Bon Iver, Artistry and Hard Gratitude

Bon Iver frontman Justin Vernon receives the Grammy award for Best New Artist.

"It's really hard to accept this award," Vernon said humbly. "There's so much talent out here on the stage and there is a lot of talent that's not here tonight. It's also hard to accept because when I started to make songs, I did it for the inherent reward of making songs, so I'm a little bit uncomfortable up here," Vernon continued.

"With that discomfort, I do have a sense of gratitude. I want to say thank you to all the nominees and all the non-nominees that have never been here and never will be here."

Vernon ended his speech by thanking the Grammy voters for the "sweet hookup" and closed with a shout out to his home town: Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

I love his declaration that he made songs for the inherent reward of making songs. My friend Kay asked this past week: "...writers/artists, would you rather create work that you love and nobody else does, or work that everyone else loves, but you don't?" I think Vernon's statement and goal answers that with a resounding "work I love."

It seems that should resonate with most creative artists and writers, except for those rare few that are grasping at fame. They may get there, but their self-promotion and desperation makes those they encounter along the way somewhat suspect of their friendship.

Eucharisteo is an attitude of thanks. Life-filling gratitude. The Joy Dare asks us to list three hard eucharisteos today. Hard. I number them as gifts.

119. Work. It's the same life-fill as exercise. I don't like going, but once I'm there, it's fulfilling and rewarding. There are days I don't even want to quit at quitting time, but to start is a different story. I wish I felt different but I don't. I would rather stay home and sleep in. There are a few ways in my work where I can be an artist and create work I love, but more often, I fulfill a utilitarian role. I can express the hard eucharisteo because in my work, I offer it to God. He called me to this work. He provided it as a gift and it is the answer to my prayers for a way to supply a financial need. A hard, life-filling gratitude.

120. Our son's independence. He's emotionally independent but not financially so. Just like I was. When I went to school eight hours away, I didn't miss home. I loved my parents as best I knew how, especially my mom, but she and I were similar in many ways. Home demanded much of me and there were strict rules. I calculated that being away at university would guarantee my freedom and autonomy. My folks still called. More often than not, they would end the conversation before I was ready, but I really wasn't homesick. For three years. I immersed myself in school, studies, music, friends, travel, entertainment. Saw my first movie, drank my first liquor. Lather, rinse, repeat. Even when I married and moved away, I had no idea how much that must have weighed heavy on my mom. I was her only daughter, 2,400 kilometres away. I know now.

Do I begrudge our son? Not at all. Am I proud of him? Fiercely. Do I trust him? Quite so. Will he make mistakes? Definitely. Will I always love him? Without question. Do I miss him? Absolutely. Does he miss me? I have no idea. He's a guy. Doesn't talk much about his feelings. The eucharisteo is life-filling gratitude for his healthy, appropriate and normal separation from us, his self-assurance and maturity. It may even have been our weaknesses that make it possible for him to separate more easily. He is a man. He asks when he needs something, but he handles almost everything on his own. The hard part is not being needed in the same sense as when he was fully dependent. While I do not cling to it - that would be abnormal - I do miss it, and I remember it fondly. It will always be a treasure. It was for a time and that time is past. The hard eucharisteo.

121. My own weakness. "In my weakness and my failing, Lord, my heart draws near to thee." The hard eucharisteo: life-filling gratitude for how my weakness makes way for true power and strength to rise as I trust in the One who cannot help but love me - because this One is Love. I remember.

Empty Nest

Our son came into the kitchen late the other night, musing about where he might get a job once he's settled at university. He also had purchased snow skis earlier that day so he can "ski every weekend possible." The job is only necessary to pay for the gas it will take him to get to the ski hill. I don't bother reminding him that university is for study and when would he be planning to do that if he's working and skiing? I don't remind him because I already have. Several times.

"Of course, school is my priority," he insists.

But a mother worries. I see the gaps where he doesn't know what he doesn't know. He's optimistic like I was about how much effort things take and how little time one needs to allow to get them done. I wish I had been a better example, but I did the best I could.

After he left the kitchen, I got a sense of how quiet and lonely the house would be without him. And now I know what empty nest syndrome could become. I need to prepare my heart and mind for what the new thing is that God will be doing in my life and with my time and talents. I will still be involved in as much of our son's life as he needs or wants but I remember what I was like at that age. I have my journals to remind me. I didn't spend a summer at home until my last year of college. I didn't miss it either. But I knew home was there if I needed.

It's part of that independent spirit. Growing up. Becoming who God calls us to be, "having been predestined according to the plan of Him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of his will, in order that we...might be for the praise of his glory." Eph. 1:11-12

So often we ask "What is God's will?" about this or that. The apostle tells us in Ephesians 1:11 and Romans 8:28 that according to His plan, whatever we do works into a pattern for our good. He ensures that the ripples of our actions and choices and their impact confirm to this purpose: that we bring Him glory. Next time you want to know what the will of the Lord is, ask yourself this: "In this situation, what will bring God the most glory?" And you will know His will.

I know God has a purpose and a plan for our son, just as he does for me. God loves him more than I ever could. God is in charge, I can trust him. This is the essence of the gospel.

It's also the solution for Empty Nest Syndrome.


(photo courtesy Limelight Photography - posted with permission)

Serious Play, Careless Work

excerpt from Keep a Quiet Heart by Elisabeth Elliot

When I was a kid we rushed home every afternoon from school, burst into the house to make sure Mother was there and then collected the kids on the block to play Kick the Can or to build playhouses out of wooden greenhouse boxes. Equipment didn't cost us a cent. Adults didn't have to supervise us or drive us anywhere or coach us. We just played. We were kids, and we knew that after-school time was playtime--until it was time to work (practice the piano, set the table, clear the table, do homework!).

Something has changed. Educators have gotten terribly serious about play and terribly casual about real physical work. Billions of dollars are lavished on developing crafts which nobody really needs and forms of recreation which people have to be taught to like. We've got "toys to grow on," computer games, play groups, playgrounds. Tiny tots who would have been happy with a few Tupperware containers and some spoons are given fancy mechanical toys that do things, and taught that if they make huge messes with finger paints they're being creative, which they didn't know they wanted to be.

I've seen Indian children playing in the river, climbing trees, sliding down mudbanks. But at the same time they were often catching fish or finding wild honey, fruit, or edible snails. They had no toys to play with but they had a marvelous time (at the age of three or four, mind you) building fires, sharpening knives, whacking away at the ever-encroaching weeds. Nobody told them what to do. Child's play naturally turned into useful work. My little three-year-old Valerie was as adept at these activities as the Indians--learned just as they had, by daily observation of adult men and women at work, then by imitation. A girl of ten could weave a perfect hammock; a boy of ten could handle a blowgun and bring home the "bacon," i.e. a bird or monkey for supper. A lot of what they did mattered, and they had much more fun than children who spend a good part of their childhood doing things that don't matter very much to them or anybody else.

Aren't children nowadays often getting far too much of the wrong kind of attention and not nearly enough of the right kind? Does it really make sense for kids of six and seven to be so frantically serious about organized sports and to be geniuses at computer games, but to have no idea how to amuse themselves without a coach, a team, a uniform, an arsenal of weapons, or an expensive and complicated piece of electronic equipment--not to mention daily transportation to and from the athletic field, park, ice rink, anywhere but the back yard? Must they be rounded up, herded, instructed, shouted at, praised, coaxed, and hovered over by adults who are paid money to pay attention to the poor little hooligans in order to keep them out of the adults' hair during "working hours"?

Is anybody paying attention to how a child works? Is it assumed that if asked to rake a lawn he'll do it halfheartedly? Will he sweep the garage in silent fury or will he rejoice in doing a thorough job of it? Will she scrub a sink till it shines and know herself to be a useful member of a household? School teachers desperately try to teach children who have never really labored with their hands to do schoolwork--not a very good place to start, it seems to me. If a child is not given to understand that he has a responsibility to help make the wheels of home run smoothly--if he is not given work which matters, in other words--why should he imagine that it matters very much whether he cooperates with teachers and fellow students? His parents have failed to give attention to a vital matter. Their attention has been elsewhere--on their own interests, jobs, amusements, physical fitness, or only on the child's health and a misguided notion of happiness which leaves out work altogether.

The jungle Indian children I knew learned without formal lessons of any kind. They were with their parents more or less all the time--everybody sleeping around a single fire at night, boys hunting or fishing with their fathers by day, girls planting and gathering food with their mothers. It was hard work to survive. They took responsibility to collect firewood and keep the fire burning. Very rarely did a parent even have to tell a child, let alone nag him, to do his job. It was expected and the kids met the expectations. Nobody over two had much leisure, but they had a lot of fun. I've never seen people laugh so much. It was a peaceful life, a life without anything like the severe stresses and conflicts we have created for ourselves. Wouldn't it be lovely to go back to all that?

But how are we supposed to do it? We don't live in the jungle. Children have jungle gyms instead of real trees to climb; plastic swimming pools instead of a clear flowing river; sliding boards instead of mudbanks. The work necessary to keep everybody alive and fed and clothed is done where they can't see it. So far as children can see, it usually has nothing to do with being fed and clothed but only with money. Their parents (often, alas, both of them) tear off somewhere in the morning and come home at night exhausted, having spent their day at who knows what. The newspaper, dinner and TV take up a chunk of what's left of the day. Football, the child learns by observation, is vastly more important than anything else in the father's life. It takes precedence over everything, rivets his father's attention, something he himself has never managed to do. So he, like his father, seeks escape from home and the responsibilities of home.

Is the situation irremediable? I don't think so. Surely we could eliminate some of the frustration and discontent of "civilized" family life if we took our cues from the "uncivilized" people who work almost all the time (and enjoy it) and play very little of the time (without making a complicated chore out of it). Happiness, after all, is a choice. Let your child see that you put heart and soul into the work God has given you to do. Do it for Him--that changes the whole climate of the home. Draw the child into acceptance of responsibility by starting very early. Expect the best. If you expect them to oppose you, to "goof off," to be terrible at two, rude at ten, intractable as teenagers, they won't disappoint you.

It takes longer, of course, to teach a child to do a job than it takes to do it yourself--especially if you have not given him the chance to watch you do it fifty times. It takes sustained attention--the sort of attention a child desperately needs. He can't get too much of that. He needs to be convinced that he is a necessary and very much appreciated member of the family.

What about the sacrifices? We're going to have to make some if we mean to correct our mistakes. Instead of sacrificing everything for money and sports, which most people seem ready to do without a qualm, we may have to sacrifice money and sports for our children. We will certainly have to sacrifice ourselves.

But, of course, that is what being a father or a mother means.

Elisabeth Elliot is a missionary, author and speaker. Her daily devotions are available through devotions.org - a ministry of Back to the Bible.

Bedside Manner

I'm rarely in my son's room, but tonight I sit by his bed, checking influenza symptoms on the internet and running through the checklist with him.

I call Healthlink, the government phone line staffed by registered nurses with whom I can consult about my son's condition.

"Is he with you?" she asks, after I waited on hold for 15 minutes.

"Yes," I reply.

"May I speak with him?" she requests.

Sigh. He's growing up. I guess it's a help to him, learning how to describe his condition to a third party with some clarity. So now she's gone through the checklist, and I'm fairly certain he will soldier it out at home as just another one of the thousands of students who caught the flu from a classmate. His fever isn't high enough, but I'm worried about his headache.

I know that's way more that you really wanted to know, and if you're still with me, you are likely a mom who has had a similar experience. If you're just a sympathetic bystander, well, thanks for your support.

Can you pray for both of us? Pray he doesn't get worse. Pray I will have wisdom to care appropriately for him. Pray we both get the rest we need.

These are the days I really miss not having any family around.

These are the nights I really miss my mom.

But when he asks for a backrub... then I realize he might be doing this with his child someday because he knows what comfort is.

Glad I could help. :-)

Solution for the Energy Crisis: Living With Teenagers

Talk to the Hand

by Sue McMillan*

Paula Poundstone is a comedian and a mother. I always enjoy her comedic status updates on Facebook and today’s was so close to home, I thought I’d share the quote and the follow up comments from her Facebook friends.

Paula said:

“Why do we need oil, coal, or windmills? Can't we harness the power of the dramatic, despondent sighs of our teenagers?”

Comments:

Or the energy of their angst and temper flares? And everything it takes out of them when the world is coming to an end.

-Jean Crankshaw

I tried but the wires kept falling off...and cabling them up in parallel just leads to ... liberties. –Fin Time

I only wish! Our energy crisis would be solved. -Howie Ledford

Unfortunately, no. Scientifically speaking, that energy is offset by physical lethargy and internal apathy. Known also as "moms are such a drag" phenomena. -Dennis Vander Houwen

Just my two kids alone could power the DFW metroplex for the next 3 years. -Jim Cardenas

I’ve nearly completed my Angst/Ennui Hybrid. -C. Todd Mccormick

PMS power could work...Less whining and no lethargy/apathy problems. Just pure anger and energy! -Jackie Hodes Belcher

The other problem, of course, is what powers those sighs in the first place? You have to keep that engine stoked with all the contents of your fridge. -Skip Mendler

And if we could harness the kinetic energy of the eye rolls…

-Bobbee Lyn Gerson

*Art by Sue McMillan. Print available for purchase here.

Prayer for My Son

It's that time of year when I have to take off my imaginary cloak of security and let my only son engage in activities that defy gravity and rattle my sensibilities about the nurturing and protective nature of a mother.

I woke at 4:30 a.m. to take my son to the airport. He's flying to Grande Prairie with his ski team buddies to train at the water ramp. They ski down the ramp at ridiculous speeds, do their aerial maneuvers (flips, spins, spread-eagles) and land in a pool. They practice and perform their freestyle tricks for a coach who will "qualify" them so that they can perform the tricks in competition this winter. More pictures and info can be seen here.

Since he nearly lost his spleen during a competition last year (Jan. 31) and was out for the remainder of the season, a mom tends to think about the risks of sending her son 550 kilometers away for the weekend. The dad thinks more about the cost. Airfare, hotel, shared car rental, food. Pretty expensive recreation, but it keeps him happy, healthy and busy.

Rather than spend my weekend worrying, we started the morning with prayer. In her recent simulcast, Beth Moore said, "Pray that your children will be protected from everything except God's glory." We can pray for protection until we're blue in the face, but we must recognize that we are not exempt from injury or accident simply because we are followers of Jesus Christ. What matters is how we respond in the crisis.

After I dropped him off at the airport and he was ready to clear security, I headed home and read the prayer of Jesus for his disciples in John 17. There I saw it. The very prayer I can pray for my own child:

My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one. They are not of the world, even as I am not of it. Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth.

Protect them from the evil one. We can ask it. Specifically. And that is the truth.

He Chose Cold

Saturday and Sunday are my son's ski days. We attend church on Saturday evening. We've always asked him to ensure church isn't sacrificed for skiing and we gratefully are in a place that has several options for service times. 

Yesterday, as you can see from my previous post, he did not ski. Today he trains with the ski club, even though it is minus 29 (before windchill). 

A mom can't help but worry. So here I am at 5:45 a.m., giving him a crash course on the emergency kit (in case the team van hits the ditch and they are stranded - unlikely, but possible) and a fast lesson on recognizing the signs of frost bite.

He's scrambling, looking for the facemask he took out of the laundry yesterday and can't locate today. A less-suitable substitute will have to do.

And I pray.

The Lord bless you and keep you

The Lord make his face to shine upon you

And be gracious unto you

The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you

And give you peace

And give you peace

And give you peace

"Not one of his bones shall be broken" - this pops into my head and I know it is a prophesy about Christ but I dare to come boldly before the throne of grace and ask it as a promise for my only son as well.

Are you a mom? Do you allow your child to go, properly prepared, to engage in age-appropriate activities that he loves? Even when your own heart tells you there are risks, can you trust God - knowing that he loves your child more than you and will not allow anything to happen that He cannot work into a pattern for good?

Yes, I allow my son to choose. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. 

It may also be where faith is most evident in my life.

Teach a Child to Choose

The title screamed at me through bleary eyes. Barely able to open them enough to see, I search for answers at 5:20 a.m. as the snow and wind howl outside. My 16 year old hovers over my shoulder - asking yet once again if I will drive him to the ski hill, a 90 minute drive in good weather. My answer the first 29 times was "No," but he seems to be hard of hearing, so I'm praying and searching for direction from God - via the scripture and email devotionals. Am I crazy? Unfair? Unreasonable?  I think not. I'm searching for ways to help him understand.

Yesterday, one of the worst winter storms on record roared into southwestern Alberta, carrying with it treacherous road conditions, high wind chills and record breaking snowfall. To an avid - no, a rabid skier like my son, all he sees is "record breaking snowfall."

The road conditions and high wind chill alone should be enough reason to not ski. Unfortunately, his ski club has not cancelled training. This is where it gets really weird. He could ski, if he were willing to take the team van, but he doesn't want to train with the club. He wants to ski on his own.

When he realizes I am not wavering from my decision to not drive to the hill (not that he didn't try every trick in the book to convince me otherwise), he relents and agrees he'll train with the team if I will please just take him to where he catches the van. (Don't even get me started on the number of reasons he gave me yesterday for why the van wasn't a good choice and why me driving him was such a superior option.) Though my concern about the road conditions and high wind chills are still high, I relent and we load up and head for the rendezvous point. 

On the way, his logic finally starts to kick in. You see, he's planned an evening out with his girlfriend. We're all going to the Christmas production at church - an event with all 1,700 seats sold out for tonight's performance. Tough choice. On one hand he wants to ski. On the other hand, the only way to get to and from the hill cuts into his face time with his other top priority. He decides the van won't get him home in time.

"Turn around, Mom."

I look at him briefly, then concentrate on taking the next exit. 

"Let me make sure I understand you, Andrew," I say firmly. "You are choosing not to take the van. I'm willing to take you, we're on the way. If you want me to turn around, I will, but you need to know this is YOUR choice. I am not stopping you from going skiing."

"I know. The van won't get me home in time, just turn around."

On the way home, though, the grief hits him like a flood. It was going to be epic powder. He was going to video tape. He was going to get sponsorship for his skiing. I always take away the one thing he does best.

Woah, wait a minute, let's just back up.  

"I always take away? Who just told me to turn the van around?"

"If you would drive me, we could get home in time," he's at it again, back to the first decision I made. I'm not going to go there. He is hard of hearing, deafened by his anger and grief.

"I'm not driving." My voice is firm. 

Further discussion. Elevated volume. I offer an olive branch: 

"Look, to make it up to you, I'll take you skiing the three days before Christmas," I'm thinking this is a pretty generous offer. "Depending on weather and road conditions," I add.

He erupts, "Yeah, that just gives you another excuse then to back out of taking me. You never..."

It's one of the trigger words.  Never. Always. All. None. I don't let him finish.

"Look, I tried to get you to the van. You chose to turn around."

Never argue with a teenager. He sees his day collapsing. Rationale is gone.

"At least you can catch up on your sleep," I continue. "You could even take your girlfriend to dinner before the show if you'd like."  The idea doesn't even enter his ear canal.

"I won't sleep," he roars. "This is going to be the worst day ever and it's all your fault. You never take me. Why can't we be like other ski families who would all be going to the hill today because they know it will be epic skiing?"

He's skied every weekend since opening day. I personally drove him three of those days. His best friend's mom drove two days, and he took the team van twice.  Those facts silence him only briefly, then he returns to why I have no valid reason for not driving him to the hill today.

"I'm done." I take a deep breath and lower my voice: "You will stop the negative remarks about today, or you will not be skiing tomorrow. You made your choice to not take the van. This discussion is finished. Not one more word." 

We barely make it up the hill and I breathe a prayer of thanks for all wheel drive as we power over deep drifts and slide into the driveway.

He's a storm all to himself as he blusters out of the SUV, unloads his gear in a flurry and roars to the basement. I must admit, he's a chip off the old block. He's learned well from me how to vent his emotion. Not that it's the best way, but I feel an affinity with his conduct.

Teach a child to choose. He doesn't choose the same priorities as I, but even then, I want to give him everything possible. My heart's desire is his happiness and it devastates me to upset his plans. I do my best to accommodate him at every opportunity. Yet, I would be irresponsible as a parent not to make choices that are for his protection. In his best interest, balanced with the needs of the rest of the family.

What is most difficult is that he chooses to test our relationship in the process of trying to meet his own goals. Is this different than any other teenager? Not at all. 

I have been deeply grateful for his choices. On most counts, his preferences regarding close friends, activities and recreation reflect a sense of good judgment. Is he perfect? No. Do we argue? Obviously. Is he roaring mad at me right now? Absolutely. Does he realize he made the choice himself not to ski today? Perhaps.

I wish I could offer some closure on this. A few good hours of sleep will help adjust perspective a little more to the center. Blogging about it helps others know they are not alone. Perhaps you have similar situations where you've had better resolution - I welcome your input. Or perhaps you've had similar situations where things have escalated out of control. So have I. 

Share yours with me and I'll pray for you. Share my burden before the Lord, too, okay?

Bear one another's burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ. (1)

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need. (2)

By the way, here's a picture of my deck this morning. The drifts are as deep as the pile on the table. Imagine the roads. If my son is mad at me for not taking him to the hill, I'm okay with that. That's his choice.

Big Day, Big Boy

My son passed his driving exam and got his license on his sixteenth birthday yesterday.  It's a big day for him. Bigger for me.

He took his buddy to youth group last night, he took his girlfriend to Peter's Drive-In tonight. No longer the designated chauffeur, I must seek out new ways to connect with him other than during the quiet 30 minute drives from here to there.

This is possible, but takes more planning on my part - to look casual about it so he doesn't think I'm going to use it as a parenting session.

He's growing up. And so am I.

Parenthood and Menopause (repost)

Adolescence and menopause in the same house at the same time... add the busy schedule of a teen athlete...

Really, what was God thinking?

Ringtones and Doorbells and Dingdongs, Oh MY!

For 15 year olds, life is all about the bells and whistles. Ringtones, game accessories, the right skis, the cool clothes. It's a mystery what makes one pair of jeans acceptable and the (seemingly identical) pair beside it unacceptable.

I took my son and his friend to Red Deer to water ramp. This alone is valid evidence that I have lost my mind. At least it would be if I were a mother who made decisions based on safety considerations. I blithely accepted the risks when I allowed him to join the freestyle ski club. Innocence is bliss.

“Water ramp” sounds simple, innocuous. But no, it looks like a ski jump on steroids, with a lip that throws the skier high into the air, where they are somehow able to organize their limbs into complex spins and somersaults before they smack the water with their skis. It simulates aerials for freestyle skiing. One must "qualify" a particular trick on water in front of a certified coach before he or she can attempt to qualify on snow.


Last weekend was my son’s first venture at this and thankfully his friend’s mother takes it upon herself to educate me about the requirements.

“So,” she says, on the phone at 10:30 pm as we’re packing for the next day, “Does he have all his equipment?"

It sounded a bit ominous, so I asked "Just in case, can you run through the list with me?"

"Sure," I'm sure I hear a bit of sympathy in her tone, "He'll need his skis, of course. Safety straps to hold them to his boots when he hits the water. Helmet, drysuit, warm underlayering, and a life jacket or PFD.” My mind begins to reel as I scramble for a pen.

“Oh,” she continues, “and he’ll need to bring money to pay the Red Deer club for the use of their ramp.”

I’m shocked. “Didn’t I pay for a season pass to water ramp?”

“Oh, yes,” she confirms, “but that was for Canada Olympic Park, not Red Deer. Each ski club has its own ramp with its own fees. Your pass is for COP only. Though our club may credit your back these fees since our ramp is out of service.”

Side note: The reason the ramp is out of service is because a parent who wasn’t willing to accept the risks of freestyle called the Health Region to express concerns about water quality in the man-made landing pond. The Heath Region promptly shut down the pond until a filter could be installed, but then didn’t have an inspector available to classify the pond so that the club could acquire the appropriate filter. In the meantime, all the skiers suffer with no ramp to practice. It was closed all of August and, so far, all of September. It might open September 17.

So I got off the phone at 10:45 pm and we began to look for the PFDs buried in the garage, the helmet buried somewhere and the new drysuit which I had rush-shipped up from Washington State for the wee shipping fee of $97.84 on UPS. We all got to bed around 2 am, after a rousing voice raising discussion as to who should know where everything was stored.

That was last weekend. I drove him up and came home to work on my publishing deadline (all night). He spent the night with his friend's grandparents and his friend's family brought him home.

This Sunday, we drive 300 km round trip to Red Deer, throw him into the pack of other club skiers (Red Deer, Jasper) and they all spent some fabulous sunny days sliding, spinning, flipping and splashing. He qualified on front flips. See facebook later this week for the video. I got some time to visit with other ski parents, take video, soak up the sun and duck down to Olds for a baby dedication.

All in all it was a pretty fun weekend, and he only lost one ski. In the bottom of the pond. He lost it last week and found it again. This week it was the other ski. Lost forever in the murky depths. Unless I drive up and dive for it myself now that the water isn't being stirred up by skiers... (wait, reality check... I haven't lost my mind that badly).

So my son is joining me on this "losing my mind" venture. Either that or the smack into the pond rattled more than just his ski bindings.

Last night as we were having supper, I wanted to have music playing. I took my Ipod to the Bose speaker to dock it and just as the music began to blare, the doorbell rang. My son, who apparently hadn't noticed my prior movements, exclaimed: "Did the doorbell just trigger the music?"

Now back to my own journey over the edge of reason….

As I drove back from Red Deer yesterday, music started playing. Rather loudly. (What IS it with our family and music?)

I looked at the radio. It was off. I looked at my son. He was sleeping, Ipod earbuds in ear. I tried not to drive off the road. Where is the music coming from? I couldn’t imagine. Was someone going by and broadcasting by FM transmitter into my vehicle? Impossible. The radio was off.

My son woke as my anxiety level increased. “Where IS that music coming from?” I was nearly screeching by now.

“Mom,” his voice was a little annoyed. “It’s your ring tone.”

I had changed the ring tone for incoming calls from our home number. I didn’t remember what it sounded like. My poor husband, on the other end of the unanswered call, is wondering why I don’t pick up. My son looks at me wondering if I’ve totally lost it. I wonder if he’s right and come here to record the epic saga.

For 15 year olds, it’s about ring tones and for 50 year olds, it’s about brain calisthenics. Freestlye aerials of lucidity. At least I can still laugh at myself. Someone has said when you lose the ability to do that, other should begin laughing at you.

Stop it. I can hear you from here.

.

Letting Go

My son is a freestyle skier.  He competed provincially last year.  In order to do aerials in competition, he has to qualify first on water ramp, then on snow.  This past weekend was my first exposure to water ramp. 

I drove him and his best friend to Red Deer (even though I was working on a publishing deadline and couldn't really afford the time, I still want to give him everything I can).  As we meandered along the riverside road, these monoliths came into view.  My heart rocketed to my throat, bounced off and landed like a boulder in the pit of my stomach.

He was so excited I couldn't say a word.  This is what he wants, this is what he loves. The adrenaline was pumping for us both - for two very different reasons.  As I left him there, I thought I should memorialize the location, just in case he did bite the big one.

In case you can't quite get the perspective on how high and steep these ramps are, see if you can spot the people standing on the dock just to the left of the jumps.  Or the cars on the road.  Yeah. My boy skied that.  And he front flipped from them too.

He's back home.  Happy.

That makes two of us.

And the beat goes on... (repost)

I was intending to rename the administrator account on my son's computer in the wee hours of the morning. (I am an incurable insomniac). Not a good time to do it. I accidentally deleted all his files. Video. Photo. Music.

Wiped it clean.

Since we'd just had an argument, and taking away his computer for a day was part of his discipline for his disrespect, I feared he would think I had done it on purpose. I am not a revengeful mother.

So when I told him this morning, by then I had already begun thinking about the solution. He was hardly upset and said most of his stuff was backed up on the external hard drive anyway and we could just recopy it back onto his hard drive.

Ah, technology. My crisis creator and saving grace. If only my brain worked as well.

Jasper Travelogue 1

It's spring break. Not for me - I had to take days off.

Drove up with A Wednesday to Jasper on the most beautiful drive in the world between Lake Louise and Jasper: The Icefields Parkway. There's a couple nice scenic shots on this man's website.  Got to Jasper in good time to have supper and a nice rest. He trained today with the coaches. We dined out with three other families tonight - great steak and dessert. Had to move rooms in the hotel in order to get internet access - wireless isn't working at the hotel and so I had to resort to ethernet - at least they had that as an option.

I spent the day working on the weekend bulletin - it's done. Hooray. Got some other things done too for advertising coming events - always a good idea.

A showed me where his mogul competition is tomorrow. I shuddered and almost backed out of coming to watch. The only access to it is via black diamond runs. I haven't skied one of those since before he was born. I haven't skied yet this year and only skied once last year. Still, if I have to slide down on my backside, I'll be there to watch him compete. Pray for me.

Fools rush in...

Like Mother, Like Son

Him: Where is my shaver?

Me (thinking "when did my 15 year old begin needing a shaver and why did my husband buy him one?): I don't touch your stuff.

Him: Where IS my SHAVer?

Me: I don't touch your stuff. (thinking: and I certainly don't clean your bathroom, that is what I pay "A Maid for a Day" big bucks to do).

Big banging and slamming comes from vicinity of bathroom.

Him (noticibly agitated and he stomps in the room, gesturing and pointing to his toiletries case): I put it right here in the bottom of my bag.

Me (thinking: we've been away for 2 days, your bag was with you, I cleaned up the hotel and nothing was left behind and besides, you didn't use the shaver there anyway and WHEN did you get to be old enough to shave?): I don't touch your stuff. Ask the Other Person that lives in this house.

Knowing the dog wouldn't be the one he asked. And observing that he is far too annoyed to go ask Dad....

I say nothing more.

More banging.

Him (with annoyed relief): I hate it when people move my stuff.

I remain silent, feeling somehow emotionally responsible for someone else's actions, and thinking: I don't touch your stuff for this very reason. I'd move it and wouldn't remember where I moved it. I can't even keep track of my own razor.

Interlude.

Him: I'm going to sleep now mom.

Me: Goodnight!

Him: I'm going to listen to some music.

Me (silent)

Him: Is that okay?

Me: Yes. (Thinking: why on earth are you asking if it's okay to do something you've done every night for the past year since I got you that ipod?)

Him: I love you.

Me: absentmindedly silent

Him (more insistently): Mom? I love you.

Me (thinking: wow): I love you too - sleep tight.

Him: Thanks for taking us to Castle. It was epic.

Me: You're welcome. Good night.

Wonder if he's still awake and might like a backrub....

And Small Miracles

My son is often the subject of this blog - of course - he is an only child and the focus of much of my time and energy. Two brief events recently revealed a side of him that I must share.

As I was expressing some frustration, his caution: "Mom, you're really upset right now. Just be careful not to say something you will regret later."

When inviting him via text message to go with me to select the flooring for his new room, his deferral: "I think u know better than I do about all this. It's just carpet and I know u know what looks good."

I enjoy his delight in finally receiving something he's been waiting for - today it was a special flak jacket to use in skiing - who knew these things existed?

Independence on his part has ilicited various feelings. My moods run the gamut from rejection to relief and I am once again assured that one purpose of having children is to shape my character and give me ample opportunity to practice faith, hope and love.

Most of all, love. Very much love.

No Higher Calling

Motherhood.

Yet, my husband had to take my son to his first orientation at high school today because I couldn't get away from work. And I've missed his first two tryouts for hockey because I have a deadline at work. And he's eating frozen dinners he's cooked on his own because I'm at work.

Okay, so this is just a season. A temporary setback. A deadline I have twice or three times yearly.

And it's work I like doing. Enough to go in from 9 am to 11 pm on my day off.

But my son doesn't have me around.

Temporarily.

I'd better go to sleep before I think too hard about this one and quit a job I love. Unusual. I wanted to quit up until only 10 days ago but knew I was supposed to be there. My friend prayed for me and I felt a burden lift so tangibly it was almost like a whoosh physically.

Since then I've loved my work.

Now I need the burden adjusted about being a mother....

Sin City

My son was away this weekend at a youth event with 16,000 other teenagers. While walking in the concourse of the arena, a woman handed him a card and said "If you're interested, give me a call."

It was a modeling agency.

I'm reminded of the original Pinnochio where all the silly boys went off and made jackasses of themselves. Of course, it is my job as a mom to wave all the red flags. Women think through the logistics and implications. Men just see the picture in a magazine.

I don't read magazines.

I will think about this for a bit and may rant in a separate blog entry later. Modeling is just not congruent with my values and I believe they would mess with his.

The Best Medicine

It is always a good idea to laugh at home with your kid. This cartoon gave us both giggles.

Zits, Sunday, April 22

Post-Surgery Report

They were running a little behind when we arrived, but he got in just about 10-15 minutes after his scheduled time. I went to get a coffee, came back and leafed through a magazine for a bit and by then he was pretty much in recovery. We had been asked to arrive at 11:10 a.m. but he wasn't called in until noon. After that, the entire procedure was about 15 minutes and he was in the recovery room within 20. Another 15 minutes and they were ready to release him to my care. They gave me the medications (pain reliever, antibiotics, antiseptic rinse) and an audio cd of instructions to listen to, then had me bring the car up to the front door and they walked him down.

He looked rough as the nurse escorted him to the car - the look on his face said it all: it was worse than he had expected. He had a sling around his head holding ice on each cheek to help limit the swelling, tousled hair, and a very sore back (apparently normal from the paralyzing drug used during general anesthetic). After a brief initial conversation about the process, he said "I really don't want to talk," so we drove the 25 minutes home in silence. Probably best, since the gauze packing meant I could hardly understand a thing he said.

All in all the surgery went fine. He was sitting up in good spirits for the first couple hours at home, playing the new Zelda video game and catching up on his fluids (he hadn't been allowed to eat or drink anything for 12 hours prior to surgery). He had his first dose of pain reliever and ate broth. juice, a yogurt drink and some pudding.

3:00 pm I am glad the video game has his focus because he's not complaining about anything other than the gauze packing at this point. With the sling around his head, he looks like a '50s advertisement for a dentist. :-)

At that point, I drew on all my memories of how my mother cared for me during illness and pretended to be strong even though I had a million questions and would rather have had a doctor beside me through the night to assure me I'm doing everything I can to relieve my son's discomfort.

But there's only so much one can do when they've cut into the bone and cheek muscle in four places to remove teeth.

Around 8 pm, his temperature soared and the pain increased. The stretchy sling holding the ice around his head made him more comfortable but his body heat meant the ice packs melted faster than the spare packs could re-freeze. Today the left side is very puffy. His temperature finally broke about 4 am.

Overall, he was not groggy and his appetite was fine. He only had a brief bout with nausea but it settled quickly. Throughout the evening he enjoyed juice, jello, pudding, smoothies, Ensure and Friday morning ventured into scrambled eggs and tiny pieces of canteloupe.

He's taking pain meds and anti-biotics and it is a bit of a circus as I try to help him irrigate the incisions with the prescribed antiseptic rinse.

It is nice to have him ask for me to be close, to give him a backrub and adjust his ice packs. God knew what he was doing when he created families.