All posts tagged: home

Loving Into Being {Making It Home}

August 2011 He walked through the front door and breathed it in. Home. And I was told he place his small, little-boy hand on the wall and spoke the word, “Home.” I was not there. I was in the hospital, barely passing the hours of night and day by pressing the self-administering morphine button; I was holding the hope of home in my heart, living past the tragedy of the car accident apart from my family. And they were coming home. Daddy on crutches—the weight of so much unknown a harder thing to carry than a useless, broken leg—and our four kids were beginning to step back into normalcy. I was out of ICU, off of the machines that kept me breathing and recently established in the trauma ward. Just the entryway wall, already smudged with so many handprints. But this small caress and a one-syllable word made a picture she’ll carry forever. Home. He’d been staying at his aunt’s house for a week. In the whirlwind surrounding the accident, the youngest of our kids …

We are not raising a generation of helpless kids. We are raising a generation of humans.

Are we raising a generation of helpless kids? My answer is a resounding – NO! Not any more than our parents or the parents of our parents did! I am in touch with a nice cross-section of 9-29 year olds and I will say this as strongly as any truth I can say: they are not any flakier than we were, not any more prone to lie, cheat, fail a test, cry over lost boyfriends, complain about their junker cars, obsess over their futures, think their teachers are useless, their chores stupid and their friends more important than we did. They do not have raging hormones any worse than we did nor do they have entitlement issues that life, in its grand justice, won’t take care of soon enough.

From Disneyland to Duck Dynasty: Our Obsession with “Real”

I sat in the hydraulic chair in the well-decorated salon, under the glare of halogen lights and surrounded by walls painted earthy shades of gray and brick red and dried-leaf brown. My roots glared ugly at me in the mirror, a bland mixture of mud puddle and pebble gray. The blonde that covered most of my head is more my “real” color; the non-color nearest my scalp was a hormone-delivered post-natal gift: after I had children, my hair became nondescript, colorless. But we have a remedy for that. So I was sitting in the chair, under the expert care of my niece, a lovely thing in her mid-twenties. I’ve known her in every hair color, since we first opened an at-home highlight kit and I pulled her strands through the holes in a plastic cap with a crochet hook. She’s currently a deep, chestnut brown and her hair’s cut in a bob. She looks every bit a dolly. We begin bringing my own hair back to its real color. And we talk about real. We …

Our 45 Minutes of Eggs {parenting unscripted}

Thursdays are egg days. You see, I’m only a morning person on vacation. Get me to a hotel, a new locale with places to explore and shops and foods to experience, and I am up at dawn, ready for an adventure. Any other day of the year I need coffee brewed and usually hand delivered in order to awaken before 8 a.m. I’ve ceased to apologize or feel guilty that I’m not greeting the rising sun with a smile. Since the accident, which rendered me absolutely useless before mid-morning (think pain+medications) I’ve had a hard time making morning hours count. I’m getting better, and truth be told, leaving off pain medication helped. So my youngest boy, opportunist that he is, has found that Thursdays are the best day to ask for eggs. Here’s the reason why: the house is vacated by everyone else by eight and he and I share 45 minutes before the bus arrives for late-start Thursday. It’s a morning each week set aside for teachers to collaborate, but for Nikko, it’s become …

Home {a glimpse into real}

Chicken pops and sizzles in fragrant coconut oil in the skillet. A vegetarian option, carrot-coconut-curry soup, simmers on the neighboring burner. I’ve got five omnivores and a temporary vegetarian in the house, so I chop and stir and saute to nourish each one. I’ve been cooking meals for over twenty years now. Tonight, the sweet and sour chicken I whip up from memory, adding a dash more soy or shaking in more brown sugar as I deem necessary. The soup is new, a recipe from a Ladies Home Journal that I picked up at the bookstore so that I could study the publication and consider submitting an essay about my dumb dog, Clarence, and how he’s taught me a lesson in unconditional love. Clarence, cornstarch to thicken, turn the chicken, where’s a spoon?…All this rolls through my brain and evaporates as quickly as the vapor swirl that rises from the soup-pot. There’s a stack of mail on the dining room table, right next to a pile of college art homework and a teetering tower of …