Before that

On Saturday night I went to bed without my supper, wonderfully full of food and friendship.

Before that, I relieved Isaac of his childcare duties and tackled the task of making a supper for the children, one that I did not plan to join them in eating.

Before that, The Good Doctor and I enjoyed the long drive home from Shady Maple Smorgasbord. Quiet moments alone to chat are too few and far between.

Before that, we said good-bye to our friends.

Before that, we stuffed ourselves full of good Pennsylvania Dutch home cooking (although I never knew that coconut shrimp and pierogies were PA Dutch delicacies) at my all time favorite restaurant. I was sure not to miss the shoo-fly pie at the end.

Before that, The Good Doctor and I took off for our journey to meet my best friend and her SO for lunch.

Before that, we visited a new friend who had just arrived home from the hospital. We were honored to be invited in as her first guests.

Before that, I spent my morning happily doing chores around the house, reminiscing about the wonderful friendship I've had with my best friend from high school; a friendship that has survived college years many miles apart, a few years living side-by-side, and now 2 hours away.

Before that, I woke up happy and ready for the wonderful day ahead.

Speaking of gerbils

The gerbil-loving gene comes through my side of the family although where I got it is beyond me. It certainly didn't come from either of my parents.

Somehow I got it in my head that I was going to raise gerbils. We talked to the owner of Duffy's Pet Shop and he assured us that he would buy back any baby gerbils we had. We took his word for it and I walked out of the pet shop with a male and a female - Tedi and Hazel.

I think that he did buy back that first litter and I walked out of the pet shop with something like $2/baby gerbil in my pocket.

But by the time I showed up with the next litter, he decided that he didn't need any more gerbils, leaving us with the task of finding gerbil owners ourselves.

This started a pattern whereby sometimes he would buy the gerbil babies and sometimes he wouldn't. But whether or not he was going to buy them, Tedi and Hazel kept playing tag at night and those little pencil erasers kept appearing in the cage meaning that I would have to find friends who could convince their parents that gerbils make great pets.

Thankfully, it all worked out and we somehow sold or placed all of Hazel's offspring. Of course there was that unfortunate time that I sold 2 female gerbils to a friend only to get a frantic call from her mother several months later because one of those females apparently was not and those little wiggly pencil erasers showed up in their cage one morning.

Ummmm, call Mr. Duffy? Maybe he'll buy them from you?

Hazel finally got tired of the whole gerbil baby selling business and started to eat her babies. She must have realized that I had a huge role to play in all of this because she also bit me leaving a scar that is still slightly visible today so that was the end of Cindy's gerbil selling business.

The End.

Science with Mom or Dad

Okay, this is for everyone who keeps asking how to educate your children about the facts of life...
You have to first understand the irony of people asking me this question as there are certain words and topics that I have always had difficulty discussing. My brother would purposely walk around the house naming body parts just to cause me to blush. A psychotherapist could earn a lot of money trying to figure out all the whys and roots of my innocence but it is what it is. So when God gave us two boys first, I came up with this wonderful plan: The Good Doctor would do the bulk of the sex education with our boys and I would take the girls. Since there weren't any girls, I thought I was safe.  I was wrong.

Now, before you start composing your letters warning me that both parents must model and teach healthy sexuality in the home and that it can't be left to just one parent or to limited times in a child's life, let me assure you that I have done my part with both the male and female children and we do try to maintain open communication at all times. But when it comes down to some actual teaching of the birds and bees and mens-of-the-nation, we do make sure we cover our bases by using a book series and we do separate into male parent/male child or female parent/female child subgroups. This is to make the child more comfortable. Or maybe it's to make Mom more comfortable. Either way, it works for us.

After The Good Doctor had a few successful rounds of education with his sons, it was my turn with a certain daughter. While The Good Doctor was able to read the chosen book with little drama, no further questions and a simple "good" answer to his final question of how do you feel about this, it was not to be for me. Had I known then what I know now, I would have made a different plan; The Good Doctor would teach the girls and I would teach the boys. Consider this your warning. I can read the exact same book, to a child of the exact same age, get questions right after the first page and continuing well after the last page has long been turned. He reads and is done.

So, for all of you Moms and Dads who might be as squeamish as me with this topic, let me introduce you to the series that has saved me: The New Learning About Sex series published by Concordia. And even if you are not squeamish, this series helps you figure out what to teach and when it is appropriate to teach it. The six book set is separated by age. They used to have videos but I never recommended them to anyone as they were old and as corny as the word corny. The introduction to each book gives a little explanation and rationale into what is being taught at that age and why.

A few years back, 2 male children found "Science with Dad" written in that column of their lesson plans. They were excited for days, not believing their good luck in bidding Mom's teaching a brief adieu while Dad, the more fun parent, was obviously taking over. Suffice it to say, they were blindsided. I came home after that particular lesson to two very sheepish looking boys who were not quite as excited as they had been. When I asked about their science class, one child said in a deep, manly voice, "We had science with Dad. We learned how babies are made," and the second very quietly whispered, "It was disgusting." They didn't mind returning to Science with Mom the next day, even if it was a boring lesson on astronomy.

Sometimes Mom wins after all.

Children's clothing

A long time ago, before I had children, long before the days of Pinterest, back in the days when the mailbox would be overflowing with magazines of every kind, I had a file in my cabinet labeled Children's Clothing. I would pull out pictures from high end children's clothing magazines and keep them in the hopes that someday I would make similar styles for my children. You know, matching outfits, lots of ruffles, bow ties, and lace.

And I did make a few. Very few. But because I had children, there was no time to make all those fancy things I had my eye on. Instead, the few outfits I did make ended up being very simple or better yet, practical.

One year for Christmas, I made Mariana matching clothes for herself and her American Girl doll; a set of matching PJs, and matching prairie dresses.

Of course they were handed down to the next girl in line who is enjoying them just as much. Or maybe I'm the one enjoying them just as much.

Growing up, my mom made most of my school and church clothes. While some girls were embarrassed to wear handmade clothes, I loved mine. She always added an extra little something to make it unique. She'll tell you that she doesn't know how to sew and that these outfits were nothing special but to me they were. It was always fun to watch my cousins' school pictures through the next several years because as those outfits were handed down, each often had their turn being worn for a school picture. My only disappointment is that none of those outfits are still around; I'd love to see my girls wear some of them, at least when they were young enough and still wore what I wanted them to wear.

I think I finally threw that old Children's Clothing file away. I gave up on having the time to sew those illustrious outfits. And my children, living in a day when dressing up isn't what it used to be (My mom made me dress up to go to Phillies games! But that's a story for another day), probably wouldn't have wanted to wear those fancy fixings for long anyway.  There's always grandchildren. And there's always Pinterest.

Maybe someday...

Jane

Two children received piano lessons as a Christmas gift this past year. It may seem like a strange gift as you don't ever hear commercials touting, "Piano lessons, the gift that keeps on giving as they have to practice...and practice...and practice..." And I think our children are getting used to slightly strange gift getting since we've tried to simplify the seasons. But for these two children, this seemed like the perfect gift. At least one of them plans to major in music and I knew from my own experience that music theory made so much for sense as a pianist than it did as a violinist.

The other night as I sat on the sofa listening to one of them practice his lesson, I was taken back to my own days of piano lessons. I didn't start at the piano until I was in 8th grade. I can imagine my parents' thoughts in reaction to my constant begging, "We have to remind her to practice her violin everyday, why would we add another instrument?" So I was told I would have to wait until 8th grade. At that time I could also choose to discontinue the violin if I wished.

I went to a local music store to study piano with Jane. Unbeknownst to me, the girl who was to become my best friend took flute lessons from the same woman. Poor Jane; once Kym and I met, her life was never the same. She was the perfect teacher for me; understanding that I didn't plan to be a concert pianist but just wanted to play for personal enjoyment. But sometimes she was probably too easy on us, turning the other way when it was obvious we hadn't practiced and allowing us to take her on tangents with colorful stories when we were trying to avoid a lesson for which we weren't prepared.

My favorite story about Jane was the year she decided to have a contest. I can't remember the exact nature of the contest but I believe it included a practice chart. With little work on our own part, Kym and I were neck and neck the whole way through the contest. And at the end? We both won in a tie which I'm certain Jane orchestrated from the start. I still remember that my prize was a t-shirt with a piano and Kym's had a flute.

I've often thought it would be fun for the two of us to reconnect with Jane. We were trying to do that about ten years ago but her husband was in the midst of a serious illness and it didn't work out. Maybe t's time to pursue tat again. Jane not only taught me to play the piano but she modeled a love for life.

Mennonite

At our house, when we make chili, we call it Mennonite Chili.  It's our way of telling others that it is very mild and not a big hot and spicy.  We're probably the only ones that get it.

For some reason, as Andrew was making stromboli tonight (yes, my eldest son actually made the stromboli for his Super Bowl party), he started to call it Mennonite Stromboli.  It made no sense but to his friends, many of whom don't know what a Mennonite is, it sounded intelligent and they latched on to it.  By the end of the evening they were also drinking Mennonite water and watching Mennonite TV.

For the first time in my life I am living in a non-Mennonite area.  There are positives to this but there are also aspects of the Mennonite community that I miss.  One of these is the community itself.  A close-knit community where everyone knows everyone (or at least can name a relative or two with whom that person is also related) can be both a blessing and well, not-so-much a blessing.

Last night we played a concert in Virgina, about 3 hours from our home.  It was in the area of Eastern Mennonite University so obviously this is a large Mennonite community.  Growing up in eastern PA, in another pocket of Mennonite-ism, and then attending a Mennonite college in Ohio, and marrying a Mennonite from Mennonite Mecca in northern Indiana, we are definitely card-carrying Mennonite community-ites, even if they did take our card-carrying privileges away since defecting to their kissing cousins, the Brethren in Christ.

I guess we've been out of the Mennonite church a little too long because we were totally taken by surprise when the Mennonite games began.

It started within five minutes of our arrival.  We visited with friends from college and quickly found out that my cousin attends their church and had been to their house recently.  Another cousin teaches with our college friend.  And in our friend's role as college professor, he had taught several of my cousins.  We reminisced about many college friends who either live near them or us.  There was also that awkward moment when he mentioned the name of a better-forgotten boyfriend of mine, from Vermont, with whom he now plays softball.

And we hadn't even gotten to the concert yet!

When we walked in the door, John looked at the pastor and said, "I know you!"  They had worked together during a week at a Mennonite camp several years ago.

Three of my first cousins were there, and an aunt and an uncle.

Waiting in the lobby for the concert to begin, in walked our former landlords!  The first, and only, apartment John and I ever lived in, in Pennsylvania, and here were our landlords, now living in Virginia!

Next came friends of my parents from their pre-children days when they lived in Illinois.  They're now in PA and their friends are in VA.

My 7th grade teacher showed up (Look, I am actually a public speaker now!  No one would have guessed that back in middle school!) as well as the man who first taught me to play the violin - in 2nd grade.  Yes, in PA.

Our family was privileged to be in a small group at our church growing up.  Several members of one of the small group families now live in VA and yes, they showed up.  And to think, I used to babysit these children who then used to babysit my children, and who are now all growed-up with children of their own!  And I can't forget the fact that there was a woman in the audience who used to be one of my babysitters.  She still lives in PA but was visiting her son - in VA.

While all these connections made me much more nervous than I usually am at a King's Strings concert, it was fun to be at a family reunion of sorts.

What were our parents thinking?

I have a 16 year old. And a 15 year old. And I can't imagine anything that would possess me to send the two of them off, alone, on an airplane for an extended summer vacation in Europe.

But that's exactly what my parents, and my best friend's parents did 27 years ago.

Of course, times were different. We didn't worry about terrorist attacks, or getting stuck with a full body pat down. But were things that different?

Kym and I had been planning this vacation for almost two years (of course this is all calling up a lot of long-term memory, so there could be variations from the truth in this account). Our original plan was to make this trip between our freshman and sophomore years of high school, but my family was going to be finishing up the building of our home that summer, and moving into it, and I wanted to be a part of it (not that I did a whole lot of the building work, I'll admit). So, WE decided to wait until the following summer. What, may I ask, was all of this WE business? We were barely teens when we made these decisions!

And our parents agreed to the plan. I do believe I had to contribute a large portion of my babysitting money to the venture but that's beside the point. What on earth were our parents thinking? Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled that I had this opportunity, especially since it's one of a very few adventurous things I've attempted in my life. I'm thrilled that our parents trusted us. And I'm thrilled that we lived in a safer time when parents would even consider this. But it still makes me drop my jaw to think back on the fact that I actually got on an airplane, at the age of 15, for four weeks of travel in The Netherlands and Switzerland, including a train ride through Germany in the middle of the night.

Remember, we had no cell phones, email, Facebook, or Skype to keep in contact. I think we called home once a week and we did write plenty of postcards, most of which made their way to the states after our arrival back home.

So on June 20th of 1985, our parents saw us off on China Airlines to our first destination, Amsterdam, Holland. I don't remember much from that first flight except that we were shocked to receive American food and silverware for our in-flight China Airlines meal and that we spent the time cross-stitching and listening to the flight's musical selections which always seemed to be playing Lionel Richie.

I should explain that Kym's family did have connections in each of these locations. Her mom had spent a year in Holland through an exchange program. So our first hosts were Annie and Kees, the couple that Kym's mother had stayed with for that year. Next came the train ride through Germany and a week in Switzerland with Sabine and her family. Sabine had worked for Kym's family when Kym's twin sisters were young. Then Sabine drove us to another part of Switzerland to spend the week with Mia at the camp where she worked.

Mia had also stayed with Kym's family during those early twin years. And finally, back to The Netherlands (I don't remember how we got back there) where we spent most of the time with Oma and Opa, Kees' parents.

Even though I have no idea what came over our parents, I am so thankful that they took leave of their senses long enough to allow the trip. It was the trip of a lifetime which bonded a friendship still in tact today. And even though we almost didn't make it home (a story for another day), we did indeed see our parents once again on July 19th.

You know, Kym, I'm feeling a four week vacation to Holland and Switzerland in our future. We'll skip the hats this time, though. What do you think?

Sandwiched Valentines

We have several friends who find themselves part of the Sandwich Generation, caring for their growing children while also caring for aging parents. While we are fortunate enough to have healthy parents so have not yet joined this group, yesterday did find us in a different sort of sandwich - smack dab in the middle of those who are able to effectively and romantically share Valentine's Day while we plod along with life as usual.

Before I go on, let me add that I am in no way bemoaning this fact; I am instead ecstatic to be able to witness both young love and mature love, both branching out from a godly foundation. And I am more than happy to sit back and remember the good old days, while watching love blossom and mature right in front of my eyes.

The day started with a beautiful note from my parents, accompanied by this picture of the first Valentine's they ever exchanged as a dating couple, in 1964. (Andrew admitted to reading this email just after learning about Thoreau who died in 1862 so he read this and first thought, "Wow, they were alive during Thoreau's lifetime," just before realizing the error of his thought process.)

They spoke of having weathered a lot in the years together but know that their love has weathered every sunshine-y day as well as every stormy day. "We love each other more for all the events that have happened in our lives. We thank God for what we have because of our union, two great children, son-in-law, daughter-in-law and of course our 8 and almost 9 grandchildren." Sorry, Mom and Dad, I know I didn't ask your permission to share your message, but in a day when divorce is the norm, and when we continue to watch many of our own peers struggle in their marriages and relationships, we are thankful for the legacy you have set for us.

Then my day consisted of thoroughly cleaning the family room (aka. the basement) for a special dinner that was being planned by my eldest. I unscrewed most of the lightbulbs to create mood lighting (to which HopeAnne later asked, "Why do you want it dark?" I said she should ask Andrew, which she did. His reply? "Go ask your mother."), added some candles and brought in a table complete with tablecloth and fancy cloth napkins (I had to specify that they were fancy because we use cloth napkins every day but these are the hodge-podge, found at the Salvation Army variety for which I am loath to scrub out stains or iron so we use as-is). Then I got the bread dough ready for stromboli and prepared other foods for the happy couple. I will add that as soon as he arrived home from school, the originator of this plan did help out to the best of his ability. He also enlisted the help of his enthusiastic younger sisters who were dressed in their Sunday best for their role as servers in the newly-developed restaurant.

Actually, the four younger siblings had all been enlisted to help for the evening. In addition to the servers, Isaac was employed as chef,

and Shoun as waiter. Don't worry, they were all sufficiently paid for their service, each receiving his or her own favorite candy: Gum, Tic-Tacs, Skittles, and Airheads.

When the couple arrived, with girlfriend blindfolded and asking, "Are we at Cracker Barrel?" the natives were giddy with happiness to be put to work. They also enjoyed the added task of making restaurant noises with their plates and silverware, just to keep up the facade for a little longer. Once seated, the couple used their dinner bell to call the help to their table. Shoun showed up in a suit and tie and asked if he could bring them something to drink. Then two little waitresses came down and served them while Isaac played kitchen cook. Can't ask for better chaperones, I mean waitstaff, than that.

I must give my husband some credit here. We did go out to eat, sandwiched between taxiing our beloved daughter to and from a rehearsal. And after a nice, relaxing dinner together (and stop at Bruster's, of course), we came home to find the four youngest in bed but this note: Eden at 5:25 tonight screamed, copied me, annoyed me, gave me the angry eyebrows, 5:30 screamed bloody murder. See, now you know why we have to live vicariously through my parents and our children.

I believe that at this time I should also sing the praises of my second oldest who spent the day handing out rocks with notes. His orchestra teacher was one of the happy recipients and shared this photo with us.


Thank you, Jesse, Andrew and Maggie, Mom and Dad, for sharing your day with us. You reminded us of Valentine's Days in the past (when we were childless and free) and that there will come a day in the future (far in the future) when we, too, will have an empty nest.

Do you canoe?

Well, I just dropped my 14-year old off at camp for the week. Prayers appreciated for him as he spends the week canoeing down the Delaware. I know he'll love it as this kind of thing is right up his alley. The more adventurous, the better. A chip off the old block. Like mother, like son, I suppose.

Don't believe me? Well, I have mentioned on numerous occasions that I am not the least bit adventurous. My idea of excitement is to pick up a good book and to get lost in it. If I'm feeling like taking a huge risk I might rent a movie to experience some vicarious adventure. And a great adventurous vacation would be some combination of the above while at the beach. In New Jersey.

But I have to admit that there have been times in my life when I have surprised even myself. One of those times was when I volunteered to be the female counselor on a week-long canoe trip in New York. That was the week of the crash-course in rowing, steering, portaging, and living on the water so I could co-lead a group of teens through the rivers of New York.

It all started about 30 years ago (boy, does that make me sound old, or what?) when my parents took our family and a group of young adults to a church camp in Vermont called Bethany Birches Camp. It was a work trip and our job was to ready the camp for the summer camping season. I fell in love. With the camp, not a person.

In 4th grade I had tried church camp in the Poconos. That was my one and only year as a camper and I hated it. First of all, the food was disgusting and I nearly starved to death. Secondly, all they did was have competitive sporting tournaments between cabins. I'm not competitive nor athletic. I almost got killed by a wayward street hockey stick. Third, the place was filled with the same folks who didn't give me the time of day 9 months out of the year. They certainly weren't going to change their habits for 1 week in the summer, even if they were told in daily devotions and firesides that their behavior was unacceptable. I almost died from loneliness.

So who would have guessed that I'd fall in love with a camp? And certainly no one would ever have guessed that I'd end up returning there for two summers, first as a junior counselor and second as a counselor. And the biggest surprise of all came when I volunteered a third summer, to fill the vacant position of canoe camp counselor.

Believe it or not, I loved each of my summers at Bethany Birches Camp. This was no sissy camp, either. No cabins here; we slept in shelters. No flushing toilets; we shoved leaves down a hole to create compost. No cafeteria for meals; each meal was lovingly and painstakingly cooked by moi over an open fire that I started myself. In fact, at the end of one week my campers created a wonderful remake of the song The Other Day I Met a Bear with a chorus that highlighted my fire-making talents: She lights the fire with just one match. We're proud of her. We won't send her back. Who said I didn't have any noteworthy achievements in my younger years?

By the third summer, however, I needed to make more money than a church camp could pay their staff. That summer I worked in daycare at a local church. The church always closed the daycare for one week while the church held VBS. I used the excuse to contact Bethany Birches and to offer my services for the week. I envisioned myself in many different roles, but none of those visions included canoeing. But, we already know how that turned out.

So to Jesse, as you head off to the great unknowns of the Delaware River, I have this advice: Make your mother proud!