happy camper

This weekend, I had the opportunity to learn about outdoor education, Girl Scout-style. Not just from perusing a manual or listening to a trainer teach a class, but a hands-on lesson. Yes, I went camping.

I have never really been one to fully enjoy all that a camping trip entails: the lack of a fully functional bathroom facility, the sleeping on the cold ground, the bugs, the dirt. I do love the campfire, the food cooked over the open flame, the fresh air filling my lungs and the sound of the breeze blowing through the trees. I found all of this, and so much more, on my weekend excursion to Camp Mah-Kah-Wee.

The journey began before dawn, when I crawled out of my snug bed to finish packing and preparing. My friend Wendy came to pick me up in her van, and we were on our way. We were looking forward to spending the weekend together, even if it had to be in a tent. The weather forecast wasn't very favorable, and we drove through heavy fog and mist on the way to the facility. When we arrived, we unloaded all of our gear and checked in. At that point, we found that we had been split up; I was to hike to one campsite, she to another, on opposing ends of the campground. We were unhappy at this development, at the prospect of having to bunk with strangers.

As I hauled my bags over the trail, I walked behind three ladies, with whom I struck up a conversation. They had come together, had managed to stay together, and they invited me to be the fourth in their tent. They were very welcoming, and I felt the awkwardness melt away. We finally reached the campsite, found an unoccupied platform tent, claimed our cots, then checked in to the Scout house. We settled in, ready to learn from the trainers, one of them having been in Girl Scouts for more than 40 years. They were full of great information and experience, and shared both with us throughout the two days.

There were 40 ladies staying at the same campsite as I: Racoon Run. Many of us had been split from friends, and many were not, but the trainers had another surprise up their sleeves. We played a game called Barnyard Bedlam, in which we were randomly given a small token with the image of a farm animal on it. We were to close our eyes and walk around, while making the sound of our chosen animal. Mine was a pig. Soooo, I closed my eyes and oinked, bumping into other ladies who were also making fools of themselves. I hooked arms with my fellow swine, and dismissed those who were baa-ing, moo-ing, or clucking. I had a lady on either side and was laughing hysterically and yelling "OINK", when the trainer told us to stop; we were in our groups, so we could open our eyes. The first thing I saw was another woman, standing right in front of me, looking at me as if I were crazy. Seems that we had been in our group for several seconds, and only I and one other piggy were still behaving as if we were sows. Oops.

These four groups of 10 women each were our new patrols, which meant we were to learn and work together to get tasks accomplished. We headed back inside to reshuffle our seating arrangements, forcing us to split up even further. My three bunkmates were in different groups, so I knew that if Wendy and I had been able to stay together, we most likely would have been separated at this point, anyway. We all settled in to learn the first of many lessons, including camping preparation from planning to evaluation, which is quite a lengthy process.

Unfortunately, we somehow fell far behind. Before we knew it, it was well after noon, and we still hadn't eaten lunch. This posed quite a dilemma, due to the fact that we were to cook our food over fire, but hadn't yet learned how to build or maintain this fire. By the time we were educated on this skill, our lunch had been pushed back to 4pm. We were understandably grumpy, and took matters into our own hands, starting our dinner prep while keeping the fire burning. The dish was to cook for 90 minutes, and we were all in agreement that we'd like to eat before bedtime.

As our dinner boiled and bubbled over the hot coals, we were greeted by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Another trainer had run to tell us that we were to immediately remove the dutch oven, put out our fire, and batten down the hatches. A storm was coming, and we were given 30 minutes to gather our valuables and hike to the safety of the lodge. We went into action, unaware of the severity of the situation: this storm had produced tornadoes, hail, strong winds, and blinding rain.

We gathered with all of the camp's 100+ occupants, and I was reunited with my friend Wendy. The storm thundered and the lightning flashed as we sang songs, ate pizza, and performed skits, which we were to have done around the nightly campfire. Two hours later, we were told that the worst of the storm had missed us, had actually split into two storms, and both had gone around us. We felt blessed, which helped to ease the bitterness over having missed the traditional s'mores around the campfire.

After donning our ponchos and hiking through puddles and muck, we made it back to our campsite, where we found our lukewarm supper waiting for us. We munched on it a bit, learned how to tie knots, and were finally released to retire to our beds. The weather forecast was for a cold front to move in, which is usually preceded by strong thunderstorms here in Florida, as the cold northern air collides with our warm air. Even though the storm had passed, it was still relatively warm, and I fell asleep on top of my sleeping bag. I was awakened in the night by more rain, and a chill in the air. I huddled in the warmth of my cocoon, only to wake in the morning to freezing temperatures. The cold front had arrived.

Our second day was spent trying to stay warm as we attempted to absorb as much information as possible about knife safety, wood chopping, and cooking in a box oven, among other things. Suddenly the jobs of fire starter and cook were coveted, and that of the clean-up crew were even more despised, as cold hands met cold water. We made chili and cornbread for lunch, baking the bread in a box oven, over coals. I saw it as a grown-up version of the Easy Bake. One of the other piggy ladies and I were enthralled with this invention. We decided that if our state was hit with another hurricane and we lost power, we could provide our neighbors with comfort foods, such as cakes and breads, all baked in a box. Another of our teammates, who was a bit more cynical, stated, "Oh, yeah, while the contents of everyone's freezers are rotting, you two can bake up a cake!" When we stopped laughing, we enjoyed the fruits of our labors, which was the best meal yet, having been made from start to finish without assistance.

As the sun crossed the sky and began it's descent, we completed our training, carried out our kapers, or chores, and met back at the campfire pit. We participated in a Girl Scout ceremony, during which we all shared what was the most impactful part of the weekend to each of us. Answers ranged from "Learning what to do in case of emergency" to "Working together with people who began as complete strangers and ended up as friends." I commented that I was a bit reluctant coming into the situation, but was excited to tell my troop all about my adventures, and to share a camping experience with them. We sang a song, handed out hugs, and went our separate ways, with promises of emails to be exchanged.

Upon my return home, I soaked in a luxuriously hot shower, bundled up in my new fuzzy robe (thanks, Mom!), and sipped a mug of hot cocoa. I counted my blessings as I watched the Packers and Giants play on the frozen tundra in Green Bay, calculating that it was more than 40 degrees warmer here, before the wind chill was factored in. What had I been whining about?

Today, it's 70 degrees and sunny, with a nice easterly breeze blowing in off the ocean. Figures.

worth the wait

I have wanted to adopt a little dog for several years now, but for one reason or the other, we've had to wait. First to convince Dan, then for a house of our own, a fence to be built, the "right timing". As the Christmas break approached, and with Dan home to help keep a watchful eye, we felt that it was time to start the search.

We knew we wanted to find our new little friend at a local shelter, because there are just too many unwanted pets in this world, in my opinion. So I'd been keeping my eye on the shelter's website, watching for a small, fluffy pup with big black eyes and a cute button nose. One day, while scrolling through all the homeless dogs, a new one popped up: a Maltese. A little ball of fur I could call my own. I phoned Dan with great excitement, and got the green light to explore this possibility.

After picking Cris and Brooklyn up from school, I told them the news, and invited them to take the adventure with me. We'd never been to a shelter, so we had a good talk about what we could expect there. We knew it would be difficult to see all those faces, waiting for their "forever homes". And it was. The smell of so many animals in one place was overwhelming, the sound of their cries and pleas for attention deafening at times. There was a big board that displayed the numbers of animals taken in, adopted out, and ultimately finding the end of their lives in this place. The workers were friendly, but very overworked. We asked one if the sweet little Maltese was still available, but were told that no, he'd found a home. "The little ones go quick," she told us. I knew I was being picky about the type and size of dog I was looking for, and was turning a blind eye to the larger dogs in need, but felt that a smaller dog would be a better fit.

We found a door marked with an "Adoptable Dogs" sign, and we turned the knob to open it. A long, cage-lined hall stood in front of us, and we tentatively stepped through. On the left side, several Pit Bulls looked out from behind the bars. They didn't appear to be too interested in us, barely raising their eyes to see who was coming through next. To the right, two smaller cages were stacked one on top of the other. The one on top held a tiny white dog, curled up tightly on top of a pillow. We saw that he was a Chihuahua, and I dismissed him as an option, having heard that they can be a difficult breed. Below him was a black Collie mix, very vocal and active. His info sheet stated that he was younger, and playful. He was cute, but I didn't want to bite off more than I could chew.

We continued on down the canine-laden hall, turned the corner to find even more large, unwanted dogs. I was beginning to feel my optimism fade away. We turned back the way we came, and stopped in front of the stacked cages once again. The small Chi barely acknowledged us, but he looked so vulnerable lying there, less than 3 feet away from those huge dogs known for their violence. According to his clipboard, he was estimated to be 8 years old, was seemingly well trained, liked to cuddle, and was found by the side of the road a week before. The kids and I looked at each other, and we agreed that we'd at least like to give him a chance.

After asking permission to take him from his cage, I carefully unlocked his wire door, and tried to coax him out. He just shivered and ducked his little head, not even meeting my eyes. I let him smell my hand, then ran it down the length of his small back, trying to let him know I meant him no harm. Then I slipped my hands around him and lifted him out. "Awww!" Both kids immediately melted at the sight of his little face. We took him into the socialization room, where I placed him on the floor to get an idea of his personality. He started nosing around, but didn't lift his leg-- bonus points, for sure. The kids were growing more and more excited, and the fact that he didn't yip, growl, bite or scratch made me want to know more about him. We decided to take him out to the play yard.

Once outside, the little guy immediately found a bush to sprinkle, and this show of good potty training moved him to the top of my list. We let him run and explore, and his sprightly gate, little bent ear, and bright eyes won us over. Another call to Dan was placed, and the adoption process was begun. In order to fill out the paperwork, we had to put the little man back in his cage. The Pit Bulls were riled up, filling the hall with their growls and fierce barking. Our prospective pup cowered, pawing at the cage, crying out to us as we walked away. We knew we had to hurry and get him out of there as soon as we could, so we dotted all of our i's, crossed our t's, and in just a matter of minutes, our family had grown by one.

It has been several weeks since we walked into the animal shelter; weeks spent getting to know our first family dog. Chico is a cuddle-bug who loves to explore his new neighborhood, nap on fluffy pillows, and munch on liver treats. The transition has been easy, he has adapted well. He lets us know when he needs to go outside, he is pretty quiet, and he sleeps through the night in his little bed in the master bedroom. He takes us on long nighttime walks, and it is really very amusing to see how he thinks he is so big and mighty, guarding "his" people from harm.

We are looking forward to many years caring for our new pet, and hope we are making his life as enjoyable as he is making ours.

blindsided

Friday morning, while I was at work, I received a call from Dan. In an uncharacteristically nervous voice, he asked me to say a prayer for him, as his boss had asked him to set aside some time to talk that afternoon. Red flags started to wave in front of my eyes, my heart started beating a little faster, and I became worried. "I'm sure it's nothing," my husband said, attempting to comfort me. But I heard something in his voice....

Later that day, after several hours of fretting, praying, and wondering, I walked into the house to find out what had transpired. Dan's red-rimmed eyes and the stricken look on his face told me all I needed to know, but his next words still took my breath away: "They fired me."

Woosh. "What? Why?" I felt my eyes bulging, my chin starting to quiver, my heart racing even faster. The explanation he received from his boss did nothing to pacify me. He has been falsely accused of damaging a rental car, which was, in actuality, stolen from in front of his hotel room many months ago while he was on a business trip. When it was found, it had several thousand dollars' worth of damage inflicted upon it. The rental car agency maintains that this automobile is virtually un-stealable, and that one must have the key in order to start the engine. And since the key was given to Dan, he must've crashed it into that ditch, walked away, and blamed it on someone else in order to keep his name clear. That's their story, at least, and it appears they've convinced Dan's former employer that this is the true sequence of events.

My husband is a man of great integrity; if he had truly had an accident in this car, he would've been the first to phone the authorities and report it. If the retribution had to be taken from his pay, he would've agreed, had the fault been his. But he doesn't, at this point, even have the opportunity to defend himself. Not to a judge, a jury, or to the people sitting behind their desks, casting down judgements and changing a family's life.

I was very angry at first. But I continue to be inspired by this man who exchanged marital vows with me nearly 15 years ago. He has not shown anger or resentment, although I believe he has every right to. He continues to provide the kids and I with a sense of security, even through this trial.

I have faith that we'll come through this with minimal damage, because although I claim to spend most of my time in the driver's seat, I know that it's God who's really in control. And now it's time for us to put our faith to the test, allow Him to take the wheel, and to listen and learn what He has in store for us.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declared the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

halloween 2007

I am a procrastinator. I'm married to Dan, and he's one too. Whether putting things off until the last minute is encoded in our DNA or is a learned behavior, our kids have the deck stacked against them. So it was not shocking to me that I'd be scouring the aisles of the local party store at 4pm on Halloween, searching for costume components for all 3 of our boys. They have now realized that just having an idea for an outfit is no longer enough.

I can't lay the blame completely on them, though, because not only have I modeled the procrastination trait, but for the majority of their lives, I've also shopped for and constructed their costumes (usually missing several hours of crucial sleep time the night before the big day). All they've been responsible for in the past was coming up with what they wanted to "be".

I will say that I am thankful that Halloween is one holiday for which preparation has actually gotten easier as the kids have grown. I haven't had to sew, cut, or glue pieces of felt or ribbon for a couple of years now; the days of the homemade cow, burrito, Pooh and Piglet costumes have passed. I mourn the loss of pink toddler cheeks peeking out of these creations made with love, but I rejoice in the creativity and humor of my teenagers. And I do it with bright eyes and bushy tail, because I got a good night's sleep on October 30th.

I submit for your enjoyment: Nick as Ron Burgundy ("Anchorman"), Andy portraying a Mexican cowboy, Bronco player Cris, pop-star Brooklyn, and our Packer-friend Adam. Happy Halloween.

mr. clean doesn't even know my address anymore

My sixth grade son, Cris, needed a baby picture of himself to submit to the yearbook staff at school. So the other night, we hopped into the time machine that is my shelf full of photo boxes, and pulled out two that contain pictures from the mid-1990's. Looking through those snapshots, it was shocking for me to see how neat and tidy our little house in Thornton looked. The carpet was vacuumed, the floor swept, the counters clear. Knick-knacks appeared to be dust-free, and there were even decorations on the walls. Three little boys played happily with their toys and each other as I snapped away with my 35mm.

This is so remarkable to me because if you were to walk into our current home on any given day, you may find several pairs of shoes strewn haphazardly by the front door, the pan used to roast last night's dinner soaking in the sink, empty cereal boxes on the counters, newspapers and cups on the table, and a desk full of school papers and mail that needs to be sorted. I'm not posting all of this to air out our dirty laundry, so to speak, but because I was really taken with the home I saw portrayed on Kodak paper. "That looks so nice," I thought, as if looking through Better Homes and Gardens. "I would like to live there."

In early 1996, our boys were ages 4, 2, and an infant. I remember feeling very overwhelmed at times, like I couldn't keep up. I longed for a future filled with more than diapers, Barney, and toddler-sized tantrums. But now, looking back from my more experienced point of view, I'm left wondering what, exactly, was so stressful to me then? I couldn't have known that 1996 was before....


...before the kids gave up their naps, before the 4th child was born, before PTA, before basketball, before dance classes, before football, before cheerleading, before grueling high school schedules, before teaching Sunday School, before Dan's crazy travel schedule and working from home, before going back into the workforce, before Girl Scouts, before teenage angst, before a son's first relationship, before his driver's license, before curfews, before braces, before college nights and SATs, before satellite TV, before the internet, before cell phones. Before we had so much pulling on us, from so many different directions.


But we don't live in the before, and we don't yet live in the after. We live somewhere in the middle, and I have to remember that this is, like that was, just a season in our lives. And somewhere down the line, perhaps in the next decade, I'll be pulling photos off the shelf once again, and will have a reason to look at the images captured in 2007. Maybe by then I will have been able to dedicate time to filling my scrapbooks with our memories. I'll flip through the pages, look at the images of a busy-but-smiling family in a cluttered-but-loving-home, and I'll think, "That looks so nice. I would like to live there."

almost a teen

Twelve years ago today, at this moment (Mountain Standard Time), I was celebrating the birth of my third son, Cris. My labor had been induced, because the doctor was fearful that he was already over 9 lbs, with one week to go in my pregnancy. Also, my original due date fell on Halloween, and I wasn't too fond of the idea of delivering my precious angel on this controversial "holiday". It just seemed a little creepy to me. So, when my ob-gyn dangled the induction-carrot before me, I sprang for it. 12 hours and an excrutiating amount of pain later, Cristian Daniel was born.

He was a beautiful little baby, almost too pretty to be a boy. He had big blue eyes, full, rosebud lips, and was an 8 lb. 4 oz. peanut. I fell instantly in love with the newest little man to join our testosterone-laden family. He had such a mild disposition, was early to smile and laugh, and was a great source of entertainment for his 2 and 4-year-old big brothers, who immediately began to include this tiny person in their daily play.

That teensy little boy has stretched and grown into a lean and lanky preteen, who is coming dangerously close to being able to look me straight in the eye without looking up. He is witty, athletic, cuddly (aw, Mom, why'd you have to say that?), loving, strong, protective, emotional, smart, talkative, focused, eager, and a child of God. He likes to play football, loves to play basketball, and won't admit it, but is an avid reader as well. He has dreams and aspirations, many of which involve his becoming an NBA star.

It has been a joy to watch him become a young man, and I look forward to experiencing the coming years with him by my side, having to look up to meet his eyes, as I know I soon will. Happy Birthday, Son.

sweet 16

Yesterday, my oldest son reached a milestone: his 16th birthday. It has become a tradition in our family for me to recall, in sometimes unwanted detail, the circumstances of my children's actual day of birth. So for the past several days, many of my sentences have started with the words, "Sixteen years ago, I was..." while I would glance at the clock, remembering.

Remembering the fear that struck my heart as Dan and I walked around his parents' neighborhood late in the evening of October 1, 1991, timing my contractions. After waiting for over 9 months to meet our first child, the realization that his arrival was imminent was terrifying to me.

Remembering the oxygen mask covering my nose and mouth, prohibiting me from shouting and screaming out of frustration as I worked so diligently to deliver him.

Remembering the intense relief I felt once he was born, once I could see that he was as perfect as he could be.

Remembering our first night together, after our loving friends and family left, and we could truly begin to get to know one another. I studied him, committing every bit of him to memory.

For 16 years, I have watched him grow and change from that tiny baby boy, swaddled and cozy in my arms, into the young man who now stands taller than I. Looking into his face, I see the strong nose and cheekbones of the man he'll soon be, but can still catch a glimpse of the chubby-cheeked, squeaky-voiced toddler he once was. In the scrapbook of my mind's eye, I can see him holding his Puffy in front of his mouth, sucking his thumb, humming the tune from Barney. "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family...."

It is my fervent prayer that as the years have passed, even through the times when we haven't been such a happy family, that he has always known how much I love him, how much of myself I've poured into him, and how proud I am to say he's my son. Before I had children, I had no idea what a wild ride motherhood would be; the highs can be outstandingly high, the lows can be crushing, but I thank God for the child He chose to bless me with to initiate me into this exclusive club of women.

Happy birthday, Son. And thank you for 16 wonderful years.