What's in a gift?

This time of year with graduations and celebrating the 4th had me thinking back to when I graduated from high school. I know -- strange jump, but that is how my mind operates sometimes. I think it is an occupational hazard of the writer in me; spontaneous mental transporting.

My parents each gave me unique gifts which at the time puzzled me. First, my mom gave me a set of luggage. Luggage! Complete with identification tags and leashes for easy rolling. Actually, once they were full they became top heavy and fell over, so I looked like I was dragging a dead dog through the airport. At the time, I remember thinking "I've just graduated, so now you want me to get out?" But the message I read in that luggage now is "Go and explore your world beyond the one we've provided for you here."

That luggage accompanied me on two more choir tours with my church after graduation, to a semester abroad in London, England where I met my husband, and ultimately to college and my own apartment. They have been joined by more modern pieces of luggage with better wheels like rolling backpacks, but I can't part with them. They collect dust in my garage as reminders of my travels; where I've been and from where I came.

My dad on the other hand, gave me a cedar hope chest for my graduation. I did go to the store and show him which one I had my eye on, but I really didn't think he would purchase it and at the time, I didn't have a place to put it. I was a vagabond with luggage. What would I do with a cedar hope chest? So, it sat in my room at home, ignored for a handful of years while I drug the luggage around the globe.

When the luggage and I finally parked in a house my husband and I purchased shortly after we were married, I claimed my cedar chest from my mother's house. When I opened its lid, the fragrant smell of cedar brought me back to the shopping day with dad. I had stashed all my teenage stuff in there; my mortar board, doll collection, Mickey Mouse ears. They all came to live with me in my new house. I have added the sweaters my grandmother knit my kids when they were infants, a quilt from my dad's mother and college pennants.

Luggage and a Cedar Hope Chest. They still speak to me today. "There is more to be explored but there is no place like home." Life consists of both. The daily meal of errands, housecleaning and being with family is seasoned by road trips and vacations.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, as the Byrds sang some forty years ago. "To everything there is a season. A time to be born, and a time to die. A time to tear down, and a time to build up. A time to search, and a time to give up. A time to keep and a time to throw away." The trick is discerning when. I wonder what I will choose to give my children when the time comes for them to leave the nest . . . .

Celebrating the 4th

Independence Day. The Fourth of July. Barbecues and fireworks. In my heart, it isn't just another holiday but one that stirs up a wonderful blend of memories, some of which are mine and some that were recorded by generations of proud Americans before me.

My father was born in July. He also passed away in July. He was a patriot at heart, collecting bald eagle figurines and American flags. He never missed the opportunity to vote and I can remember accompanying him into the mysterious voting booth on more than one occasion. Dad would tear up at the National Anthem and had a profound respect for those who served in the military. He passed the importance on to me. To be aware that I am living in a "wonderful Democratic Experiment." Men who were willing to leave prestige, wealth and privilege for the opportunity to worship their God and govern themselves.

I can recall bursting into a chorus of "Yankee Doodle" or "Grand Ole Flag" after my class at school had recited the Flag Salute. I practiced my cursive writing on the sayings of old and who said them. . . "A Penny Saved is a Penny Earned." (Benjamin Franklin) "Give me Liberty or give me Death." (Patrick Henry) "First in War, First in Peace and First in the hearts of his countrymen." (Henry Lee in honor of George Washington.) I recall the pomp and circumstance that followed the Bicentennial in 1976. The Quarter that was minted to commemorate the occasion.

Thomas Jefferson once warned that the same government who can promise you much, if given too much power will also be able to take it all away. The men who formed this country didn't depend on Government grants, programs or stomped their foot in defiance as they confused 'right' with 'privilege.' If our forefathers walked the streets of America today, would they recognize it? Was the Grand Experiment a success?

America sits on the globe as a beacon to those who live in poverty and oppression. The Nation Under God seeks to aid and support countries who groan under tyrants, not for the sake of taking them over and forcing them to become American, but because it was the belief of the writers of our Constitution that all men were created equal and are endowed by their Creator (a person) with certain unalienable rights. Among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Has the American spirit died? I would argue no. There are many monuments and moments which you can find it alive and well. Study the Statue of Liberty in New york harbor as she silently waits with her torch raised. Follow the path of a bald eagle as it soars high in the sky. Walk past the white tombstones of the hundreds of soldiers who bravely knew that freedom isn't free. Listen to the immigrants raise their hands and recite the Pledge.

We are the Melting Pot. The place where you can live out your heritage with the freedom of speech and religion. Where you can explore, dream, and obtain. God Bless America.

The End of an Era

This month marked a milestone in our household. Our daughters graduated . . .er . . . .the correct term is "promoted," to the next level in their academic career. My eldest is now officially in high school and my middle child is off to junior high . . . . I mean . . . "middle school."

First of all, I do not remember any fanfare from either 6th grade or 8th grade when I left to continue my pursuit of the high school diploma. Secondly, where exactly does this leave my youngest son who is also moving on to a new level, but sadly fifth grade demands no laurels.

Finally, along with this new vernacular and ceremony, it seems as though the bar has been raised for us parents.

I filed into the gym for my eldest's graduation, dodging flying balloon bouquets and vying for a seat in the bleachers. In the same fashion, We crammed into the multi-purpose room (which was called the "cafeteria" in my day), of the elementary school to witness our offspring proudly collect their promotion certificate.

In both ceremonies, there were inspiring speeches from both elite adult members of our community as well as hand-picked students. Some produced yawns, others produced tears. Slide shows are the trend, although they can't be shown without technical difficulties -- one program had a fuzzy image, the other had muffled music. But they gave me a glimpse into my child's world . . . experiences they had without me. I dread that more of those will be coming.

We encountered the impossible people who were irritated that I didn't get the memo that the world revolves around them. You know the type -- aggravated because I requested that they lower their balloon bouquet from my line of vision or rolling their eyes when I politely informed them that the front row was reserved for students (did they really think the rest of us hadn't thought to sit there?)

I am home alone, resting my tired feet which are not used to walking around in heels. My kids are off at "promotion parties" and festivities that do not include many adults. Part of me is relieved for the homework, the projects, field trips, lunch-packing and classroom volunteering is over. The other half of me wonders where the time has gone.

Like Trace Atkins crooning in my ear, I am reminded that I waited for these days to come . . . and then they do. "That's how it is." And he is right, I can't believe what I miss. I want to see my daughter's Kindergarten production of "Commotion in the Ocean" again. I want to witness my son hit his first archery bullseye at Cub Scout Twilight camp. I want to get out my glue-gun and homemade clay and shape California's typography with their hands.

Small promotion, perhaps. They are only half-way there. I have less time with them now than when they were first born. In another seven years, they could be off at college. But I would have to agree, it is quite an accomplishment to come this far, and I am all for any opportunity to let my children know how dearly I love them, how much my heart bursts with pride and how I thank God every day for placing him in our family. For they are irreplaceable masterpieces that are covered in His fingerprints.

Exactly What I Wanted

I was light headed and nauseous. Trying to focus. You'd think I was in the delivery room ready to give birth. Nope. Just a soccer mom, trying to plan the latest end-of-the-season party. When I signed up to volunteer, I thought 'How hard can it be?' I had completely forgotten the bake sale incident. It's like herding cats with flying money. Same scenario, different food.

I'm not complaining, not really. I had always wanted to be a mom. I had the maternal pulls in the grocery store when I'd pass moms with their babies perched on their shopping carts with yards of fabric and a tangle of security straps holding this person that was no bigger than a sack of flour in place. I would look longingly during my neighborhood jog at the kindergarten mid-day pick-up. The children holding construction paper works of art lathered in glitter and glue that would wave in the wind as parents dragged them to their SUVs. I had my own season of maternity wards, diapers, bottles and becoming a unique kind of detective that learned to master the art of distinguishing cries and locating toys.

So how did I get here? After spending the afternoon battling allergies on the soccer field while shouting cheers at the kids clad in cleats, I was now standing in line at the pizza parlor, picking up a tower of pizzas. The kids, whose volume had not reduced but actually increased, were peppering me with their orders.

"I'm allergic to peanuts." Fine, I don't think they make a peanut butter pizza.

"I don't like pineapple. Don't put any on mine." I don't actually make the pizza, so I suggest you choose another slice.

"I'm so hungry, can I have my own pizza?" That would be a 'no.'

"Pepperoni and olive is the only pizza that doesn't make me puke." I don't know what to do with that information.

With a headache beginning to threaten, I wrangle money from my purse as I accept the handful of cups a teenager from behind the counter gave me to distribute. I also get a handful of tokens for the game room that are actually minions of the energy gods to froth their adrenaline further.

Wearily, I make it to the table and try to stay inconspicuous as the coach launches into his thank-yous and season highlights. I listened as the coach called the kids up one by one to accept their participation trophy. When it was my son's turn, I snapped a photo and smiled as if he had just won an Olympic Gold medal. My weariness morphed into pride.

He ran straight to me with his trophy lifted high and demanded that I share his joy. Which I did, exuberantly. I held him tight in a bear hug, my heart bursting as I remembered the bundle of joy I brought home from the hospital nine years ago.

Without question, when the day is over, I know that I would do it all over again and love every minute of it. This was exactly the life I signed up for, dreamed for and the chaos that I will miss in the quiet retirement years. The trophy my son was clutching was mine as well. It represented loads of laundry, hundreds of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, permission slips, phone calls. Planning and executing nutritious dinners on-the-go, homework and play dates. Shopping and wrapping the perfect birthday gift, taxing the minivan to the next family outing.

The military has it wrong. It is not the toughest job you'll ever love, motherhood is. For all the times you think it is going to reduce you to a puddle on the floor, there is that dimension that you never knew you missed until it became a part of your world. To have someone call me mom, to be an integral part of their existence, the scrapbooks filled with pictures 'made just for me.' I was worth every minute of lot sleep and extra pound placed on my middle section.

I love my angels. They are truly a gift from God. Motherhood . . . ya' gotta try it.

Testing the Water

Blogging. Texting. Twitter. The names themselves sound so unappealing, and can be even more intimidating to join when you are a member of the generation who remembers getting their first microwave oven.

I always used to tease my parents when they were hesitant to join in our technology. Back in the day, I had a pair of cordless headphones with a matching massive antenna so you could get AM/FM radio as you walk around the block. All you needed was six C batteries and the wonder contraption worked.

Then it was the Odyssey in home game player. Long before the Wii and PlayStation, this bad boy was amazing. We would play KC Munchin, a shameless steal of the infamous Ms Pacman. If I wasn't glued to the TV watching music videos (back when MTV actually was music television) I was playing arcade games from the comfort of my livingroom couch.

Then there was the cordless phone. Gone were the days of being land locked by a cord while having a conversation. Like Charlie's Angels who had phones in their cars, with a cordless, you could multi-task while you were on the phone. Put in a load of laundry, get the mail, use the restroom . . . just don't flush! These phones were a familiar relative of the bug-like headphones that predated the Walkman, the first cell phones were as big as my purse, with a battery pack that weighed as much as a large cucumber. Cool? Definitely. Convenient? Not on your life.

So here I am, squarely planted in middle age, and am getting the same smirks I gave my parents from my teenage daughter. Her opposing thumbs masterly text on her new cell phone which has evolved to the size of a pocket calculator. I am learning, that using vowels is just a waste of time, when texting and not only must one learn the how to operate the gadget, you must be bi-lingual. Able to speak the King's English and this post-modern-no-vowels-pigeon-speak.

So I text on my phone, have a Facebook page, and am now trying my hand at blogging. My niece has one, so does (gasp) my mother! So you can teach an old dog new tricks. But I am afraid that like the silver haired fox that can finally afford his sports car, there is a portion of the population that will not be able to raise the "cool-meter" like the generation that keeps inventing the latest must-have.

Nevertheless . . . look at me mom! txtg z fun! LOL. TTFN, C U ltr.