I was born Brenda Lynn Guetzke. Then I married and became Brenda Lynn Brayko.
Alec was born Alec David Levi Foster. When his adoption was finalized he became Alec David Levi Brayko.
Adam was born Anna Ivanovna Ovchinnikova. When the adoption was finalized the name changed to Anna Mikayla Brayko. When he transitioned from female to male he chose Adam Ivan Brayko Mitchel as a name. It has yet to be finalized.
Our dog Rigby was named Bill originally. But we renamed him Rigby Moon Brayko.
Our cat came as Jigs. We changed it to Jigs Chuseok Brayko.
Brent was born Brenton Scott Brayko. He is still Brenton Scott Brayko but he goes by Brent.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Visitors from abroad: Sein
Sein was a senior in high school when I met her. She was an international student from Korea, one of about twelve that year at the private school I was teaching at in Green Bay. Her English was spot on and her smile radiant. She had a big heart and lovely straight black hair and exquisite make up. Unfortunately, she was also very unhappy.
It seemed her home placement was with a woman who boarded several students at her home but did little else for them. She didn't cook for them or arrange for transportation to school events, even though she lived way out in the country. Without a driver's license, Sein was stuck for her senior year in this isolated home, unable to engage in typical teenage life. As I learned of Sein's story, it became clear that she needed a new placement. Why not us?
It wasn't long before we were converting our den into an extra bedroom. We covered the glass doors with sheets. Sein turned the couch into a bed and hung her Korean flag on the wall. My husband and I agreed that we didn't need to demand much rent, but would she baby sit our six and four year olds on weekends? Sein happily agreed and so began our only experience housing an international student.
Sein wasn't a very good babysitter, but she was fun to have around. She taught me a few words in Korean (anyung) and how to count (il -ee -sam - sah - oh). She shoveled snow in high heels. She taught us how to make rice and forced us to buy a rice cooker - best thing ever! She made Korean eggs and Korean BBQ - American style. She had us on a quest for the hottest food we could find! Even the nearest Korean restaurant wasn't Korean enough for her. She complained about the price of healthcare in the US and the price of prescription drugs. She took amazing photos of our family with her Nikon camera. So much of what Sein taught us only would come into clearer view when we would move to Korea ourselves a few years later and have the privilege of being taught how to use the subway system in Seoul by Sein herself!
The most unexpected aspect of providing a home for Sein was that she was in the middle of getting her driver's license and needed "road time". Now, I didn't know about this when she arrived at our home. It just so happened that one day a driver's ed car showed up in our driveway to pick her up for a lesson. After a few hours, the instructor returned with a report on what Sein should be working on. "She needed to work on backing up and parallel parking," he said to me expectantly. It was only at that point that I realized that he expected I would be the one to help her learn the art of driving. "You want ME to take her out in MY car?" I asked, stunned. In MY new Prius? He had to be mad! She was from another country, for goodness, sake. What was the law about getting into car accidents in such a case? Would my insurance cover an accident of a foreign driver without a license? This was not good.
We proceeded, nonetheless. Pretty soon I was sitting in the passenger seat of my Prius and Sein drove around the small neighborhoods and eventually onto the highway. After a few months I was waving to her and wishing her luck as she drove my car for the driving test. She failed. Perhaps she was too cautious.
I remember an incident when she was practicing. She was approaching a 4-way stop sign. She stopped well behind the sign - entirely according to the book. Unfortunately, the female driver behind us was NOT impressed with he slow stop so far back. As it is usual to slide to almost the middle of the intersection before checking for other cars, driving by the book flew in the face of the woman's expectations. Boy, did she get pissed. Poor Sein kept saying, "I'm just doing what I'm supposed to, right?" "Yes and no," I explained as the woman zoomed past us swearing loudly out her window and honking.
It seemed her home placement was with a woman who boarded several students at her home but did little else for them. She didn't cook for them or arrange for transportation to school events, even though she lived way out in the country. Without a driver's license, Sein was stuck for her senior year in this isolated home, unable to engage in typical teenage life. As I learned of Sein's story, it became clear that she needed a new placement. Why not us?
It wasn't long before we were converting our den into an extra bedroom. We covered the glass doors with sheets. Sein turned the couch into a bed and hung her Korean flag on the wall. My husband and I agreed that we didn't need to demand much rent, but would she baby sit our six and four year olds on weekends? Sein happily agreed and so began our only experience housing an international student.
Sein wasn't a very good babysitter, but she was fun to have around. She taught me a few words in Korean (anyung) and how to count (il -ee -sam - sah - oh). She shoveled snow in high heels. She taught us how to make rice and forced us to buy a rice cooker - best thing ever! She made Korean eggs and Korean BBQ - American style. She had us on a quest for the hottest food we could find! Even the nearest Korean restaurant wasn't Korean enough for her. She complained about the price of healthcare in the US and the price of prescription drugs. She took amazing photos of our family with her Nikon camera. So much of what Sein taught us only would come into clearer view when we would move to Korea ourselves a few years later and have the privilege of being taught how to use the subway system in Seoul by Sein herself!
The most unexpected aspect of providing a home for Sein was that she was in the middle of getting her driver's license and needed "road time". Now, I didn't know about this when she arrived at our home. It just so happened that one day a driver's ed car showed up in our driveway to pick her up for a lesson. After a few hours, the instructor returned with a report on what Sein should be working on. "She needed to work on backing up and parallel parking," he said to me expectantly. It was only at that point that I realized that he expected I would be the one to help her learn the art of driving. "You want ME to take her out in MY car?" I asked, stunned. In MY new Prius? He had to be mad! She was from another country, for goodness, sake. What was the law about getting into car accidents in such a case? Would my insurance cover an accident of a foreign driver without a license? This was not good.
We proceeded, nonetheless. Pretty soon I was sitting in the passenger seat of my Prius and Sein drove around the small neighborhoods and eventually onto the highway. After a few months I was waving to her and wishing her luck as she drove my car for the driving test. She failed. Perhaps she was too cautious.
I remember an incident when she was practicing. She was approaching a 4-way stop sign. She stopped well behind the sign - entirely according to the book. Unfortunately, the female driver behind us was NOT impressed with he slow stop so far back. As it is usual to slide to almost the middle of the intersection before checking for other cars, driving by the book flew in the face of the woman's expectations. Boy, did she get pissed. Poor Sein kept saying, "I'm just doing what I'm supposed to, right?" "Yes and no," I explained as the woman zoomed past us swearing loudly out her window and honking.
Rat Tail
I picked up the rat by the tail and tossed it into the cage, shut the cage door and thought, "Crap! Did I just pick up a rat?"
Let me back up. It's not that I often have opportunities to pick up rats. And, no, I wasn't in a New York alley or anything. I was actually in a science classroom in a small Wisconsin town named Monroe. The bell had already dismissed students for the day and I had ventured from the English wing to the science wing in hopes of catching up on the day with my friend Jacque.
For some reason she had just gotten a small shipment of live rats. I sauntered in with the usual hello. As I made my way across to her desk, I noticed a rat climbing on the OUTSIDE of the cage. Now, I'd never actually held a rat before, but I had been around the rat lab with my college roommate several times. Somehow my brain was working subconsciously and putting a bunch of things together. 1) A rat climbing on the outside of a cage is not the norm. 2) Someone needs to put the rat into the cage. 3) I recalled Wendy demonstrating that if you pick one up by the tail it can't bite you. 4) I had multiple experiences with mice and mouse traps and holding pet snakes, why not do this?
So, before I knew it, I walked over to the cage, picked the white rat with the pink tail up by his tail, tossed him into the cage and shut the door all while still talking to Jacque about the school day.
It wasn't until the action was complete that both she and I reacted, "Holy shit! What just happened? What did you do?" We laughed and laughed. All was safe and sound. Small heroics in a high school science lab.
Let me back up. It's not that I often have opportunities to pick up rats. And, no, I wasn't in a New York alley or anything. I was actually in a science classroom in a small Wisconsin town named Monroe. The bell had already dismissed students for the day and I had ventured from the English wing to the science wing in hopes of catching up on the day with my friend Jacque.
For some reason she had just gotten a small shipment of live rats. I sauntered in with the usual hello. As I made my way across to her desk, I noticed a rat climbing on the OUTSIDE of the cage. Now, I'd never actually held a rat before, but I had been around the rat lab with my college roommate several times. Somehow my brain was working subconsciously and putting a bunch of things together. 1) A rat climbing on the outside of a cage is not the norm. 2) Someone needs to put the rat into the cage. 3) I recalled Wendy demonstrating that if you pick one up by the tail it can't bite you. 4) I had multiple experiences with mice and mouse traps and holding pet snakes, why not do this?
So, before I knew it, I walked over to the cage, picked the white rat with the pink tail up by his tail, tossed him into the cage and shut the door all while still talking to Jacque about the school day.
It wasn't until the action was complete that both she and I reacted, "Holy shit! What just happened? What did you do?" We laughed and laughed. All was safe and sound. Small heroics in a high school science lab.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Making a Boy
When we discovered that we had trouble with fertility, we launched a full-scale endeavor to conceive through the magic of modern medicine. For twelve months Brent and I waited anxiously for "the stick" to indicate that I was ovulating. We would then call our places of employment, take a half-day off, hop in the car at 5:30 AM and drive the two hours to Milwaukee for the 30 - 60 minute doctor's visit. First we'd grab breakfast at the coffee shop at the hospital, talk about normal everyday things as well as our hopes for a family, and then head up to proceed with the IUI (intrauterine insemination). This was not easy on either one of us but it was physically painful for me and included a long, thin tube which would be inserted through the vagina and cervix and directly into the uterus to deposit its payload of sperm. The procedure itself didn't take long, but I would stay reclined for an additional twenty minutes in the hopes that the little guys would have an easier time swimming to find their mark. We would then drive the two hours back to our community and return to work for the rest of the day like everything was normal.
Unfortunately, my body somehow interprets sperm as enemy and kills them all. 100%. So, no baby making that way.
After a year of this routine and further testing to verify the hopelessness of making a child ourselves, we turned toward adoption as our preferred option to have a family. Part of that journey included filling out a questionnaire from Russia about the kind of child we wanted to be matched with. We chose "healthy toddler girl." In part this was because we already had an infant son. What could be better than one boy and one girl, right?
Fast forward to 2015. Our teenage daughter tells us she feels she should be a boy, that "something's missing." For a year she sees therapists, dresses and takes on the mannerisms of a boy, and takes on a male name and insists on male pronouns. She is a "he" in mind and presentation but not in body. This is where modern medicine comes in to play again. We find and endocrinologist who works with transgender people to administer hormones aligned with their gender identity - in this case testosterone. Monthly, I take my child to the doctor to have him injected with a substance which will slowly - over a year's time - turn him into a boy.
And then I see the irony. I wasn't able to make a baby from scratch. I thought I had control over gender through adoption. And while I'm not a biological mother to any child, now I'm making a boy! Without our support, this girl would remain a girl, but we are helping her become a boy. The long year-long "pokes" sixteen years ago produced nothing at all. But this year of shots will produce a boy, and I will have been instrumental in making that happen. It's all quite contrived and crazy; but it is the life we are leading. Thank you, modern medicine!
Unfortunately, my body somehow interprets sperm as enemy and kills them all. 100%. So, no baby making that way.
After a year of this routine and further testing to verify the hopelessness of making a child ourselves, we turned toward adoption as our preferred option to have a family. Part of that journey included filling out a questionnaire from Russia about the kind of child we wanted to be matched with. We chose "healthy toddler girl." In part this was because we already had an infant son. What could be better than one boy and one girl, right?
Fast forward to 2015. Our teenage daughter tells us she feels she should be a boy, that "something's missing." For a year she sees therapists, dresses and takes on the mannerisms of a boy, and takes on a male name and insists on male pronouns. She is a "he" in mind and presentation but not in body. This is where modern medicine comes in to play again. We find and endocrinologist who works with transgender people to administer hormones aligned with their gender identity - in this case testosterone. Monthly, I take my child to the doctor to have him injected with a substance which will slowly - over a year's time - turn him into a boy.
And then I see the irony. I wasn't able to make a baby from scratch. I thought I had control over gender through adoption. And while I'm not a biological mother to any child, now I'm making a boy! Without our support, this girl would remain a girl, but we are helping her become a boy. The long year-long "pokes" sixteen years ago produced nothing at all. But this year of shots will produce a boy, and I will have been instrumental in making that happen. It's all quite contrived and crazy; but it is the life we are leading. Thank you, modern medicine!
Monday, May 9, 2016
Chopped
I learned much about life my four summers as a worker in the garde manger section of a kitchen at a Jewish Country Club. One of the things I learned was how stupid rich people could be. Okay, I know that sounds very judgmental, but at the time I was a poor college student working for wealthy Jewish families with strange behaviors and requests.
Let me clarify. As an employee in the garde manger I worked with cold food from 7 AM until sometimes 11 PM six days a week. Four of us prepared the salad bar, crudite displays and fruit displays, prepped lobster halves, extracted crab meat, made salad dressings from scratch, and prepared individual identical salads for parties of up to 200 people.
While all this was going on we would be periodically interrupted by a frantic waiter holding a huge plate piled beautifully with fixins' from the salad bar, dressing included, with the command to "chop this salad, please." The command was really coming from a rich patron in the dining room who for some reason believed sending a salad back to the kitchen to be "chopped" was a good idea.
"Please, let me interrupt my de-gutting 30 lobsters to chop your salad, ma'am" I would think as I slopped the whole plateful onto a wet cutting board. Taking my "big knife" I would chop away until the salad was one half-digested melange of color and ingredients. I would then transfer the whole mess onto the same plate and hand it back to the waiter.
Sometimes the very same plate would come back a second time, with "It's not good enough" as the tag line. Resisting the urge to spit in the salad or place it into the blender, my fellow compatriots and I would give knowing glances before chopping the hell out of the plate ingredients and sloughing it back onto the plate again. Rich people! I would think. What idiots.
Another report from a waiter had me chuckling one day. Mitch, one of my best friends who also worked at TOCC the same summers, came back to the kitchen to tell me that a patron had believed that our crown cut melons were cut by a machine. A machine! "No," he had told the lady, "our kitchen staff cut the melons so they look like crowns." "You're kidding!" she breathed. Rich people!
Another day I was working in the main dining room opening oysters at the oyster bar. I tried to stay silent and invisible. But at one point two patrons were speaking about something and searching for a word. "Onomatopoeia," I interjected. "Why, yes!" said the smartly dressed middle-aged man glancing at me with a bit of shock. "I am a college English major," I thought to myself.
I learned that just because you're rich doesn't mean you know everything. And just because you're not rich doesn't mean you're ignorant.
Let me clarify. As an employee in the garde manger I worked with cold food from 7 AM until sometimes 11 PM six days a week. Four of us prepared the salad bar, crudite displays and fruit displays, prepped lobster halves, extracted crab meat, made salad dressings from scratch, and prepared individual identical salads for parties of up to 200 people.
While all this was going on we would be periodically interrupted by a frantic waiter holding a huge plate piled beautifully with fixins' from the salad bar, dressing included, with the command to "chop this salad, please." The command was really coming from a rich patron in the dining room who for some reason believed sending a salad back to the kitchen to be "chopped" was a good idea.
"Please, let me interrupt my de-gutting 30 lobsters to chop your salad, ma'am" I would think as I slopped the whole plateful onto a wet cutting board. Taking my "big knife" I would chop away until the salad was one half-digested melange of color and ingredients. I would then transfer the whole mess onto the same plate and hand it back to the waiter.
Sometimes the very same plate would come back a second time, with "It's not good enough" as the tag line. Resisting the urge to spit in the salad or place it into the blender, my fellow compatriots and I would give knowing glances before chopping the hell out of the plate ingredients and sloughing it back onto the plate again. Rich people! I would think. What idiots.
Another report from a waiter had me chuckling one day. Mitch, one of my best friends who also worked at TOCC the same summers, came back to the kitchen to tell me that a patron had believed that our crown cut melons were cut by a machine. A machine! "No," he had told the lady, "our kitchen staff cut the melons so they look like crowns." "You're kidding!" she breathed. Rich people!
Another day I was working in the main dining room opening oysters at the oyster bar. I tried to stay silent and invisible. But at one point two patrons were speaking about something and searching for a word. "Onomatopoeia," I interjected. "Why, yes!" said the smartly dressed middle-aged man glancing at me with a bit of shock. "I am a college English major," I thought to myself.
I learned that just because you're rich doesn't mean you know everything. And just because you're not rich doesn't mean you're ignorant.
The Naming: An Alec Tale
I love the story of how Alec got his name. His full name is Alec David Levi Brayko. This sounds like a name of distinction. It's the name of someone who had great expectations upon his shoulders. That really wasn't the intent at all.
Alec's first name was written in stone long long before when I was about nine years old. It was at that time I read The Black Stallion. In it, the very likable young boy who tames a wild horse and wins repeatedly on the racecourse is named Alec. I'd never heard the name before and loved the sound and look of it. It was so exotic. Not quite Alex. Better because it was unique. And I loved that boy in the story. I decided then that if I ever had a boy I would name him Alec.
Fast forward to marriage and adoption of a baby boy and the birthmom's offer to name her son whatever we chose. I didn't even open a baby book. I just said to Brent, "I've always loved the name Alec." He said," Me too!" And that was that.
As that was so easy, we began musing about middle names. That, too, was almost laughably easy. Brent's deceased father's name was David. My father had always gone by David or Dave. Alec David seemed to roll off the tongue!
Soon after I received an email from Cindy. "Have you decided on a middle name yet?" "Actually, yes." I replied, wincing that there could be a problem ahead. "Oh. I was hoping we could collaborate on the middle name. I have some ideas." I thought quickly. How do we solve this so everyone is happy? "Well," I replied. "Why don't we give him two middle names?"
Cindy liked that and in short order sent a small list with names and meanings. Among them was "Levi: joined in Harmony." We loved it immediately! It was a name of Christian origin and the meaning fit our situation completely.
Alec David Levi. It has a lovely ring to it, don't you think?
Alec's first name was written in stone long long before when I was about nine years old. It was at that time I read The Black Stallion. In it, the very likable young boy who tames a wild horse and wins repeatedly on the racecourse is named Alec. I'd never heard the name before and loved the sound and look of it. It was so exotic. Not quite Alex. Better because it was unique. And I loved that boy in the story. I decided then that if I ever had a boy I would name him Alec.
Fast forward to marriage and adoption of a baby boy and the birthmom's offer to name her son whatever we chose. I didn't even open a baby book. I just said to Brent, "I've always loved the name Alec." He said," Me too!" And that was that.
As that was so easy, we began musing about middle names. That, too, was almost laughably easy. Brent's deceased father's name was David. My father had always gone by David or Dave. Alec David seemed to roll off the tongue!
Soon after I received an email from Cindy. "Have you decided on a middle name yet?" "Actually, yes." I replied, wincing that there could be a problem ahead. "Oh. I was hoping we could collaborate on the middle name. I have some ideas." I thought quickly. How do we solve this so everyone is happy? "Well," I replied. "Why don't we give him two middle names?"
Cindy liked that and in short order sent a small list with names and meanings. Among them was "Levi: joined in Harmony." We loved it immediately! It was a name of Christian origin and the meaning fit our situation completely.
Alec David Levi. It has a lovely ring to it, don't you think?
Miracle #1
"December."
This was the word I had heard several Decembers before while driving in my Corolla in Green Bay, WI, praying. The voice of God. He had responded to my urgent plea to start a family with two messages. "Everything will be okay" and "December". I held hope in my heart year after year. What did it mean? We would conceive in December? Bear a child in December? Finally and IUI would work in December? We would get word on an adoption in December? Complete an adoption in December? Several years had passed already and none of those had come to pass. Each year as December neared my heart beat a little faster, anticipating how God's word would manifest itself to be true.
Now it was January again. Another year until the next December and still no child. Another 12 months to wait. I envied Mother Mary.
It was the first week in January 2004 when I got a call from a birthmom. It wasn't the first call I'd received during our domestic search, but it was our last. And this one was duly unexpected for we had removed our profile from both our agency and Adoption.com in the previous months in pursuit of a new direction - international adoption. "Is this Brenda?" "Yes." "My name is Cindy. I'm 8 months pregnant and looking for a family for my baby. Can we talk?"
Cindy and I talked and talked and connected quite well. Pretty soon we were making plans to meet half-way between her community and ours. I was elated and reserved. Then I remembered the promise. "Where did you find us?" "On Adoption.com." "Really? When was that?" "Oh, last month. I set your information aside until now." "You mean you found us in December?" "Yes, I guess so."
This was our miracle! Not only had Cindy found us in December, she had found us AFTER we had pulled our profile from adoption.com in November.
Perhaps it sounds silly, but I put a lot of faith in that message from God. And His Word sustained us through the exciting and potentially unsettling weeks and months ahead.
The first miracle was Alec. No, I know, everyone says that about their first born child. But in the case of Alec, he really was a miracle.
This was the word I had heard several Decembers before while driving in my Corolla in Green Bay, WI, praying. The voice of God. He had responded to my urgent plea to start a family with two messages. "Everything will be okay" and "December". I held hope in my heart year after year. What did it mean? We would conceive in December? Bear a child in December? Finally and IUI would work in December? We would get word on an adoption in December? Complete an adoption in December? Several years had passed already and none of those had come to pass. Each year as December neared my heart beat a little faster, anticipating how God's word would manifest itself to be true.
Now it was January again. Another year until the next December and still no child. Another 12 months to wait. I envied Mother Mary.
It was the first week in January 2004 when I got a call from a birthmom. It wasn't the first call I'd received during our domestic search, but it was our last. And this one was duly unexpected for we had removed our profile from both our agency and Adoption.com in the previous months in pursuit of a new direction - international adoption. "Is this Brenda?" "Yes." "My name is Cindy. I'm 8 months pregnant and looking for a family for my baby. Can we talk?"
Cindy and I talked and talked and connected quite well. Pretty soon we were making plans to meet half-way between her community and ours. I was elated and reserved. Then I remembered the promise. "Where did you find us?" "On Adoption.com." "Really? When was that?" "Oh, last month. I set your information aside until now." "You mean you found us in December?" "Yes, I guess so."
This was our miracle! Not only had Cindy found us in December, she had found us AFTER we had pulled our profile from adoption.com in November.
Perhaps it sounds silly, but I put a lot of faith in that message from God. And His Word sustained us through the exciting and potentially unsettling weeks and months ahead.
The first miracle was Alec. No, I know, everyone says that about their first born child. But in the case of Alec, he really was a miracle.
Friday, May 6, 2016
Mud Bath: An Anna Tale
Anna decided that her passion project for school would be to create an auquaponics system similar to one her science class had made the previous year, when she was in sixth grade at a different school. Over the course of several weeks we collected all the needed components like a plastic bin, gold fish, clay beads, net pots, styrofoam slab and plants. The day came for her assemble it all. I happened to step out when she decided to move forward with the potting the plants phase. This happened to involve removing the plants from soil pots to replant them in the clay beads. Sounds easy enough and logical enough, but to a thirteen year old brain. . . Not so much. Her logic told her to loosen the roots from the soil by soaking them in water. . . In the bathtub!
I arrived home to a tornadic disaster in her bathroom which involved a gazillion little styrofoam beads and potting soil over everything. But the best moment was when I pulled back the shower curtain ("Mom, we have a little problem.") The bathtub was full of black water deep enough for a luxurious mud bath. That was the point where she handed me the drain stopper with, "For some reason it's not draining."
(Deep breath. Count to ten.)
"What are you thinking, Mom? Say something."
"These are going to be the most expensive green peppers I have ever eaten. Okay, let's get a pail and you can start bailing over the balcony."
And that's what she did.
Two hours, sixty trips to the balcony,and a gallon of liquid plumber later the bathroom was good as new.
Repotting 101: don't soak roots in the bathtub to remove soil.
Sugar Cookies: An Alec Tale
When Alec was in fifth grade, he and I made sugar cookies. He enjoys baking sometimes and was thrilled when there were enough cookies to share with his classmates. "Mom, can I take cookies to school for my classmates?"
Me: Sure. Just check with your teacher.
Him: I know! I could pack little cookie snacks for our class walk-about in two days.
Me: Perfect!
My son proceeded to package ziplock bags of three cookies each and each labeled with the student group names for the walk-about. He did this all on his own without any help from me. He put all the bags into his backpack for the next day. I was so proud of him.
Upon returning from school the next day I inquired about how his classmates enjoyed the cookies. With just a hint of a downcast face he said, "I never gave them to them." "Why?" "Because they all got crushed in my backpack." And with that, he took out the Ziplocks. Oh! Such a sad, sad sight, all those crumbs. But he didn't seem too phased, he shrugged, sat down on the couch and logged onto his computer to play a game.
Me: Sure. Just check with your teacher.
Him: I know! I could pack little cookie snacks for our class walk-about in two days.
Me: Perfect!
My son proceeded to package ziplock bags of three cookies each and each labeled with the student group names for the walk-about. He did this all on his own without any help from me. He put all the bags into his backpack for the next day. I was so proud of him.
Upon returning from school the next day I inquired about how his classmates enjoyed the cookies. With just a hint of a downcast face he said, "I never gave them to them." "Why?" "Because they all got crushed in my backpack." And with that, he took out the Ziplocks. Oh! Such a sad, sad sight, all those crumbs. But he didn't seem too phased, he shrugged, sat down on the couch and logged onto his computer to play a game.
The time he sang with the band: An Alec Tale
At two, Alec was talking. At three he knew his alphabet and how to spell his name. At four he knew how to read.
The time he sang with the band he was three and had just learned how to sing his ABC's. Brent and I frequently sang with our church spirit band. On this particular Sunday, the kids were hanging out while we practiced before church.
Before we knew it, Alec had a live microphone in his hands and started singing - in pitch mind you - the ABC's. The next I know our accompanist Kent picked up the note and tempo and started accompanying Alec. Then Dave our drummer joined in. Man, did Alec beam from ear to ear! He was singing with his own band!
Well, that ruined him for weeks. How does a three-year-old become a diva? He refused to sing anything in the mic again unless the mic were live and the band played along.
The time he sang with the band he was three and had just learned how to sing his ABC's. Brent and I frequently sang with our church spirit band. On this particular Sunday, the kids were hanging out while we practiced before church.
Before we knew it, Alec had a live microphone in his hands and started singing - in pitch mind you - the ABC's. The next I know our accompanist Kent picked up the note and tempo and started accompanying Alec. Then Dave our drummer joined in. Man, did Alec beam from ear to ear! He was singing with his own band!
Well, that ruined him for weeks. How does a three-year-old become a diva? He refused to sing anything in the mic again unless the mic were live and the band played along.
The time she peed on the floor: An Anna Tale
She's always been a stubborn cuss. At almost four years old, she also did not like the change of seasonal clothing. These two factors led to the infamous "peeing on the floor" incident.
Anna did not want to get dressed. A new season had begun and she didn't like the feel of different clothes. So, she refused to get dressed. She also refused to let me dress her. This meant that I had a whining, angry, four-year old on my hands who would not budge. Neither would I budge. We had to get going and didn't have time for this nonsense.
That's when it happened. Right there in the middle of her ultra-pink-everything room, buck naked, she peed on her carpeted floor. This was no accident. No siree. This was quite intentional - her silent protest against clothes and mom-power. This was her rage-against-the-machine.
Anna one. Mom zero.
Anna did not want to get dressed. A new season had begun and she didn't like the feel of different clothes. So, she refused to get dressed. She also refused to let me dress her. This meant that I had a whining, angry, four-year old on my hands who would not budge. Neither would I budge. We had to get going and didn't have time for this nonsense.
That's when it happened. Right there in the middle of her ultra-pink-everything room, buck naked, she peed on her carpeted floor. This was no accident. No siree. This was quite intentional - her silent protest against clothes and mom-power. This was her rage-against-the-machine.
Anna one. Mom zero.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
The Time I was a PK.
PK's know other PK's. We are a select subset of the population. We are preacher's kids.
For much of one's life it doesn't matter, but it sure does matter when you are ages 12 - 18. These are prime formative years. These are the years identity expectations are placed upon your shoulders. These are the years being a PK can really suck.
So you move to a new town of 1600 people in Podunk, Iowa and you're a PK. What does this mean? It means that the expectations of this Christian community are placed on your (and your sister's) shoulders. You've not made friends yet. Who will become your friends? Why, the church youth group kids, of course! What will you do with your time? Why attend youth group events, of course? What will you do on Sundays? Why attend church, of course, and pray that you aren't the last one out of the church door - AGAIN. Who will teach your confirmation class about sex? Why, your father, of course. What will the students at school assume about you? That you are perfectly behaved. And how WILL you behave? Perfectly. Of course.
This is not always the case for PKs. Everyone has heard of the tales of the "bad seeds" who are preachers kids, something straight out of Footloose. But for me, being bad was not in my nature; being good was. I WANTED to do well in school. I WANTED to participate in youth group and even lead it. I WANTED to make moral choices for myself.
Even so, such desires and expectations are tall orders in these growing up years. In some ways they steer your identity in a way that might not have developed without them.
Do I have regrets? Not too many. I regret being the only one NOT invited to the high school senior drinking party. I regret not taking more risks typical of that age. I regret stifling my voice at times for the sake of my father's reputation or because of expectations I believed he had of me. But I don't regret the life I lead now, which essentially grew from that identity and those very same expectations.
Where I attended college, being a PK was actually cool. Practically 50% of my classmates were PK's, or as we called ourselves then - T.O.'s (Theological Offspring). Two of my college boyfriends were T.O.'s. Two of my three freshmen roommates were T.O.'s. In a way, this new environment was freeing for all of us; we understood one another. We came to understand that we were, in fact, normal. We were freed to become who we really were and wanted to be.
Nowadays no one asks or cares if I am a PK, but if we somehow discover another PK during some winding, philosophical chat, a spark of true recognition results. We suddenly KNOW each other on a new and deeper level, one that can be simply summed up with a nod and a "Yup."
For much of one's life it doesn't matter, but it sure does matter when you are ages 12 - 18. These are prime formative years. These are the years identity expectations are placed upon your shoulders. These are the years being a PK can really suck.
So you move to a new town of 1600 people in Podunk, Iowa and you're a PK. What does this mean? It means that the expectations of this Christian community are placed on your (and your sister's) shoulders. You've not made friends yet. Who will become your friends? Why, the church youth group kids, of course! What will you do with your time? Why attend youth group events, of course? What will you do on Sundays? Why attend church, of course, and pray that you aren't the last one out of the church door - AGAIN. Who will teach your confirmation class about sex? Why, your father, of course. What will the students at school assume about you? That you are perfectly behaved. And how WILL you behave? Perfectly. Of course.
This is not always the case for PKs. Everyone has heard of the tales of the "bad seeds" who are preachers kids, something straight out of Footloose. But for me, being bad was not in my nature; being good was. I WANTED to do well in school. I WANTED to participate in youth group and even lead it. I WANTED to make moral choices for myself.
Even so, such desires and expectations are tall orders in these growing up years. In some ways they steer your identity in a way that might not have developed without them.
Do I have regrets? Not too many. I regret being the only one NOT invited to the high school senior drinking party. I regret not taking more risks typical of that age. I regret stifling my voice at times for the sake of my father's reputation or because of expectations I believed he had of me. But I don't regret the life I lead now, which essentially grew from that identity and those very same expectations.
Where I attended college, being a PK was actually cool. Practically 50% of my classmates were PK's, or as we called ourselves then - T.O.'s (Theological Offspring). Two of my college boyfriends were T.O.'s. Two of my three freshmen roommates were T.O.'s. In a way, this new environment was freeing for all of us; we understood one another. We came to understand that we were, in fact, normal. We were freed to become who we really were and wanted to be.
Nowadays no one asks or cares if I am a PK, but if we somehow discover another PK during some winding, philosophical chat, a spark of true recognition results. We suddenly KNOW each other on a new and deeper level, one that can be simply summed up with a nod and a "Yup."
The time I met my Mother-in-Law
When I met her, Joan was vibrant, young, and had been widowed just five years earlier. She was single-handedly raising a teen-boy and parent of two grown men, one of which was my boyfriend. Joan made a great first impression, and unlike some first impressions - hers lasted. She was soft-spoken and kind from the start. She asked just the right questions and seemed to accept me as a person instantly. She laughed easily. She dressed fashionably but not pretentiously. She made me feel welcome.
Before I knew it Joan and I were friends. In some freak accident of the universe, she ended up dating her future second husband (my colleague and friend Walt) at the same time I was dating my future husband, her son. Because we were both in the dating stage, we ended up sharing stories with each other and seeking advice, more as friends than as people a generation apart. I will always treasure those early memories of Joan. I remember being shocked to learn she had helped my boyfriend at the time to buy a neglige as a Valentine's Day present, something that would be unheard of in my family.
After my marriage to Brent and arrival of our kids, Joan became "Grandma Joanie." She played that role brilliantly, spoiling our kids whenever and however she could. She was the one who helped us in the first week as parents of a newborn.
These previous paragraphs capture some bits of who Joan was but not the most striking aspect of her person - her strength. She had a quiet strength like none other I have witnessed in person. Her first husband was killed in an accident after nineteen years of marriage, leaving her (at the young age of 38) with three boys, two still at home to raise alone. And she did it. She did it well. After only 15 months of marriage to her second husband Walt (previously mentioned), he, too, died young. Again she picked up the pieces of her life and carried on, still with that gentle chuckle and smile and gleam in her eye.
Then, after already becoming a grandmother, she bravely put her profile on a dating service which would eventually lead to her third marriage and love of her later-life, Jack. Jack, it turns out is also a quiet, strong and loving individual. What a match and what a blessing - because Joan was destined to die young herself. After battling a cancer for nearly four years that the doctors had predicted would take her in three months, she, too, headed to her heavenly home. She was just 65 years old.
Yesterday she would have turned 66 and in three days our family will celebrate our first Mother's Day without her. I can think of no better way to celebrate her than by writing this post. Salut, Grandma Joanie!
May 5, 2016
Before I knew it Joan and I were friends. In some freak accident of the universe, she ended up dating her future second husband (my colleague and friend Walt) at the same time I was dating my future husband, her son. Because we were both in the dating stage, we ended up sharing stories with each other and seeking advice, more as friends than as people a generation apart. I will always treasure those early memories of Joan. I remember being shocked to learn she had helped my boyfriend at the time to buy a neglige as a Valentine's Day present, something that would be unheard of in my family.
After my marriage to Brent and arrival of our kids, Joan became "Grandma Joanie." She played that role brilliantly, spoiling our kids whenever and however she could. She was the one who helped us in the first week as parents of a newborn.
These previous paragraphs capture some bits of who Joan was but not the most striking aspect of her person - her strength. She had a quiet strength like none other I have witnessed in person. Her first husband was killed in an accident after nineteen years of marriage, leaving her (at the young age of 38) with three boys, two still at home to raise alone. And she did it. She did it well. After only 15 months of marriage to her second husband Walt (previously mentioned), he, too, died young. Again she picked up the pieces of her life and carried on, still with that gentle chuckle and smile and gleam in her eye.
Then, after already becoming a grandmother, she bravely put her profile on a dating service which would eventually lead to her third marriage and love of her later-life, Jack. Jack, it turns out is also a quiet, strong and loving individual. What a match and what a blessing - because Joan was destined to die young herself. After battling a cancer for nearly four years that the doctors had predicted would take her in three months, she, too, headed to her heavenly home. She was just 65 years old.
Yesterday she would have turned 66 and in three days our family will celebrate our first Mother's Day without her. I can think of no better way to celebrate her than by writing this post. Salut, Grandma Joanie!
May 5, 2016
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
"Ta ka koi?" An Anna Tale
When Anna was three, and new to our family having recently been adopted from Russia, she stunned us with her language acquisition. She'd only been an American citizen for a few months but she was fully embracing English. To begin with, we weren't even sure if she knew much Russian, as she hardly spoke it at the orphanage and the director had told us she might have a speech delay.
Not so! Within days of her adoption finalization in Moscow, the tiny tot the size of an 18-month old was chattering away - in Russian, of course. But even there she began to learn English. Words like "Mama, papa, glasses, paper, potty" were mastered before our plane touched down in Green Bay, Wisconsin. At the airport she was greeted by her new grandparents with a bouquet of balloons. Before we'd left the premises my father had already taught her "balloon" - pronounced
"ball-ooooon!"
It wasn't long before we were privy to solitary review sessions in the sanctuary of her room. We chuckled as the baby monitor spoke in her disembodied high voice the new words from the day: "balloooon", "Roscoe", "doggie", "banana", "gramma", "Katie."
My favorite memory has to do with a stop we made at a gas station on a travel to see family or friends - I don't remember which now - in which Anna accompanied me inside to use the restroom. As she toddled her way next to the outside aisle, she kept pointing at objects on the shelves and inquiring "ta ka koi"? Now, I had learned a bit of Russian but not this "ta ka koi", whatever that was. She held my hand insistently and wouldn't move forward to the restroom.
Ta ka koi?
Finally it dawned on me; she must be asking me what this is called in English? So I named the object and she was satisfied.
"Tuna."
"Tuna," she would repeat. "Ta ka koi?"
"Batteries."
"Batteries. Ta ka koi?"
"Toilet paper."
"Toilet paper. Ta ka koi. . . "
This continued all the way down the aisle, Anna asking then repeating. She was a sponge! She never needed to ask again. And that is how she came to speak English only in three months versus the usual six months for children in her situation.
Just in case you are interested, ta ka koi doesn't actually mean anything in Russian!
Not so! Within days of her adoption finalization in Moscow, the tiny tot the size of an 18-month old was chattering away - in Russian, of course. But even there she began to learn English. Words like "Mama, papa, glasses, paper, potty" were mastered before our plane touched down in Green Bay, Wisconsin. At the airport she was greeted by her new grandparents with a bouquet of balloons. Before we'd left the premises my father had already taught her "balloon" - pronounced
"ball-ooooon!"
It wasn't long before we were privy to solitary review sessions in the sanctuary of her room. We chuckled as the baby monitor spoke in her disembodied high voice the new words from the day: "balloooon", "Roscoe", "doggie", "banana", "gramma", "Katie."
My favorite memory has to do with a stop we made at a gas station on a travel to see family or friends - I don't remember which now - in which Anna accompanied me inside to use the restroom. As she toddled her way next to the outside aisle, she kept pointing at objects on the shelves and inquiring "ta ka koi"? Now, I had learned a bit of Russian but not this "ta ka koi", whatever that was. She held my hand insistently and wouldn't move forward to the restroom.
Ta ka koi?
Finally it dawned on me; she must be asking me what this is called in English? So I named the object and she was satisfied.
"Tuna."
"Tuna," she would repeat. "Ta ka koi?"
"Batteries."
"Batteries. Ta ka koi?"
"Toilet paper."
"Toilet paper. Ta ka koi. . . "
This continued all the way down the aisle, Anna asking then repeating. She was a sponge! She never needed to ask again. And that is how she came to speak English only in three months versus the usual six months for children in her situation.
Just in case you are interested, ta ka koi doesn't actually mean anything in Russian!
Monday, May 2, 2016
The Fox River Drive walk: A dog tale
From about 1994-1997 my husband and I lived on Good Hope Road in DePere, Wisconsin. We had no children yet, but for much of the time we did have two dogs, Roscoe and Bucky. I thoroughly enjoyed walking them either around the neighborhood on Fox River Drive or up to and through the nearby Greenwood Cemetery. In good-weather months we would often head out for about a 2-mile walk around our neighborhood which bordered the Fox River. The road to a boat-landing where we often turned around was replete with interesting mansions. Some of the oldest families in DePere had waterfront property in this well-established area. One of the huge brick mansions even had its own tennis court (upon which I never saw anyone play). We would pass by an old three-story brick home with a wildflower garden next to the sidewalk; I always loved that place. If Brent were along on the walk, we would muse about which mansion we wanted to live in someday. On the way back we would head deeper into the offshoot streets which were much more middle-class - lots of duplexes versus mansions.
On other days I would take the dogs in the other direction - left and up the hill toward the cemetery. Here, on a good day, I could let them loose for a bit. They could run along the gravel road and then pee on the bushes surrounding the cemetery. The cemetery itself was always interesting to take in. The older section had stones dating back to the late 1800's. There were a few monuments for prominent Green Bay families. And, sadly, there was a single, small white cross commemorating the burial place for a young teenage boy who had drowned in the river a few years earlier.
One day I was certain Roscoe saw a ghost. He was trotting by one of the oldest monuments when he suddenly jumped for no apparent reason.
These walked always helped keep the dogs and me happy and balanced.
On other days I would take the dogs in the other direction - left and up the hill toward the cemetery. Here, on a good day, I could let them loose for a bit. They could run along the gravel road and then pee on the bushes surrounding the cemetery. The cemetery itself was always interesting to take in. The older section had stones dating back to the late 1800's. There were a few monuments for prominent Green Bay families. And, sadly, there was a single, small white cross commemorating the burial place for a young teenage boy who had drowned in the river a few years earlier.
One day I was certain Roscoe saw a ghost. He was trotting by one of the oldest monuments when he suddenly jumped for no apparent reason.
These walked always helped keep the dogs and me happy and balanced.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
The Tancheon river trail: A human tale
When we lived in Korea, just south of Seoul in the Bundang area, we have the good fortune of living in an apartment complex right next to a river complete with a walking and biking trail. Someone truly ambitious could ride a bike all the way into the heart of Seoul, I was told. But for me, the trail was more about a leisurely walk or bike ride, sometimes with - sometimes without- the family. I absolutely loved the trail because it was a green space to enjoy people and nature watching. As I walked down the trail toward my school (a one hour and 45 minute walk or 30 minute bike ride), the river would be on my left and an embankment and then busy road would be on my right. The river often housed large waterfowl, like heron, fish, and ducks. After a few minutes, I would arrive at a workout area common in our experience of Korea. Mostly, one would see older people stretching or strengthening, twisting or lifting. Much of the time the equipment would be in use as I passed by. A bit further, and periodically throughout the trek, there would be huge rectangular boulders placed strategically in the water to create a hoppable path from one side of the river to the other, where another walking path lined the river.
It is common for many people to be on the path, bikers, walkers, runners, friends chatting, families with children in strollers. It is also common to see people walking small breed dogs on their leashes. Sometimes the dogs would have a pink tail or pink ears, having survived some traumatic trip to a salon - no doubt. From time to time the path winds directly under a highway bridge, so the sounds of the city are anything but muted. Mostly, the cement structures were free of grafitti and garbage, typical of the cleanliness of Seoul.
A bit further on where the trail forked into a few different directions, I would cross a bridge. This would be a great spot to admire the dozen or so catfish usually hanging out there. The path would separate into to parallel paved paths, one for bikes and one for pedestrians. Sometimes an old gentleman would cruise past on his bike with his personal radio playing a local station with Korean music. Most days I would see at least one adjuma (older woman) covered from head to toe in fabric, afraid of any sunlight touching her body. It wouldn't matter the temperature, a hot day was as good as a cool one to be covered with a visor with fabric hanging over everything but eyes and nostrils, long sleeves, gloves, matching wind pants, and bright shoes.
Another fifteen minutes or so and I would reach the dog park section. This was basically a low metal fence with two doors bordering a 20X40 ft area for dogs of any size and their owners to let them off leash and run around. Usually there were 5 - 10 dogs there. It was the one place I might spot a golden retriever or some cute puppy with their giggly children throwing a ball. Further yet, there was an outdoor water-play area for little children. Continue on and the water would be on the right and the rising cityscape on the left. The hustle and bustle of cars, taxis, buses, and people walking at Sunae would waft down to me as I strolled along, one hour into my trek. If I made it all the way to Sunae and it were spring time, the cherry blossoms would be out in full force, thick and fragrant and all around you. This is one of the lovelier spots I know of - anywhere.
It is common for many people to be on the path, bikers, walkers, runners, friends chatting, families with children in strollers. It is also common to see people walking small breed dogs on their leashes. Sometimes the dogs would have a pink tail or pink ears, having survived some traumatic trip to a salon - no doubt. From time to time the path winds directly under a highway bridge, so the sounds of the city are anything but muted. Mostly, the cement structures were free of grafitti and garbage, typical of the cleanliness of Seoul.
A bit further on where the trail forked into a few different directions, I would cross a bridge. This would be a great spot to admire the dozen or so catfish usually hanging out there. The path would separate into to parallel paved paths, one for bikes and one for pedestrians. Sometimes an old gentleman would cruise past on his bike with his personal radio playing a local station with Korean music. Most days I would see at least one adjuma (older woman) covered from head to toe in fabric, afraid of any sunlight touching her body. It wouldn't matter the temperature, a hot day was as good as a cool one to be covered with a visor with fabric hanging over everything but eyes and nostrils, long sleeves, gloves, matching wind pants, and bright shoes.
Another fifteen minutes or so and I would reach the dog park section. This was basically a low metal fence with two doors bordering a 20X40 ft area for dogs of any size and their owners to let them off leash and run around. Usually there were 5 - 10 dogs there. It was the one place I might spot a golden retriever or some cute puppy with their giggly children throwing a ball. Further yet, there was an outdoor water-play area for little children. Continue on and the water would be on the right and the rising cityscape on the left. The hustle and bustle of cars, taxis, buses, and people walking at Sunae would waft down to me as I strolled along, one hour into my trek. If I made it all the way to Sunae and it were spring time, the cherry blossoms would be out in full force, thick and fragrant and all around you. This is one of the lovelier spots I know of - anywhere.
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