Tag: parenting

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Grounded

Why do we say our teens are grounded?  Who came up with this expressive idiom? The true definition has little to do with how American parents apply the word. 

Was it a sixties hipster who got mad at his kids and used some sort of druggie lingo? “Dude, don’t get high like me. You need to be near the ground.” Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Or maybe it was even earlier, way back when planes first took to the sky and mischievous pilots like Maverick and Goose from Top Gun were grounded from adventure?

Since, I’m pontificating here and have done zero research, besides Googling the word, I think this makes the most sense. 

My little Maverick (Kyle) and his pal, we’ll call him Goose, are the cutest teens on the block, but every now and then, they too need a reality check. 

Now Kyle, if you recall, was restricted from attending the teen dances he deeply treasures (which I’m guessing some hot girls attend) until his Social Studies and Global grades perked back into the A range.

On Friday, he came home and declared, “I aced my finals and I want to go to the dance tonight.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Slow down there tiger. Final grades don’t come out until next week.”

“Mom, it’s in the bag. I’m going to the dance.”

“We’ll see what dad says,” I responded.

Well, dad said “no” to the request and Kyle fell into a melancholy gloom. His usual smile disappeared and for a full twenty-four hours he looked on the verge of tears. 

He claimed we were the strictest and meanest of parents.  In fact, all his friends think we are the worst and no one wants to come over because we don’t have Call of Duty in our home, which is a fate worse than death to a Jr. High Boy.

My parental self-esteem was plummeting, that is, until Monday night when we drove his buddy home and his mom came out of the house with guns blazing. Apparently, Goose had a little explaining to do as well, regarding a certain grade issue. Mmmhhh! 

Maybe, I’m not the meanest and strictest parent alive? Maybe other parents ground their kids too? Gasp! Shock! Horror!

Kyle sat in the car and somberly watched his buddy get zinged while a big smile crossed my husband’s face.  He drove off and heard his friend’s mom say, “You’re grounded,” as he pulled the car out.

I love it when this stuff happens! And, I really loved Kyle’s sincere apology.  So at least for today, I’m not the worst mom ever, now his friend’s mom is!

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Teen Snatching

We almost had to file a police report. Our jovial and loving pre-teen son seemed to have disappeared.  And to make matters worse, the perpetrator replaced my darling child with a defiant, sullen, and entitled kid with a decided mean streak. So, we called for backup and fell to our knees begging God for the return of our son.

I also pulled out Boundaries with Teens, by John Townsend and cracked the cover.  I bought it a while back, anticipating such a time as this and knowing I would need all the help I could get(I know, I know, there are moments where I seem a little less blonde).

As far as rules go, we try to keep it simple in our home.  There are three biggies we enforce religiously that best define our family’s values.  This is not in some pastor’s manual, it’s simply the Keller’s trying to figure out how to be parents and not screw up our kids.

The Rules are: respect, honesty and obedience.

If the kid is disrespectful, they lose a dollar out of their allowance.  If they are disobedient they get fifteen minutes of extra chores and if they lie, we take away dessert for two weeks or skinny jeans depending on the child.  So far, the baby has only had a time-out but we expect great things from her spunky and independent little spirit (translation: strong-willed child).

But Kyle was blowing through all the biggies in minutes. Something had to be done. So, for the first time we implemented the full grounding of said child.  No friends, no social engagements, no phone, no texting, no Mac, and no fun for a solid week with an option for two.  We also took away the teen dances he loves to attend, indefinitely, until his two B’s find their way back into the A range.  This is not because we are Tiger mom and dad, but because we know he is capable.

And something amazing happened…our son has returned home.  It took a few days, but he seems to have come around (at least for now), and I am happy to report the book works!  I am hoping(and praying) as Kyle re-enters society he will not turn into Mr. Nasty again, but I am more than willing to put him back on restriction again(less driving him around, more help around the house…the benefits could go on and on). I’m sure this is just the first of many battles and it scares the spit out of me if I dwell on it too long.

I think the biggest lesson from the book is that freedom is earned and respect is a non-negotiable.  To give our son boundaries is truly a gift for the both of us.  He enjoys newfound responsibility and we have an amiable son navigating the path to adulthood.

Tone matters. Demeanor matters. When I watch kids treat their parents like morons my heart aches.  I don’t believe it has to be this way. 

Most of all, seeing his smile again matters to me.  And at least for this week, I’ve got my boy back again.

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“First Baby” and other labels

My First Baby is officially, as of May 23rd, a double-digit midget (translation-Faith turned ten-years old). Now that might be confusing to some because it makes absolutely no sense if you know the birth order of my kids. 

Faith Whitney is my second child (out of three) and now carries the middle child banner after almost a decade of being the baby.  After that long, you would think the middle child traits would be nominally apparent, but jealousy is such a strong emotion and even the most secure kid gets rattled when their role is replaced.  

I’ve noticed Faith fights to claim her place, postures for attention and vacillates between big girl and lisping baby talk–all symptoms of a classic middle child.  It’s tough being the sandwich kid in between the studly athletic older brother and a ridiculously cute toddling baby sister.  I think of Jan Brady and her silly wigs, just trying to fit in and find her place.

So, as chief mother and encourager of my little tribe, I have decided to break with tradition and give her a new nick-name, First Baby.  For many years Faith was indeed my baby, and instead of taking on the bitter and sassy middle child identity, I have decided to give her a new title, allowing her the distinction of feeling treasured instead of lost among the birth order.

Now, while this might sound coddling to some, I do confess a certain degree of parental guilt when it comes to juggling three kids.  My position recognizes the recurring nagging feeling of mommy guilt because I haven’t been able to give my middle child the attention she craves now that there are three.  The truth is I am outnumbered and Faith has genuinely lost some time and attention from the mommy bucket. 

But, even though my hands are full, as all moms know, my heart has an endless amount of love for my little girl.  So one of the things I decided I could do was to give her a special name.  And when I hold her in bed at night as we cuddle and say prayers, I sense my effort is appreciated.

Clearly she is still the middle sister.  Faith’s role has not changed, but her title has been tweaked a bit to boost her security as my beloved child.  It’s a beautiful picture of what God does with us.  The world calls us certain labels and He in turn tells us we are chosen, redeemed, and cherished.  The circumstances in our lives don’t change, but the image imprinted on our heart, (if we choose to believe what God says is true about us) begins to define us more than the other titles. We operate differently because we are secure.

A recent story in the news caught my eye about a family who has refused to announce the sex of their child.  The baby named Storm will be allowed to pick its own gender.  On a million levels this disturbs me but mostly because we are created in the image of God, male and female he created them. 

Little Storm will grow up without labels, without a gender even.  His family, in an extreme effort to avoid the world’s identification and labels, has created even more insecurity for the child.  In my opinion, this seems like another misguided attempt to play God and redefine the created order into some PC perversion of an alternative reality. 

I understand the desire though.  It’s the same reason I go out of my way to make up silly nick-names because I love my kids.  It’s the yearning to experience the paradise we were created for. Something deep within our spirits strives to recreate that which was lost. Of course not being God, we distort in our effort to recreate beauty or in this case a world without labels.

Strangely enough, I imagine in about a year or two, the last thing Faith will want me to call her is a baby.  And Storm in a few years will probably figure out his or her sex, despite his parent’s shroud of secrecy.  Hopefully, both will find their true identity in Christ alone and ultimately that will be enough.

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Let’s Get It On

People are prone to memory lapse, some more so than others (hint, hint honey). We lose the car keys, the iPhone” (ok maybe I hid it), and leave our sunglasses everywhere but on our face.

But often in the marriage realm, we forget something even more important…the person we are, or better yet, who we were before life moved into fourth gear. 

Long ago, in a seminary class filled with very spiritual people (ok…not so much), I learned how personalities operate differently under stress.  There is our natural personality, the person we are when life is good, and then the shadow personality, the person we are when life gets overwhelming. Looking back, I guess it was one of those red-light warnings suggesting the life of a minister might not be all sunshine and roses.

It seemed like once my husband and I were outnumbered by kids, then deluged by work stress and ministry, this shadow personality started to emerge in full force.  It wasn’t an obvious body snatching, but a more subtle transformation amidst a whirlpool of snotty noses, interrupted sleep and a leaky church roof. 

Slowly, we lost the best parts of our personality in survival mode. It wasn’t intentional, but it was there, in the unspoken sighs and the little comments like; “Remember our Honeymoon?” (translation “Remember when you used to be fun?”)

When my husband approached me and said we needed a mini-retreat desperately, it was as if God’s voice broke through the busyness cloud and shouted, “Go for it! You are not the job, a mommy martyr, or the pastors wife…you, my darling girl are Mine.”

Deep down, buried under layers and layers of stress, I vaguely remembered underneath all the burdens I carry, there is a whimsical and frisky girl who loves romance, goofy humor, and spontaneity with her man.

“Ok,” I said, faking nonchalance, “When do we leave?”

 After two days and two nights with the in-laws, which included one of the best gifts of all…sleep, we were ready and rejuvenated enough to venture out on our own for a whole twenty-two hours of freedom.  We got lucky on Priceline and scored a beautiful resort room for a fraction of the cost. 

I was shaking in my flip-flops with excitement when we pulled up to the glamorous Hyatt Grand Champions Resort in Indian Wells. 

Now I knew the expectations of this mini-retreat.  My husband’s idea of vacation is unlimited sex, (sorry to shock all of you who think pastors are celibate) and my idea of vacation is unlimited rest, but I figured somewhere in between the yawns and negligees, we could find a nice compromise.

But a funny thing happens when a woman cuts the cord from her kids, even for just a short period of time.  Without the backpack of motherhood weighing me down, I literally felt lighter.  My spirit rejoiced in being with my husband and the walls which often separate began to crumble. 

When I glanced over at him, he didn’t look like the demanding “horn-dog” I secretly make him out to be when overwhelmed.  He looked handsome and content to simply be with his wife and go on an adventure.  Maybe it wasn’t just  physical? 

And all of a sudden, a wave of appreciation rolled over my heart.  I saw my husband’s love for what it is…tender and gracious. I could see adoration in his eyes. And so, my heart turned a proverbial corner and leapt with joy and longing for the man God had given me to care for.

As we headed to our room, my emotions crashed around in a crescendo of desire for my husband.  Unbeknownst to him, I pilfered his “intimate” agenda.  Like Marvin Gaye said best, “Let’s Get It On” played on my internal iPod as we headed to the room. He didn’t know then what my little smile insinuated.

The rest of the story is private, though I can say we both have stupid smiles plastered on our face three days later.  But, more importantly, I learned a few things from our mini-retreat that I don’t want to forget.

First, my husband’s overwhelming need for intimacy is not an issue in our marriage.  The issue is the busyness in life that becomes overwhelming, and makes even good things, like intimacy, a chore. (That being said, we do need to have realistic expectations dear…)

I also need to remember the man I married, and conversely  the woman he proposed to still exists, even during stress and extreme exhaustion.  Sometimes I just need a little coaxing, or better yet a crash course (AKA “vacation”) in remembering my identity when the darkness of life turns my light into a mere shadow.

And sadly, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to just be me; without a baby pulling on my leg, writing deadlines, or my son’s never-ending pile of athletic paraphernalia needing to laundered right “now.”  I’m so glad my husband loves me enough to help me remember that the girl he married is just a vacation away.

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The “Manceremony”

My son entered the holiday season yet a boy, but will return to school this New Year a man.  And so last night, we celebrated his coming of age with a “Manceremony.”

It was only a few days ago that my twelve-year-old son with the warbled voice, the distinct Jr. High aloofness, and all the awkwardness of a “boy of a certain age,” roamed the halls of our home.  Now, a man with a deep voice, facial hair and a buff physique has stolen my chubby cheeked angel. 

He turned and smiled at me last night, and in the dim light of the fire, I caught the distinct outline of a mustache on my baby, I mean man-child. 

He is almost a teen-ager now, though we have avoided that word in our home.  I have chosen to reject all the rebelliousness and disrespect that comes along with that verbiage.  My husband and I have decided to give the first-born instead, a “man” blessing, and skip the teen stage altogether.  Clearly this is an experiment, one that may or may not work, but we are hopeful, though possibly naïve, for the years to come.

So in honor of his impending need to shave, I pulled out the champagne glasses for the whole family, excluding the baby, filled them with apple juice, and we toasted to the end of one season and the beginning of the next.  With a nervous laugh, my son lifted his glass.  I could see his emotions ranging from uncomfortable to proud, but he was obviously appreciative that we recognized his maturation and took it seriously.

And so, I will store up the memories of his childhood deep within my heart; his incessant curiosity, the cherubic blond curls, and his chubby little arms reaching out for a hug.  It’s hard to let go of my tiny football player and embrace this new creature who wears cologne and attracts stares from women of all ages.

 I feel unprepared and truly inadequate for this next stage of motherhood.  We, both my son and I, stand at the edge of an uncertain future.  Like the cusp of a roller-coaster, just about to crest over the highest peak, either I choose to lift my arms up high and enjoy the ride or close my eyes and scream for dear life.

Today we worked out at the gym, lifting weights side by side.  And though I am teaching him proper form, he is pushing me on to new limits. Our relationship is changing, as I both embrace and simultaneously release my son into this dance of growing up.

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Giligan’s Journey

Christmas Eve was a day of perpetual mishaps.  The best laid plans were best laid to rest…because chaos reigned supreme. 

The older kids were at Grandma’s and it was time to rendezvous with my parents to bring them home.  And so my little one hour jaunt turned into Gilligan’s three hour tour.  The baby and I set off and not fifteen minutes into my journey, I heard a strange clicking  and within seconds a loud bang erupted from under the car and the front tire on my Xterra exploded off the rim. 

My car shuddered ominously, which happens when you are traveling at 75 mph, and so, I prayed, wailed and held on for dear life.  Fortunately, I managed to pull over, traffic rushing by me on the toll road, and rolled into a small inlet off the side of the road. All this happened as I was “multi-tasking” on my cell phone to my husband who heard the whole fiasco on speaker-phone.

Ever the Eagle Scout, my husband told me to sit tight and he would be there shortly.  Thirty minutes later, he pulled up.  We moved the baby into his car, he pulled out the jack, and off I set again to bring back our kids from Grandma’s. 

After giving him a big kiss, I left my husband on the side of the road changing the tire.  Only fifteen minutes later, we were diverted off the toll road because of mud slide damage from the recent storms.  After a thirty minute alternate route, we finally got back on track.

Then the crying started.  I had left the baby’s bottle at home in my haste to pick up the kids, and baby was hungry.  Already an hour late for the pick-up, I had no time to stop for food, so in my best soothing voice I kept repeating, over and over, “Just a few more minutes baby. “

 Then the next freeway closure hit from storm damage, and once again we were re-routed for another thirty minute detour.

As we pulled up to meet my father, two hours late for our pick-up, I pulled a hysterical baby out the car.  On the verge of tears myself, my dad rushed us over to Chili’s for some R & R.  As I quickly made the baby a bottle, sad little sobs erupted and her body shook with frustration.

As I handed the baby a makeshift bottle, she leaned back in my arms, looked deep into my eyes and said “Thank You.”

This is my eleven month old baby.  An exhausted, starving baby who had endured suffering for the first time in her life, and her response when finally fed was to say, “Thank You.”

She didn’t hit me, turn away in anger, refuse to eat, or play passive aggressive baby.  She simply took the food and thanked me.

I reflected on the last time, or any time for that matter, that I had thanked God for the circumstances in my life that tested my spirit and lead to patient endurance.  Just thanked him for the character defining moments I hate because I am forced to grow, despite my unwillingness to change.

My baby inherently knows what I often forget…to have a childlike trust in God, a simple dependence, and a thankful heart. 

Then the little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them.  But the disciples rebuked those who brought them.  Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

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When I Grow Up…

Cover of "When I Grow Up"
Cover of When I Grow Up

“I don’t want to grow up, because baby if I did…I wouldn’t be a Toy’s R Us kid!”

My nine-year old daughter chimed in to the commercial jingle while shaking her hips with gusto.   I smiled at her in agreement.

“Being a kid is pretty great, isn’t it?”  I asked her.

“Yep mom and my favorite part is that I don’t have to go to work every day,” she replied.  “Some people hate their jobs.”

Her response took me by surprise. I could hear echo’s of her father’s voice complaining about his job through her little statement. My ex-husband hasn’t loved his on-again, off-again profession in about ten years.  It’s amazing how perceptive children are.

I quietly acknowledged the work comment and then suggested we focus on finding her a job she adores, so that work would be a blessing and not a curse.

“I want to be an actress mommy,” my daughter said. 

I nodded in approval, thrilled that she has moved on from professional cheerleader to actress. 

“Mommy, what did you want to be when you were little?” my daughter inquired.

My eyes filled with tears as I thought about her innocent little question. 

“Well honey, I wanted to be a writer,” I said passionately. “I wanted to tell stories and entertain other people the way my books carried me through dark days.  I also wanted to read and get paid for it.  Read and write for a living… all day, every day, forever and ever!”

She gave me a quizzical look, slightly concerned at my over-dramatic response to her simple question. 

“Mommy, you are a writer.  You just took a long time to figure it out.”

Off she skipped, leaving me to process the ramifications of her statement. 

How is it that thirty-eight years slipped through my fingers before I finally pursued my childhood dream of writing?  I don’t remember saying as a child, “When I grow up I want to play it safe!  Minimize risk and avoid failure at all costs.”

And yet that’s exactly what I have done and what I see so many of my friends do.  We bury our dreams, escape into destructive coping mechanisms, and little by little lose the fiery spirit God gave us each one of us to uniquely live out loud. 

Isn’t this really the essence of a mid-life crisis?  We simply forget our identity and think hot sex or a Porsche will make the aching hole vanish.

So, when I grow up, hopefully before I turn 40 (I have about 18 months to go), I want to be bold like my daughter.  Reclaim my courageous spirit beaten down by years of life, and like a little child, have faith that with God all things are possible.  

Oh yeah…and I want to write, read books and tell stories, every day, forever and ever.

 

 

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Martha on the Hampster Wheel

Crying emoticon
Image via Wikipedia

It seems like it always happens this time of year, fall burn-out sets in.  Not just general weariness, but pure debilitating fatigue that has tenuous layers of emotional, spiritual and physical exhaustion.  If you scratch the surface, of a parent or child in this state, you just might get more than you bargained for.  Raw emotions lurk underneath the realm of the over achievers façade. 

It finally dawned on me last week at the mall just how spent I was.  The sky was dumping rain and my family was ecstatic.  Wet fields meant a reprieve from the kids’ grueling sports schedule.  So after almost five hours at church, we headed off for some much-needed sustenance and a little retail therapy…my older daughter’s love language. After pigging out at Ruby’s, my daughter begged to go to Justice for girls, a shop geared for hip tweens and enabling mothers. 

So in we trooped to Justice; the baby sleeping in her stroller, my daughter shrieking at the totally cute jeggings, my son running off to Tilly’s and my husband, well…I don’t actually remember where he went. And that’s when I saw it, a music video playing on one of the ten screens placed around the store appealing to the ADHD crowd featuring Taylor Swift.  I should have walked away, knowing how utterly prone I was to an emotional hijacking, but I fell for the romance and escape of it all. And so, in my highly fragile state, I was sucked in to Taylor’s compelling story-telling lyrics. 

Alas, it was a woeful tale of a child abandoned by her father, and than growing up scared that her own husband would repeat the abandonment of her youth.  So there I stood in Justice, a cacophony of mall buzz all around me, and I lost it.  Tears began to pour down my face, big gulpy sobs for poor little Taylor’s heart, and I felt a deep well of emotion erupt from my soul.  For a moment, the world stopped and I just reveled in the release.

This is what fall burn-out does.  It takes high functioning adults, exhausted from work, kids, and sport’s playoffs and on and on… and turns them to mush, in places like Justice, no less.  I realized this was a red-light symptom indicating that my cup might be overrunning with too many blessings and leading to detrimental burn-out, not just the tiredness that makes me long for summer and more languid days.  So, I added up all the things we are involved in right now as a family. Then I looked long and hard at the list and did a little reflecting.

Pastoral ministry, running a church, leading 2 Rooted groups, teaching 2 bible studies, a career in tech sales, freelance writing, 2 online magazines, 1 blog, 2 acting classes, fall baseball, cheerleading, Mini Pearls(kids cancer research), Jr. High youth group, commuting 2 hours a day, 3 kids(1 of them a teething baby), no sleep, attempted exercise, running a women’s ministry, school, homework, a football team heading for the West Coast Conference, fantasy football commissioner, and oh yes…another fantasy team, friends, kids friends, family obligations, cheer team mom, little scholar football rep, football chain volunteer, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and oh yeah…trying to remain spiritual, read the Bible, pray, and be blessed to be a blessing.

Just my schedule alone is something like 140 hours a week.  That leaves me with an average of about 4 hours of sleep a night. Quite frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t lost it at the Grocery Store or maybe even driven my car into the grocery store.

What the hell am I thinking?

The scary part is that I am pretty sure I am not alone in my race to accomplish, achieve, and appear busy.  All of my friends are overwhelmed too.  Sometimes I feel guilty for watching TV, annoyed at my husband when he takes time out to play, and frustrated that I don’t have more time to accomplish another 400 items.  Sounds a little more like Martha than Mary, and that makes me sad because I want to be more like Mary.  But, in all reality, we live in a Martha world and sitting on the floor like Mary at Jesus’ feet is counter-cultural.  It takes an inordinate effort to swim against the current of identity defined by productivity.

What is this psychotic expectation of achievement that we have all bought into?  I thought I could confidently say that I found my meaning and significance in Christ, but if I am honest, my agenda belies my statement of faith.  Rest doesn’t feel like rest anymore, it’s more a catatonic expression of paralysis. Too tired to move, too tired to talk, we zone out and veg. 

I think it’s time to stop the madness and climb off the hamster wheel.  The hard part is figuring out how not to get thrown off the wheel.  The world sucks you in and then spits you back out.  Oh, but my inner hamster both loves and hates the wheel.  While I want to jump off it’s also scary to think of not running so fast. 

 There’s an old saying that comes to mind…if the devil can’t make you sin, then he’ll make you busy.

So busy, that I imagine he has a field day with us when our defenses are down.

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A Little Help Please…

Help
Image by LiminalMike via Flickr

Last night my car broke down. Not that it’s ever convenient to have car problems, but I was parked behind a high school, deep in an isolated canyon with nothing but tarantulas and mountain lions around for miles.  My son was one of the last kids off the football field after a late practice and as he hopped in, I heard a clicking sound instead of the engine coming to life.  It sounded like a dead battery.

Fortunately, one of the mom’s also exiting saw my waving hand and stopped.  She sent her husband home for the jumper cables and we hung out in the cold night, with growling stomachs, kids running around and the baby howling along with the coyotes for a bottle.  Shockingly, a few last stragglers walked by and observed our little woebegone party-two women, three children and a baby standing around a car with the hood open, obviously in distress, and not one of them stopped or asked if we needed help.

It’s a story told all too often in our society… of people passing by and not heeding the call of those in distress.  Now obviously we weren’t in imminent danger, and we did not ask for help, but the other mom seemed pretty indignant that we were ignored.

I would suggest that their lack of concern is more normal than not, and I am generally more surprised when people do offer assistance.  Heroic acts these days are few and far between, and when they do occur, somebody probably has a video to capture it for YouTube.  Because, when nobody else is looking, when the credits don’t roll, it’s just too easy to turn our eyes away and pretend not to notice. Ignorance is bliss right?

The Darwinist mentality seems to have pervaded our culture so deeply that survival of the fittest means we overlook the ageing, disabled and stranded. What this reveals about our society is a startling lack of compassion and an indication that somewhere along the way we have learned to care more for ourselves than for the greater good.

I know that if I am honest, my own heart is inherently selfish and my gut reaction is rarely to stop what I am doing, surrender my agenda, and dive into the need at hand. More often, I feel a tug in my spirit, choose to heed or ignore the nudge, and then usually, but not always, try to help.

When I look at the ministry of Jesus, I am struck by how the interruptions of need seemed to define his entire ministry. He did more healing, teaching and revelation in the unplanned moments than any organized preaching.  His agenda seemed to incorporate the unplanned and invite the messy in. 

And so, I am challenged to create space in my life for the unexpected, the things I can’t put in my agenda but may define my identity far more than my busy schedule.

The journey of compassion is the road less traveled. It whispers to look beyond ourselves and glimpse that which is sacred. It loves our neighbor simply for loves sake.

That’s the message I want to teach my kids. It’s the banner I want to wear across my own heart. To never be so busy that I can’t stop, engage in humanity, and get my hands a little bit dirty.

But if your car breaks down…my help might consist of a little company and a cell phone. Mechanics are just not my gift!

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Herding Kittens…

A few days ago, I had a disturbing incident while herding kittens across the mall parking lot. Ok, maybe they were cheerleaders…but it felt strangely similar. My daughter’s cheer squad is composed of ten girls between the ages of eight and twelve.  Imagine a pre-pubescent tapestry of girl drama, crazed Justin Bieber fans, and fragile hormones in bloom.  Get the picture?

So the little cats, I mean cheerleaders, had an all day practice at the church to prepare for competition.  Once the whining started, their cheer coach, called a time-out and we headed over to the food court at the mall for lunch.  The mall is in walking distance from the church, but can be a treacherous journey because of the steep hill and few sidewalks.  On top of the danger factor, I had the baby with me, harnessed securely in her stroller, so the mama bear factor was in full effect.  I was a fierce woman protecting her baby and cheer cubs.

On the way back, full of Sprite and tacos, the girls were extra boisterous, and the coach and I cajoled and pleaded with the girls to stay on the side-walk.  They gave each other piggy back rides, gossiped, yelled out cheers at the top of their lungs, and made sure that all cars passing by noticed their utter cuteness. I felt somewhat helpless trying to corral them, but I gave it my best shot.  We tried a different route on the way back, hoping for a little less anxiety, but inevitably we rounded another corner with no sidewalk.  Very carefully, I instructed the girls to hug the side of the street, and we marched two by two around the turn.  In the blink of an eye, a woman driving a white Mercedes whipped around the corner, in the wrong lane, and headed straight for us.  Fortunately, she made eye contact at the last second and swerved out-of-the-way.

The coach yelled at her to slow down.  So the lady obliged.  She slowed down long enough to give us a dirty look and glare at us. In my best pastor’s wife voice I said, “Please, go ahead and speed back up.  I am sure you can kill someone else!”

Ok, maybe that was Satan’s voice, but I did say it in a syrupy sweet tone. In response, she whipped her finger out of the car, shouted an expletive beginning with F… and ending with You, and then used the corresponding hand motion.  This woman actually flipped off a baby, two mothers and a passel of cheerleaders.  What is the world coming to?

The girls were shocked and I was stunned.   The coach and I looked at each other in disbelief. This woman, who had almost killed a group of children while driving in the wrong lane, and speeding no less, had just given us the bird.  Please tell me how you explain that to a group of little girls. 

“Girls, the psycho lady didn’t mean to act so ugly, she was just having a bad day.”

In all reality, we were too frightened to say much.  The near brush with death had sobered up even the most hyper girls of the bunch, and for a few moments, all were subdued. But little girls have short memories, and soon their gaiety returned, albeit…their steps were more careful and their eyes more alert.

I have to wonder though, what kind of hurry was the lady in? Was a sale at the mall worth a life in prison for vehicular manslaughter?  Is any event, appointment, or momentary drama worth risking a life for? 

And most importantly…where do I need to slow down in my life and stop taking dangerous short-cuts?

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