August, 2008-- I want to be a grandpa

            When my son Liam was in kindergarten, I asked the boys what they wanted to be when they grew up. Jacob answered quickly with his usual, “marine biologist,” but Liam paused.

            “A grandpa,” he finally said. “That looks like fun. I want to be a grandpa.”

            While I knew that eventually I would need to break it to Liam that grandparenting was not a viable career choice—especially right out of college— I could completely understand why he said what he did.

            At the time, my father (the grandfather Liam saw most often) was in his early sixties and newly retired. He played on two over-55 softball leagues in the summer and a bowling league in the fall and winter. He ran three miles a few days a week, and often showed up at the boys’ soccer games on his bike. When the boys visited my parents, it was grandpa who provided most of the entertainment—taking them to the playground for a game of tennis, football or strikeout. To Liam, being a grandpa was the perfect job — deliver Meals on Wheels a few days a week, go to daily Mass and spend the rest of your time playing sports.

            While 10-year-old Liam is now old enough to understand he can’t skip over young and middle adulthood and jump right into retirement, his comment has stuck with me. Since that time, my dad has dropped his bowling league, but has added two hours of competitive table tennis to his weekly schedule. He’s 68.

            While Liam doesn’t know it, his desire to be a sporty grandfather has helped to shape decisions Bill and I have made about athletics and our children. Jacob, 13 and Liam are reasonably good athletes, but so far have not been the star of any of their teams. While many parents of children the same age as Jacob and Liam have their kids on competitive, traveling club teams, we have chosen not to go that route. 

            And part of the reason is we want them to be active grandpas.

            Specializing in a sport at age 10 may put a child on a path that will be more likely to include a spot on a college team, but studies show it is also more likely to lead to sports injuries at a younger age. It also contributes to a family lifestyle that is built around sports schedules and can’t-miss tournaments. I suspect it can also cause some children to over-define themselves — “I’m a soccer player; I’m not good at basketball.”

            Right now, in the U.S., children and sports seem to be having a moment of polarization. On one hand are too many inactive children—obesity and Type 2 diabetes are on the rise as too many kids eat chips and play video games instead of going outside for neighborhood touch-football or tag. On the other hand are children as young as eight and nine practicing four days a week and crossing state lines to play in tournaments against other third and fourth graders. These kids don’t have time for tag. 

            While the parent of an unusually gifted and passionate athlete has a responsibility to make sure their child receives proper guidance and coaching, gifted athletes are rare. Examination of data of high school athletes reveals that only about five percent of them go on to play NCAA sports — in any of the three divisions. Less than one-tenth of one percent of high school athletes go on to play professionally.

            While it sure would be fun to be the parent of Michael Phelps or Nastia Liukin, the fact is that most kids fall somewhere on the athletic spectrum between “pretty average” and “doing really well.”  And even among the kids doing really well, I question whether their club team is so incredibly exceptional that they need to leave a metro area of a million people to find another group of kids their age who can give them a good game.

            In parents’ effort to give the best to our children in all things, we may be losing sight of what the goal of athletics should be. With a few exceptions, we don’t need to be grooming kids for collegiate careers when they haven’t yet lost all their baby teeth. Instead, let’s look long term. Will Jacob rather swim or play baseball after work when he’s 30? What sports will my daughters Jamie and T have time for when they’re forty-something moms? Will Liam rather go running or biking when he’s sixty?  For all of my kids, it’s too soon to call it, so I won’t even try. I’ll just sign them up for one more sport through our local recreation department. And maybe someday, their children’s children will watch them and say,  “I want to be a grandpa when I grow up.”

August, 2008-- Before bed blessing

Five minutes before my children go to bed, I am not feeling very holy. They are tired and I am exhausted. There are blue globs of toothpaste in the sink basin because Jamie, 5, isn’t tall enough to spit right into the drain. There is often a trail of kids’ toys, books and clothes leading from the family room to the bedrooms. Sometimes I have the kids clean up this trail before bed, but other times, I don’t mention it, simply because I cannot summon the energy to supervise one more activity.

            Once the jammies are on and the final book has been read (I will not eat them on a boat, I will not eat them with a goat), the kids climb into their beds and I walk from room to room for a final goodnight blessing.

            It used to be that I just prayed with the children, I didn’t bless them. The arrival of our foster daughter, Teenasia, at age six, changed that. From the day she arrived, as I learned about the abuse and neglect she had suffered, I felt more and more afraid for her — and less equipped to be the parent she would require.

            A close friend, hearing of my fears, had brisk, no-nonsense advice for me.

            “Lay your hands on her,” she said. “Bless her every night. You can’t heal this child, but God can.”

            Not knowing what else to do, I took my friend’s words to heart. That night, as T lay on her back in the darkness, I knelt next to her bed. I placed one hand on her head, and traced the Sign of the Cross on her forehead. What to say? I didn’t want to alarm her by bringing up her past, yet I wanted a strong blessing to bring about healing. I looked within myself for what my deepest hope was for her.

            “God, bless Teenasia and help her to become the Teenasia you created her to be,” I finally said.

            Leaving Teenasia’s room that night, I thought about what I had said, and discovered that truly, this is what I wanted for all four of my children— that God would guide them to grow into their very best selves. I wanted each one to live a life that was a response to God.

            Now, ten months after that first blessing, I am still making the Sign of the Cross on T’s forehead every night— and often on my other children’s foreheads, too. I have added to the blessing — sometimes thanking God for Liam’s work ethic or that Jamie can now ride a two-wheeler. The essence of the blessing remains the same, however — a prayer that God will help that child to become the person he or she was created to be. 

            I have found that there is something about this act of blessing that feels different— that feels more powerful—than simply praying with my children. In the act of tracing the cross on their foreheads, I am acknowledging my own role as a leader and teacher in my children’s faith life. Because only I— not my children — am speaking during the blessing, my children are more open and receptive than they are at any other time during the day.  For a moment (and often only a moment), their chattering stops and they do nothing but lay still and silent, receiving their blessing. 

            And as tired and cranky as the kids or I may be right before bed, the before-bed blessing smoothes out the end of the day. It reminds both of us why we’re here and speaks to us of God’s plan for our lives. The before-bed blessing concludes my children’s day by pulling us both to a higher place—a place where God, if invited, will lead and shape.  

May, 2008-- Mom, was Jesus shot?

We were standing in line, waiting to use the bathroom, during the Sign of Peace at Mass, when Teenasia asked me if Jesus had been shot.

            “What?” I thought I had heard her wrong.

            “Was Jesus shot?” she asked, worried. She glanced over at the statue nearby. Jesus stood, arms outstretched, palms up, with a resigned look on his face. His side was pierced and blood was flowing from it. I could see why she had asked the question.

            “No, he wasn’t shot,” I whispered, hoping the bathroom door would open at any moment and we could whisk Teenasia in and stop the conversation. “He was cut with a sword.”

            Her eyes widened, then her brow furrowed. I looked again at the bathroom door. It didn’t open.  Teenasia, our six year old foster daughter, had been with us just two weeks since being removed from the home of her biological father. Last week she hadn’t needed to use the bathroom in the middle of Mass, so we had not run into this issue.

            Teenasia peppered me with questions as I watched other parishioners smiling, shaking hands, hugging and chatting at the sign of peace.

            Who stabbed Jesus with a sword?

            Why would they do that?

            Was this the same Jesus who was BABY Jesus?

            Did someone get him a Band Aid?

            Are you sure he wasn’t shot?

            I explained as best I could, stressing, as much as possible, that after all this suffering, Jesus rose from the dead and lives still. T seemed unsatisfied.

            Teenasia, more than anyone I’ve ever known, understands what real suffering is. While I have known several people well who have suffered from illness, an accident or disability, T is the only person I know whose intense suffering has been at the hands of another. Watching T look at the suffering Christ while we waited in line for the bathroom was at the same time excruciating and enlightening.

            I have always been a Resurrection person. I grew up at Holy Family parish, in Whitefish Bay, where instead of a crucified Christ in front of the church, we had a resurrected Christ, with the cross in the background. My image of Jesus growing up was a strong, peaceful man who the cross could not conquer. That always made sense to me. Crucifixion was not the point, I felt. Many people suffer. The point was the Resurrection—that Jesus overcame death to bring us all to a much better place.

            It was in college that I first understood that maybe, however, the crucifixion was just as much of the point as Resurrection was. I learned about the poor and oppressed throughout the world, and how they held onto the crucified Christ—finding solace that their God suffered, just as they did.

            “It’s first-world countries and often wealthy suburbs where the Resurrected Christ is given the most attention,” I remember a Jesuit telling me. “In poor areas, it is all the crucified Christ.”

            And now, as the parent to three children who have known little suffering, and one who has known too much, I see the truth in his words. Teenasia is attuned to Jesus’ wounds in a way my other children are not.

            One Sunday, we missed Mass at our usual church and went to Three Holy Women, where all four children were asked to bring up the gifts. I brought the kids to the back of church as the ushers collected the offertory. As I explained to Jacob and Liam that they’d be carrying the bread and wine, I turned to the girls to tell them about the basket, and saw that T had huge tears rolling down her cheeks.

            “What?” I asked. I was somewhat annoyed, thinking she was going to complain that she had to share carrying the basket of money with Jamie.

            Wordlessly, she pointed. I looked. It was a replica of the Pieta. Jesus, dead, in the arms of his mother. Teenasia covered her mouth to keep the sobs from coming out.

            “He’s hurt,” she gulped. “Is he dead? His mom is holding him. Is he DEAD?”

            Again, I quickly went over the story. Yes, dead today—resurrected three days later —lives with us still—happy ending. But Teenasia kept looking at the dead, sad Jesus in the lap of his mother.       

            And I had nothing to say. Because three days means nothing to a six-year-old. Now is the only reality. Adults understand days, weeks, months, but kindergarteners do not. T looked at Jesus and saw his pain; his mother’s pain. It brought her to tears, and it wasn’t the time to talk about the resurrection, I realized

            “Jesus died,” I whispered, as the ushers made their way up the aisle. “It was very sad. His mother was very sad. This is a statue of Jesus and his mother on this sad, sad day.”

            T nodded, still looking at the statue.

            “Sometimes sad days are as important as happy days,” I said. The ushers were getting closer to us. “And we need to make a statue for those sad days.”

            “That was the saddest day,” T said. “I wish he didn’t die.”

            Now, all I could do was nod and blink fast. But T’s tears were gone. The ushers had made it to the back of the church, and as Teenasia, Jacob, Liam and Jamie brought up the gifts, I looked at my third child. I prayed for her—for the suffering she had endured. For her own resurrection someday. And I prayed for my husband and myself. That we would find a way to honor Teenasia’s own sad, sad days. Not with a statue, but with something just as real. Something that told T we understood that this happened to you, and we are so sorry.  We believe in your sad days.

            My children brought up the gifts that day, and I watched with the congregation. They handed the gifts to the priest, and I looked at the crucified Christ in the front of the church. Not the Resurrected Christ of my childhood. My children handed their gifts to the priest under the crucified Christ. And even though they all bowed to the tabernacle, it was only Teenasia that I prayed for.

            Bless her. Heal her. Thank you for bringing her to us. Crucified Christ, give her strength.

May, 2008-- You be the judge (or not)

About a year ago, when Jamie was three, I needed a crown put on a tooth and in an effort to avoid thinking about what a bad day that would be—I’m deathly afraid of the dentist—I did not make child care plans for Jamie. The morning of my appointment, I called up my friend Kathleen and asked if Jamie could come over to play with her four-year-old.

            “Sure, bring her over,” she said.

            As I dropped Jamie off, Kathleen mentioned offhandedly that she was also taking care of her 1- and 2-year-old niece and nephew that morning because their mom just had a baby, and would I mind if she took all four kids to McDonald’s?

            I was appalled that I had put Kathleen in a position that she would be watching my child in addition to two extras, but with 20 minutes until my appointment, I had little choice but to leave Jamie there. I thanked Kathleen extensively, wished her luck, and left.

            After my appointment, when I picked Jamie up, I asked Kathleen how it went. She said the kids were great and listed all the things she had done with them. A marching parade; coloring time; and Ring-around-the-Rosie at home. Then off to McDonalds where there was tag in the indoor playground and French fries and chicken nuggets for lunch.

            “There was one bad part, though,” Kathleen said. She went on to say that after about three hours into entertaining the four toddlers, when they were all sitting quietly eating, she made a quick call to a friend to chat, while sitting with them in the booth. As she was speaking on her cell phone, a woman came up to her and admonished her for not paying attention to the children.          

            “She told me that my children needed my attention, and I shouldn’t be talking on the phone,” Kathleen said. “She was quite angry with me.”

            Kathleen didn’t explain to the woman that she had been playing with the children all morning and this was her first five-minute break of the day, but I had an strong urge find the woman and explain that myself. How dare that woman judge my friend—here she was, helping both a mom with a newborn, and me, with my newly crowned tooth, when she didn’t need to help either of us.

            Kathleen’s story reminds me how easy it is to judge others— and the risk we take by making a comment when we don’t know the whole story.

            The day after Teenasia entered our house as a foster child for the third time in five years, I brought her to our local public school to register her. As we walked in the office, the first thing the secretary said to her — even before hello — was, “Honey, you don’t need that thumb in your mouth, take it out.”  The comment was made in a sweet voice; Teenasia obliged and I didn’t say anything, but inside I was seething. With all T had just gone through, her thumb was about the only stable thing in her life at the moment. The secretary, of course, had no idea of all of this, and did not mean any harm. But every time we choose to criticize a situation we know little about, we take a risk.

            Fr. Mike Bertram, in his homily over the weekend, said that while sexual sins are often given the most press by those who like to point out sins, Jesus rarely spoke of them. Instead, Fr, Mike said, the sin Jesus mentioned the most was judging others. 

            Parents walk the line between using good judgment and being judgmental. If we are to keep our children safe; if we are to help them grow into the best people they can be, we cannot naively think only the best of everyone. To do so could put our children into harm’s way. Many times, as parents, we need to make a judgment about another parent’s decision that could impact our child. We need to use judgment about how well-chaperoned the party will be; what movies may be allowed in a particular household that our kids visit; how children are allowed to speak to adults in another household. So what is the difference then, between using good judgment and being judgmental?

            In talking about the dangers of being judgmental, Fr. Mike brought up the story of the adulterous woman at the well, and how Jesus protected her by inviting anyone without sin to cast the first stone. To me, that simple story is the illustration of the difference. The woman’s life was not intersecting with any of the stone-throwers. They had no reason to judge her.

            By repeatedly instructing us on the dangers of judging, Jesus is freeing us. Constantly being judgmental is exhausting. It requires us to tap into mental reserves to analyze the “facts” of a situation in order to make an assessment from those perceived facts. Jesus tells us to leave judging to God. In releasing us from the responsibility of judging others, Jesus gives us freedom to spend more time in examination of our own lives— freedom to simply live our lives. Jesus’ reminders not to judge protect us from ourselves—the less we judge, the less chance we will judge wrong.