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Confessions of a Carpool Failure

I’ve never had good luck with carpool.

When my son Kyle was in kindergarten, I eagerly arranged to share the mommy-chauffeur load with a family down the street.  All was well for about six months and then the sabotage began.

It started with a beautiful girl.  Doesn’t It always start with a beautiful girl?  Little Sofia was glorious.  She had long raven locks and a tiny button nose.  Even more importantly, she played a mean game of hand-ball.  Kyle fell head over heels in love with her.

Unfortunately, our carpool buddy, Christopher, was also smitten with Sofia.  And so the war began to fight for the damsel’s affection.

It seemed for a time, Kyle had the upper hand, untill one day, right around Valentines and coinciding with a fancy bracelet adorning Sofia’s arm, Christopher gained her favor.  Kyle was bent on revenge.

The next Monday, as I strapped Christopher into his booster seat, I struggled with the buckle.  For the life of me, I couldn’t get it to click.  Studying the lock more intently I saw something or lots of somethings were jamming it.

One by one, I pulled out french-fries from the buckle insert.  Kyle laughed in glee and I knew who the culprit was.  After three days of fries mysteriously appearing in the lock, Christopher’s mom was so ticked off she not only refused to let her son in the car, but Kyle and I were mocked by all the kindergarten mom’s as difficult to carpool with.

Almost ten years later, still stinging from kindergarten wounds, I decided to try again.  One week in, I lost a kid.

Not dead lost.  Lost lost.  I couldn’t find the kid in our carpool meet-up area after school.

I found my daughter Faith and her friend Alexa, but the boy was MIA.

We drove up and down the road home.  It was the longest two miles of my life and I did it four times.  I called his mom(who didn’t answer) and banged on his door (no one home) and besieged the neighbors to help.

I dreaded facing his mom.  What the heck would I tell her?

Finally, my neighbor called with the news.  The young man had gone home with a friend and forgot to tell anyone

Carpool doesn’t like me. Then again, maybe I just need some french-fries for the boy’s seat?

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North Dakota

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After a 29 hour road-trip the Keller family reached North Dakota.
All I can say is…traveling non-stop is a bonding opportunity. We talk, the kids watch movies and we inhale America rolling by. I notice the land and the people and the places. And I always think could I live here?
The thing I love about the people here is a work ethic bar none. Farmers work their butts off and it gives perspective to my groans and moans when I think I have reached my limit. I just think of my cousins getting up in the middle of the night to feed the animals after an 18 hour work day.
I love it here. The friendly people, the open sky and the beauty of endless hills of corn.
I can’t think of a better vacation.

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The Last days of “Thirty-Something”

I have seven more days to claim status as a “thirty something” before I tumble over the ominous hill to reach forty.

Holy Cow…Me 40?  I’m only 32 (in my mind)

I’ve got some mixed emotions on the matter. 

On the downside, the big Four-O sounds old.  People start telling you look good for your age instead of you just look good.  My metabolism has apparently nose-dived again and all of a sudden I get body aches when I overdo it running or lifting weights at the gym.  My heart is getting cranky and gravity and I are in a fierce battle for my perky parts.

I have a son starting High School for crying out loud.  Somehow this really makes me feel really ancient.  I remember High School.  It was only a few years ago…right? 

But as my body slowly decays, fortunately my brain and spirit are just getting warmed up. 

Age has ushered in contentment, something that always eluded me when I was young.  I adore where I am at, who I am with and the people and relationships surrounding me.  It feels so good to stop striving.  I can retire the heels and stop killing myself to be the “hot girl, the perfect mom, or the super-dee-duper Christian.”  I think I’ll settle for simply being me –imperfections, quirkiness and all.

But I don’t think you just arrive in these places.  It takes about forty years (give or take) to get there.

It takes suffering and pain and heartache to appreciate the simplicity and beauty of life.  It means getting on your knees and crying out to God for understanding and then getting up the next day and the next day and doing it all over again. 

And then one day you wake up and you are thirty-nine and you realize God is everywhere around you and has blessed you immeasurably more than you could ever ask or imagine.

Every day I get to sit down and write which makes me deliriously happy.  I get to walk outside each morning and smile and chat with my beloved neighbors and on Sundays (and lots of other days) I can visit the church I helped plant with my husband. I have a glorious daughter with a sweet and happy nature like sunshine, a strapping son who has allowed me to be his biggest fan cheering him on from the sidelines, a toddler who takes Dora bubble baths with me every night and falls asleep in my arms, and best of all…a husband who would slay dragons for me.  I have a wonderful family and dear friends who would travel all the way to the desert to toast me on my birthday.

It doesn’t get much better than this.

I think I like forty.  Saggy earlobes and all…

Do you have a big milestone coming up?

 

 

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One Thing

I expected to see thousands of screaming doe-eyed girls, long lines and expensive parking (a whopping $20) at the boy band concert I sold both my arms and legs to attend with my daughter Faith last night.  I knew I would be deaf by the time I drove home, cringe at the over-priced Diet Coke and delight in my little girl swooning over Harry Styles.

I brought an Advil for the headache I anticipated and psyched myself up to be the cool mom for one evening –difficult for me at best.

I laughed at the banners –“Snog Me Harry” and the glittery t-shirts saying “Mrs. Nials to-be.”  One clever girl threw a walkie-talkie on stage and got the band to chat with her.

I planned and expected many things for our girl’s night out, but the one thing I didn’t expect to encounter was a strong brush with humility –from the band One Direction of all places.

And even this morning it lingers.

One Direction –the boy band de jour –was surprisingly, one of the more grateful groups of young men I’ve seen in a very long time.

These boys don’t take their success lightly.  They weren’t ego-maniacs despite their Beatles-like power to hypnotize little girls.  Even while panties and bras were flying on to the stage –they laughed and poked and teased each other with sweet self-deprecation. 

And fortunately for all of us parents who chaperoned –these lads had pipes and could dance and wail and brilliantly light up the stage.

But most importantly –they thanked the crowd no fewer than thirty times.  Each young man (five in all) took multiple opportunities to dote on their fans, appreciate their fans, encourage, affirm and edify their fans…over and over and over.

In a world of people pushing and striving for the spotlight, it was deeply refreshing to see rock stars who willingly give it away.

And their startling humility made an impact and made me think about my own personal thank-o-meter.

Do I thank people enough?

Probably not.

Maybe it’s time for a tune-up.  The truth is I want my life to be less about me and more about others.  I want to diminish (my ego) to allow others to flourish.  I want to be thankful for every friend, fan, like and reader.

I want it to be less about me and more about you.

So, here we go.

Thank you.  Thank you for reading the words I write.  Thank you for giving me a chance to pursue my dreams.  Thank you for commenting and loving and encouraging me on the overwhelmed days, the achy heart days and all of the ordinary underwhelming days.

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you!

I think One Direction has really figured out the “One Thing” –HUMILITY.

Do you have someone in your life you need to thank today?

 

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Muno’s Heart

“OK Kolby, what does daddy for a job?” I asked my two-year old in an attempt to teach her some basic family information.

“Ummmm…daddy make pants!” Kolby replied earnestly.

“Close sweetie!  Daddy’s a pastor.”

“Dat’s wright.  Daddy tells people bout Jesus and he fixes hearts.” Kolby said with a smile that could melt butter.

“Mommy, can Da Da fix Muno’s heart?”

“Of course he can baby!”  I ran and got Kolby’s red monster doll –Muno from the series Yo Gabba Gabba and we sat him in front of daddy and I told Tim very firmly he needed to tell Muno about Jesus.

Tim looked at me with mirth, shaking his head and laughing, but he played along with us .

“Muno, Jesus loves you very much,” Tim said in his best pastor voice.  “He knows sometimes you bite your friends and it makes him sad.  Jesus sacrificed his life for you on the cross because he loves Muno so very much.  He wants Muno to live an abundant life and have a strong heart. “

I whispered under my breath, “Abundant…seriously?  She’s two.”

Daddy frowned at mommy.

Muno then squeaked out, “I do want to follow you Jesus,” only it sounded a bit like daddy on Nitrous Oxide.

So daddy led Muno through a simple prayer.

Kolby sat quietly the entire time taking it all in.  Then she picked up Muno, thanked daddy and fell asleep in my arms shortly thereafter. 

I woke up this morning clutching Muno’s hand in mine.  Seriously.  Maybe the little guy was mourning his life of sin and needed some cuddling.

I rolled over and opened one eye sleepily gazing at my husband.  “Hey PANTS-tor…what’s up?” 

 

 

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Driving Lessons

Walking out to the car from the grocery store with three kids in tow, I grimaced at the sight of my dirty SUV.

“Uggh! Kyle. When we get home you need to wash my car.”

My son smiled and nodded his head amiably. As we pulled up to the house Kyle noticed my parents’ car parked in the driveway –a temporary resting stop while they vacationed in Cancun. It needed to be moved if he was to hose down my car.

“Hey mom, I’ll wash your car if you let me pull out Mimi and Poppa’s car from the driveway and park it in the street.”

I looked at my son, on the cusp of high school and now suddenly interested in cars and rims and all sorts of manly automobile trivia and chuckled, wrinkling my nose. “No way, my parents would kill me if I let my kid crash their car.”

But the look on his face was pure yearning –a strong desire to grow up, experience life and to feel the roar of an engine under his feet. How could I say no? (Here is where my husband later injects –“What the howdy-doody were you thinking?”)

“How about I move my parent’s car and let you maneuver my car into the driveway?”

Kyle’s eyes rapidly blinked. “Umm sure, I’m cool with that.”

I quickly moved my parent’s vehicle out onto the street and then threw Kyle the keys to my car, motioning him to roll down the window so I could direct him.

Kyle moved the seat to make room for his long legs, adjusted the mirror and then gave me the thumbs up sign.

“Ok, pull it out in reverse and turn the wheel to the left to swing out into the street,” I instructed.

Kyle put my charcoal grey Nissan in reverse and then before I could yell, “NOOOOOOOO!” gunned the car backwards across the street. Just as he hit the curb, he braked and his head lurched forward as he pulled to a stop.

“Wow!’ he yelled. “The gas is pretty sensitive. “

Then he hit the pedal again, still in reverse and jumped the curb. The bumper grazed our neighbor’s tree as the car stopped violently.

“Oops mom, I forgot to put it back in drive,” he yelled in chagrin as I doubled over laughing until the tears ran down my legs.

Kyle shifted into drive, hit the gas and shot toward our long driveway. The right tire clipped the curb and whizzed past the mailbox by an inch as Kyle headed straight towards the garage door at forty miles an hour.

The worst possible scenario flashed through my mind. I imagined Kyle crashing into the garage door and t-boning the Cadillac parked just inside. There would be airbags and blood and worst of all –some serious explaining to do when daddy got home from work.

“Jesus stop him!” I screamed with horror.

Kyle – eyes wide with terror looked over at me.

“Hit the brake.” I yelled.

All of sudden the car jerked to a stop. Kyle threw it in park and climbed out gingerly. The car rested a mere millimeter of an inch from the garage door –about the length of a fingernail or a lady bug.

“Mom, that wasn’t like my video games at all, we might need to practice some more,” Kyle weakly grinned.

I collapsed in a heap –alternating between laughing and yelling, rolling on the grass in a gasping and convulsing dance of gratitude and frustration only a parent of a teen can fully appreciate.

Next time –we are practicing driving in a parking lot in the middle of the desert with no one to hit but a cactus.

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Boys, Video Games and Extended Adolescence

The football passed back and forth tossed in high spiraled arcs. I smiled as I watched my son Kyle and our dear friend Michael wile away the last sunshine of a lazy Memorial Day and hang out man to man-or better yet man to almost man.

Kyle, at almost fourteen, is on the cusp of manhood -teetering precariously between maturity and immaturity on any given day. But with every pat on the back and encouragement from the dudes in his life (dads, grandfathers, mentors, coaches and older friends) he continues to inch towards adulthood.

I was struck with emotion when I realized how each one of our male friends went out of their way at some point in the day to connect and encourage my son. I don’t take that blessing lightly because I know how crucial it is for men to intentionally lead, parent and guide our sons if we are to regain and raise another generation of valiant men.

And this rite of passage is something I see sorely lacking in our society.

We used to send our boys off to college and the military, or at the very least an apprenticeship and have them return a little worse for the wear –but independent and savvy enough to survive on their own. Men led each other.

But there is a whole generation of men floundering.

I scratch my head and ponder where have we gone wrong? Could it be rampant divorce, boys abandoned by dads, or a culture targeted by media and bombarded by leisure?

Somehow we have we allowed our boys to stagnate –numbed, dumbed down and distracted by video games, sex and pornography. They are missing the glorious adventure and crucial transition of becoming their own man and surviving.

As the mother of a son, I know the last thing I want is his twenty-nine year old butt parked on my sofa –jobless –and playing Call of Duty shouting for me to make him and his boys a sandwich.

Church planter Darrin Patrick calls this type of male a “Ban,” a hybrid of boy and man.

“Ban is a juvenile because there is an entire market niche created for him to live in the lusts of youth. He is the best thing for the porn industry and the video game industry (48% of men between 18-34 play video games for almost 3 hours a day). Ban puts off adulthood, mortgages and marriage. Women give up waiting for Mr. Right and settle for Mr. Ban, an apathetic, sarcastic boy man.”

So why the rise of Ban?

Sometimes I think we have taken away the most necessary elements of story in our son’s lives –conflict. Our boy’s shoot aliens on a screen instead of battling real villains or bullies on the playground. They look at porn instead of fighting for a woman’s heart and they flounder for meaning instead of forging a life of courage wounded and bloody from the trenches.

We protect and screen the hard knocks of adversity unwittingly sacrificing the triumphs of overcoming a great challenge and we give our boys crumbs to feast on instead of a meaty life of adventure and purpose.

It makes me want to send my kid off to wilderness camp or the military…but I think I’ll settle for football and a North Dakota trip this summer at least for now.

What do you think about Ban?

And more importantly…What can you do to invest in a boy or a young man today?

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Pay it Forward

So my heart’s been acting a little cranky lately. It’s not a spiritual issue –more like the forty-year warranty on my body is about to expire and the valves need some fixing. I’ve spent a lot of time hanging out at the Happy Heart Center waiting, waiting and waiting for my busy but awesome cardiologist Dr. Gandhi to take more tests.

Kolby accompanies me on these journeys and even though it’s a pain the behind to hang out in a waiting room and atrophy, my two year-old keeps it real. We sing silly songs, read magazines called “Great Circulation” and play on mommy’s iPhone. We have long conversations about doggies, and William (her best friend) and Mickey Mouse.

A few weeks ago we sat near an older couple who watched the two of us and chuckled at my busy toddler. They told me about their grandchildren and we swapped stories about living in Newport Heights (my old neighborhood) and writing and life.

No one mentioned why we were there. It’s never good news at the cardiologist or the oncologist but it just might just be one of the more genuine places to meet people. Everyone there is a bit frayed around the edges. Masks are let down. Sadness and hope and resolve swirl around like air freshener.

I found out they owned a clothing company for little girls called “Girlfriends” and the lovely lady –Anita asked me what size Kolby wore. She also asked for my card to check out my blog and said she might send us a treat.

I wished them the best and off we went to wait some more.

On the day before Mother’s Day, a big box arrived in the mail and I tore into it. I pulled out one beautiful dress after another for my little girl.

And I was blown away at this couple’s generosity. We didn’t talk about God or illness or anything sad that day –because it was the unspoken and obvious, we just laughed and gloried in the life and vibrancy of a small child.

And maybe that was our simple gift to them.

Thank you Anita and Jerry for your random act of kindness and paying it forward! You made my Mother’s day very special ♥

What can you do today to bless a stranger?

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Caddy for Sale

It’s always shocking to find a note from the Coroner’s office stuck to your front door. I can only feign relief that I wasn’t home when the cops showed up to leave their dirty little message.  Opening the door to two somber policemen conjures up thought of loved ones dying in a fiery freeway accident or sudden heart failure.  Can’t they come up with a nicer way to tell people their loved ones have kicked the bucket?  (Ahhh, but that’s a topic for another day!)  It turns out; they were investigating a ’66 powder blue Cadillac that had been parked in an unnamed parking lot for too long.  They figured the owner had died and it was time to gently break the news to the relatives… either that, or confront the perpetrators who had knocked off the poor sucker.  It just so happens that I know the owner of said Caddy, and though he is alive and well, he may be a victim of domestic assault by the time I get my hands on him.

My darling husband acquired this monster car (which measures longer than a Suburban to give you a good visual) about ten years ago, for the pure whim of taking a road trip to Vegas.  It has stayed with him (like a venereal disease) over the years and has traveled with him from home to home. And though he rarely drives it, it gets occasional use at weddings and for random photo shoots.  His claim to fame is using the caddy for a swimsuit calendar.  Somewhere behind the hot models is his beaming face behind the wheel. He reminds me that we both brought baggage to the marriage, I have two adorable children and he brought the beast…I mean the Cadillac. Fortunately, he has grown to love my kids but I have not felt any furthermore affinity for the gas guzzler that is now parked in my driveway.

Yes, in an effort to avoid towing, the Caddy came home and there it sits like a ginormous eyesore.  Last night I told him an anonymous caller had complained to the association about the obnoxious car in our driveway.  It took him a few seconds before he choked on his cashews and started chortling. Each night as I lay my head down on my pillow, I dream of it being stolen.  Then again, after they fill up the tank with gas and die of shock, they will probably bring it right back, washed and cleaned and ready for the next photo-op. 

66’ Convertible Caddy for Sale.  All offers considered. Please contact Scrappy!

*Note*  I first posted this eighteen months ago.  What the heck people?  I want my garage back now!

 

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About William

There’s one thing I can count on for sure each and every evening –my two-year old Kolby’s non-wavering answer to “What was the best part of your day?”

She can barely contain herself as we start Peak and Pit during dinner.

“Mama, mama.  What about me? Best part is…”

“Sshhh sweetie, wait for your turn,” I reply gently.  “Try not to interrupt your brother.”

Finally, it’s Kolby’s turn.   “What is the best part of your day Kolby?”

“William!” Kolby says with a grin.

“What did you today?” asks daddy.

“William…”

What game did you play?” big brother Kyle inquires.

“I play hit William,” giggles Kolby.

It’s the same scenario every night, though sometimes the details about William change.  There are days he gets put in time-out.  Sometimes he gets a boo-boo and band-aid.  Occasionally William is absent and Kolby is sad.

But one thing never changes –Kolby’s epic love for her friend William.

Ms. Maggie (Kolby’s pre-school teacher) says they have to separate the two at times because they are so overly affectionate.  Kolby and William hold hands, rub each other’s back and sit as close as possible. 

There is something so precious, raw and innocent about the love these two-year olds have for each other.  Kolby can’t contain her emotion for her beloved.  It spills out of her.  Her love for William interrupts life.  She bursts with joy at the sound of his name and William is always the best part of her day, even when she doesn’t see him –he is still so close.

I think Kolby is on to something.  This tiny girl of mine knows innately how to love with abandon. 

No image.  No games.  No William in a pre-school box.

It’s all about William.

And this is how I want to be with Jesus. 

I don’t want to evangelize at the mall, have an agenda with everyone I meet, or have to bother with fishing out the four spiritual laws out of my dirty purse and drawing a cross and a bridge on a napkin at Starbucks.  I don’t want to share formulas about my faith or even rules about sin –though I am the worst of these.  I simply want to wear Jesus on my sleeve.  I want my love for him and his people to squeeze out at the seams.  I want it to be so obvious people know something is different about me before I even open my mouth. 

In a seminary class on evangelism many years ago the professor’s first words were to us, ‘We will spread the gospel of Jesus Christ and use as few words as possible.”

I was as stunned as the rest of the class.  And then I let it wash over me and slowly change my Jesus paradigm.

Kolby has it figured out.

It’s all about the ONE WE LOVE.

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