The offical last day of July

Somehow, we have arrived at the last day of July. I have no idea how this happened. Seems to me we just got through the end of school, and graduations, and spring allergy season. Suddenly, *BAM*! We are entering the month which signals back-to-school sales, carpool plans, moving to college and multiple tuition payments.

I've considered lamenting the unbelievably rapid passing of time, but instead have decided to look forward. No point in reviewing what I thought summer might bring, as it still has a few weeks to surprise me. Rather, what do I want tomorrow to be? How do I want it to look? What do I want to share with people with whom I come in contact? What do I want for my family? My Home? My job?

In no particular order of priority or importance: I would like my daughter to settle into college, and find in and for her classes an enthusiasm and success she may have missed in high school. I would like my oldest son to finish his master's degree on schedule and be accepted into the dental school of his choice. I would like my youngest children to find their first years of high school both challenging and managable. I would like Chad and I to carve out some "couple time" amidst the chaos of once again being the sole transportation for not one but two high school students (how I will miss my other driver!). I would like to FINALLY tackle the house redecorating task of which I've dreamed for several years, even if it is just paint. I would like to find a schedule which allows me to keep my job and still keep my sanity amidst the challenging kid schedules. I would like to see the morale in my workplace returned to the level it was when I hired on. I would like to find the time to be a resource for expectant and new moms, either within or outside my job, to somehow impact the next generation of parents and children. Surely somethign I have learned in the last 20 years could be valuable those who look at the next 20 with fear and trepidation. I would like to see our country on a firm financial foundation, so that my grandchildren don't look back and wonder how this generation could morally and financially have bankrupted their future.

I have no idea why I am pondering both the mundane and the mountainous. Perhaps it is the current political unrest, or the incessent hundred-degree heat index, or possibly even a desire to avoid returning to my kitchen (which requires more attention to cleaning detail that I have energy today). When I read over my list, which is certainly not all inclusive, I find things over which I have great control. More, however, can be impacted only by fervent and hopeful prayers. I think I'll tackle those things first. After all, tomorrow is another day!

teenagers

Let's talk teenagers, by whom I am totally surrounded. I have never lived with so many at once. My first child left home at 16 and for all intents and purposes has never come back. He visits from time to time, eating me out of Honey Nut Cheerios and filling my refrigerator with tofu and hummus, but his visits are never very long. Now his sister has reached the magical year of 18, my youngest boy is weeks from 14, and the baby is in her 13th year.

I have a confession to make. As much as I love my older children, and as proud as I may be, this is not always my favorite age. I don't often regret experiencing the first child's later teen years largely via telephone, text and email, 100 miles away. Sometimes ignorance is bliss (now that he's 20, that is truer than ever).
I look back at those long gone days of childhood, when all I needed to do was kiss a booboo to make it better, rock a child with a fevered head, sing a lullaby to soothe a bad dream. I know, I know--there was so much more hair-pulling going on at the time, but when I choose to reminisce, I don't bother with the annoying stuff! Those are good years. I try to tell mothers that as often as I can. It doesn't get worse, but it does get different. You'll miss those little people, even as you are delighting in the new-found big people.

By the ripe old age of 18, the wisdom we need to hear most is the knowledge we are least willing to listen to. Sure, there were plenty of people willing to save me from making bad choices, but I thought I knew everything. Like Dorothy and the ruby slippers, the lessons learned by making my own mistakes were lessons I had to learn for myself. Do I wish I had listened to my parents more? Absolutely. Do I think I rolled my eyes and stomped my feet and threw a young-adult style little hissy-fit on occasion? Most definitely. It's a part of letting go, on both sides. As much as I would love to save my children from themselves, it is better if I watch as they make their own way.

That is not to say that I do not offer my opinion. Repeatedly. In various forms, and forums. Sometimes my suggestions/thoughts/insights are met with immediate flippancy or argument. Sarcasm is spoken fluently and regularly in my house: If there were college credits to be had, we'd all be tenured professors. But it has been my experience that those conversations immediately dismissed by the teenager as stupid and irrelevant are later pondered, taken in, and occasionally (gasp!) acknowledged as worthy.

Someone once described parenting in the teen years as being pecked to death by chickens. I figure the chickens will all fly the coop long before they can be the death of me. But whether they take off at 16, 18, or 24, I will have earned my bragging rights and my battle scars.

the beginning of the end of the beginning....

My daughter is a high school senior.

I could stop right here, because any reader who has lived through this life event has just had an emotional flashback profound enough to measure on the richter scale.

I love this rite of passage. Parenting is carousel of praying, loving, advising, praying, laughing, watching, praying, talking, holding your tongue, and praying some more. At graduation, the ride slows down enough to reach for one of the brass rings. It is a time to celebrate the baby turned toddler turned child turned teen who has worked hard, accepted challenges, overcome obstacles, reached the end of a very long and winding road. The diploma she will hold next week will state that she has completed the academic course work necessary to be deemed a high school graduate in the eyes of Notre Dame Academy and the State of Kentucky. That, in itself, is worthy of shouting and praise!

That document will make no mention of her progress in the school of life. How does one measure success in learning who you are, or what you believe, or where you want to go? There is no letter grade to tell her if she has developed the knowledge to lead a good life, to fight for what she believes in, to work in a vocation which will bring her happiness in any measure. There is no final exam to establish her readiness to take on the world, to face the challenges of not only college, but whatever adversity or success life may throw at her. Has she found the source of her strength? Has she developed a moral character which will allow her to stand up for herself and others? Does she know that as a child of God she is worthy of the greatest of love and respect and honor? Does she hear the call to share that love with the people around her? These are the questions which are asked, and answered, and asked again.

Commencement means, literally, the beginning of something, not the end. When she walks across the stage to accept her scroll, she deserves to take pride in the hard work she has done and the delightful, loving and confident young woman she has become. She can look forward to her years at UofL with excitement. Her accomplishments are admirable, and we will celebrate them with great joy. But LIFE is just beginning! Her real education begins with every new obstacle, achievement, every new day. The homework, and the questions, and the answers, are always changing. As a parent, I will rejoice in all she has done, but am even more excited and proud to think of what she has yet to do.

musings on the royal wedding

Unless you've been hiking on Bouvet Island for several months, you are probably aware of the royal wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton.

In the last several days, I have read opinions ranging from unashamed Anglophile devotions to blanket denouncing of the entire British realm. I have heard the happy couple revered as socially aware and infinitely philanthropic. I have also heard suggestions that they are ridiculously extravagent and totally inappropriate in celebrating their nuptials while the world faces crisis after crisis. Frosting these comments was the assertion that we should not give a crap about them, because they would never give a crap about us, unless it somehow affected their income.

First, let me proudly say my veins run with British blood. My grandfather emigrated to this country at the age of 16 from Bath, England, fought with the allies in WW1, and made his home in Michigan. 25% of my genetic makeup is steeped in good, strong tea.

I grew up revering the monarchy long before I could recognize the political disproportion of the institution. I didn't care about nonrepresentative government or parliamentary unrest. I didn't see the aloof disdain for the commoners, and the layers of separation between the rulling class and the working class. There was a QUEEN, for God's sake, and princes and princesses and castles and carriages-- this is the stuff of fairy tales!!! All the history, pageantry, beauty. Like generations of little girls, I imagined being a princess, and marrying a prince, and living happily ever after (and may I say as an aside, that dream came true in its own very real and perfect way). At its most basic, this wedding, for me, was just a fun celebration of that fairy tale, that dream, that glitter frosted vision. The music, the guests, the bridesmaids, the men in uniform, oh MY! Westminster Abbey has never looked so beautiful, and still paled in comparison to the bride as she floated down the aisle to meet her prince. Lighten up, people, it's a ROYAL WEDDING!

It saddened me to see reality lived out with Charles and Diana. They were a couple practically doomed from the start by differences so vast that one wondered what ever brought them together, outside the royal desire to see the prince finally wed to someone--providing a positive shine for the tarnished image of the monarchy. Their two beautiful boys made their public struggles even more tragic--how could you not love those impish little mischief makers whose adorable smiles shined under public scrutiny? All grown up now a delightfully handsome, those same little boys are the faces of the future of the monarchy. They are also the most "real" royals we have ever met. Both are serving with pride and hard work in the armed forces, on the front lines, respected by superiors and those they lead. The future king chose as his bride a "common" woman by royal terms, but uncommon in her ability to charm and endear them both to the people. Their request for charitable giving in lieu of wedding gifts is admirable. Their residence is not a palace, but rather a house in the country. They're happy, relaxed, and in LOVE!

A year ago, I visited in the sitting room of my cousins in Bristol. The British people are well aware that their monarchy is without much real power. The Queen, at 88, is respected as intelligent, shrewd, and steady. They are figureheads, their roles more social than political. While the government in Great Britian fights the ever-present battle to balance the left and the right, the Royals stand as somewhat antiquated quardians of the crown jewels. The changing of the guards is coming, and the generation of William and Harry think much differently than do their parents and grandparents. It shows on the faces and in the actions of the newlyweds. It shows in how they conduct themselves as leaders in their country. That's enough to keep me hopeful that "happily ever after" can be more than a fairy tale.

The perfect vacation

Vacations come in a wide range of colors, sizes and shapes. Some are so well planned that they cannot possible go wrong. Others are spur-of-the-moment wanderings which somehow go surprisingly right.

This one was perfect. First, let me say that it is hard not to enjoy a week when the only variation is the weather is how many little white puffy clouds are blown across the azure sky by the ocean breeze. 90 degrees hardly seems hot when one is laying by the pool or strolling the crystal beach. And while we did plan the occasional outing, much of the time was spent--especially by the girls--lounging poolside in the sun, kicking out a ridiculous amount of reading, and tanning as only the Seibt women can. That means much sunscreen was slathered, and we all burned anyway. Especially the porcelain-skinned Princess Rebecca.

We were able to spend a good deal of time with the grandpa we don't often see. The guys spent many a morning with dad, meeting a couple hundred of his closest friends and doing all that "guy stuff." There was fishing, and boating, lumber yards, car repair, and numerous meals with familiar waitresses who delight in meeting more charming Seibt men. There were late family meals from the grill eaten on the patio with a good wine or a cold beer, sunset ocean cruises to find the dolphins, Key Lime pie created by the island man himself.

There was time with the Naples grands as well, driving the golf cart and playing cards in the heat of the day. Delightful to see Grandma's friend Rose and catch up with her family news, too. A wonderful concert by the Naples Philharmonic of Frank Sinatra music which turned out to be a little Sinatra, a nod to the Italians, and a LOT of opera--GLORIOUS!

20 years ago there would not have been a cell phone. In retrospect, perhaps we should ALL leave our cells at home for the next trip. There was certainly enough contact to throw an occasional hiccup into our holiday bliss, what with the continuing familial drama on any given day. Would I have been better off not knowing what was going on up north? Realistically, being out of the loop is probably as hard as being in. And God knows the kids would be shaking with the DT's after two days of tech withdrawal.

Yep. 8 days spent doing very little, in a wonderful location, with the people I love most. Rest, relax, read, renew, recharge, rewind. The ultimate week of R&R (&R&R&R&R). It might not have achieved total and permanent bliss, but it sure took a huge edge off a tremendously bad winter, and gave me back a smile.

When can we go again?

I am my father's daughter

I've been trying to write a note about dad for a couple months now. Not normally at a loss for words, I had trouble. But today dad seems closer, and it seems a little easier. It's a start.

Dad died two months ago to the day. It was not a "good death" in hospice terms, at least physically. So, in the days after his death, along with the grief and loss, there was also a sense of relief that his suffering was over, and he was in a much better place. Throughout his life, dad was firmly faithful in what I think of as an old-school, Wisconsin Lutheran, God-fearing-hell-and-damnation way. How glorious it must be for him now to know the eternal, gentle love of the Lord and Savior.

Over the past few years, dad declined in health and wholeness. There were signs of confusion, dementia. There was profound depression. And there was a marked physical loss of strength and mobility born of joint degeneration and pain, and forced inactivity. It angered him, and made him difficult to live with. It was difficult for all of us to watch the man who was the patriarch of such a large family slowly brought down by the realities of aging and multiple health challenges.

It's easy to keep these later-years scenes at the forefront of memory, and lose the man of my youth. The Wild Bill dad, legendary in the tales told by my older brothers of their childhood adventures and forays into mischief, rarely able to deceive the man who seemed to have eyes everywhere. The father who taught us all the importance of shooting straight, both with a rifle, and in life. The man remembered by hundreds of people who came to his visitation to share their stories, and their love. The larger than life dad, whose hunting adventures, card-playing genius, and bourbon drinking revelry included 4 generations of family and friends. The protective dad, ever worried about his only daughter, ever ready to stand between me and harm, to bail me out, and always just a little flummoxed as to what to DO with a girl! Dad had opinions, advice, expertise, and a lot of love, and he shared them all generously with those around him. That's the dad who shaped who I was, and who I was to become.

Which brings me to vacation. You see, dad was a planner. Whether it was a family trip, a yearly hunting expedition, or a Sunday afternoon drive, dad anticipated every possibility, made plans and provisions, then could not wait to get up and go!!! Today, we leave on a little family journey of our own. It's a vacation I've looked forward to for weeks, especially after the last several months. I am not the planner my father was. I am much more willing to fly by the seat of my pants, take a little detour if need be. But when my eyes popped open at 4am, and I was up like a kid at Christmas, I had to think of dad. He'd have been right beside me with the keys in his hand. And as I pack the car--an invaluable skill I learned from a man who was genius in his ability to get the maximum luggage in minimal space--I will remember the dad who shaped the heart in which he will always live on. And I will smile.

Bathing Suits and abject fear

Going to the beach for spring break.

It is the classic vacation, revered by young and old alike. The weather in Ft Myers should be perfect! Grab my sandals, my sunscreen, my shorts (eek!) and t-shirts (yikes), throw on my bathing suit...

GGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Dear Lord, how could this happen? I leave in 2 weeks? I have to put on a bathing suit in 2 weeks????? OK, clearly this has not been well thought out. Could we, perhaps, look at an Alaskan vacation? At the very least, I hear London is persistently rainy in April, requiring long coats of the trench variety. But really-sunshine? heat? tanning? What was I thinking?

First, the swimsuit I own has seen a couple seasons. That means at any moment, there could be an errant strand of Lycra which, with one false move, could spring loose and cause a serious wardrobe malfunction. Those fibers were designed to hold several things in places to which gravity has long denied them orientation. One frightening loss of structural integrity could prove hazardous to bystanders.

Second, my bathing suit is black and white. Stray just a bit too far from shore and harpoons become a significant threat. Short of finding a bathing cap (and really, who wears those?) with a 5-foot safely flag attached, I could easily be mistaken for Shamu's much younger, curvier, but no less buoyant, sister. Nope, black and white will not do.

Lastly, my bathing suit lacks fabric. This season, I am opting for the height of new fashion. No slave to the ugly, skimpy, way too tacky styles--I am opting for a groundbreaking fashion statement! No more will I bow to the voyeuristic whims of the Budweiser-slugging, taco-belching demographic whose lecherous fixation feeds on the insecurities of women in lounge chairs. No more will I worry about the extreme exposition of skin and areas better left to the imagination than to the harsh UV rays of the sun.

This year, I am committed to the resurrection of a more genteel era. A time when modesty was valued over enhancement. A time when alabaster skin was admired, and tanning was something which happened to those unfortunate enough to have to leave the shaded porch of the estate and its cool pitchers of iced tea, and venture into the fields in the heat of the day. Think Victorian Age. Think early 1900's. I am in search of the perfect combination of jaunty nautical stripes (vertical, of course) and full ankle to neck coverage. I want layers! Long bloomers, full sleeves, pinafores! And no flimsy fabric for me. Lets go for a full control jersey knit, or perhaps a nice summer-weight worsted wool. Sure, if I venture into the water the very weight of my bathing costume would likely drag me down like a stone, but that is a small price to pay for trend-setting modesty, don't you think?