43 is the new 83

They say the hips don’t lie (at least, that bastion of insight and wisdom, Shakira, does).  It is undoubtedly true that mine has been telling an increasingly noisy and decidedly unpleasant truth for about 5 years now.  3 years ago, my debilitating back pain had gotten so disruptive to our daily lives that my husband and children nearly dragged me into the doctor’s office, where I was quickly recommended for physical therapy (and prescription strength anti-inflammatories, as if I hadn’t purchased stock in Advil years ago due to my 20 tablet a day habit). About a month into PT, my therapist determined that my problem was actually hip—not back—related.  6 months in she sent me back to the orthopedist, stumped as to how to help me further.  The doctor took one look at the x-ray, looked kindly at me and said, “You’re going to need a new hip.”  I returned his look skeptically and said, “You mean—in like 15 to 20 years?”  He shrugged.  “Um... more like 3 to 5.”  

I stomped out, determined to prove the doctor wrong. 80 year olds needed new hips.  I was barely half that, and I wasn’t the average 41 year old soccer mom regardless. I was a bad-ass, former college athlete, full time working mom of 5 and that punk doctor didn’t know WHAT I was made of.  I would show him.

2 years later, I limped back in, significantly poorer for all the supplements, massages, hot yoga, weight loss programs, and pillow/mattress/sit support investments (not to mention all the wine) I had tried in an altogether fruitless effort to fix my sad, broken hip.  I cried when he repeated the prognosis.  “You need a new hip.”  

“How do I know when it’s time?” I asked.  

“You know when you know,” he said.  

And I knew.  2 weeks later, the specialist in Iowa City said gravely, “It’s a level 4.”  (I hate it when they say things like that—level 4 on a scale of... 1 to 3?  1 to 100?). He went on: “It’s almost unbelievable that you are still able to walk at this stage.  You must be significantly stronger than most people.  Almost anyone else would be bedridden at this point.”  (OK, he didn’t really say that last part.)  But it WAS a level 4 on what turned out to be a scale of 1 to 4.  What he actually said is that most of the cartilage is worn away and bone spurs were starting to develop.  And he confirmed that there is no next step beyond total hip replacement.  Turns out an anti-inflammatory diet and hot yoga can’t really touch that.  Even losing 30 pounds can’t help (at least that’s what they said. I can’t say I actually tested that one).

In 27 days, I will go in to have my level 4 hip replaced with a titanium and stainless steel and ceramic and plastic one (it’s a complicated piece of engineering—please don’t ask me to explain it).  I have to admit that I have decidedly mixed feelings about this.  I am terrified and hopeful and angry and sad and exhilarated and oddly exhausted by it.  

In 27 days the doctor will literally saw off the top of my femur and drill out the center of my thigh bone and jam a stainless steel rod (does he realize it will likely need to be the longest one they have?  Chad was ruminating on the surgery the other day and commented, “I wonder if they have different sizes.  Does the doctor know he is going to need the largest one?”  

“Longest, you mean,” I offered.

“No, largest,” he confirmed, realization dawning a moment too late.  You can’t say I didn’t try to (sorry, painful pun coming) throw the guy a bone).  I can’t bear to explain it any further, because if I ponder the actual mechanics of the procedure for too long I know I’ll lose my nerve.

It is sort of a mystery how I’ve arrived at this situation.  I have been told, in no particular order, that it is not genetic, because my left hip looks “perfect”.  It is not likely related to my ankle break in high school—but it could be.  It could be related to my adolescent scoliosis.  It could be related to an unremembered injury, though this is unlikely as severe as it is.  When the specialist asked what happened, I just said, “Adolescent scoliosis, 20 years of sports and 10 years of having babies” and he nodded sagely.  It’s as good an explanation as any.  Something went wrong at some point, and somehow the twisting and stretching and pounding and just plain old moving of 43 years of living have completely worn out this one, tired, badly hurting joint of mine.  One thing is clear—it’s got to go.  

I would never have expected to feel such ruefulness over a medical event like this, but I have to admit that I have been feeling very sentimental about this right hip of mine.  I mean, this is the hip that squeezed out of my own mother’s body on that cold December day a few short decades ago.  It’s the hip I walked on when I staggered to take my first steps.  It’s the hip that pedaled my first bicycle and learned to tap dance.  It’s the hip that rose just a few millimeters high enough over the other to require my back brace in middle school.  It’s the hip that carried me through 2 volleyball state championships in high school and a conference basketball championship in college.  It’s the hip that walked down the aisle to marry my husband. It’s the hip that carried me into the delivery room 5 different times, and the hip that balanced and bounced babies and toddlers for countless hours of my life.  It’s the hip that finished a half marathon and pedaled all the way across the state.  It’s the hip that swam in oceans and jumped off cliffs and knelt in church pews and climbed up on bar stools.  It’s a hip that taught dozens of little girls to shoot layups, and bent to kiss sleeping children and scold naughty puppies.  It’s the hip that stood to give interviews and speeches and presentations over countless professional jobs.  It’s a real and tangible part of me that will be ruthlessly sawed off and thrown away.

I know it is just stupid and kind of downright weird to think this way.  I know what I’m losing is actually quite injured and worn out.  It is a constant source of debilitating pain that has dramatically changed the person that I am.  It hurts my heart to hear my kids say, “Mom won’t want to do that” when the suggested family activity is something active.  Don’t they know who and how I am?  But it’s been hurting for years—and kids can’t think beyond the last 3 or 4 months.  The last straw was really when Chad beat me at a game of HORSE. I have never lost to him—not once in our 19 years together, but last year on his birthday he actually accomplished the impossible.  I can’t live like this any more.  

I actually plan to ask if I can keep it.  (When Chad and I were discussing this particular question, he suggested we could give it to our puppy, if nothing else.  Just what I need is to live with a 7 pound pile of fluff who has developed a taste for gnawing my bones.  I’d never sleep another peaceful night in my life.  I have visions of waking to see her sweet, furry little face drooling hungrily over my sleeping form, longing for one more taste of my aging bones).  I don’t know what I’ll do with it otherwise—perhaps a mantle decoration? Maybe a Halloween decoration of some sort?  People will surely be lining up for invitations to dinner at the Lueken house!  

Now that the decision has been made and the date has been set, I just want to get on with it.  I am envisioning it like a rickety rope bridge across a terrifying canyon.  The side of the gorge I am on is comfortable and quiet, but it’s also full of pain and an unendurable altering in my fundamental self.  I could sit on the couch for the next 50 years and probably endure the discomfort, but that’s not who I want to be.  Instead, a short burst across a scary canyon, and I can pick up where I left off a few years ago (before the pain got so intense that I started altering my activities around it.  Now my most athletic feats involve standing up from overstuffed furniture and climbing out of cars).  The doctor assures me I can run again.  I can play basketball with the kids (and, naturally, beat Chad at HORSE).  I can ride a bike.  I can bend down to pet my puppy (assuming she doesn’t want to eat me) and pick up socks.  I can get back to myself again.

My doctor is handsome and young (I think there is some kind of law that says the doctor that operates on your hip has to be younger than you).  He is a PHD/MD who used to wrestle at Stanford.  I admit to a certain feeling of comfort seeing this hearty, clearly strong and confident person walk into the examination room.  He looked like he was strong enough to actually man handle these big old bones of mine.  (I did take a look at his hands which were unexpectedly more delicate than might have been expected.  While I like a bone breaking doc to look strong and powerful, I’d just as soon the hands that will be rooting around inside my cut open body not look like giant paws).  The nurse practitioner who will assist in the surgery was actually one of my athletic trainers in college, so that’s a comfort.

As the date draws nearer, I am just ready to make the dash and get this over with.  I know there will be pain and frustration and I am certain that recovery will be anything but pleasant.  I’ve struggled through injuries before, but the last times I was a hearty teenager with no responsibilities or concerns beyond my next big game.  Now I’m a mother of 5 with a full time professional job, volunteer obligations, 2 homes to deal with, and an 11 month old unreliably potty trained puppy (who might or might not want to eat me) to take care of.  Not to mention the fact that it’s unlikely 43 year old muscles and bones will respond with the same reliable resiliency as that vigorous 18 year old.

I once read that we will rarely make a change until the pain of the unknown is less than the pain of staying the same.  The honest truth is that I’ve given up a lot of who I am and who I want to be due to this cranky old hip, and I’m ready to try something (anything).  I’ve heard again and again from hip replacement patients and their friends that the most common sentiment associated with this surgery is “why didn’t I do this sooner?”  So I think I’m ready.  I would like to say I’ll blog again and try and articulate how recovery is going, but I know myself.   I bet I’ll be alternately drinking too much wine and feeling sorry for myself, and pushing myself hard to break all the rules they set about how much activity should be undertaken in order to break all their expectations about how much can be accomplished in the week and 2 weeks and one month following surgery.  Hip (new) hip hooray.  Here we go.  

Yield to the mini-van

I have just returned from my daily pilgrimage to the same school I’ve raced to every afternoon for the last 10 years.  I do not use the verb “race” lightly.  That is always how it goes.  No matter how well I plan, or how often I swear that I can’t live on the razor edge of the second hand every day of my blessed life, I am still racing to get everywhere.  So here, I beseech you:  Yield to the mini-van.

Trust me when I say, the driver knows it’s her fault.  She takes the blame for everything:  lateness, lost homework and soccer socks, the wrong color sippy cup, the unacceptably empty jar of peanut butter, mean coaches, vegetables (i.e. existence and necessity of).   In her heart of hearts, she really would yield the right of way, but she’s perpetually running behind and just really needs those few extra seconds.  Yield to the mini-van.

I’m guessing the baby just had an epic blowout right before she was scheduled to leave.  Her toddler lost his binky and is so freakishly strong when he’s mad and doesn’t have his paci and she’s trying to buckle him in.  Her teenager suddenly remembered she had to wear a black shirt to play practice and JUST ANY OLD BLACK SHIRT WOULD NOT DO.  These are the things that make her late.  Yield to the mini van.

Or maybe her boss kept her late.  She swore she wouldn’t let this happen again, but what was she supposed to say?  Or maybe a meeting ran long.  It seemed like it was just about to wrap up and they had just FINALLY gotten to the really crucial part that she needed to participate in.  One time she made it all the way across town in 12 minutes and there was no reason to think it couldn’t happen again today.  Except it didn’t.  Yield to the mini-van.

Or maybe, just maybe, she was doing something really truly a bit selfish.  A co-worker stopped her and asked her opinion on a recent event and she relished the opportunity to discuss something that didn’t involve poop.  Or she spent a few extra minutes flirting harmlessly with her barista.  Or, God forbid, she dozed off for a minute.  Or (more likely) couldn’t bring herself to wake the baby until the last possible moment, only to discover that he had soaked completely through every piece of fabric in his bed.  Yield to the mini-van.

She’s already feeling guilty about everything.  She is staying home changing diapers instead of using her advanced degree.  She should be out contributing to society and her family income with a for-pay job that requires heels and panty hose (do working women still wear those?)  Or she’s out in the world every day pulling in a paycheck and adding coworkers and a boss to the list of people she disappoints every day.  And she’s walking away every morning (always walking away) from the precious people that mean the most to her in the whole wide world just to keep food in their mouths and a roof over their heads. Yield to the mini van.

You might be mad at her, but give her a wave instead of the finger.  She knows everyone is already mad at her.  Her baby is mad that she won’t give him another sucker (two is enough!).  Her kindergartner is mad that the Miss Mouse ears she stayed up making have a PINK bow and not the correct YELLOW one.  Her middle schooler is mad that she couldn’t find a tall enough Abe Lincoln hat at one of the 8 stores she checked in after realizing she’d missed the all important 2-day shipping window for President Day.  Her teenager is mad at her for… everything.  Her husband is mad that she’s always too tired for sex.  Yield to the mini-van.

Give her a smile, I beg of you.  You might not think she’s good looking (she agrees with you), but you might be surprised what happens on the rare days when she has time for both mascara and clean hair at the same time.  She knows she looks tired and a little disheveled and that a messy bun or pony tail aren’t necessarily style icons.  The only people who ever smile kindly at her are old men at church, and then only if the baby is quiet and she remembered lipstick and made it to church in the first place.  She truly still is very pretty, under the spit up and the exhaustion, and if you look closely you’ll see a softness around the eyes that wasn’t there before.  You’ll see a warmth you can’t cultivate with make up or designer clothes.  But still, most of you don’t turn your heads for the subtleties of warmth and softness.  You’re kind to “hot” and she probably isn’t that right now. Yield to the mini-van.

I promise you she is more tired and running on more coffee than you.  She’s been up all night with a teething baby, or a sick toddler, or worrying about a newly driving teen, or finishing up that report or newsletter.  She has had to go to the bathroom for the last 3 hours.  She hasn’t had a pedicure since the Bush Administration (the first one) and she’s still trying to lose that last 10 (okay 20) pounds.  She has her period and the PMS is making her crazy or she skipped her period and the terror or excitement or morning sickness is overwhelming her.  Yield to the mini-van.

I’m willing to bet that something hurts.  Her back hurts from bending over the baby’s crib for the last 9 months.  Or her knee hurts from where she fell trying to skate board with her 12 hear old.  Or her neck hurts from curling up last night in a single bed with ninja figurines and legos and a frightened kindergartner while protecting from a nightmare or a storm or a fever.  Or her breasts hurt because the baby’s still learning to latch, or she has a cracked nipple, or she’s battling mastitis (again).  Or her tooth hurts and she’s had to cancel the appointment to have it looked it the last three times she’s tried.  Or her hand hurts where she burned it baking cupcakes after everyone was asleep the night before the school bake sale.  Or her heart hurts because she snapped at her teenager before he left for school, or at her husband when he asked about the credit card bill, or because she’s waiting to hear what her mom’s doctor said.  Yield to the mini-van.

I’m completely certain that she knows that everyone’s life is hard.  She doesn’t think hers is any harder than yours.  In fact, she spends most of her waking hours thinking about how she can make it better for you—how she can make sure that you don’t miss anything, or that you have everything you need in your backpack, or that you’re getting all the right nutrients, or that your shirt is clean for your presentation or that your uniform is ready for your game.  She wants with everything she has to make things perfect for you.  She worries that she’s doing too much and always, always that she’s not doing enough.  That’s why she’s crazy and running late all the time.  Yield to the mini-van.

Trust me when I say she doesn’t think she’s better or cooler or remotely more important than you (she’s driving a mini-van for heaven’s sake) when she cuts you off.  She has dreams on pause just now because part of her dreams included those car seats you see in the back seat.  She’s in over her head no matter how much she wanted this family, and I’m totally convinced she is trying with everything she’s got.  When she’s her normal self (she barely even knows what that means on days like these) she really is a polite and careful driver.  But today, she needs a nap.  She needs a massage.  She needs a hug.  She needs a beach vacation.  She needs a drink.  She needs a break.  Yield to the mini- van.

Volleyball gave me back my daughter

I have dreamed from the beginning, that Grace would love all the same things I do—she would be a voracious reader and a tall girl who loved sports, she would have a terrible sweet tooth but also enjoy vegetables.  She would also be better than me in so many ways—she would be thin and straight backed, she would be effortlessly kind and less bossy.  She would have small feet. 

She is 14 now, and she is sort of some of these things and not at all others.  She is a beautiful artist who sings like a lark.  She prefers fruit to chocolate.  She is thin.  She has big feet.  She reads for pleasure only occasionally and prefers science class to English.  And, until very recently, she seemed decidedly lukewarm about the two sports I loved and had secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) dreamed she would take up.  I played volleyball and basketball from grade school through college and loved them so completely that it never occurred to me that children of my blood could ever treat them with a casual “take it or leave it” type attitude that, if I’m being honest, sort of troubled me.

These sports kind of saved me.  Well, maybe that’s a bit strong.  But volleyball and basketball certainly defined a big part of my life, and shaped me in ways I am both proud of and deeply grateful for.  I participated in a variety of activities as a child, but as I grew—and remained—taller than most everyone in my class (including, by 6^th grade, some of the teachers) I started gravitating towards activities that benefitted most from my size.  And in these activities, I found something my (admittedly) intense personality could latch onto.  You know when you’ve found something you were meant to do, something that feels natural and right—like you’ve been doing it your whole life even if it’s your first time.  I’ve tried lots of things over the years—tennis, softball, golf, competitive jump roping (yeah, it’s a thing), diving, gymnastics, cheerleading, running—but only these sports felt like home.

We exposed Grace to lots of sports over the years.  She played almost all the ones I listed above and even a few I didn’t including soccer and dance and some non-sports (drama and choir among other things).  She started swimming competitively in third grade.  I originally signed her up because the swim team was cheaper (by the hour) than swim lessons, and I liked the idea of her getting very comfortable in the water.  I had no idea at the time, however, that this “expanded swim lessons” plan would evolve into her passion for the last 6 years.  Grace swam 2, then 3, then 4 days a week and improved year after year.  She started earning “Q” times (state qualifying times) and we started traveling with her to out of town meets.  The trappings and language of the sport were an utter mystery to me and I felt a little left out of this part of her life.

Because here is the other thing:  Grace started swimming in 3^rd grade at the age of 8.  When Grace was 8 years old, I was pregnant with my 5^th child.  Within 6 months of her first swim team practice, I had 5 children under the age of 8.  It’s a period of my life I look back on with a blend of awe and remembered exhaustion.  I was surviving day to day, and there was simply no room in my life for one more thing.  There was no space in my addled brain for learning the nuances and vocabulary of a new sport.  I stupidly assumed there wasn’t much to swimming besides, well, swimming fast.  I got Grace to practice.  I wrote checks and bought gear.  I went to meets.  Well… I sometimes went to meets.

Because here is the thing—swim meets are 5 things:  1.  Really long.  2.  Really hot.  3.  Really loud.  4. Really crowded. 5. Dangerous and tempting for small children.  They are absolutely the perfect storm of undesirable places to spend any amount of time with toddlers and babies.  And I had 4 of them when Grace’s swimming career was born and beginning to bloom.  I tried to encourage and enjoy her sport.  I have horrible, hazy memories of trying to keep a nursing newborn under a blanket while sitting in the bleachers in the humid, 90+ temperatures while simultaneously keeping toddlers from jumping in the oh-so-tempting cool blue water of the pool and waiting for my beloved Grace to spend her approximately 90 seconds of a 7 hour day in the water.   Looking back, it is no wonder most of the swim obligations were met by her dad while I stayed home.

During this same time, I admit, I was volunteering to help coach Sam and Claire in their first attempts at Y basketball.  I would take my babies along to these events, too (in cooler gymnasiums with plenty of room for toddlers to run and ending within just one hour), and was even known to coach from the sidelines with a baby on my hip.  But really, in my defense, they lasted an hour, did not involve the proximity of a deadly hazard (drowning), were not hotter than, say, 70 degrees or so, and (the unavoidable truth) involved a sport I knew intimately and had enjoyed enormously for more than half my life.

Over the years, the family story began to evolve around a “mom doesn’t like swimming” narrative.  This wasn’t entirely fair, nor, if I’m being totally honest, completely untrue.  I didn’t NOT like swimming.  I just didn’t know it well and I found it somewhat inconvenient due to two things:  the duration of the competitions (and the paradoxical shortness of my child’s participation in them—I mean, the faster she went, the LESS time she spent competing.  She was actually racing for a mere fraction of the time we were there) and the relative discomfort of the surroundings.  The primary pool Grace practiced and raced in was hot, crowded, and noisy. 

So I missed.  A lot.  I tried to sneak up to see her compete when I could, but parking was often poor and until recently, I couldn’t leave any of the others behind without a babysitter.  Nipping in for a 2 minute race with 4 children in tow with a half mile walk between parking spot and bleachers requires nearly as much training and athleticism as her 100 backstroke. 

So, when Grace opted to try volleyball somewhere around 4^th grade, I uttered a hearty sigh of relief.  Now we could finally get on with it.  I volunteered to coach and we spent many happy hours perfecting the pass, learning footwork and blocking techniques, practicing serves.  We developed line ups together on the way to games and discussed strategies on the way home.  We were home.  I thought.

But she continued to swim.  As she grew, we started to discuss the unfortunate reality that volleyball and swimming were the same season in high school and she couldn’t continue to participate in both.  She got picked up by a club volleyball team and her skills continued to advance, but still she stuck with swimming.  When she started middle school sports, she would play the school sport for 2 hours, then head straight to the pool or back to the gym for 2 more hours of either club volleyball or swimming.  I started worrying a little about her caloric intake versus her athletic output.  But she was getting straight A’s and loving it.  Those were her sports.  Volleyball and swimming.  She grew more and more talented at both.  With my experience in volleyball, I knew she had tons of promise.  She continued to grow taller (like her mom) but unlike her mom she was remarkably fast on her feet, enormously strong (no doubt due to the hours spent in the pool) and could jump out of the gym.  Both passing and hitting came naturally to her—it was a delight to watch her knowing the game as I did.  Her instincts—the motions and form--were spot on.  Swim moms assured me that her strokes were also improving.  “She’s so smooth!” one mom continually insisted.  “She’s really getting good.”  I had to take their word for it. 

As middle school drew to an end, we tried not to pester her about her choice.  All summer, she attended both volleyball open gyms and swimming practices, plus weight lifting and conditioning--4 to 6 hours of training every single day.  And she never complained or seemed to wear out.  I envied her a little.  I remember spending hours of my endless summers playing sports I loved.  It never felt like a sacrifice to me.  It was where I belonged.

But the choice loomed.  She grew angry when we asked her about it, so we kept our questions to ourselves.  I was certain she didn’t want to speak of it because she was afraid to tell me she was choosing swimming and thought it would disappoint me.  I tried to be supportive and clear that this was HER choice, HER life, HER turn.  I’d had mine (and, a piece of me reasoned, 2 other daughters that might choose to play the games I knew.  Grace wasn’t my only shot at reliving the “glory days”). 

One hot day this August, I took a call from an unrecognized number and was greeted by the perky voice of the varsity high school swim coach.  The coach knew she was debating between the two sports, and she had followed her club swimming career enough to know she wanted her on the team.  “She hasn’t decided,” I told her.  “She knows she has to, but I think she’s struggling to give one up.”  I assured the coach that I would have Grace call her back within the next few days.  I pulled she and Chad into a room and laid it out.  “You need to decide, honey,” I tried to say as gently as I could.  “And you need to call her back.”

She panicked a little.  “Mom, can’t you talk to her?” 

“No,” I told her.  “This is up to you. Do you know what you’re going to choose?”

“Volleyball,” she said quietly, with such regret in her voice that I couldn’t acknowledge my own excitement right then.  It was such a terrible shame that the only two sports she had ever loved competed at the high school level at the same time. 

“Are you sure?” I asked gently.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Then call her back now,” I said.  “Just get it over with.  Otherwise you will worry about it and make it scarier than it needs to be.”

So she did.  I was so proud of my girl that afternoon.  She made a tough decision and owned it completely.  She called an adult and had a difficult conversation without flinching or backing out.  And she had chosen VOLLEYBALL!

I was so unbelievably thrilled, it is almost embarrassing to admit it.  I tried to keep it to myself, because I know a part of her really mourned the end of her swimming career.  So she started practices, and a few weeks later, told us that she had been selected to move up to play on the sophomore team.  The SOPHOMORE team!  This is a pretty big deal (“it’s not that big of a deal, mom”) and, at least back when I played, only the most promising athletes get moved up (“they just needed someone in my position, mom.  And someone tall.”)   I sent a text to my sister and she and I shared a few ecstatic messages.

Me:  “Grace said she might get moved up to play with the sophomores in volleyball (!!!)”

“PS. We are not allowed to make a big deal of it”

Carrie:  “HOW CAN WE NOT MAKE A BIG DEAL OUT OF THAT!?!?!?!?  Yeah!”

Me: 

And since then, something wonderful and altogether unexpected has happened.  Grace is talking to me!  And not just talking—she is seeking me out and is interested in my opinion!  She asks my advice!  Granted, it is typically along the lines of “do you think I should ask my coach if we can work on blocking?” and “what do you mean when you say the right side should pull in and cover the angle instead of the line?”  But still!  The first time we went to an out of town game, I had Grace stash pillows and blankets in my car so she could sleep on the way home.  I loaded a new book on my phone anticipating a quiet ride home, essentially alone on the dark highway with my memories and my sleeping children.  It shocked me when Grace climbed in the front seat and proceeded to converse with me the entire way home.  Suddenly I was relevant to her!  She trusted my knowledge and sought (not just tolerated) my opinion.  It wasn’t quite giggling about boys over lattes, but I’d rather talk sports than boys any day.

And here’s the most glorious part—what I always loved about sports was how it mimicked life in such concentrated and applicable ways.  Hard work pays off.  And sometimes it doesn't.  Trust your team.  You, your teammates, the referees, and your coach will all make mistakes.  Forgive.  Play in position.  You must lead.  You must listen.  You must follow.  Put your emotions aside and get on with it.  Fight for the win.  Lose with grace.  People will let you down.  People will lift you up.  People will criticize you.  The same people will praise you.  Get up.  Keep going.  You will triumph.  You will fail.  You will get screamed at.  You will be loved.  You will get hurt.  You will overcome suffering.  You will weep.  You will soar.  You can only talk about blocking footwork and passing technique and quick sets for so long.  Then you drift into life lesson territory.  If my daughter welcomes me into this space in her teenage years via the bridge of volleyball, then I have more reason than ever to love it.

A friend of mine whose daughter swam with Grace for years and is now competing with the high school team asked me recently how I was handling out of town games.  “Do you go to all of them?” she asked, “It is just so much work to get there, but there really is no reason I CAN’T go.  What do you do?”

“I agree,” I began.  “It is a lot of work.”  Because it is.  And it is exhausting and overwhelming and puts demands on my husband and the rest of my children and my job when I do it.  We have to leave by 3 because the sophomores play at 5:30 and the out of town games are at least 90 minutes away.   We have to eat crappy fast food for dinner and miss everything the other kids are doing and I end up yet another day behind on laundry and my other chores. But I haven’t missed a single one.

Because volleyball gave me back my daughter, and I’m going to relish every second.  The laundry can wait. 

It's time

It has been almost a month since I started this post.  It has taken shape in scribbles in a notebook and notes on my phone and countless drafts in my head.  I'm sure I'll never do justice to it, but I've told myself it has to be written down for my sake and my babies, if nothing else.


It has been a year since I last posted, though if you could read the outstanding drafts I've kept in my head I'm sure you'd be impressed with the year we've had.  But I'm so busy with the living of it, I haven't much time for the telling of it.


The first day of school has once again come and gone.  My little ducks are in 3 different schools this year:  elementary, middle and high school.  HIGH SCHOOL!!  I know.   (Also note the absence--for the first time in over a decade--of preschool.  I know).  I've got daughters in 2nd and 4th and a son in 7th.  Last year, the boys (first day of preschool, first day of middle school) took center stage.  This year it was the oldest and the youngest--freshman in high school and kindergarten, respectively.  My babies--the biggest and the littlest.  How momentous.


Typing it now, many weeks removed from the first day, I feel a bit sentimental again, but at the time I was a bit less so.  Partly because the whole kit and caboodle of them were so darn ornery and destructive in the last 2 weeks of summer (and I'm not even home with them!  God help us all if I were!) that I nearly kicked their cute little uniformed fannies out the door on the first day.  "Go on," I would have said.  "Grow up.  I need you OUT OF THIS HOUSE!  Only 9th grade and kindergarten and.... whatever the rest of you are starting?  WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG TO GET THIS OVER WITH?" 


But 3 weeks later, watching them settle into their routines, I'm still a little shocked over the pace of this whole thing.  At the rate we're going, I'll be moving Clayton into college before I finish this post.  Slow.  It.  Down.  (And also, clean up the kitchen and pick up your own darn socks once in awhile.  But I digress).

From the beginning, they have both felt as if they didn't belong to me.  Surprises both, and both bursting into lives that were (we thought) settled and relatively certain (ha!)  Both of them taught us so much.  One started this reckless ride, the other reminded me that motherhood--and life--is nothing if not humbling and, oftentimes, rather shocking.  Both altered my body and my perspective enormously.  With her, I threw up for three months, feeling as though I were sharing my body with a hostile alien.  With him, I gave up on any notion of control, once and for all, felt my spirit break and be spectacularly renewed as we redefined our marriage and our family around just one more. 


Both are fair as the sun.  We never looked as though we belonged to one another, their pink and white skin, blue eyes and white gold hair nestled against my brown shoulders and nearly black hair seemed sort of silly almost.  Or, like my brother in law once said upon seeing me in a photo with my very fair Irish cousins.  "Dawn looks like the Mexican babysitter."  Indeed.


When I was handed both in the delivery room I remember a moment of pause, "That one can't be mine," I thought.  And I spent weeks afterward searching for some genetic indication that I had contributed some tiny thing to their biology.  Later, as their personalities emerged, I kept looking.  She with her timid, eager to please attitude, he with his brash, rowdy charm and incongruous shyness.  Neither of them quite matched.  It was a stretch to find myself in them. 


But oh, how I loved them--love them still.  You can't love any of them best, and I don't.  But there's a special place for the first and the last.  A big chunk of my heart that I'll never share with anyone else belongs to them.


So, Grace has started high school and Clayton has started kindergarten.  High school!  Kindergarten!  I know I should feel more weepy and sentimental, and I do, sort of.  But I also feel like I used to at the end of each pregnancy--like it's TIME.  A friend of mine once told her unborn son, "there ain't room in here for 2 of us" and that's sort of how I feel about keeping them in middle school and preschool.  There isn't room in those places for them anymore.  They've outgrown them.  By extension, I guess, so have I.  We are running out of space and patience and (ahem) grace where we are right now.  Birthing ourselves into the next phase is sort of painful, but it's NECESSARY.


Clay needs the structure and the chance at independence.  He needs to get up every day and wear shoes that tie and go to Mass with his class (with no one to hold him!  And he can't go to sleep! And he can't take off his shirt!)  He's ridden the baby train long enough.  It's time to get off at kindergarten station and start the journey (for real) to big boy town.  No more excuses.


I can't really think of much more to say about Clay.  Last year was the big step--moving out of his beloved in home daycare and into full time (all day every day) preschool.  This year, he moved from downstairs to upstairs and has to wear a uniform.  (He is so CUTE in his uniform--but it is such a relief to see him in something besides ninja turtle and minion t-shirts that I can't even muster much nostalgia).  He has one of our favorite teachers in the school and is so blasé about the whole thing we are all issuing a sort of collective shrug about the launch of his academic career. 


And Grace.  Oh, Grace.  As she matures I keep having to learn again that motherhood ain't no Hallmark card.  How did I end up with such an unsentimental, straight shooting, scientifically literal thinking child like Grace?  I thought maybe, maybe there might be some poetry there somewhere.  But come to find out, it was a mathematical equation--a complex one well beyond my current ability to solve--but an utterly logical one for all that.  I have these fantasies about her and I giggling over lattes and sharing heartfelt moments as she matures.  Instead, I try hard to provide the stability and organization--the supplies and the clean uniforms and the permission slips--and not to feel hurt by her lack of outward affection.  All teens are that way, right?  And under it burns a love so fierce and urgent, it is all I can do not to throw my arms around her lanky form and weep.


The night before school started, I went up to her room before bed.  She was coloring and watching Netflix.


"Hey," I said and sat down on her bed.


"Hey," she responded, glancing warily over her shoulder.


"So, are you ready for school tomorrow?" I asked.


"Yeah," she said.


"Are you nervous?"


"No."


"Excited?"


"Not really."


"How do you feel?" I asked.


"I don't know.  It's just school," she said.  "Can you leave now?"


I stood up and took her face in my hands.  (See, these are things I do because one, I am a sentimental fool and two, I read too much, and that is the sort of thing mothers do in books).  Grace sighed and looked up at me with a sort of studied patience.  My eyes filled with tears.  Her face doesn't have the clear, bright complexion of a toddler anymore and her mouth is full of braces.  She stands nearly as tall as I do.  But I could so clearly see the precious face of my sweet baby girl in that irritated teenager staring back at me.  I kissed her heartily and left.  I learned awhile ago that sometimes the most loving thing you can do is walk away.


So every day, she walks into high school and further and further away from me.  The first day ended at 1p, and I had an important meeting to go to right after lunch.  I tried to talk Chad into picking her up, but neither she, nor he, saw any reason why the babysitter couldn't just do it.  If I thought it made even the slightest difference to her, I would have changed my plans.  But it didn't, and I'm glad.  She was confident and ready, which means I'm doing my job.


And Clay is big and he walks and talks (dear Lord how the child talks) but, like his teacher told me last year, "he's kind of a big deal around here" so I know he's got kindergarten totally covered with that machismo and charm. 


The others are flourishing--begging me not to pick them up until the very last moment at extended care so they can spend more time with their friends, doing homework and complaining about school lunch and cranky teachers.  They keep signing up for so many sports and activities that I'm sure I won't have a chance to slow down long enough to lament how fast these family years are racing by. 


They never really belonged to me anyway.

Great firsts

 

 

The night before the first day of school should be peaceful. Ideally, you will have spent the last 2 weeks gradually drawing bedtimes and wake up calls closer and closer to the school year norms so the last official night of summer winds down quietly. Preferably with some excited laying out of supplies and brand new clothes and backpacks. Perhaps with some heartwarming conversation about what one might expect on the first day of pre-K, 1st, 3rd, 6th and 8th grades. Thus prepared, your darling child’s first day of school will start cheerfully and in plenty of time. Fortified with a healthy breakfast in the shape of a cartoon character but containing no artificial ingredients or preservatives, they will then pose cheerfully holding your Pinterest worthy chalkboard art containing their grade, school, age (in minutes), and an individual haiku for each child praising their unique characteristics and lamenting the passage of time.

Our first day was slightly less picturesque. We spent the entire weekend at the lake, and got home just in time to realize—crap! We forgot about shoes! We’ve lived the longest summer on record almost exclusively in flip flops, but, alas, school uniforms require closed toes and (eek!) something for gym class. In my defense, signing 5 children up at 3 different schools and all the involved paperwork, doctor’s visits, supply purchases, and uniform planning required nearly all of my not insignificant powers of planning and patience. I had them covered from head to… well… ankle. I’m getting there.

So my darling dearest headed dutifully for the mall with all but one of the kids in tow. After approximately 13 phone calls (does Grace REALLY need new shoes AGAIN? Didn’t we just buy her some, like, 2 years ago? And is it smart to buy Sam shoes that are a full size too big? They are the only ones he’s liked in 4 stores and, um, he’ll grow into them, right?), I assumed they had found shoes for everyone who needed them, but as the hour grew later and later, I began to worry. We HAD to do baths and showers tonight. None of this “but I swam in the lake so that’s just like a bath” summer nonsense on this very important night of nights. But where were they?

At 9:15, they burst through the door with a suspiciously large bag from a sporting goods store and 3 pairs of shoes (for 4 kids). After much discussion, we had all decided that only the oldest 2 really needed new ones. The rest of them could manage a few more months—at least until the snow threatened to seep into the holes in their old ones. The large bag contained new tow ropes for the boat, and the kids whispered of a new knee board as they finished their prayers later that night.

So everyone was in bed by 10, blessed and bathed, soothed and kissed. The two little girls jabbered excitedly for at least another half hour, but who’s counting? They got up easily enough this morning—first day excitement and all that. And we had some food in the house (we could all live on peanut butter in any event), and I even found an acceptable fruit/veggie/non-nut based snack for each of the little girls. Clay’s first day “tell me about YOU” bag was packed and everyone met the dress code.

The bus came a full four minutes early for my big kids (which—WHAT? That is so below the belt!) So our first day of school pictures on Sam’s momentous first day of middle school is taken through the drippy windows of the school bus. Luckily there was no one else on the bus at that point, or I may never have been forgiven. As if the sight of me sprinting barefoot down the street with soaking wet hair clutching my phone and shrieking “We didn’t get a picture!” wasn’t enough to strike humiliated fear into the hearts of the most confident middle schoolers. I thought about actually getting ON the bus, but just managed to contain myself.

Sam was ready, nervous, but willing to charge ahead. It broke my heart a little bit to hear him ask Grace 15 times what supplies he needed to take to his first class, and where he should go when he arrived. She was brusque and irritated—very big sisterly, come to think of it—and I silently (and, ok, a couple of times not so silently) begged her to show a little compassion. Sam was brave, and willing to jump in, but a little kindness from the sister he quietly admires quite a lot wouldn’t have hurt either. So he ran for the bus and didn’t look back, and I was left remembering the tiny baby boy who used to take such comfort in my presence and my touch that I called him my butter boy—for how completely his little body melted against mine in relief and connection anytime he was frightened or upset. Today he wouldn’t let me get too close, and I didn’t let the tears in my eyes fall as I watched his bus disappear around the corner.

I drove the littles to school, so I had a bit more control over the departure. We got lovely photos of my confident, smiling little 1st and 3rd graders. Lucy will own 1st grade—just like she’s owned every minute of her school career thus far. And Claire will dance joyously (if a bit cluelessly) into every challenge 3rd grade can throw at her. But my reluctant school boy’s photo reflects exactly his attitude about school for about the last month. He’s been hesitant, uncertain, and, with his little blankie clutched to his shuddering little chest—desperately courageous. And the whole family (especially his 2 big sisters) have rallied around him—comforting, encouraging and (let’s just say it) coddling.

I walked blithely into the first night orientation session late last week, expecting my tough little man to burst confidently into preschool with all his super-hero machismo and charm. He was cautious and quiet during the interview (during which his sisters either answered or whispered hints and responses in his ear for every question). When it came time for me to leave, all hell broke loose. My super strong little man had to be pried out of my arms by 2 full grown adults and his pleading and sobbing followed me out the door and all the way down the hall. I spent the entire meeting (containing details that haven’t changed in the 10 years a little Lueken has been in attendance at this school) working out plans for home schooling and a specially designed preschooler Bjorn that would accommodate both a rather large 4 year old, and his aging mom’s bad back.

Needless to say, I was not looking forward to today. Because here’s the thing. The child has never done anything alone. He’s always been surrounded by a comforting pack of cousins and siblings—be it Lucy showing him the ropes and beating off any would be bullies, or Grace volunteering as his counselor and full time babysitter. (We spent many hours between orientation and the first day of school discussing why, exactly, Grace couldn’t just join him at preschool. And also why he couldn’t marry her, but that’s a different story).

Today was better—but only just a little. There were tears. And I had to do the whole walking away thing again. I’ve gotten good at this, over the years. I smile. I don’t linger. I promise ice cream and snuggles. I kiss and walk away. Again and again I leave my heart in those little classrooms, with the little chairs and the little tables and storybooks and crayons and dress up clothes. And again and again they are great—my little Luekens. They are smart and they are kind. They are all sorts of wonderful I couldn’t possibly instill in them. The best I can do is stay out of their way, and so I do. I go to work and I make decisions and solve problems and live my own life away from them. A piece of my mind, and most of my heart, stay with them on days like these. I guess that’s true on most days.

Tonight, over ice cream, Sam smiled while he told me one of his best friends from grade school rode the same bus he did and the best part about middle school was locker breaks. Clay told me his teacher told him about kissing hands and WE already KNEW about them! Claire groaned about having to sit by boys and said she had chicken nuggets for lunch. Lucy said her teacher was mean until snack time, but then she was nice. Grace refused to talk to me after I was late picking her up from volleyball practice.

And so we begin, again. They’re still mine, for a little longer. They’re still making their mark on the world. They’re currently finger painting across from me (wait—we don’t own any finger paints), and driving me crazy. There’s laundry to fold and bedtime (too late—again) to attend to. Another day of great first is in the books.