Kids these days.

Plugged in. Playing video games.

Messing with ipads.

We see it all the time.

Last summer, Eileen picked up Kevin’s cell phone.

We all thought it was so cute.

 Until she dumped it in the toilet.

Post Traumatic Permit Disorder. When I see a Student Driver sign on a sedan, I PTPD strikes! The older I get, the more nervous I get as a passenger in a car.  Poor Tim. My incessant flinching drives him crazy.

When Katie learned to drive, we laughed until we cried when she almost sent the van over the curb toward the Chandana neighborhood pond. When Bethy learned to drive, the stop light at Bullseye Lake Road and Calumet Avenue did permanent damage to our vocal chords. When Brendan got behind the wheel, it was smooth sailing because of his middle school golf cart expertise.  Brigid is just calm. Period. No shouting matches, no tension. Instead, she was purely focused, purely present, and purely open to all suggestions. Everyone needs a Brigid.

Then the motherload of permit drivers turned fifteen – Kevin. Our youngest suffered from retinoblastoma – cancer of the eye – at age two. The doctors enucleated (a euphemism for yanked out) his left eye within days of spotting the blobby tumor on his retina. He has had a number of beautiful prosthetic eyes, and he’s made quite a bit of cash by taking them out for curious folks who like to see the bloody back of his eye socket. When he was ten, he wanted to trick or treat as a one-eyed pirate on Halloween – without an eye patch. (Note: I need to add another chapter to this book of parenting tips – Diplomatic Rejection of Halloween Costumes.)

We were told that Kevin would learn to turn his head to compensate for his loss of vision on his left side. Not our Kevin. Heck no. When he crossed the street in front of our quiet neighborhood home, Tim and I would shout, “Turn your head, Kevin!” Instead, he would bolt across the barren street. Need I say more about his driving?

When Kevin selected DePaul University in Chicago as his college of choice, we thought of the benefits of the excellent public transportation. We complained about the CTA as kids, but suddenly the EL and buses were the best. After he moved into his dorm, I drove his royal blue Honda Civic straight to Carmax. When I got out of the car to shut the door, the left side resembled the blue waves of the ocean, and the Blue Book value vanished upon inspection. We survived Kevin’s 50+ driving hours, and now he doesn’t care if he ever drives again. 

Recently Kevin told us he was thinking about joining Chicago’s hundreds of delivery personnel on bicycles. Thank goodness a restaurant job turned up.

Tim turned 55 yesterday. Like many people, our family tradition at birthdays is to sing “Happy Birthday,” but unlike other families, we have a second verse – “May the Dear Lord bless you, may the dear Lord bless you, may the dear Lord bless Tim, may the dear Lord bless you.”

At Valparaiso University, we sing that second verse in the College of Arts and Sciences Deans’ offices. I’m not sure if Jon, Yvonne, Anna, Luci, Catherine, Rasha, and Shelby sing it when I miss a cake sharing day, but when I’m there, we groan it out.

And for some reason, it chokes me up.

It’s a lot to sing about the beautiful hope that God bestows blessings on someone standing right in front of you. It’s easier to make such requests when the recipient isn’t around and isn’t the center of attention of an entire group. Being the singer and the receiver can be a bit overwhelming. Standing up and telling your age, your age, is much easier as is being the old gray mare who ain’t what he used to be.

Last night during our birthday Facetime with our two-year-old granddaughter Eileen, Eileen was too busy doing her own version of a gymnastics show to sing to Baka – her name for Grandpa. Don’t ask. We don’t know why she calls him that.  I tried to coach Eileen to tuck her chin out of fear that she’d break her neck doing those somersaults. Believe me, I’ve been close. Eileen then decided she was going to make Baka a birthday meal. She went to her toy kitchen, pretended to prepare strawberry pancakes, walked her empty hands laden with invisible treats to Katie’s iPhone, and served them up on the couch. Multiple courses were served along with milk and oranges. It was all we could do not to pretend to eat the food with our hands two states away.

Later, Katie sent a video of Eileen singing both verses of “Happy Birthday” to Baka. Shyly, she sang, often with her hand in her mouth, and when she got to the second verse, the crystal clear prayer came through. Tim watched the video over and over through misty eyes – such sweetness to savor. She really is so darn cute.

I heard my phone ding and walked over to read this text from Tim to the kids and me:

So grateful for every day I get to be with all of you. You are all what I live for.

When a child throws a tantrum in Marshall’s, I feel for the mom. Marshall’s is meant to be a meandering, emotional massage of wondering through racks with no real goal – a  treasure hunt with no skin in the game.  Unlike grocery stores with great opportunities for language acquisition – oranges, apples, bananas, Cheerios, eggs, ice cream – shopping for clothes doesn’t offer the same stimuli.  Somehow Lucky Brand, Calvin Klein, Under Armour, and Nike don’t cut it.

Let me tell you, shopping for clothes with kids poses the risk of temporary child disappearance. I took Katie and Bethy as toddlers to Carson’s in Evergreen Plaza, and I’m still not over it. I was pregnant with Brendan and foolishly let the girls out of the double stroller.  As I was checking out, I lost sight of Bethy. Completely panicked, I picked up Katie and alerted every salesclerk that Bethy was missing. I shouted Bethy’s name over and over, but got no answer. Few shoppers were out on this drizzly early morning, so all hands were on deck as we searched the racks for my missing child. Heart racing and imagination firing to a kidnapping scenario, I clutched Katie as I pulled aside racks of sweaters and shirts. I prayed that Bethy was playing Hide and Seek. Within a few minutes that seemed like hours, I found Bethy twirling in a dressing room surrounded by three mirrors providing multiple angles of her blond hair and blue dress. Intrigued with her own image, she smiled angelically up at me through the triple reflection as I hid tears of relief. It still gives me chills to think to think about that pre-nap morning as I sought adventure outside of our Sesame Street routine.  

Big Bird, blocks and books provided all the remaining excitement I needed until Brendan was born.

I’ve mentioned before that I’d like to write a book called Let Me Tell You: Parenting Tales of What Not to Do.  The book would include specific episodes of parental goof-ups, phrases worth swallowing, and knee-jerk reactions to avoid. Somedays, I think the stories are funny, and other days, I’m riddled with remorse. When regret wins the battle with humor in my brain, I stop writing and start cleaning.

I’ve decided to trust humor even when she loses and put my butt in front of the computer. My book is based on a long list of “whoopsies,” “oh shoots,” and “oh boy, shouldn’t have said that.” The good news is that forgiveness always prevails – of self and of others. As Tim O’Brien says in The Things They Carried, “Stories can save us.” I believe they really do.   

So for the next few days, I’m going to share some of chapters with you – Attempts at Dinner, Variances in Academic Perspectives, Wardrobe Consultation, Vehicle Collision Negotiation, Hair, PTPD – Post-Traumatic Permit Disorder, Alcohol Trojan Horses, Birth Order Pitfalls, First Words, Hot Bath Magic Debunked, Teenage Conspiracy Theory, Mysterious Laundry, and Generational Differences in Infant Care.

At twenty, a rest was a run of just six.

Wanted more miles to get my big fix.

Grooved in peace, gliding grace, quiet ten –

ran it weekly, again, again.

Triathlon craze – add bike, add swim.

Goal not to drown – did some with Tim.

Half ironman training, vivid ironman dreams.

Laps in the pool, Masters swim teams.

Tim ran Chicago after watching a bunch

Cramped, crossed finish – almost lost lunch.

Said, “No more. Running ‘aint for me.

Run all you want, Nance, just let me be.”

I ran San Francisco, still caught in the lure.

Got drenched for 26 in Nashville’s downpour.

Turn fifty. Aha! Yes! Less is more.

Pilates and yoga, dig life on the floor.

Hamstrings scream at forward fold.

Breathe, reach, stretch, beats getting old.

Poses pinch quads, but bit by bit,

it’s getting easier. Key not to quit.

Downward Dog, Crow’s Pose, try my best.

Thank God for Shavasana – deserved final rest.

Mind, body, spirit – all present on the mat,

Who knew such bliss just to lie flat?

Headstand, handstand, impossible feats

Would send on Twitter if I knew how to tweet.

This morn – happy – just to run three.

Finally learning I’m free just to be.

Today. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was as big as a house, and Tim was working in Glenview, IL – the other side of the city – and we lived on Maplewood in Chicago. I called my sister-in-law Pat about a bodily function question. Yes, even with child #4, there are surprises. Pat said to go to the hospital, and my borhter-in-law Vince showed up to take me. In spite of his kind prodding, I opted to wait for Tim because I could tell I had time.

Katie and Bethy (ages 6 and 5) went to play with their cousin Erin (age 7) two blocks away. I lived within two blocks of four siblings, Timmy, Bobby, Eileen, and Michael, as well as many old and new friends. A stroll down Maplewood was like a walk through the living room.

Brendan (age 3) and I settled on the basement couch to watch Dumbo, one of his favorites along with Sherry Lewis. Who knew? I’d breath through each contraction as he nestled into my belly until Tim arrived. I have no idea who watched Brendan when we left for St. Francis Hospital.

St. Francis was empty – probably the reason it’s closed now. Two nurses escorted us into an empty double room, took my vitals, and I resumed my chapter of John Jakes’ North and South. Tim watched tv and eventually turned on Cheers. Yes, it was a Thursday night. Those of us who were Cheers fans loved that early kick-off to the weekend.

Immersed in the drama of the Civil War, I kept reading. The nurses checked the heart rates (mine and the baby’s) and asked about our name for a boy because their superstitions indicated a heart rate of a boy. Kevin.  Kevin Francis.

Eventually, the contractions got closer and closer, and I was feeling great. The dozing during Dumbo had been an awesome fortifier. Brigid was born around 9:30pm with no drugs, shots, not even a Tylenol. Dr. Monglano handed Tim the scissors to cut the cord, and I thought he’d puke. Meanwhile the doctor saw a camera on the window ledge. What was Tim thinking when he brought that? Dr. Monglano took photo after photo of bloody Brigid connected and lifted, and he captured Tim’s green face as he handed the scissors back with a gentle, “No thank you. You can cut it.”

Brigid’s vitals were perfect, and when Dr. Monglano handed this amazing child to me, he said, “Nancy, you could have babies in the backyard.”

I said, “You weren’t around for the other three, Doc.”

We named this beautiful baby Brigid Kerry, so she would always have a part of Ireland with her. Brigid’s birth is indicative of how she is – natural, beautiful, peaceful, and present.

What if we moved the loveseat to the sunroom? What if we moved the bookcase to the basement? What if we moved the green couch to the living room?

Kevin, will you help me move this coffee table? Kevin, will you help me switch the kitchen and dining room tables? Kevin, will you help me move Brigid’s bed to Bethy’s room?

Katie shared a room with Bethy. Katie moved out and moved in with Brendan. Brendan moved created a room in the basement (until he got spooked).Brigid moved in with Katie. Kevin moved to the floor of the hall closet (just for a couple of nights as a toddler). Brendan moved back upstairs. Bethy moved to the basement, never to share a room with a sibling again.

Our kids grew up rearranging – furniture, books, rooms, toys, stuff. They switched bedrooms on a regular basis, swapping furniture and changing roommates. Each child has shared a room with someone else for some period of time.

I loved that rearranging kept them busy, and it helped them clean out their rooms. Each summer, they sold their wares at the annual neighborhood garage sale, and I loved to listen to them collaborate, negotiate, and create. To me, the constant change made perfect sense.

For Tim, it was insanity. He was never quite sure where his chair would be when he got home from work. He once said, “If I was Helen Keller, I’d be dead.”

 Visions of Dick Van Dyke flipping over his ottoman come to my mind.

I tried to explain to Tim that rearranging furniture is in my DNA. When I was a kid, I’d come home from school to discover – what was to me – a new house. My mom even managed to move our piano from room to room while we were at school – all by herself.  She’s my inspiration.

Two weeks before Kevin left for college, he entered the family room, looked around, and said, “Mom, you better figure this out before I leave for DePaul.”

Instead, we sold the house.

in his pre-school debut. Coming soon to theaters.

As a youngster, he got into everything. With unquenchable curiosity, he nosed everything in sight –  dirty dishwasher racks, trash, laundry, granola, stinky socks, Easter baskets, garbage cans, and toilet bowls. At eight weeks, his freedom was limited to a playful exploration  of a few backyards. At twelve weeks, he soared through a three-mile round trip jaunt with ease. Training books warned that his hips may not recover if over challenged as a little guy. Not true for this short-haired, rusty, muscle-bound Vizsla. Baby, he was born to run.

Like a prince – head high, muscles rippling, glistening auburn coat glistening, amber eyes alert, he waited patiently. Motionless and ready to romp, he knew,  She will get her running shoes. She always does. With barreled chest and sinewy arms, he watched my every move and sent ESP messages:  Get your shoes. Go on. I got your rhythm. Indeed, he did. With one small nod of my head toward the mudroom, he let loose plowing into my hips, shifting his body full-force into mine in an effort to be one with me in gleeful appreciation.  

Yes! I knew it! We’re going! Tail wagging furiously he’d nudge my hands and arms as he inadvertently sabotaged my daily efforts to put on my Brookes Adrenalines. I’d dodge into the bathroom, slam the door, and breathe  – grateful for the quiet reprieve of tying my shoes.

The regular routine.

I open the bathroom door.  Watson, in full play position with front legs extended, calculates which door will set him free – front or garage. I cross to the entryway. Watson vaults across the dining room table as he looks back at me to make sure he’s got the right door. As I reach for the doorknob, he glues his back-end to my thighs and strains his neck for eye contact. Struggling with the handle with this forty-five pound bundle of pure vitality pressed against me, I reach and twist. Watson sails across the porch in one swoop out-performing all images of super heroes. Leash in hand, scrutinizing my surroundings, I watch for unexpected walkers, school children, and the rare car that passed in front of our Chandana home. Neighbors knew him and marveled at his athleticism.  Faster than the speed of light, his grace put any deer to shame.

Free! Free! I love this! This is thee best! Oh, I love this smell! I love this bush! I love this mailbox! I love this light pole! I love this fire hydrant! Blurring tail, beautiful body, rollicking, curious soul, he delights in rain, snow, sleet, and sun. Everything is interesting. Everything is an adventure. Everything is the best.

We run the neighborhood, his magnificent poise wowing the middle-schoolers awaiting the bus. Front legs outstretched, hind legs straight back, body parallel to the green field, he sours. I, watchful for an unexpected walker or tempting discarded McDonald’s wrapper, follow in my slow, steady plod prepared to call him back should a stranger appear. Armed with poop bags, treats, and a flashlight, I watch for his pause and mark his pit-stops with the accuracy of a US Open golf caddy.

He races ahead, always cognizant of where I am. If I get too far behind, he stops, turns, and courteously watches for me to round the corner. Our eyes meet. Are you coming? What’s taking you so long? Are we all good? I’m worried about you. I laugh to myself and say out loud, “I’m coming, Watson. Thanks for waiting.”

When we sold our house, I sent out flyers to friends who run who might want a dog in the family. Emotions ran high last fall for many reasons, not the least of which was the giving away of Watson. When a rare husband-wife biology-psychology scholar team responded, the interview was quite rough. I bared all the facts. “He’s the coolest dog, but if you don’t run him, he eats socks.” I then described the multiple surgeries and emotional worries of the last six years. Rob and Jenny simply nodded. They had been looking for a family dog for their twins, Max and Momo, but all of the dogs at the shelter seemed too docile. Ha! I thought. This is a miracle!

And it was. Watson Atticus now resides with two college professors and two fourth graders. When friends ask us about Watson, we say he is away at school.