse to my personality. Outgoing and historically more joyful than not, those moments that strike fear closest to my heart brings about a hasty retreat in a mind that seeks immediate refuge.

Appropriate or not, maternal instinct is to fix, to protect, to make better. Sometimes at the expense of those that know you best, innate reaction is to gather the hurting child and expend all remaining energy and effort in their direction.

There is also that inclination to withhold your burdens from others, thinking incorrectly that you can spare the pain from spreading to those you love, as though it were an illness contagious just by spoken word.

Yesterday changed that approach.

Our doctor’s appointment on Monday marked day twenty-three of the recovery process for our son, Chase. Although progress of any sort had been painfully slow, mobility function had returned to a point that Chase could stand strong and walk unassisted in a compensated gait. After a three week absence from school, we were hoping that the neurologist would allow Chase to return to school on a modified basis.

Chase woke up on the morning of his appointment experiencing symptoms similar in severity to the ones that came soon after the injury. Dizzy and confused, motor function and pain had worsened, and we were back to the beginning that I had prayed would look more like the end.

Fighting back tears and frustration, I listened as the physician told me that setbacks were to be expected. He said that the type of head trauma Chase had suffered would not follow normal protocol or ordinary estimations and healing would happen only with an element of time.

And prayer.

Those two words popped in my head as the doctor continued his examination.

And prayer.

Those two words were the only chance I had of escaping the exam room without completely falling apart in front of my hurting son.

And prayer.

Those two words that represent hope when one feels hopeless, comfort when one feels incapable of being comforted.

Many in our community know about Chase’s condition and have been praying for him diligently. But as I pushed my twelve year old in the wheelchair yesterday, despair heavy on my shoulders and his, I felt a desperate need for more. Prayers from everybody I know and from those I don’t. Privacy and protection suddenly seemed inadequate, and the attempt to prevent the burden to others misguided.

So while I continue to process all that has happened to our family and chronicle it in a manner that Chase can one day use, I am boldly going to ask that you continue to pray for his healing. Before you even know the whole story or the details that example the wonder of this child’s faith, I ask that you lift him up to the One who heals, the One who comforts, and the One who can keep a young man's mama from falling apart.

Pray for Chase

For years now, my writing has focused on joy. Both on this blog and in publication elsewhere, my stories reflect the everyday domestic nonsense that, surprising still to yours truly, others find funny. What began as a family journal for posterity’s sake as well as the singular, lofty goal of making my husband laugh at work, evolved into a personal journey of finding joy in the mundane, the unbelievable and the difficult.

 As much as I love to weave together a good narrative, the one I plan to share with you is by far the one I will most dislike.  Not because I don’t trust that the story was purposely ordained by a perfect Author, but rather it is a chapter that will leave a permanent scar, earmarked in a way that ensures I never forget its place.

Three weeks ago our twelve year old son, Chase, was injured while playing in a middle school lacrosse game. He suffered a head trauma that at first was diagnosed as a mild concussion.  Over the next few days, symptoms worsened, bringing immobilizing pain as well as dependence on a wheelchair.  The severity of the concussion as well as its physical effects have baffled all physicians involved – my spouse included- and led us down a medical path that has been difficult to navigate.

With my son’s permission, I will journal some of the details our family has experienced. Some so painful it still takes my breath and some so full of blessings that it makes my heart inconceivably full.  

Ministry is born from pain. Someday, either standing off balanced or completely steady, Chase will use his circumstances to witness to another. Though the story remains unwritten and the details have yet to be revealed, I am confident it will end well. Know that we still believe God is good – all the time – even when a twelve year old’s brain is severely injured.

Please pray for our son , Chase.

Calamity Avoided

It wasn’t near the calamity imagined. The middle school dance happened, and my twelve year old lived through the audacity of it all. Chase even found himself dancing which goes against every hormonal fiber in his cotillion resistant body.

I was in charge of the dinner before the dance, a little shindig that had fifty-five seventh graders in attendance, arriving in all manner of awkwardness and/ or false bravado. It is a weird age for sure, these ‘tween years spent in a confusing divide between the desire to be a teenager and the need for occasional adolescent comfort.

As each gender arrived to the dinner, I was amazed at the differences as evidenced by the Y and X chromosomes. Girls had been transformed, glamorized in sequins and ruffles, stretched tall as they wobbled about in high heels. Fancy hair meticulously coiffed and make-up applied to perfection, these girls were a beautiful sight to behold. Some had aged 10 years, a frightening thought for the dads in attendance, whose eyes were trained sharply on the young men having the same thought, double-dog daring these barely shaved faces to stare longer than five seconds.



The boys, on the other hand, had not aged at all. While dressed handsomely in pants and ties, their routine hadn’t differed much except that soap was most likely used in the process. Readying themselves for the dance was a short affair and took less amount of time than it takes the NASCAR pit crew team to change four tires, polish the engine and offer the driver a snack.

(Or whatever it is they do. They are fast. For those of you who care, a NASCAR pit stop takes only 12-14 seconds. For those of you who do not care, I get that.)



According to my son, the most awkward moment of the evening – beyond the discomfort of first seeing each other at the dinner or when busting a move at the dance with knobby knees and elbows – was the unsolicited exposure to parental paparazzi.

Before the dinner, all the kids were gathered for a group picture. The number of cameras outnumbered the seventh graders, creating a bizarre chorus of clicks that provided background music to the light show presented by the numerous flashes. While tolerated good-naturedly by the students for the first thirty seconds of picture taking, the remaining ten minutes gradually produced scowls on hormonal faces that still brings me tremendous joy.



Chase maintains that he has never experienced more pain in his life.

Welcome to the dramatics as offered in my world.

From all accounts, it would appear that a good time was had by all, despite a few social hiccups as experienced by my son - little occurrences that made us howl with laughter, but unfortunately, unable to share as requested by Chase. His attorney contacted mine and a legal agreement was reached as to the nature and scope of information allowed for publication on the weird wide web.

Not only did my son survive the day’s events, but appeared all the better for it. This time next year, when we do it all over again in the eighth grade, maybe it won’t seem as terrible, as much as a waste of a Saturday. Maybe, after seeing the benefits, he will even look forward to it.

Added by Chase: Never. My mom is delusional.

Aftermath

Although in possession of more #2 sharpened pencils than the law should allow, our twelve year old still felt ill-equipped for the SAT taken on Saturday.

In his words, the aftermath of math.... minus the joy:

Saturday of Horrors

He would rather have a tooth removed than to participate in the events of the day. Chase, our twelve year old son, growing faster than the bean stalk Jack climbed, is appalled at the way his Saturday will unfold. Today he will take the dreaded SAT for the first time and tonight he will attend his first school dance.

A double whammy for the hormones of a pre-teenager, perpetually teetering precariously on the edge of a meltdown.

First, he will wake up at the same unmerciful hour our neighbor’s dog is allowed outside. While Chase showers, the stranger dog will yip around our yard with such a high pitched bark that all canine peers will use paws to cover their ears in distress.

In the meantime, my husband John, will bounce happily around the house with coffee cup in one hand, and a fist full of #2 pencils in the other, finely sharpened to a point of perfection. Although we were told that Chase would only need two pencils, my Eagle Scout husband added extras, because you can never be too prepared for the onslaught of disaster a broken piece of lead can bring.

Last night, John organized the testing packet, laying out the entrance ticket and school identification card by the back door. In his scholarly mind, this test represents the academic’s ultimate environment to regurgitate all stored information one will never use again.

It never ceases to amaze me the joy that comes to those who test well and the disdain that comes from those who do not. Call me a cynic, but the idea of any five hour test makes me want to poke out my own eyeball with the finely sharpened #2 pencil. For John, it is prime opportunity to showcase understanding of an endothermic reaction, knowledge that Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliaphobia is the fear of long words, and offer complete explanation of the Binomial Coefficients in Pascal’s Triangle.

(Now I would like to poke out my other eye)

The above provides insight into why my own SAT scores weren’t all that stellar. The only scientific fact I could remember from high school science was that the brain is made up of 80% water.

For some of us, I believe it’s closer to 90.

Later today, after Chase emerges from the scholastic coma the SAT will induce, he will reluctantly dress to prepare for the middle school dance. In the meantime, I will frolic happily around the house with fabulous tie in one hand, and all manner of cameras in the other, charged and ready to document this long awaited milestone. Although we were told that there would be a photographer at the dance, a meddling mom can never be too prepared or too irresponsibly reliant on the artistic eye of another.

Last night, I laid out the freshly pressed pants and newly purchased shirt. In my fashion conscience mind, this dance represents the ideal setting to example how one should never underestimate the effects of a well contrasted necktie.

It never ceases to amaze me the joy that comes to those who love a school dance and the disdain that comes from those that do not. My husband would rather chew off his right arm rather than to ever have to attend again a middle school social function. For me it is the perfect opportunity for my son to prove that the lessons learned in Junior Cotillion were worth all the pre-pubescent tantrums thrown in transit, that the box step can indeed be used to replace the gyrations of hip hop nonsense, and that tucking one’s shirt into belted pants does not bring about community catastrophe.

(My husband would now like to chew off his remaining arm)

The above proves insight into why the social aspects of middle school weren’t all that stellar for John. Understanding the color wheel proved of little use to one who tested color blind and dance of any sort only heightened awareness of double left feet.

As for Chase, he has little interest for either – test taking or dance step making – and continues to claim this day as horror of all horrors. In his opinion, a Saturday bookended by sharpened #2 pencils and color coordinated tie is enough to make a kid poke out his own eyeball AND chew off his right arm.

And remove another tooth just for hormonal effect.

The Man Who Intruded My House

It was late at night. John was at the hospital, and the children were in bed. I was standing at the sink washing dishes, with my back to the room. I rinsed the 39th glass to place into the dishwasher, wondering why the offspring in my home insist on using twelve different cups for their beverages in the same day.

But then I immediately realized that this is the same genetic defect that causes them to change into seven different outfits in the same day, while throwing every piece of clothing used for thirty seconds into the dirty laundry basket. Unfortunately, this won’t be corrected until brilliant scientists break up the dynamics between the nucleotide sequences from those of the amino acids.

(Special thanks to Encyclopedia Brown – also known as my spouse- for that titillating piece of trivia. In my humble opinion, I think the phrase “they get this from your side of the family, not mine” provides sufficient scientific proof.)

Lost in thought in my own little world, where dishes are cleaned and clothes laundered like those in the household of George Jetson, I never heard the footsteps creeping up behind me. Suddenly, a deep, unrecognizable voice said somewhat emphatically, “COME WITH ME RIGHT NOW!”

(Anytime someone uses their capital letters voice, it strikes fear to my core.)

I’ve seen all the Oprah shows that demonstrate what women should do in an emergent situation - thumb to the eyeball, elbow to the groin, karate chop to the throat. I’ve always wondered which method I would choose when placed in a precarious, threatening situation, one that demanded quick thinking and instinctive reflexes. The technique of choice?

I wet my pants.

Three children later, it should come as no surprise that my bladder fights like a girl.

I prepared to take on the intruder in my damp pajama pants. Personally, I can’t think of anything more intimidating, or frightening, than a grown woman facing down her attacker emulating an odor that rivals those found in the church nursery.

Spinning from the sink and landing in a Karate Kid Crane Stance, I faced my attacker on one wobbly leg. Struggling to maintain balance, I stared incredulously at the person standing before me. It was Chase, our twelve year old son, staring back at me in a manner that suggested he was as scared of me as I was of him.

“What are you doing?!!” I exclaimed. (Really, I yelled but the word “exclaimed” sounds better to those nice folks at the child protective agency)

“What are YOU doing?” Chase countered right back.

“Why are you talking in that voice?!!” I asked. (Really, I yelled but the word “asked” sounds better to those nice folks at the child protective agency.)

“What voice?!” he yelled in exasperation.

And then realization hit me in the same way it struck when I finally comprehended that the parentheses marks between my eyebrows were indeed permanent punctuations to my face.

Oh, no. It’s here, I thought to myself. But, I’m not ready.

Twelve year old hormones had been raging for weeks. Irritation with me, impatience with siblings, impossible mood swings and irritation with me pointed to the day that I had been dreading since the day Chase was born. Transforming from a boy into a man despite pleading prayers that he stay little for just a while longer, the fellow who presently stood in front of me as tall as an adult, now spoke like one. In a matter of hours, his voice, intermittently squeaky and weirdly pitched over the last few days, was now unrecognizable and very deep.

Bottom lip quivering just slightly, I took in fully this new man-child, my heart full of joy yet breaking at the same time, and said, “Never mind. Why are you up so late?”

“The toilet is stopped up and making this funny sound. Somebody needs to fix it quick!” Chase said.

“Okay,” I responded, “but you know, Roto Rooter is at the hospital. I’ll give it my best shot, though.”

As we walked down the hallway together towards the offending toilet, Chase turned to me and said, “By the way, did you get that move from the Karate Kid movie? And what’s that terrible smell?”


There were two lessons to be learned that night - one for me and maybe one for you. The first is that children grow up overnight. In just a blink of the eye, they go from diapers to kindergarten to shaving a sparse beard. And, of course, that’s the way it should be, even if I don’t like it, even if it hurts more than I thought.



Secondly, let this be a warning to all those out there who may consider intruding into our home, or worse, kidnapping yours truly. I fight back with my bladder. You better borrow a buddy’s car because your upholstery will never be the same.

Letting Go

I have let go of him before.

Reluctantly.

With quivering lip.

And shaky knees.

But this....this request for solo flight into the unknown was beyond what the lining in my stomach should have to handle.

Summer camp for Chase has always been a great experience. He loves the independence it brings as well as the adventure. Bonding with old friends and new counselors reinforces the camp camaraderie that beckons his return each summer.

This year, as an active twelve year old with specific interests, the date of the summer camp coincided with a sport camp that Chase really wanted to attend. While it is still one that is overnight, it takes place in our town, on a campus in which I am familiar, in an environment that is controlled and well monitored.

I responded with admitted relief when Chase discussed with us his desire to change camps this summer. The distance of the previous camp coupled with the remote location always caused me great concern and intense gastrointestinal distress. All the angst, the worry, and the wringing of hands would be but a distant, unpleasant memory.

But then our rascally church interfered, popping my summer security bubble, cutting away the safety net I have so diligently weaved under my children, by announcing a summer trip that would take our youth group to the Colorado mountains. The trip would last ten days, with a three-day ride on a tour bus to and from their destination.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

Georgia.

Colorado.

The distance between each is a kajillion miles and beyond what my apron strings can reach.

And Chase is twelve, with questionable grooming habits.

And for a child who keeps money in his SHOE, how will he responsibly pay for meals while trying not to get lost, abducted or left behind?

Not. Gonna. Happen.

So how is it that I found myself watching this monstrosity leave our church, with thirty youth, four young leaders and an Australian driver?

And my oldest boy waving goodbye joyfully from the back of the bus.

Christ Is Risen

He is risen indeed! Hope your Easter is full of joy!

"Surprise, surprise, surprise." - Gomer Pyle

My husband and I were feeling pretty smug about pulling off the vacation surprise for our children. A few moments after the reveal and as we waited in line for the gates to open for Islands of Adventure, Chase commented, “I can’t believe that I didn’t catch on to what you and dad had planned. I mean, I understand Chandler and Mary Mac not understanding– ‘cause they’re younger and all – but I should have figured it out. Why didn’t I get it?”

I looked at his eleven year old face, so mature looking yet still so innocent, remembering the astonishment I felt when I first found out about him, the day that the pregnancy test stick positively defined the line of mommyhood as before and after. From that moment, nothing would ever be the same again, a welcome change in stage that would catapult John and I both blindly into parenthood.

The pure joy of discovering I was pregnant was hard to contain. I wanted to immediately phone my husband at work to share the long awaited news but knew that he deserved the same wonder of surprise I had just experienced.

So, as a plan began to form in my mind, I called a local restaurant, explained what I was considering and asked if they would participate in it’s implementation. More than happy to oblige, a time was set for the baby revelation, and the staff prepared for our arrival.

It wasn’t difficult to convince my husband to go out to dinner. At the time, my culinary skills were somewhat inadequate, often relying on the smoke alarm as a kitchen timer. Also, since we were childless, we had more time and economics than thriftiness and good sense.

Arriving at the restaurant, the hostess led us to our table with a smile and concealed wink. My heart beat nervously as I waited for the events to unfold, praying that the waiter would deliver his lines in a convincing manner that would lead the dad-to-be down the path to all things paternal. The waiter did not disappoint.

“Good evening. My name is Matt and I will be your server tonight. May I bring you something to drink?”

John and I placed our orders and then the waiter continued, “Would you like to hear about our specials?”

“We’d love to!” I agreed all too eagerly. It is was with good reason I chose to participate in high school athletics rather than the performing arts.

“Okay,” replied Matt, the well-rehearsed waiter, “The appetizer special tonight is BABY spinach baked with brie. Our salad of the night is BABY greens, tossed together with marinated BABY corn and BABY carrots. This comes with our house vinaigrette. And, finally, our offering for the main course is BABY back ribs served with a side of BABY potatoes.”

The waiter paused a bit as I grinned widely at John, about to jump out of my newly pregnant skin with the exciting news. The silence proved to be too much for my husband who awkwardly said, “Okay, thanks. Give us a few moments to look over the menu.”

Really?

Mouth slightly agape, the waiter glanced at me incredulously before walking towards the kitchen, images of a well-deserved Oscar exploding to pieces in his head.

John perused the menu, totally oblivious to the many baby references, a stomach that rumbled taking precedence over a head that comprehended. Luckily, plan B was fortuitously in place in the event neurons weren’t firing like they were supposed to.

A few moments later, Matt returned to the table with our drinks. He placed a red herring glass of wine in front me and placed a beer in front of John. The beer had been poured into a plastic baby bottle minus the screw-on nipple, the number of ounces displayed clearly on the side, with the foam of the beverage topping out at eight.

Again, the waiter paused a bit.

Nothing.

Reluctantly, the waiter walked away with slumped shoulders, sadly believing that his performance had been subpar. Once out of earshot, my husband whispered to me, “I’m surprised that a restaurant as nice as this would serve beer in plastic rather than glass. They really need to reconsider this.”

All I could do was stare at him in response.

The words baby spinach, baby greens, baby corn , and baby back ribs reverberated in my mind as I sat in silence. Sentences would not form.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, as I looked at him with eyes as glazed as the baby carrots.

He continued,” Do you think it’s okay to serve beer in plastic? Am I being unreasonable?”

“Look.....closer,” I finally managed in a voice that sounded distant and unfamiliar.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” John said as he held up the bottle in front of him.

And that’s when the fog cleared, the light bulb went off, and the events of the last fifteen minutes crashed down on my unsuspecting spouse in all understanding and awe and disbelief.

“ARE. YOU. SERIOUS. Are you serious?!!” he exclaimed, a smile spreading across the handsome face I loved so much. “I’m going to be a dad? I’m going to be a dad,” John acknowledged more firmly. And that’s when he promptly told me to hand over the glass of wine.

While not exactly the way I had planned, the moment of surprise could not have been more idyllic or complete, a perfect beginning to our next adventure.

The memories flooded over me as I looked at Chase as he waited for me to provide the answer of how so many clues could have been missed about our vacation, how he could have overlooked the obvious.

“Three letters for you,” I finally answered. “DNA.”

And we walked through the theme park gates together to begin our next adventure.

Potty Humor

Inspiration can come from a variety of places. Marvel of God’s handiwork and creativity in nature, appreciation for architectural elements in various complex structures or admiration of detailed brush strokes in a painting are all examples one might ponder when looking to be inspired.

When in conversation with my oldest son, Chase, about the costume he would create for the middle school contest, I suggested that he consider his surroundings to generate some ideas. We were driving home from school as I pontificated about the ingenuity and imagination one can find if pausing to look at the environment for inspiration.

I pulled into our driveway – still using the excessive words with which my children are accustomed - when Chase excitedly exclaimed, “I got it! I know exactly what I’m gonna be for the contest!” pointing enthusiastically to the unfortunate object that stimulated his outburst.



A Port O’ Potty.

Prominently placed in our front yard for the past twelve weeks, it has held enormous interest for my three children. This breeding bastion of bacteria has been off limits to my crew, but attracts a fascination each time they witness someone using the facilities.

Once, Chase and his friend J, watched a worker enter the stall, and the two quietly crept to the outside door. They knocked on the door hard and then ran, arms and legs pumping faster as the heated profanity that emerged from the stall frightened them more than initially considered when planning the prank.

They didn’t do it again.

Chase joyfully prepared all week for the contest, spray-painting a wardrobe box yellow and adding all of the many extras that would correctly identify his creation.




My husband and I curtailed many of the typical eleven year old boy suggestions made - dropping tootsie rolls as he walked in the parade or allowing toilet paper to hang out the back of the costume – in an effort to maintain some sense of decency and decorum. An oxymoron that I assure you has not escaped either of us.




Much to our relief, the teachers at Chase’s school appreciated the potty humor, congratulating him on the originality of his costume. Chase had a great time during the event, except for one minor detail that he found frustrating. His friends kept knocking on the door of his creation, and then running off before he could open it.




Payback, in my opinion, and that of the unsuspecting worker, very much deserved.

All Manner Of Dancing

He acted as though we were sending him to a hard labor camp typically reserved for either wayward juveniles who break the law or weary housewives returning home after vacation. The pulling of a rotten tooth, the removal of stubborn wax from ears, a shower utilizing actual soap would all have been preferable over the activity in which we were requiring our son’s participation.

Junior Cotillion. (Also known to adolescent boys as Junior Co-Kill-Ya)

Believing that reinforcement of nice manners and polite behavior is always a benefit, we enrolled our eleven-year-old son, Chase, in classes of a local chapter that would soon have him foaming at the mouth and requesting transfer into another family.

Personally, I couldn’t see how we could go wrong in an organization with the following mission statement:

To act and treat others with honor, dignity and respect for better relationships with family, friends and associates and to learn and practice ballroom dance.

I think that even Chase is okay with the first part of the statement, understanding from an early age that we expect him to behave in a manner that is respectful to others. It’s the second part that has him throwing a monkey fit on the way to each class, much like he used to do during his terrible twos.

Ballroom dancing does not register on the radar of interest for a sixth grade boy. I’m not sure it would interest me. But the lessons are included in the Cotillion program, and highly entertaining on shows like Dancing With The Stars, so how bad could it really be?

I pointed out to my son that athletes like Emmett Smith, Michael Irvin and Jerry Rice had all learned dances like the Fox Trot, the Waltz and the Cha Cha. He quickly responded that he was certain they “took a beating from their teammates in the locker room” because they danced too high on their tiptoes wearing pointy, jazz shoes.



Chase has now completed two sessions of the program. It brings me great joy to retrieve him from the end of each class, listening to him as he rants and raves about having to hold a girl’s hand – ONE THAT HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW – and lead her around the dance floor. “It’s torture,” he says every time. “It’s not fair. I really don’t think I can do it again.”



In the first session, Chase was required to fetch refreshments for several of the girls in his class, spilling pineapple juice on one – I MEAN, WHO DRINKS PINEAPPLE JUICE, MOM!? – and tripping over the daintily crossed ankles of another. He continues to have balance issues in the presence of females, although improvement was seen this past week as he managed to stay upright for the duration of the class.

I hope one day he will laugh about it all, like the well-mannered gentleman he is becoming, as he waltzes his bride across the dance floor, tall and confident.

I’ll be in the corner of the room, throwing a monkey fit about the unfairness of it all, wishing that we could do it all over again.