When a Parent Prepares for Surgery

In less than two days, my husband will have his right knee replaced. In a joint that is currently bone-on-bone, all cartilage missing or destroyed, Jim is now counting down the hours until his surgery Tuesday morning.

With temperatures spiking and plunging over the last few weeks, the barometric pressure all over the charts, Jim’s level of pain has coincided with the weather rollercoaster.

Jim spent the afternoon on Saturday with Jamie at the local skate park, and the family spent Saturday night with our closest friends for a casual dinner. Conversation was light and funny, watching Jordan and Jamie switch between playing hide-and-seek with (almost) four-year-old Naomi, and following the newest dance moves on Wii’s ‘Just Dance II.’

Jim asked multiple times throughout the evening to be shot and put out of his misery, as pain medication officially stopped working, as he explained it, somewhere between picking-up my rice pudding and walking to the bread aisle to pick up brat buns. The final salvo over the bow was getting back out of the car one more time to exchange the propane tank for the grill.

“Game over,” he announced as he walked through the door, plastic bags in tow. “Tuesday cannot be further away than it feels right now.” I pulled-up his pant leg to look at his knee cap, which now looked like it had fallen and slid over to one side. As I placed my hand over his knee as he bent it, it felt like gravel under my palm, and the crunching was quite audible.

Waking to pouring rain Sunday morning, just warm enough to not snow, I knew Jim’s day would be relatively immobile. The kids took turns hanging out with him, both voicing concerns about surgery, wheelchairs and death while various movies played in the background. They asked when Grandma Sandy would arrive on Monday, and how soon they could visit Jim on Tuesday.

Sadly, their fear of death is grounded in real-life experience, as Jamie’s classmate lost a parent during surgery less than two years before. Our discussions were open and honest, and they felt reassurance as much from our words as from what we didn’t say, allowing Jordan and Jamie to express their thoughts freely.

They asked who would visit Jim in the hospital and if he would get flowers or stuffed animals. They asked if he would still be in pain and would he have to eat bad hospital food. They asked how soon he would be home and when he would be better. They asked if they could visit him every day, and would he have a cast they could sign. They said they would sleep in the ‘big bed’ with me while he was gone, so they could keep me company.

The furry part of our family also knows something is afoot: Our dog Buck and elder cat Alle have spent all day in our bedroom near Jim, and kitten Sparky has slept draped over my pillows next to him.

As I write from my laptop, Jordan and Jamie are curled-up with Jim watching “Alien,” pushing way past their bedtime but pretending to not be sleepy. Soon they will drift off to sleep, between the two of us, and we will sleep hugging the far edges of the bed.

The grownups may not sleep well, but Jordan and Jamie will have a peaceful night, feeling safe, secure and loved.

Why Talking is Better than Fighting with a Tween

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Mornings at Casa Dralle

Our weekly morning schedule runs like a well-oiled machine: Jordan’s body is rolled-over at exactly 6:30 a.m., at which point she makes some sort of noise and buries her head under her pillow.

Depending on how late I’ve stayed up the night before (or if I have even gone to bed yet), I’ll either head downstairs to start coffee or flop down next to Jordan. At 6:50 the second alarm sounds, and Jordan pops out of bed like toast, grabs a quick breakfast, steps into her clothes laid-out the night before, brushes her hair and teeth and pretends not to use my makeup. Flying down the stairs, Jordan catapults into her boots and coat, flings on her backpack and flies out the door at 7:05. Magic!

We’re at her school’s front door within ten minutes, and by 7:25 I’m back in our kitchen. Golden time – everyone is still asleep, the house is quiet for another thirty minutes until Jamie’s feet hit the floor running (even the dog and cats have yet to make an appearance) and there’s a full pot of coffee.

Sometimes I would glance at the paper, throw in a load of laundry, unload the dishwasher or start checking my email. But since the first of the year, I have spent this quiet time taking advantage of just being quiet. Looking out the window and watching the birds, I let my mind wander and plan out the rest of the day.

Jamie rolls out of bed at 8:00, school clothes in tow, and heads toward the kitchen for breakfast. Ready in less than ten minutes, Jamie and I spend the next twenty minutes talking about his upcoming day, some new skate moves, and what I’ll be working on that day. A kiss on the cheek and he’s out the front door, walking one block to his school in less than five minutes.

But Jamie wasn’t rolling this morning. His head was hurting and he was tired of being up twice during the night with a bloody nose. He had a low fever, so I covered him back up and he promptly fell back to sleep.

Ever since Jamie’s nose was broken in what is now referred to as “The Unfortunate Water Balloon Incident of 2007,” his nose is hyper sensitive to dry, inside air. His nose never bleeds during the day, only between the hours of one and four a.m. This morning he was shooting for a new record, two nosebleeds in three early morning hours.

I started to rub my forehead, feeling a “bad sleep” headache coming on. Dull and thudding behind my eyeballs, I decided to not take the chance and went into my bathroom to grab my migraine meds. I would sneak a quick peek at my emails and then lie down for an hour, hitting the self-employed “morning reset” button.

I walked into my bathroom and stopped short. The double vanity sink in front of me looked like a crime scene ripped from “Silence of the Lambs.” To the right, blood was everywhere – the sink top, the bowl, the faucet. Blood droplets covered the lower half of the mirror. Wads of bloody tissue surrounded the wastebasket, not one tissue making its intended mark.

To the left, my small black makeup case looked like it had exploded with the force of a pipe bomb: Blush and eye shadow containers in the sink, eye liners scattered like discarded crayons, mascara and multiple brushes on the floor, the eyelash curler stuck to the countertop in a goop of toothpaste.

A circus clown had been slaughtered in my bathroom.

Thud, thud, thud. Note to self: Remind Jordan how to sparingly use eye shadow; remind myself to not use that applicator unless I was going for that new Black Swan look. I stared in the clean side of the mirror. Second note to self: Buy under-eye concealer. Stat.

The only thing more amazing than the sheer force of the destruction was how perfectly Jordan and Jamie managed to contain their individual messes to their own sides of the sink.

I grabbed the always handy bleach water spray bottle (it is cold and flu season, you know), and soaked the crime scene, then turned my attention to putting my makeup away. I wondered how many more years I had before Jordan would spend much more time in front of this mirror, rising earlier and earlier to straighten her hair, wear the perfect eye shadow, pick the perfect lip gloss.

I rummaged through the closet and found my medication, grabbed a glass of water and began the hazmat cleanup in earnest. God forbid Jim or I ever meet an untimely ending and some poor investigator ‘blue lights’ the bathroom looking for trace evidence. No jury in the world would believe the nosebleed defense.

Thud, thud, thud, and little sparkly stars in my peripheral vision: Bleach fumes and lavender candles were not a pleasing combination, so I quickly finished the task at hand and dropped back into bed, setting my phone alarm for ninety minutes later.

I closed my eyes and felt the medication slowly kick in, and as the lapses in thuds grew further apart, I began to dream about running late for a final exam that I had never studied for.

An hour later the phone alarm beeped, and it was time to start Thursday again. 

An Open Letter to Our Children

As I have shared over the past few days, my husband and I spent Valentine’s evening consoling our son and daughter, neither who enjoyed their first fickle smack of Cupid’s backhand.

Our talks were long and heartfelt, and we spent more time listening than talking. “A parent is only as happy as their saddest child” played over and over again in my head. Jim and I stayed up even later, talking about times we were hurt or embarrassed as young kids, and how it felt to try to go to school the next day to face the masses.

I awoke Tuesday morning to find the following three-page note on the kitchen table for Jordan and Jamie to read before they left for school:

“Hi guys,

Good morning to you both. I know yesterday was not the best day that either of you have had. So today I want you to do something for me. Take my advice…

1) Dress up today. Take the time to look as awesome as you are.

2) I want you both to tell yourselves that I AM GOING TO HAVE A GOOD DAY TODAY.

3) I want you to go to school and act as happy as you can (nothing bothers people more than to know that their best efforts to ruin your life have not made any impact on you at all).

4) Remember that the only person who needs to like who you are is YOU!

5) Remind yourself how much love and happiness that is waiting for you here at home, and how lucky you are to always have a place like that to come home to.

6) Mean people are really unhappy deep down, and they don’t have the happiness you do. That’s probably why they act so terribly. If you think about them like that you could almost feel sorry for them.

7) If someone tries to make you feel badly today – laugh at them. It will drive them crazy!

8) Mom and I and all of the people who know you tell us they hope their kids can be as wonderful as you.

9) No matter what, in the end, everything will be all right, and you will come home to all the love in the world.

I am so proud of both of you, and would not change one thing about either one of you. I love you, I am proud of the people you have become, and nothing that anyone says could ever change that.

I love you! You are the best. Tell yourself that over and over today.

Love, Dad”

Jordan and Jamie both came home from school Tuesday happy and smiling. One crisis down, handled with grace, fingers crossed for the others to follow.

An Unhappy Valentine's Day, Part II

A loving hug for a brother...

NOTE: Names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent and the mean-spirited.

As I wrote yesterday, the conversation in the car was light hearted on Valentine’s Day Eve:

“I’m going to ask GIRL to be my girlfriend,” my son stated confidently. “I want to get her a special card.”

“Say you want to go out with her, not be your girlfriend,” my daughter corrected.

“Mom, if she says yes, will you take us bowling?” Jamie asked. I nodded in the front seat, trying to keep my eyes on the road.

“What do you like about GIRL, Jamie?”

He looked out the window and thought a moment. “She’s very nice to other people. She’s pretty and she’s funny.” I knew GIRL, and she was in fact all of those things.

We went to the store, picked-up standard boxed Valentine’s Day cards, then Jamie headed toward the ‘real’ card aisle to select his special card. It was perfect: A cute puppy, holding a heart-shaped balloon, that stated simply on the front of the card “You’re special.” The sentiment inside simply read “Happy Hearts Day.”

He neatly wrote his signature in cursive, and printed a short note: “GIRL, I like you very much and you are very nice,” and affixed four heart stickers on the inside flap. The card tucked safely in his backpack, Jamie told me at bedtime he didn’t know if he would be able to sleep all night.

FLASH FORWARD TO AFTER SCHOOL ON VALENTINE’S DAY, PART II:

Jamie walked into my bedroom, a funny smirk on his face. Thank God, I thought, a happy story that would cheer-up Jordan and restore my faith in childhood humanity.

“So how did it go?” I asked, full of hope and high expectations. He was smiling, sort of, was it embarrassment? Humility? Contained joy?

“Not so good,” Jamie confessed, flopping face down on the bed. “Terrible, actually.”

There is no Cupid.

“So, we were at recess, and I told BOY 1 and BOY 2 that I was going to ask GIRL out after school,” Jamie explained. I already knew where this train was heading, as BOY 2 had expressed interest in same GIRL earlier in the school year. “I made them pinky swear, but someone obviously heard me, and they went over and told GIRL.”

“THEN someone told the recess monitor, then the recess monitor told me that asking my question was inappropriate for school. So I was embarrassed, then I was mad, and then I was afraid to give her my card. Then I think GIRL got scared, or embarrassed, and now I think she hates me.”

“Oh, Jamie, it’s okay,” piped Jordan’s voice from the foot of the bed. “I had a bad Valentine’s Day, too. Don’t cry, buddy.”

But Jamie did cry. He had left our house Valentine's Day morning excited and nervous, and returned crushed. My stomach, still in knots from my daughter’s lovely day, worsened.

“Did you give her your card?” I asked. Jamie wiped at his eyes and shook his head no. “No, I thought I was doing something wrong. Remember? Inappropriate?”

Okay, it was Valentine’s Day, so give me a big fat break here. My son is ten and wanted to tell a girl he thinks she is nice and pretty. Fourth grade doesn’t have an age-appropriate, hip term for ‘crush,’ but I sure as hell don’t think the term I would reach (especially on Valentine’s Day, for Christ sake) would be ‘inappropriate’.

Once Jamie calmed down, Jim and I explained that he didn’t do anything wrong, except for maybe the part when he told Boy 2 about his plan (as he was probably the one who ratted him out). I believe we convinced him to give GIRL his special card, damn the consequences.

Alas, Wednesday morning Jamie awoke tired and defeated, emotionally spent from the day before. “No, I’m keeping the card. It’s all just too much of a pain.”

“It would make her day happy,” I encouraged, but he was not buying it. “No, you keep it. I don’t need it anymore.”

I took the card, unopened, and put it in his memory box, a collection of old cards, artwork, favorite t-shirts ten sizes too small, baby teeth, a lock of hair from his first haircut.

I hope in the days ahead he will ask for it back. In the meantime, mom will keep the sentiments unshared safe and secure. 

An Unhappy Valentine's Day, Part I

NOTE: Children’s names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent and the mean-spirited.

The conversation in the car was light hearted on Valentine’s Day Eve:

“I’m going to ask GIRL to be my girlfriend,” my son stated confidently. “I want to get her a special card.”

“Say you want to go out with her, not be your girlfriend,” my daughter corrected.

“Mom, if she says yes, will you take us bowling?” Jamie asked. I nodded in the front seat, trying to keep my eyes on the road.

“I’m jealous, Jamie,” Jordan joked. “I’ve been single for three months now. I don’t even have a boyfriend, or anyone who likes me.”

The minivan careened slightly into the left lane. I course corrected and addressed my daughter’s jaw dropper. “Single? Jordan, you’re eleven.”

“But, mom, all my friends on Facebook are ‘in a relationship.’ Everyone but me.”

I quickly ticked-off the long list of girls' names who, to my knowledge, were not yet engaged at the middle school. “No, mom, not THEM, just everybody else.”

I tried to stay on topic yet change directions. “What do you like about GIRL, Jamie?”

He looked out the window and thought a moment. “She’s very nice to other people. She’s pretty and she’s funny.” I knew GIRL, and she was in fact all of those things.

We went to the store, picked-up standard boxed Valentine’s Day cards, then Jamie headed toward the ‘real’ card aisle to select his special card. It was perfect: A cute puppy, holding a heart-shaped balloon, that stated simply on the front of the card “You’re special.” The sentiment inside simply read “Happy Hearts Day.”

He neatly wrote his signature in cursive, and printed a short note: “GIRL, I like you very much and you are very nice,” and affixed four heart stickers on the inside flap.

FLASH FORWARD TO AFTER SCHOOL ON VALENTINE’S DAY:

“Mom, get me away from this school,” my daughter insisted as she climbed into the car. This didn’t sound like it was going to lead to a Hallmark storyline.

“You know how Valentine’s Day is supposed to be all sweet and nice? Well, I thought I would be really nice and give a bunch of people Valentine’s Day cards. When I gave one to BOY, who I thought was nice and he liked me, he tore up the card, SPIT ON IT, and threw it on the ground. I hate my life.” Jordan stuck her muddy boots on the dashboard, tucked her knees under her chin and stared out the window.

My stomach twisted and felt knotted. Spit? Really? I wanted to track down his parents and share what a lovely child they had raised. In my parent of the year award frame of mind, I wanted to find the kid’s jock strap and fill it with itching powder. In a calmer frame of mind, I’m sure his parents would be mortified, just as I would be if someone shared that information about my child with me.

“A lot of people threw my Valentine’s on the floor, Mom,” Jordan confided. “There were so many someone picked them all up and gave them all back to me. I had to throw them all away. I hate Valentine’s Day.”

I felt like someone had pulled the wings off my baby butterfly. In her bright moments, Jordan is joy, energy and light personified. She was so excited in the morning, so truly demoralized after school.

“Jordan, I know there’s nothing I can say to make you feel better, and I am so sorry that I can’t. What those kids did was terrible, and they don’t deserve you as a friend,” I explained. “But your REAL friends, your true friends, are the ones who matter. They love you, and they would never hurt you.”

“I still feel like crap,” Jordan stated, at which point I reminded her she owed me a dollar for swearing.

“I know, Jordan. And the worst part is it won’t stop hurting right away, but it will stop soon.”

We drove in silence for almost twenty minutes when I realized Jordan hadn’t even reached over to turn on the radio or flip on the iPod. I looked over to see her blotting her tears away with her hoodie sleeves.

 “You know you’re my favorite daughter, right?” I asked her. She looked at me cross-eyed. “I’m your ONLY daughter, mom.”

“I know. Just imagine how much you would suck if you weren’t my favorite,” I explained (for some reason, me using the ‘s’ word makes Jordan laugh). And she did laugh, if just for half a second.

Later in the afternoon, Jim and I called Jordan up onto our bed for a talk. “You know how bad you’re feeling inside right now? Well, that’s the reason we’ve taught you to NEVER be mean to other people, whether you like them or hate them with every ounce of your being. Nobody deserves to be treated like you were today.”

“If Dad or I ever found out that you spit on someone’s card and threw it on the ground, we would make you go to their front door and apologize. Then you would be grounded,” I explained. “Are we totally clear on that?”

Jordan agreed, and as hurt turned to anger she turned her aggression toward killing zombies in Dead Rising II. The lovely butterfly possesses mad skills in zombie slaughtering. Slowly, her goofy humor and bad jokes returned, and almost all was well again.

Today’s lesson: Middle school can be vicious, and hard to bear life lessons lurk around every corner. Don’t be afraid to grab your child’s hand now and then to guide them down the path.

Besides, my son’s Valentine's Day went equally badly with GIRL, but that is for tomorrow…

Meant to be Together

At my sister’s wedding, I ended my matron of honor toast with “You don’t marry someone you can live with, you marry the person who you cannot live without.”

After almost 18 years of marriage (twenty-plus years together), Jim and I are still in love, and still each other’s best friend and business partner. We have two great kids who love us in spite of everything we do to ruin their lives, parents who love us unconditionally, and a huge extended family of friends and relatives that finds us entertaining.

I have a marriage that many people insist is not possible – we have had one argument (and boy, were we young and drunk…). We discuss everything and agree to disagree when it happens. We don’t equally share in the household chores, as Jim is a fabulous cook and I hate grocery shopping and putting laundry away (even though I will wash and fold all of it). However, my ability to whip-up fabulous appetizers and desserts from scratch, along with cutting the back forty acres with a walking lawnmower helps even the scales at times.

The weird thing is, somewhere along the line we were destined to meet: Our first encounter was when I was six and Jim was four, while I stood on the lawn of my aunt’s parent’s apartment the day of her wedding, decked-out in my lavender flower girl dress. At the time, Jim’s family lived directly across the street, a mere 100 yards away from where I stood posing for pictures.

Skip ahead to my high school years, when Jim’s high school girlfriend lived across the street from my grandmother’s house, and his high school classmate lived right next door to her. Jim still remembers seeing my sister and me in my grandma’s driveway when we came to visit.

Jump forward to college: Jim dated a girl from college who lived down the block from my aunt and uncle (cue Twilight Zone music – the same aunt whose wedding I stood up to as a child).

We both attended Northern Illinois University, a year-and-a-half apart. I majored in journalism, Jim majored in communications, and both of us worked at the campus-run television station, yet again missed meeting each other by twelve months but still somehow managed to share some of the same friends.

We finally met when I hired Jim as a production assistant for a film shoot. As a producer, I was reviewing resumes and decided to only call on NIU alumni. When I called his house to speak to him, I of course asked to speak to him, not knowing he shared his dad’s name. “Which one?” a friendly voice asked at the other end of the phone. Without hesitating, I immediately asked for the cute one (I was quite the professional in my youth), and thank God I was treated to a hearty laugh and the perfect response, “Well, that really doesn’t narrow it down much for me, but I think you want my son.” This sounded like a fun family.

Jim claims to this day that he knew he was going to marry me from the minute he saw me. We started dating after our third shoot together (fourteen-hour days lead to a lot of downtime and long conversations). Slowly our histories unraveled, and we began to discover how our paths almost crossed again and again.

The absolute kicker was when we were looking at photographs, and one picture featured Jim standing in front of a lavender-sided fishing cabin. I stopped and stared, almost without words. “What the hell are you doing at Hellecksons?” I asked. “My family has gone there every year for our fall fishing trip since I was at least eight, and I brought friends here in college for a ski trip! I’ve eaten more meals at Molliter’s than probably any other lodge!”

Jim stared back. “I’ve been fishing there for years with my Uncle Bob, probably since I was sixteen. In fact, I almost drowned there one year.”  You really can’t forget a place in Okee, Wisconsin that features purple fishing cabins.

When we shared our story line with our family for the first time, my Uncle Johnny, without missing a beat, asked, “So exactly how long have you been stalking my niece?”  The difference between destiny and a stalker? Mutual true love or a restraining order...

We’re a happy couple, and somehow, for some reason, we were meant to meet, meant to be together; I’ve never believed in coincidences. I don’t offer unsolicited advice on marriage, or anything else for that matter; I only know what works for us.

We’ve ridden our fair share of life’s roller coasters: Entrepreneurship, wealth, poverty, joy, multiple surgeries, love, illness, lawsuits, laughter, addiction, interventions, revelations, chronic pain, life, death, rebirth. Through it all, we have stayed strong, learned not to sweat the small stuff, never took ourselves too seriously, and in the end found the humor of it all. Time plus tragedy does equal comedy, sometimes you just need to look a little harder.

Today, this Valentine’s Day, I will break my rule and offer one bit of unsolicited advice: Tell all the people you love you love them, and tell them often. Don’t save it for a special day or special occasion, don’t think it will mean any less if and when you say it more. You’ll be amazed how good it feels to say, and how great it feels to hear.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all…

To Grandma Sandy's We Go...

My childhood home...

Today the weather was absolutely beautiful, and cabin fever had set in for Jordan and Jamie, finally fever-free after seventy-two hours of Gatorade, chicken broth and crackers.

We bundled up and headed to Grandma Sandy and Grandpa Bobby’s house. Nothing feels better than pulling-up to the house where you grew up to watch your own children eat at the same kitchen table, hang out in the same living room, and sleepover in your old bedroom.

After more than a few servings of Grandma Sandy’s famous cinnamon toast (because God knows I never feed my children and no one can butter toast like Grandma), we jumped into Grandpa Bobby’s minivan and headed out to the local forest preserve for some much needed fresh air and sunshine.

I love the great Midwest winter effect, that after a few weeks of sub-arctic temperatures, the thermometer breaking past forty feels downright balmy. Winter coats were shed, long sleeve sweatshirts intact, we drove less than ten minutes to find ourselves in deer country.

Bambi...

Yes, we broke the rules, Mr. Unknown Forest Preserve Officer. We did feed the deer, mostly fruit and vegetable peelings, enough to get the herd through until the next family drove through with goodies. Once spring arrives, our family stops the feeding cycle, and allows Mother Nature to take care of her own flock.

Unafraid yet wisely shy, the deer’s ears perk up and tails begin to swish when they hear the opening of the car doors and rustling of the plastic bags. They watch with great concentration as you place your humble offering on the snow, and as you walk slowly back to your car they quickly approach the food, both the deer you had spotted and the many others camouflaged by the thick trees, shadows and snow.

Hanging ten?

The sun felt warm on our faces, the breeze was cool not cold, and we quickly snapped a few pictures of these majestic creatures, so dainty yet so hearty to withstand the bitter winter. For a moment I caught the gaze of a younger doe that had been studying my son. I wondered what she was thinking, chewing on carrot peels and watching a young boy in a bright blue snow jacket.

As the sun sank lower, it grew cooler and it was time to head back home to Plainfield. As we pulled out of the forest preserve, my daughter’s eagle eye noticed a possum hanging from a tree. We’re still not sure what it was doing, but it made one hell of a funny picture, and the end to a perfect day. 

Finding God via Google

My name is Laura, and I am a research geek.

Thankfully, when working and writing for other people, it is a job requirement. When the topic is interesting, I become lost in my work, digging deeper, cross-referencing and sub-referencing until my legal pad is full.

Prior to the Internet, local libraries were my second home. I loved the card catalog system (the “old” kind) when you could flip through neatly typed index cards held in place with a steel drawer pole. Using micro-fiche screens until my contacts dried out, printing out articles that stunk of pungent black ink, losing myself in the stacks of books in the reference section: I loved the scents, I loved the silence, I loved the academia of it all.

While still a patron of our local library, the Internet has brought the world to my laptop, making my research convenient, easy and dangerous, because courtesy of Google, I can quickly and effectively look up ANYTHING (to a research geek, ladies and gentlemen, this is crack).

Case in point: Roughly two months ago I hit a horrible speed bump on Writer’s Lane: My gas tank was empty, all wheels were flat and out of alignment, and I couldn’t flag down a coherent idea to save my butt. I was blank and I was under deadline.

I threw in a load of laundry. I tried to review my notes. I ate way too much rice pudding. I washed the cat. Nothing. Less than nothing. Screwed.

I sat back down at the computer and Googled “God help me” (what could it hurt?). The search brought up various religious sites, prayer suggestions, and some rather unusual YouTube suggestions. Still nothing rattled in my empty head – even my internal and never-ending “To Do” list loop tape was silent.

But then I wondered, who else Googled God for help? Okay, at least the reference geek was returning. As it turned-out, the approximate 12-month average of user queries for the keyword phrase “God Help Me” on Google search was 33,100 worldwide, according to the Google Adwords keyword search tool.

Really? In related searches, 7.4 million people Googled “heaven”, 3.35 million typed “gods”, 2.74 million requested “the god”, 1.5 million “god is”, and the top- five list rounded-out with a tie, with 1.2 million searches for both “bible verses” and “prayers.”

It gave me pause. Millions of people worldwide, asking for God’s help via Google. What were they asking for? Guidance, direction, assistance, peace, help for a loved one, a cure for cancer, making it through just one more day?

I felt like a jerk, Googling “God help me” for writer’s block, upon discovering so many others I thought might be looking for help for more needful and important things. I went back to my notes and my laptop, and forced-out a terrible first draft. With time and distance from my work, I knew the mental fog would clear and my project deadline would be met, work ethic and standard for personal excellence intact.

But the damn search results continued to niggle at the back of my brain. Were those many people lost and hurting? I didn’t want to think so, but these were hard, factual numbers. My stats teacher in grad school always used to remind us that “figures lie and liars figure,” but even this favorite memory brought me little solace.

A few weeks later, I was on a writing tear. Words flew from my fingertips and my thoughts were clear and concise. My conscience felt clear and the voices in my head were entertaining as Hell (for sake of mental health reasons, let’s just agree to call them my Muses).

And then it hit me like a lightning bolt. Laughing out loud, I returned to the Google Adwords keyword search tool and typed in five letters, which returned 13.6 million hits for the approximate 12-month average of user queries for the key word….

B-O-O-B-S.

The moral of this story is don’t take yourself or life too seriously, because apparently figures do lie, and some must have better figures than others.

A Note from Corporate Headquarters

Ever since ‘temporarily’ losing our home office space about 18 months ago, our master bedroom has become our company headquarters, a walk-in filing cabinet for paperwork and ongoing projects, personal and professional. It is not a sanctuary, it is a depository.

From where I sit at ‘my’ current desk (the right side of a king-size bed), laptop on my lap, today my mind feels as cluttered as the space around me.

My ‘filing cabinet’ (night stand) is two drawers full of notebooks, journals, clippings and various office supplies, its entire surface covered with multiple to-do lists, Christmas cards to file away, bills to pay, and a beautiful picture of Jordan and Jamie taken at my sister’s wedding six years ago.

Upon the lamp shade hangs my most-treasured necklace – a gold chain strung with the emerald ring Jim proposed to me with (wanting to shop for our real ring together, this one was referred to as the ‘stunt ring’), and two birthstone baby charms.

Our ‘bookshelf’ is the length of the windowsill, stacked with an odd collection of fiction, non-fiction and reference books. Below the window sits two recently emptied project totes (recycling Christmas cards for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital and clipping Box Tops for Education for the PTO).

A paper shredder (oh, the temptation) is tucked next to my long dresser. My three writing muses sit atop the cable box – a stuffed frog named Karma, an iguana named Izzy and Cady the caterpillar.

Our wedding album and engagement picture are displayed on a small table flanking the dresser to the left, the right-side table showcases a recently completed book I co-wrote and edited regarding real estate investing.

My husband’s tall dresser is perfect for storing packages on their way to the post office underneath (current count: six).

The bottom three drawers hold more office supplies, ink, toner and reams and reams of paper. My briefcase rests against the dresser’s curved leg, near the door and ready to go at any time.

And finally, we reach the “mother ship,” a large folding table containing my husband’s computer, dual monitors, files and paperwork. My daughter’s artwork and cards from my son dot the wall over Jim’s desk area. His black office chair is the favorite resting place for our youngest cat.

Jim’s nightstand houses the all-in-one printer/fax/copier and the cell phone chargers, with two drawers containing every electronic cable and piece of digital camera accessories known to modern man.

Yesterday Jim and I discussed the initial details of the new office layout, from the fluid, curved desktops to the built-in window seat which will overlook our deck and backyard. Set just off the kitchen on the first floor, we know a closed door will offer just enough privacy to be productive, yet be close enough to the kids to referee any mayhem.

For the first time in 18 months, today our makeshift corporate headquarters bothered me. It blocked me in. Maybe because the end is in sight, and I’m anxious to move out and move forward,  today I could not tune it out and simply accept “It is what it is.”

And then, oddly enough, while cleaning out some old files, I came across a quote I kept from Donald Rumsfeld: “Amidst all the clutter, beyond all the obstacles, aside from all the static, are the goals set. Put your head down, do the best job possible, let the flak pass, and work towards those goals.”

Translation to self: Pity party over; get back to work.

Tween Daughters: Coping with Forces of Nature

I love this recent self-portrait my daughter created.  

 On our “good” days, I look at this piece and can actually feel her artistic soul, her strength and power, her inner and outer beauty, her brilliant mind teeming with infinite creativity.

On our ‘bad’ days, I am grateful I can gaze upon her face, remind myself of all her positive qualities, and thank God that I cannot hear what her rosebud lips are spewing behind a slammed bedroom door.

“Mom, just RELAX, it’s no big deal.” “Why don’t you go talk to your spoiled boy child? HE gets everything.” “I don’t CARE!” “Can I live with Grandma Sandy?” “I can’t clean my room, there’s no space in here to put things” (Jordan has a walk-in closet). “You’re ruining my life!”

Wow, I am one powerful woman. With a single sentence I can devastate a member of the future generation of America, and all I asked for was a cleaned room, a coat to be hung up, and three million nail polish bottles to be stowed away.

And Jordan is a masterful button-pusher, sharp-tongued, fierce and fiery. She baits her opponent (me) deftly, always trying to get in the last word, turning on heel and huffing out of the room. The terrible tweens period, accompanied by a full contingent of new hormones, has arrived.

I remember to breathe. I check for a full moon. I refer to one of my favorite parenting books, “How to Behave So Your Children Will, Too”, by Sal Severe. I count to ten, twenty, I lose count. I de-brief my husband on the latest encounter. I refer to Mr. Severe’s book and consider throwing it at her door (brief lapses in judgment I lovingly refer to as “Parent of the Year” moments).

As parents, especially moms, we want our daughters to be strong-willed, self-sufficient, responsible and independent. We just don’t always want them to behave that way on our watches.

I am lucky that I have a very close and loving relationship with my daughter, which seems to only serve to make our tween incidents all the more intense and hurtful.

Our home has a “no yelling” policy, period. The minute a voice is raised, you are sent to your room, regardless of your age. When we are ready to discuss the latest infringement, we talk it through. It may take three hours, with many, many bedroom breaks, but in the end issues are resolved, apologies are offered, and we don’t go to bed angry.

Don’t misunderstand – my family doesn’t walk outside at the end of a bitch session to find itself bathed in the glow of forgiveness, surrounded by flitting butterflies and singing birds. We’re damn spent, and tend to break off to separate areas of the Dralle dome to decompress.

My best advice? Don’t fight. Seriously. Develop a set of rules your family will live by as to how you will communicate, what actions will and will not be tolerated, and the consequences of not following these rules.

Try (as hard as it may be) to not get baited. Stick to the topic at hand, and NEVER go back in time to previous fights. Try to remember yourself at her age, and don’t minimize your daughter’s feelings. Take the time to listen and not judge – she may not want you to solve her problems, she just may need to sound off.

When done consistently, it does work, and works well. But it is hard, hard, hard, hard, hard work. Did I mention it is difficult?

Does it prevent the most ridiculous fights from starting? No, of course not. Will you still sometimes want to hang a sign around your daughter’s neck and place her at the end of the driveway,  “Free Child – You Haul”? Yep.

But now I try to treat each encounter with a fresh set of eyes, and question myself when my immediate response to almost every request is initially “no.”

If you can get your hands on a copy of Mr. Severe’s book, DO IT. The ideas seem so self-obvious, the tools so easy to use, I guarantee you will find yourself nodding as you read along, reading passages out loud to your husband while he’s trying to go to sleep.

As I was writing this, Jordan and Jamie were wrestling, making the dog bark while my husband was in the middle of a conference call in his office. When I told Jordan to stop instigating for the fifth time, she stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry.

My response was calm and immediate. “Tomorrow, no computer for the day. You were warned.” I walked away and did not hear a voice at the back of my head! Fifteen minutes later, I received an UNSOLICITED apology for her behavior.

Apparently her dad’s promise last week to remove her bedroom door if she ever slammed it in anger again stuck somewhere in her mind. Somewhere it stuck in my mind to use a calm voice and not scream up the stairs.

Us Dralle girls might just be learning something in spite of ourselves…

Letters from the Heart

With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, many of us will receive beautiful cards. Whether from our spouse, significant other, children or grandchildren, the personalized written sentiments will warm our hearts, reinforcing the feeling that we are important to someone, that we are loved.

The cards will sit atop our dressers, if personal, or publicly displayed on the home fridge or our office credenza for all to see. In the weeks ahead, we may re-read them, especially when the inside page is filled with a personal note in the handwriting of our loved one.

Where do YOUR cards go once the holiday passes? My bedroom closet contains three beautiful boxes, filled to the brim of cards my husband and I have exchanged over the past twenty years together – Valentine’s Day, Sweetest Day, Christmas, and hundreds of cards for no reason at all, other than to say “I love you.”

Another box is full of some of the oldest cards imaginable, many saved by my mom and passed down to me, from my christening and first birthday to various cards from my grandparents given to me throughout my childhood.

The final box, the one which can bring me back in time in a heartbeat, is full of old letters and cards from friends and family since I started college. From hand-designed cards from my college roommate (we wanted to start our own greeting card business), to letters from my Grandma B. that always included ‘funny money’ to spend on pizza or the phone bill, to cards and letters from old boyfriends, I still have each and every one of them.

I cannot throw these memories away, and I’ve decided the only difference between hoarders and me is that I use prettier boxes, and treat these pieces of paper with the utmost respect. Strung together, they are the story of my life, the people I love and surrounded myself with.

Just like pulling-out old photo albums, a couple of times a year I will break out these boxes and flip through them, and lose myself in the sweet, funny, crazy memories of grammar school, high school and college. I move to my ‘married’ box and fall in love with my husband over again and again, and realize how much we’ve been through together, and how fortunate we are to be truly happy.

My oldest Valentine’s Day card is from my first grade crush (GZ), a boy who was so cute and I knew would grow up to be President one day. It is a picture of a farmer holding a corncob, and says “By cracky, will you be my valentine?” The little card is still vibrant in color, and his neatly-printed name on the back is faded but legible. Just thinking about it makes me smile, bringing me right back to Miss Mendak’s class at Oak Elementary School.

Keep this little first-grade girl in mind when you purchase this year’s Valentine’s Day cards. Better yet, write all of your loved ones letters from the heart. The gift of your words, unlike flowers or chocolate, is eternal and will be cherished forever. Who knows, your letter may even find a home in a lovely box, and be read and re-read for years to come. 

Teaching Children Responsibility - Part II

Let me repeat what I shared yesterday by saying that I am lucky to have two wonderful children who love school. Both are A/B students, excelling in what they love and doing well in other subjects. But as they are now 10 and 11, I began to think I was doing them a disservice for picking up where they sometimes left off.

My son, Jamie, can be best described as Christopher Robin: Sweet, kind hearted, funny, empathetic to a fault. He is also a perfectionist who would rather not do his schoolwork if he thinks he will make a mistake and disappoint someone.

Highly organized, Jamie came home from school last week, minus his study guide AND textbook for an upcoming test, three days in a row. While he was able to memorize the necessary state capitals, the actual southeastern states’ locations were sketchy (except, of course, for Florida).

WE could have easily gone to the Internet and printed a study guide. WE could have pulled-out the family globe, or any other reference guide from my office bookshelf.

Gritting my teeth, sitting on my hands, I did nothing. Jamie diligently studied his capitals, but did not take any extra steps to help himself.

He caught me watching him study at the kitchen table, looked up and said, “I’m doing my best, mom. And that’s what counts, right?”

Christopher Robin, you are wounding my soul. I nodded and immediately left the room, a knot in my stomach. I knew this test was going to go poorly, and he would be crushed. “I am teaching him to be independent and responsible, you cannot always save him.” I repeated this pointless mantra, and felt no better.

The morning of the test, Jamie continued to study the capitals, and had found a map of the United States in his daily agenda. He stared at the map from the time he woke up until he put on his coat, and I wished him luck as he left, unbeknownst to Jamie, to his first hard life lesson.

The after-school news was sad. “Mom, I want you to know I tried my best.” My husband and I sat down and waited. “I got all my capitals right, but I had a hard time with the states. My score was 58.”

My husband leveled his gaze at Jamie, and asked if he really had tried his best. “Did you do EVERYTHING you could to get a great grade? I know you didn’t, because if you had, you would have scored 100.”

Jamie looked at the floor, out the window, and finally back at us. A few futile attempts at justification later, he admitted he could have done better.

“Is a 58 a C?” he asked.

“No, Jamie, a 58 is an F,” I explained, starting to feel that stomach knot again.

“So if I get a hundred on my next state test, I’ll be getting a B, right?”

God, mathematical averaging sucks. “No, Jamie, you’re going to need to do your best on all the next tests to maybe get back up to a B. You have some hard work in front of you, but I know you’ll do it, and we’ll help you,” I explained. “But, Jamie, YOU will need to do the work.”

Jamie left our room, head hanging, and I know tears were shed out of eyeshot. I looked at my husband and stated this obvious, “That sucked.”

“Yep,” he said, nodding in agreement. “But I guarantee it won’t ever happen again.”

And as I write this, Jamie is pounding away on his computer, unprompted, researching factoids about Abraham Lincoln for an upcoming history project.

So as I lay my head on my pillow tonight, I will sleep comfortably, feeling like a great parent, if for just this moment.