So, I guess the Boogey Man is Real

For us, Friday morning started out with absolutely bucolic splendor. The skies were crystal blue, accented by puffy, white, post-rain clouds. The delicious chill in the air finally heralded December-appropriate temperatures. The kids and I left the house just a bit early, with time to spare to stop by our favorite doughnut store to get some before-school treats.

Little did I know ... heck, little did anyone of us know ... that such special moments with my little ones would, without warning, suddenly seem so remarkably special.

Like most people, I cannot begin to wrap my head around the concept of 20 small children being gunned down in what should have been the safe confines of their classroom at school. I do not know these children, their families, or their brave and heroic teachers who did all that they could to shield their charges from flying bullets and sheer, unadulterated terror. I cannot begin to fathom the bone-crushing pain that these families are enduring, as their children are sent to heaven. I am gutted by the notion that, for these families, Christmas, Hanukkah, and the New Year will simply never be happy holidays again.

My work day at HMC was, I admit, pretty much a wash once I began to learn of the slaughter that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School, about 2,816 miles away from my home. Of course, I thought instantly of David and Elizabeth, and their friends, and their friends' families, and the wonderful teachers and staff at Foothill Country Day School. At one point, I looked at my clock, saw that it was 11:45 a.m., and decided that would be a perfect time to drop everything, go over to the school, find the kids, and hug them.

I pulled into the school's parking lot about 10 minutes later, and found Elizabeth and her class, enjoying a post-lunch activity with their wonderful athletics coach. Miss B (the coach) saw me in the doorway, and when I pantomimed the motion of  "hug," she knew instantly why I was there. Obviously, Miss B and others were aware of the national tragedy unfolding in Connecticut. She said, "Elizabeth! Your mommy is here!" Elizabeth looked excitedly at the doors, saw me, and said, "MOMMY!" And she ran to me. We shared a quick embrace, I planted a kiss on her silky blond hair, and she went merrily back to her friends to complete the day's lessons.

I paused just for a moment, breathless with the notion that 20 families in Newtown, CT, would never again hear the beautiful sound of their child calling their name, feeling the warmth of their child's hug, or even see the quizzical look in their child's eyes, asking, "what the heck are you doing here?"

Then, it was time to find David. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after 12 noon. His class would be starting their lunch break now. Sure enough, I saw David and his classmates leaving their classroom, happily skipping to the lunch line to pick up their hot lunch for the Day. "Hi, Mrs. Hastings!" a chorus of happy voices sang out as I started walking toward them. "Hi, Mommy!" said my little man.

I gave him a quick squeeze, asked for permission to kiss him in front of his friends, and let him go about his day.

The kids usually leave school at 5:00 on Fridays so that they can take part in an after-school chess class. I decided that pulling them out early would not solve anything, so I went back to work and followed CNN the rest of the day.

At 5:00 I was at the school, in my car and waiting for my little ones to come out to the pick-up area. They bounded into the car. And then I told them what happened in Newtown.

I was stunned and, quite frankly, proud of David's first question: "The gunman is dead, right?" he said, with a swagger in his voice that matched my vitriol for the &*$%#@ who pulled the trigger in Sandy Hook.

"Yes, buddy, the guy is dead."

And then Elizabeth asked the $64,000 question for which there is no answer: "Why would he do that?"

We went about our evening, running a few errands to get ready for the cookie party we were having at the house the next afternoon. We stopped by Costco for a quick slice of pizza (for Elizabeth and me), and as we were browsing around, Elizabeth spotted a toy she's coveted for quite some time: a Pillow Pets Dream Lights plush toy.

"Mommy! They have Dream Lights!" she called out, and promptly began reciting the song played in the commercial that is forever streamed on the Nickelodeon channel.

"Mommy! Can we get this? It will help me not be afraid of any monsters in my room," she said.

A quick pause, and then I asked her, "which one would you like?" absolutely speechless with the profundity of her statement. Were it only as simple as having a soothing light in a dark, dark world to ensure that the Boogey Man will forever stay the hell away from my babies.

Gap time

Wow, where did eight weeks go? Not that the handful of people who follow my blog have been waiting with bated breath for a new posting, but, seriously. I've been slacking.

It has been almost two months since my last blog post, and it is probably a good thing that, in terms of single parenthood (during the weekdays), there is nothing new to report.

Now, I will say that the last week and a half was a delicious exception, because Glen was home. He insisted on being back down in Southern California for Halloween, not only to see the kids in their adorable costumes, but also to partake of our wonderful neighbor's Eight-Alarm chili that we share together every Halloween night. Then, just a few days after that, he had meetings in Palm Springs for Harvey Mudd College, more events for their alumni board on November 7, and then we both had the annual fundraiser for the kids' school on November 9.


Suffice it to say that when Glen packed up his trusty old truck on Sunday afternoon and hit the road for the Bay area, the house was notably emptier after having relished 11 days of daddy and hubby time.

We're coming upon the two year mark of Glen joining Facebook, and of me embarking upon this weekday single parenthood adventure. If you'd asked me two years ago how long this arrangement would last, I would have answered, "one and a half years, tops." Now, here we are, and neither Glen nor I see any change in our arrangements in the near future.

But definitely one thing that I have hugely benefited from in Glen being gone most days of the week is a true and pure appreciation for all that Glen is and all that he gives to our family. The life of the household just hums just a little better when he's home. Everyone is just a bit more mellow and relaxed (at least, I think we are). When he's gone, he is very missed, but when he comes home, we are so grateful.

Next week, we are spoiled again for another marathon of Glen/Daddy time, as we're traveling to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and his family to take in a Steeler's game, and to also visit friends in Ohio. Then it's back to LAX on Thanksgiving Day and up to Monterey, where we'll spend three more blissfully unstructured days with my dear friend from college.

I have it pretty good.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Musings

I ask myself, over and over again, why it is that I find myself watching hideously terrible scenes in movies where little kids are hurt or, worse yet, killed.

So it was the case yesterday that, prompted by a philosophical and moral question posted on a Facebook group page that I follow, that I came to watch the scene in the movie Sophie's Choice where Sophie makes her fateful "choice." There, on the small YouTube screen on my computer, I watched with terror as the Nazi guard hauled away Sophie's little girl, Eva, to her horrible, horrible fate.

What the hell was I thinking? What mom can watch that and not envision her child's face on those of the child actors? And why do I do this to myself?

Of course, being the research hound that I am, I had to do some investigation about how that scene was made: who was the little girl playing the role of Eva? Where was the scene filmed? How did the cast and crew treat the children? Was she really, really frightened or just a really good actress at the age of, say, 4 or 5? A bit of sleuthing revealed that the young girl, now a grown woman, never acted again as that scene terrified her, but that she had a good relationship with Meryl Streep and, when filming that scene, she was scared of being taken away from Ms. Streep. She is now alive and well and literally living in Paris as a successful Vice President of an international insurance firm. Her Facebook page shows a photo of a resplendent bride, next to her groom, at a gorgeous chapel somewhere in Europe. She is on LinkedIn with one of my friends from high school, too. Who knew?

At this point, I did my best to refocus my thoughts on David and Elizabeth. It was Wednesday, the day I leave work a bit early to pick up the kids from school and go home. Boy, was I glad to see them! I hugged them a little tighter, gazed at them a little longer, and kissed them a few extra times. Heck, I even let David stay up late and catch the first two episodes of The New Normal on my iPad.

But, even today, this morning, I am still sick to my stomach. And, yet, I wonder if this is a symptom of something deeper.

I've realized over the past few weeks that this long-distance, commuter marriage deal has made me very tired. No, I'm in it for the long haul and for as long as we need to do this, and I've got Glen's back on this. But, I'm not going to sugar-coat it: it's difficult, and made more difficult by the fact that I signed up to be a volunteer for, like, EVERYTHING this year. I'm the president of the kids' school's parent organization, I'm on the Board of Trustees for my high school, I'm the leader for David's Cub Scout Den, and I've signed on to lead a Daisy Girl Scout troop for Elizabeth (who desperately wants to be a Scout like her big brother). Oh, and I have one more year as president of my high school's alumni association. And maintaining work-life balance has become more difficult as I try, as hard as I can, to please and be accountable to my co-workers. And I write this knowing that, in about 10 minutes, I need to step out and take my constipated, 14-year old cat to the vet. Again.

I rationalize that, with the exception of my work with my high school, pretty much everything I've committed myself to is for David and Elizabeth. All of this is scheduled between gymnastics on the weekend, drum lessons, tennis lessons, Cotillions (which starts tonight), and David's heavier homework load this year.

All the while, I gripe yet try very, very hard to remind myself that I am so lucky to have these commitments, challenges and responsibilities. I have David and Elizabeth. Consider the photos above: these are two of the most self-starting kids I've seen ... especially when it comes to doing their homework.

But, this is hard. This is really, really hard. And watching depressing movies doesn't help in the least. I can't wait for next Tuesday's new episode of my new favorite sitcom.

Lessons in economics ... and humility

I'll be the first to admit that Glen and I provide David and Elizabeth with a pretty comfortable lifestyle. We work very hard in order to do so, and we are delighted that we've seen success in our professional lives that has enabled us to keep our family in "the black."

I also realize that David and Elizabeth are still quite young, and have not yet mastered the concept of just how lucky they are, and how good they have it. This reminder smacked me in the head this morning.

Because I work full-time, we have to find summertime opportunities for the kids to enjoy during the weekdays. This week (and the next two), David is enrolled in the excellent summer day camp program through the Claremont Unified School District. Today, they have a field trip to Newport Dunes.

I'll spare you the details of all of the items he had to pack in his small backpack in order to be ready for wading through the tide pools, lounging on the sand and basking in the sun. But, suffice it to say, spending cash was in order.

Last night, David and I agreed that $10 would be sufficient to see him through the day. Unlike his mother, he's not the type to spend his money on frivolous things at a cheesy gift shop, so I was not at all concerned that he'd blow the whole wad. I slightly patted  myself on the back for remembering to slip a $10 bill into his backpack before I went to bed last night.

This morning, as we were preparing to head downstairs for breakfast, I pointed out to him the specific location of the said $10 bill. He looked at it, looked at me, and sighed dramatically.

"What's wrong?" I asked him. "It's right here, all ready to go."

"Well, I ..." he began, and hesitated. "I ... um ... I really wanted it in two $5 bills."

Excuse me?

"OH! I see!" I replied. "This is not good enough for you? Really?" And then launched into a mini lecture about how, for many families in our community, $10 is a whole hell of a lot of money.

Out came the $10 from his backpack; I tucked it into my back pocket and invited David to think for a few long, hard minutes, about the selfish tone he invoked.

I went downstairs to get breakfast going, fuming all the way. And it occurred to me. The kid really, REALLY does not need $10, and he certainly did not prove himself deserving of it this morning. While I don't want to make my children feel absolutely guilty for every treat they receive, nor do I want to inflict doom and gloom on them at every turn, I do want them to grow into people who have a genuine appreciation for the value of a dollar, and how precious money is to so many families out there who cannot even afford to put dinner on the table every night.

When David came downstairs, I continued our chat.

"I have two things to inform you of," I began. "One, you're getting $5, not $10."

"Second, you will be having the breakfast they serve at school today, so that you can have a sense of what it's like for the little kids who are on the free lunch program every day of the school year ... the kids who don't have the luxury of saying, 'I don't like this! I don't want to eat it!'"

"Oh, you'll have whatever they are serving for lunch tomorrow and Friday, too."

Dead silence.

"I don't understand what I did wrong," he said, downcast.

"David, here's the thing. $10 is a lot of money for so many people. For you to reply to me that the $10 I was sending you to Newport Dunes with was not 'good enough' or not broken down into the small bills you prefer is nothing short of selfish. Does that make sense?"

Long pause.

"Yes."

Now, I didn't explain to him that breakfast and lunch served at day camp were already paid for, available to all kids, and just part of the enrollment package.

Meantime, Elizabeth sat back and watched, enjoying the show and wondering whether she should call a bookie.

Off we drove to school. When I dropped him off in the Multipurpose Room at Mountain View Elementary, I pointed out the refrigerator holding the milk, and breakfast options (graham crackers, muffins and granola bars) on the table. "There's your choices, buddy."

Then, he realized he left his sack lunch that I'd prepared for his field trip in the car. I trotted back to the Honda, and when I returned to him, he was happily munching on a chocolate chip muffin and sipping chocolate milk. Huge smile on his face.

"Chocolate chip!" he declared. "It's good."

I hugged him tightly and planted a firm smooch on the top of his head, and wished him a fun, safe and wonderful day.

I heaved a heavy sigh when Elizabeth and I got back in the car, and as we drove to her day care center, I could only hope that David both understood how much I genuinely want both him and his sister to have compassion and humility, but also to be able to make mistakes, learn from their errors, and not worry about being kids.

The Gift of An Ordinary Day (with credit to Katrina Kenison)

As I am want to do when perusing on Facebook, I clicked on an URL which led to one of gazillion videos posted for everyone's viewing pleasure. The title of the video, "The Gift of an Ordinary Day," did not really hit at my heart strings immediately, but ... wow. This hit home.

While I have not read her memoir, Family Circle magazine noted in its review that it is, in fact, "eloquent. . .a reminder that life's seemingly mundane moments are often where we find beauty, grace, and transformation." This video captured Mrs. Kenison reading from her book, whereby she reflects not only on how quickly her sons have grown, but how they have transformed. She simultaneously celebrates and laments their evolution, noting that she is proud of the young men they have become, and would give anything to relive the days when they were small.

I plan to buy this book for my iPad.

As I watched David and Elizabeth today, playing with abandon and tremendous glee with their cousins who, although really based in Newark, CA, currently live in Zug, Switzerland, I paused several times to try, with all my might, to take in the moment and just be in it. I tried to banish from my mind the reality that, in just a few years, David and Elizabeth may be two completely different people who not only will have different interests but will want to have nothing to do with me, let alone be seen with me in the same room. Now, I am hopeful that this will ultimately not be the case, given that both Glen and I really enjoyed being with our parents throughout our childhood and teenage years. Those were years that, for both of us, had relatively little drama.

But, back to today. There they were, diving merrily into a pool of cold (well, cold by my standards) water, stuffing their little faces with chips, cookies, and all matter of assorted treats, with nary a care in the world. And, when I take a moment to reflect in the beauty and glory of such simplicity, I find myself once again feeling torn: guilty for not relishing these moments more often, grateful for the gift that the present moment has given to us, and anguished that this moment, and many others like it, will be over far too soon.

Mrs. Kenison's words, as reflected in her video that went viral several weeks ago, really touched me. While I can't guarantee that I will perfect the art of living in the moment, cherishing my kids' smallness, I am aware of the fact that we only get one shot at this thing called life and that, while we're here, we may as well indulge in those things that make us happy, make us smile, and make us feel content.

Such moments, at least for me, come when David and Elizabeth willingly curl up next to me and our dog, Lager, on the couch at home and watch different shows on HGTV or Food TV. Current favorites include "Love it or List It," and "Cupcake Wars." In fact, after their first viewing of "Cupcake Wars," David and Elizabeth were quickly interested in recreating the baking bedlam in our own kitchen. Ultimately, I was a lot more engaged in the process than they were, but it brought the three of us together in a shared adventure. Even the simplest pleasure of watching cupcakes magically bake and rise in the oven can be a great reminder of the happiness, wonder, and innocence of childhood.

Rites of Passage

I fancy myself as being the type of person who has always been mentally and emotionally prepared to greet my childrens' milestones with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. However, I was not prepared to encounter not one, but TWO significant steps to official grownuphood for David and Elizabeth within a period of four weeks. That's, like, 28 days in which to ride the way of two significant, if not necessarily life-changing, adventures for my kids.

First, there was the matter of David and his teeth. We always suspected that both kids would need to see an orthodontist sooner rather than later in their childhood years. And so it was the case that on May 8, 2012, David bravely reclined on the dental chair at the office of Dr. John Pearson in Corona, CA, opened his mouth, and observed (with no small amount of trepidation, poor sweetie) the dentist and technicians inserting an assortment of metallic thingies into his mouth.

From this 30-minute procedure emerged a changed man:

In my entire life, I don't think I ever met a single individual who would proclaim, without a moment's hesitation, that they absolutely love their braces. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you David Hastings, who has affirmed that his braces are "AWESOME." The pallet expander on the roof of his mouth? Not so much. But, already, we're noticing how beautifully his teeth are moving into position. He's going to be a knock-out when those things come off. Not that he's in a hurry for that, mind you.

Fast forward to June 3, and Elizabeth and I are at Kohl's department store, returning a dress that I realized I should have tried on before purchasing it, but at the time was quite confident that it would both look good and fit. (Again, on both counts, not so much.) Elizabeth and I roamed the store for a few minutes, and she stopped to admire a display of dangling, gaudy earrings adorned with all sorts of bobbles.

"Mommy, I want to get my ears pierced."

I had to ask her to repeat herself, which she did.

"I want my ears pierced and I want to wear THESE!" she declared, pointing at a particularly heavy pair of floral earring that, if worn on her earlobes, would stretch them to her ankles.

"You do? Are you sure?" I asked. I was a little taken aback, but in a good way. See, for a few years now, I've been asking Elizabeth if she'd ever have any interest in getting her ears pierced. And, up until this moment, her reply was always an adamant, "NO!" Which was fine. I've always determined that it would need to be her call, and she would determine when the time was right for her. My prompting, of course, has always been influenced by the fact that, when I was her age, I longed to get my ears pierced, and my parents put down an emphatic foot. No way. No how. Nuh-uh. That is, until, my beloved pediatrician, Dr. Nation, said, at one office visit during which time I lamented to him how neglected a child I was for not having parents who would allow me to get body piercings, "Oh, heck. I'll pierce them for you." Which, gentle reader, he did. To say my mom was in shock and my dad was pissed would be an understatement.

But I digress. So, I confirmed with Elizabeth that she was ready, and then asked, "well ... do you want to go do it now?" And she nodded. yes. I scooted us to our car before she changed her mind. I don't know who was more excited.

About 45 minutes later, Elizabeth and I were at Claire's in the Montclair Plaza, and she was proudly displaying a new pair of sparkly, pink sapphire studs in her dainty lobes, grinning and beaming (after a temporary bout of shock and a few tears after the first piercing).

Sometimes I am absolutely beside myself with joy and relief that I have the amazing gift of two kids who are healthy, bright, and eager to take on these adventures ... and that I get to go along for the ride.

An Ode to a Beautiful Bichon

Back in 2002, after Glen and I had purchased our first home in Chicago, and before we had children, we were absolutely hell-bent on getting a dog. Not just one dog, mind you. But two. And we knew the specific breeds we would seeking to add to our family: a yellow Labrador, and a Bichon Frise.

So, with a home purchased, a mortgage under our belt, and no apartment leases that prohibited the inclusion of four-legged, furry creatures in our dwelling, we set forth on our canine adventure.

Now, pretty much everyone has heard of the faithful Labrador Retriever. But a Bichon? Not so much. I had first heard about this lively, beautiful little breed of a dog from a sad news story out of San Jose, where Bichon had died as a result of some nut-job's road rage (luckily, this nut-job got 3 years behind bars). My heart was immediately smitten, not only to this fluffy little sweetheart's terrible end, but also with the breed itself. If my mind hadn't immediately chosen my ideal dog, my heart had.

So, in early 2001, I came across the website for the Bichon Frise rescue of greater Wisconsin. I filled out an on-line form to express my interest in adopting one, and then waited. About two weeks later, we got the phone call that changed the course the next 11 years of our married life.

Spike had just been surrendered to the Bichon Rescue by a family from Winnetka, IL. He had been a pet store puppy, and apparently had been given to a little girl, whose parents ultimately decided that the dog was too much trouble. Laura Fox Meacham, a woman who had established for herself a reputation of being the Godmother of Bichon Frise rescue, contact me to tell me that this five-year old male was ready for adoption. Could we come out to Wisconsin to meet him?

Long story short, by the end of the following weekend, Glen and I brought our first baby home. It was pretty much love at first tail wag. The moment Spike laid eyes on us, he, flopped onto his back, tummy in the air, and began to wave his front paws in fits of excitement, simply daring us to not be tempted to scratch and pet him all over. Good Lord, he had me at hello.

Spike, in his crate and in the car, heading home to Chicago

Glen and I ... well, okay, I became the quintessential crazy dog owner. I lost my mind. I sought cute clothes for him to wear (including sweaters, trench coats and rain slickers). I tied bandannas and bows around his neck. His new paternal grandparents pampered him with doggie bedding from L.L. Bean. It was great. I am certain that Spike quickly understood that his new family had become completely unhinged.

Spike, in low light, and reigning over his domicile

Spike has me right where he wants me

A few months later, the terrorist attacks of 9/11 took place. Glen and I were grateful that our sweet little couch potato was content to sit with us and be habitually petted and cuddled, providing us comfort and solace on a terrible day.

Soon after 9/11 ... notice the US Flag necklace I am wearing

One thing we quickly noticed about Spike was his hesitancy around men whom he did not know. Worse, he became aggressive with men of color. We had several embarrassing occasions where he'd nip at the ankles of friends and co-workers who were Hispanic or African America, prompting us to wonder what happened in his first home to make him so scared.

But, his sense of humor always remained in tact. He could charm even the staunchest curmudgeon with his wagging tail, his "Bichon Buzz" (wherein he, without warning, would begin running around a room at break-neck speed, as though deliriously and happily possessed). He could grab a slice of pizza from your hand while taking a mid-air leap before your eyes. Just ask his paternal grandfather.

About a  month after 9/11, Spike reluctantly helped us welcome a new baby to the family: our much-anticipated Yellow Lab, whom we named Lager. Note that Lager was still much smaller than Spike when he first came home with us. This size differential did not last long.

Baby Lager, conked out in the background, and Spike, in the foreground, as if to say, "REALLY?"

The two became fast friends and brothers. While Lager quickly sprouted to be three times the size of his older brother, Spike remained firmly and squarely the Alpha Male, as evidenced by his repeated attempts to hump Lager for years.

As the years past, both dogs tolerated two more additions to our home: David, in 2003, Elizabeth, in 2007, and most recently Honey, our rescued cat. Glen and I had read all sorts of articles, warning us about the dangers and risks inherent in mixing dogs and infants. Armed with knowledge and baby gates, we took every step to familiarize the pooches to David's scent just as soon as he was born. We did the old "bring home a blanket from the hospital for the dogs to sniff" routine. It must have worked; when David came home on October 15, the first think Spike did was kiss/lick David all over his baby head.

And, so, the six of us became a happy family unit. We were lucky enough to surround ourselves with wonderful friends and neighbors who were all too willing to tend to the dogs when we were out of town. On two occasions (before Lager came along), Spike flew with me cross country. On one trip, he almost escaped his travel carrier and attempted to make a break for it on a United Airlines flight bound for Los Angeles. I was fortunate to be surrounded by fellow passengers who loved dogs, and flight attendants who were very patient. And Spike and I were car mates when we moved back to California; Glen and Lager drove in the truck, and Spike was my faithful companion in my Jeep, as we saw America together.

With such a faithful, jolly and spunky presence in our lives for so many years, we knew that the time would come when Spike would begin to slow down and actually show his age. He turned 16 in November 2011. And, since the beginning of 2012, his failing health really began to take a toll on him. The kindly veterinarian who looked over him most recently determined that Spike had an inoperable brain tumor which was causing diabetes, glaucoma, and a neurological degeneration in his back and hind legs. Unfortunately, we knew that the time had come for us to say goodbye to our beloved first baby.

But, not without one last photo shoot! Elizabeth and David and I took every advantage in this last week of Spike's life to pose with him and capture, on digital film, his merry personality and his unshakable joie de vivre.

Spike strikes a pose

Charming Grandma Josie one last time

Sweet face

His smile always said it all

A boy and his dog

Spike doesn't see (or hear) Elizabeth plowing around the corner on the Plasma Car

David and Spike

Saying goodbye

Our final picture

At 9:00 a.m. on Friday, April 27, Spike crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Glen and I held him the whole time.

I love you, Spike.

Daily reminders of little miracles

As I compose this long overdue posting to my blog, I am content hearing in the background the sound of the two sweetest little voices in the whole wide world. David and Elizabeth are busily playing school (or is it cards? or Candyland?) in the hallway. Honey, our new kitty, is munching happily away on her evening can of cat vittles, and the dogs, I think, are lounging lazily downstairs.

I stayed home from work today to give myself a day's rest to recuperate from a bit of oral surgery on Friday. The pain is very manageable, but the swelling makes me look like I'm storing small acorns in my cheeks for the winter. Spending the better part of my day with my feet up and my head down was a good thing.

When I finally arose at around 4:30 this afternoon, got the cobwebs out of my head and ran a comb through my hair before getting the kids from school, I sat at my computer to check in on email to and learn of the latest disturbing news of the world as posted on CNN. It was at this moment when I reminded, once again, that kismet exists, and that God, in his/her mysterious way, intervenes at just the right moment.

I was about to click on a CNN  link to read the story of the horrible massacre of 45 women and children in Syria, when my cell phone rang. It was one of Elizabeth's teachers.

"Janel?" she said, "Elizabeth wants to talk to you!"
"Oh, okay! Please put her on!," I replied, hoping that Elizabeth wasn't terribly ill, injured or otherwise.

A pause, a shuffle of the phone receiver, and then, "MOMMY????"

It was my Lizzy, with her sweet little voice sounding shaken and sad.

"Hi, Punkie! What's up?"

"Mommy, I miss you!" Elizabeth cried.

I listened to those four words. I looked at my computer screen, with the Syrian story glaring me in the face.

Her teacher got back on the phone, and explained that Elizabeth indicated she had a tummy ache and had a bit of (ahem) tummy trouble earlier in the afternoon. I told her, "I'm on my way. Right now."

I was out the door in four minutes. While I can't help the poor little angels in Syria whose lives were cut unbearably short over the weekend, I could help a small, almost five-year-old little girl who missed her momma and wanted nothing more than a hug from me.

Elizabeth was feeling well enough to go out to dinner tonight to support the monthly dinner fundraiser that is held for her school at a local Mexican restaurant. While we were there, I learned from another friend of mine of the very sudden and unexpected death of a former co-worker from Scripps. She was my age, has two young kids (middle- and high-school aged), and had been at Scripps for years. We have no idea what happened. I assume the worst.

And I am so lucky that I still get to hug my kids and, currently, listen to David give Elizabeth a drum concert while she practices counting from 1-100 the third time this evening.

Love and blessings

If I tried to make a living as a professional, full-time blogger, I'd be terrible at it. Case in point: it has been over a month since my last musing.

But this one is just in time for Valentine's Day. And on this upcoming day of love, I will herewith pay homage to children. And not just my children, mind you. All children.

What has given me great pause lately (not to mention chills, an upset stomach, and tremendous feelings of abject anger) has been the plethora of news stories we've been hearing about how little kids are mistreated by the very persons entrusted with caring for them. Should you, gentle reader, need reminding, I am referring, of course, to the disgusting stories we're hearing coming from local elementary schools, major research universities, and multiple venues in between.

What I realize I can't do is protect each and every little person out there. My God, how I wish I could. If there were a way to have a big enough home in which I could gather every child who was ever subject to such horrific abuses that we've all had the displeasure of hearing about, hug them, feed them toast and hot cocoa, love them and keep them safe, warm, protected and secure until their families and other adults in their lives got their respective acts together, I would. But I can't.

What I can do, though, is send meditative thoughts out into the universe and breath silent prayers that, at that very moment, each child who is suffering - for whatever reason - is finding peace, is safe, and unharmed. Just at that very moment. And maybe at the next moment.

What I can do is make sure that the little ones in my life know that they are cherished, special, and deserving of respect - from themselves and from others. Take, for example, the wonderful little guys who comprise my son's Cub Scout Wolf Den. Each of them come to our twice-monthly Den meetings with their own assorted amounts of energy, spunk and craziness. While their boundless enthusiasm could make even veteran Scout leaders totally pooped, I am grateful for the fact that pretty much all of them arrive and leave with smiles on their faces.

I look at the beautiful kids who go to school with David and Elizabeth, and whisper quiet prayers that their innocence, charm, wit, and general joie de vivre are never sullied or taken away from them.

I thank God that David and Elizabeth, the two little ones on this earth whose safety, security and health I have the most say about are, in fact, safe, secure and healthy. And I pray that they both know how very much they are entirely, completely and unconditionally loved.

As much as it is haunting and never ceases to leave me breathless, at once in a state of despair and hope, the eloquent poem, "We Pray for Children," by Ina Hughes, is remarkable:

We pray for children

who sneak popsicles before supper,

who erase holes in math workbooks,

who can never find their shoes.

And we pray, for those

who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire,

who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,

who never "counted potatoes,"

who are born in places where we wouldn't be caught dead,

who never go to the circus,

who live in an X-rated world.

We pray for children

who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,

Who sleep with the cat and bury goldfish,

Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money,

Who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,

Who slurp their soup.

And we pray for those

who never get dessert,

who have no safe blanket to drag behind them,

who watch their parents watch them die,

who can't find any bread to steal,

who don't have any rooms to clean up,

whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser,

whose monsters are real.

We pray for children

who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,

who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,

who like ghost stories,

who shove dirty clothes under the bed,

and never rinse out the tub,

who get visits from the tooth fairy,

who don't like to be kissed in front of the carpool,

who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone,

whose tears we sometimes laugh at

and whose smiles can make us cry.

And we pray for those

whose nightmares come in the daytime,

who will eat anything,

who have never seen a dentist,

who aren't spoiled by anybody,

who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,

who live and move, but have no being.

We pray for children

who want to be carried

and for those who must,

for those we never give up on

and for those who don't get a second chance.

For those we smother…

and for those who will grab the hand of anybody

kind enough to offer it.

We pray for children.

 

Amen.

 

 

Amen, indeed.