Help, There's a Fat Lady in my Picture

I'm pretty sure I'm famous in Nebraska. I also figure they know me in some small mid-western town; let's say in Kansas. I know for sure that there are folks in my home state of California who know me as I've traveled and vacationed extensively in the Golden State. I've been to Florida, Texas, and New York, so there is a chance that my face might ring a bell there, too.

The thing is I'm not sure they would know my face. I'm pretty sure that if anyone does know me, my identity is relegated to the image of a large, very white lady in a bathing suit and towel frantically trying to get out of his or her vacation photo.

Picture Bigfoot walking through the forest.

That's what I look like trying to dodge those parents who are desperately trying to capture on video or via high speed zoom lenses "Little Johnny's First Dive" or "Sabrina Splashing!" I just don't have as much hair, and I'm wrapped up in a towel.

I realized that I might be famous a few summers ago while vacationing in San Diego. That was the day I decided to throw caution (and my towel) to the wind and just lie out by the pool. This was not an easy decision as I am EXTREMELY self conscious. See, after birthing three children, two at one time, I do not have my old body back. In fact, I'm not sure whose body I have. It's fairly unrecognizable and is definitely not bathing-suit ready. Without surgery, my stomach will never, ever see the light of day (I think even the hub is scared, but he won't say anything). I can find somewhat flattering clothes, but swimwear is just not an attractive option, no matter what. To decide to lie out on a beach chair without being wrapped up, even for a few minutes, is pretty daring for me. Also, considering that I have no discernible skin color whatsoever, I have to be careful not to let the sun's rays bounce off my skin and blind those near me. My hope on this particular day was to gather a few minutes of sun, cause minimal retinal damage to innocent bystanders, and then head back up to our place.

This is where Family O comes in (as in Family "O, Wow! Why is that gal in our photo?). Family O is happily splashing and throwing super soakers and just having a grand old time. Their sons are jumping and diving and acting ridiculous. Awesome. Until I realize that Dad has been filming them do their crazy stunts. Across the pool from me. For quite a while. There is a fairly decent chance that I am forever a part of their family history. And even though I'm in the background, every time they watch this video, there is such a good chance that they see me.

It got me thinking about how many other photographs and videos I have become a part of over the years, all unbeknownst to me. Some of the pictures might have been flattering. Some of the families or guys or gals could have looked at their recently developed film and said, "Wow, check out this girl's hair style," or "Hey, this girl has my same pair of Jordache jeans!" (apparently all pictures were taken in the '70s) There was a news story recently about a couple who was looking at an old picture album and saw a picture of the two of them at age nine. The funny thing was that the picture was taken by the girl's family, and the boy just happened to be in it! Years later these two people met and got married, never realizing that they had shared a moment so many years before. That's really amazing.

Have I ever been picking my nose and been trapped in a picture? Has it ever looked I was? (Jerry: There was no pick!) Have I ever adjusted my pants, bent over at a wrong angle or made a really screwy face that is now part of a history that isn't mine? This type of thinking can drive you nuts, mind you, but I find it fascinating. I have no control over what others do with their cameras, and yet my identity is up for grabs by those who have captured me in celluloid. They might never notice my inclusion in their photos, or they might make up stories about who I am or why I'm doing what I'm doing or looking how I look. I will never know.

In his book 1984, George Orwell warned us about Big Brother (not the reality show, although he probably would have warned us), and the effects of an over-reaching, controlling government interested in ferreting out all that was secret in the lives of its citizens. In his story, Big Brother saw everything. My concern is that with all the camera options open to us today, my days of being a background part of only one family's video per summer are over. It's time to stay bundled up by the pool no matter what.

The Unforeseen Conclusion, Chapter I

I am convinced that God speaks to us in a variety of ways. I think He uses any means at His disposal to teach us something, to point something out, or to point us in the direction we need to seek. He presents us with choices, and He waits. He presents new people, old friends, difficult circumstances -- all for our benefit so that we can learn from these events and become a better, more complete person. It's not easy or pleasant sometimes, but it's all for the greater good.

In my life, God has taught me lessons in a variety of ways. Sometimes it's a direct, very difficult time that shocks and hurts me. I panic; I cry; I pray; I talk; I learn. Other times the approach is more gentle -- a nudge in one direction or an idea that just seems right. Sometimes there is silence while He waits for me to make up my mind based on my past experiences, prayerful consideration and common sense. Twice in my life now, however, God has presented a rather life-changing experience in a very unique way. I call it "the unforeseen conclusion." It's the solution that wasn't even in your realm of thinking, but when it comes, it's absolutely amazing.

The first time this happened was when I was pregnant with the boys. At 20 weeks, I had no idea I was having twins; I just knew I was big -- really big. I had the routine genetic testing done, and the results came back as problematic. I was told to see a counselor who would give me information about the baby and what could possibly be causing the odd numbers. For 10 days I waited until my appointment praying about my unborn child, researching different birth defects and what would be required for care, watching families with disabled children walk around the supermarket or the mall, and wondering how on earth I would cope.

What I noted during my observations of families with special-needs children is that they didn't look overly sad or depressed. They didn't rend their garments or act any way other than loving towards their children. I knew that this was the root of everything: love the child that was on the way, no matter what. Grant and I spent lots of time talking, and we both prepared ourselves. No matter how long our child lived and what was needed, we would handle it.

The day of the appointment arrived, and we spoke to the counselor at length about our family history, ethnic backgrounds and current environment. She then said that because of the numbers present, her best guess was that I was carrying a child with spinal bifida, or this was a multiple birth. Could we come back in an hour, while the clinic shut down for lunch, and they would do a simple ultrasound to check? Seriously? After the completely unfair extra hour, we went into the exam room, held hands and waited, still resolved to love our child, no matter what and for however long we had.

As the technician ran the ultrasound wand over my large belly, we watched as the outline of not one but two skulls popped up side by side. Twins. Identical. I cannot really describe the feeling of seeing them that day. I had steeled myself for an outcome that would require a different set of emotions. Joy, yes, but also resolve and sadness for a life that would be shortened by an ailment that could not be fixed. At seeing the two little ones moving around, I broke completely, overwhelmed by the gift that God had given us. Two lives. We looked at each other in amazement. These were two healthy, perfect babies. Twins we could handle with ease! (God then laughed really, really hard.)

I go back to that time in my life often, wondering why God needed me to experience those 10 days and that one extra hour. I know that He wanted me prepared for any eventuality. I know that my love for my child needed to be first, no matter if that child were physically or mentally impaired or both. He needed Grant and me to be a single parenting unit, joined together by purpose. The experience also made me realize that there is often an unforeseen conclusion that only God knows about.

Perhaps if I had found out about having twins all on my own, my reaction would have been one of worry and hand-wringing. Perhaps I would have freaked out and needed bed rest for my anxiety. As it turned out, I carried those babies for 38 1/2 weeks, with no bed rest, and I delivered naturally. Two baby boys, Gavin Michael and Sean Ellis, were born May 20, 2002 and weighed 6 lbs. 6 oz. (Sean) and 6 lbs. 3 oz. (I told you I was huge.)

On some days, when there is a slight breeze and I can see the leaves just barely rustling in our ficus, I am obliged to close my eyes and stand quietly. I know that God is trying to get my attention and that He is hoping to remind me of the lessons I learned so many years ago. My children, and all their imperfections, need to be loved completely just like God loves them. No matter what their impairments or difficulties, they are still the greatest gifts. He gave them to us, to me, with the thought that I would be the best mother for them. I need to remember that while there might be better scenarios or wishful thinking (we all want our children to act differently sometimes), there are also worse scenarios and people who do not get to have their children for long. The surprise and joy I felt on that day was the result of God's love for me and for them, and I need to remember that every day.

Good-bye Moiola

On June 17, 2010, Grace spent her last day as a student at Moiola Elementary. She will be a 6th grader in the fall at Fulton Middle School.

This was a bittersweet day because we had assumed all our children would attend Moiola from kindergarten through eighth grade. We imagined a happy, caring environment in which I could volunteer and be a big part of campus life. We liked the idea of all our children at the same campus for a longer time. We imagined everyone knowing our family and delighting in watching our kids grow in this safe, small, tight-knit neighborhood school. Trust me when I say that lots of people know our family, but I've had to mourn the educational dream I envisioned. I've had to realize that sometimes other situations are better for your children or for yourself.

So, instead of Moiola, the boys will continue with me at CAVA for third grade and then move to a traditional brick and mortar school in the years to come. And instead of Moiola, Grace is going to go to the middle school where hopefully she will have more academically appropriate classes and more opportunities for growth. She leaves behind so many wonderful friends (half her group is going to Fulton and half are staying) and the memories of many happy days. Moiola was a good place for Grace to grow and form lasting friendships and be in the classrooms of some pretty wonderful teachers.

Good-bye Moiola. Thanks for everything. You've set us on a new path, and for that, we are grateful.

Grace on her first day of Kindergarten. She's in her calm but confident pose.

Grace, standing on the front porch, which is our standard "first day of school" spot for pictures. She's wearing her favorite pink and brown Roxy surf outfit, complete with skirt -- yes, you read that right -- a skirt.

My beautiful 11-year-old, with her yearbook and her glasses and her straight teeth and her new hairdo, ready to attend her last day of school.
Grace standing in front of Moiola's school sign. We are walking to the car after summer blast, after having friends sign her yearbook and after saying good-bye to some favorite teachers.

Poor Henry

I do not like the cone of shame . . .

Coach Wooden -- A Light in the Darkness

When we decided to keep the boys at home and enroll them in CAVA, I knew that my time would not be my own and that I would have to shift my schedule to accommodate errands, appointments, lunch with the girls (sniff) and other important things like shopping. However, the schedule has limited other things as well, namely my ability to read the newspaper. It was difficult to read the whole thing on a given day anyway, but it is a special pleasure for me to sit and gather up the news in this way. I also can skip the sections or stories that do not interest me that day, usually fashion (duh), sometimes sports and probably the rest of the business section (we have no money for stocks, so why peruse?).

Getting my news from the Yahoo page on my computer is a different type of information- gathering experience. While I do appreciate the immediacy of the news and yes, I can select what I want to read, it is not the same. For instance, there are far more stories about celebrities and their antics, which is okay, I guess, but I find myself drawn to those. When I see that a story is "trending," I worry about that person, only to find out that he or she has decided to split from his or her spouse or wore extremely high heels to her latest movie premiere. This is news? sheesh. At times, though, really cool news stories about my favorite people do appear, like Patrick Stewart being knighted. Make it so!

The other thing that depresses me about Yahoo news is the comments that appear at the end of every news story. Yahoo invites its users to comment on the material in the news story (again, something blissfully missing from the LA Times. Their comments are contained within beautifully crafted letters to the editor ). I'm not sure what purpose this serves other than to annoy those who actually care about grammar and good writing. The ignorance of basic writing and the English language displayed in these comments is breathtaking. It's like a train wreck, and I cannot look away. In addition to the horrible writing is the hatred that most of these people have toward everyone else. Never have I read (or tried to read; I'm serious; these comments are indecipherable) such vitriol, such prejudice, such mean-spirited words, and as I said such ignorance. It makes me sad for our country, and yet I look anyway.

On Thursday of this week, legendary UCLA Coach John Wooden was taken to the hospital. He was listed on Yahoo news in grave condition, and at 99, he was not expected to recover. I saw the story and was immediately devastated. In our house, UCLA is number one, and Coach Wooden is one of those people who is revered, even by those who attend rival schools. Coach died Friday night of natural causes.

If you don't know about Wooden and his legacy, here is a primer: he is the winningest (yes, it's a word) coach in college basketball history, but more than that, he is the coach that everyone refers to when they talk about success. He revolutionized the game of basketball by having his players go back to the basics, even teaching them how to put on their shoes and socks. Why? Because, he told them, everything matters. How you do each thing in your life matters. He developed a pyramid to success that included such things as perseverance and hard work. He made his players wear jackets and ties, be polite, get good grades, treat each other kindly. He knew that success on the court meant that players needed to be successful off the court. He was kind and humble and lived simply.

He also loved his wife. She passed away in 1985, and on the anniversary of her death -- on the 21st of every month -- he wrote her a love letter. When Coach showed Bill Plaschke, the Times writer, around his house (a small condo he lived in for more than 30 years), Bill was shocked to find that Coach had been writing letters to his wife. "I obviously don't have anywhere to send them, he said. But I had to write them anyway." She was the love of life, and he missed her greatly. He was a devoted man, a sweet man, an amazing man. The world is bereft of his goodness, and that makes me sad.

I braced myself for the comments on Thursday after reading about Wooden. This man was the pinnacle of goodness, and I could not stand for him to be slammed in any way. I was prepared to write back if needed. Imagine my surprise when I read comment after comment about the greatness of this man. Imagine my surprise when the comments were short and sweet with reasonable punctuation. Imagine my surprise when I read that people were generally saddened by his condition and wished him a speedy recovery. Imagine my surprise when I couldn't find one negative comment, even a hint of negativity. Imagine my surprise when I read comments that gave actual examples of Coach's goodness and how he inspired them in life.

I shouldn't have been surprised. Coach Wooden was such an inspiration to everyone that he could even bring out good grammar in those who don't normally embrace it. He could calm the vitriol in those who normally spew it. He could cause the most hardened of hearts to pause and shed a tear. He will be missed. He cannot be replaced, but hopefully he will be emulated. We need more coaches like Wooden. We need more human beings like him. RIP Coach.

Coarse Threads

Undesirable -- not wanted, not looked for, uninvited, objectionable, adverse, detrimental.

Despite what some people may tell you, there are things that you control in this life. For instance, you decide when to get up in the morning regardless of whether you have to get to work or not. You do have control over your responses to both people and various annoying appliances (that $%^& stove!), and believe it or not, you can decide whether or not to be angry, sad or depressed. You have control over your finances to an extent (let's see: three lattes a week or the gas bill?), and some of us can even control the weather. Maybe that's just me. Or not. kidding.

What we have no control over is other people.

We cannot control others, their actions, or their words. As much as we would like to control them, other people are off-limits, and frankly, that's how it should be. I know we'd like to change some things about the people closest to us, but God made them the way they are, and God made us to be different from them. The idea is to celebrate the best in each other and forgive the worst. It's hard to do -- sometimes impossible -- but that's the general idea. What happens, though, when an interaction with someone takes an ugly turn, and forever that person is viewed or remembered as undesirable, an un-asked-for presence in our lives? What if it has been years and the forgiveness has been granted, but that person still brings up unpleasant memories? In the tapestry of your life, this person has been woven in as a coarse thread, one that is essential to the overall quality of the cloth but one whose sharpness has taken or will take years to wear down. I paused today to realize that I, too, am probably an undesirable in someone's life. I, too, am a coarse thread.

In the center of my tapestry is a swirling pattern of coarse threads. (I say the center because I am 40 now, you know.) These past few years have been painful to live through, and I reflect often on the intolerance, the lack of compassion, the need for absolute control, the inflexibility, the arrogance, and the cruelty of those who will be looked at as undesirables in my life -- people I trusted to teach my children and who failed them and me. However, because their threads are woven into my cloth and the cloths of my children, I must consider their contributions to my life. Because of them, I now know what afflicts my children. Because of them, I have learned compassion for other children who do not fit the mold of a typical elementary student. Because of them I can detect dysfunction a mile away. Because of them, I have learned so much about myself through introspection and lots of good therapy! Because of them, I have a tight circle of good friends, amazing friends who listen and give advice and who are like sisters to me. Because of them, being an advocate for my children has become my number one priority. Because of them, I know myself better, and I like who I have become, age 40 or not.

Coarse threads will be woven into our tapestries our whole lives. We will see and feel their textures every time we examine our cloths. However, these coarse threads help keep our tapestries strong. Our cloths will hold together longer because of the coarse threads. They provide a weight and heft to our tapestry, and despite the undesirable, un-asked-for, unwanted experiences and people in our lives, we need them to grow and change. I had to remember that God can see our whole cloth, and He will use all types of threads to create something beautiful.

So I encourage you to swirl those patterns and embrace the coarse threads, no matter how undesirable the event or person(s) that brought them. God will use it all for something good.