For Janie

Jane Turner French
11/3/34-3/20/13
(written on 3/21/13)

Nobody loved to tell a good story more than Janie, so I hope I do her justice. Stephen, Paul and Danny: this story is for you.

Jane was born in the Bronx to William and Edna Turner. She worshiped her father and revered her mother. She routinely quoted wisdom from her mom despite the fact that Edna passed decades ago. Her sister, Anne, was so important to her. Janie loved to brag with absolute confidence and a steely glint in her blue, blue eyes, and I quote: My big sister adores me. I mean absolutely adores me.

No story about Janie can start anywhere else but with Nelson. I used to tease Paul about his “Leave it to Beaver” upbringing, but the truth is that Jane and Nelson’s marriage makes Ward and June Cleaver’s example look paltry. Jane and Nelson’s love was one for the record books. Nelson cherished her and she him. They seldom went anywhere without the other. For them, life was more comfortable, complete, and happy in each others presence. Since Nelson’s passing in 2008, Jane was missing a vital piece of herself.

Since she was a little girl, Jane wanted to be a mom. She took being a good mom very seriously. She was so proud of Stephen, Danny and Paul; each for different reasons. She loved them ferociously. And what’s best, they know it to the very fiber of their being. They have never, and will never, have to question it for one second.

And if you think she loved her sons, you should have seen the outpouring for her grandchildren. She loved them in an unflagging, consummate way…with unwavering belief in each of their potential. Erin, Connor, Turner and Hayden were given the extraordinary gift of having a Nanny who not only delighted in their presence – literally, when they were around she would feast her eyes on them – but also she prayed for them every day. She prayed for every aspect of their lives and I can think of no greater gift that she could have given them.

While we are somewhat defined by our core relationships, I want to take a minute to attempt to describe the heart of Jane, the very core of her. The part of her that was God given – the mix of personality, interests and passions. Because, what you might not know is, she was exceptional.

Janie was a little bit shy, but once she knew you, well….you got the joy of seeing her exceptional intellect go to work. She was articulate, knowledgeable about so many things (fueled by voracious reading and nightly Jeopardy sessions), had a remarkable memory, and made lightening-quick connections to people, places and times gone by. She was funny, I mean really funny. Even in the ICU in her last weeks, her sense of humor was acute...dropping one-liners with a characteristic Janie eye-roll or wink. Sarcasm was often her humor of choice, and is a tool she passed to her three boys, and even some of her grandchildren.

If you know the Bible story of the sisters Mary and Martha, then you know that when Jesus came to visit, Martha busied herself with cooking and cleaning while Mary sat at Jesus’ feet and just basked in his presence. Our Janie was definitely a Mary living in a very Martha world. If you came to visit her, she made you feel you were the most important person in the world…seriously, bombs could go off outside, and she would still be fixed on you. She was also staggeringly generous. Early on in my marriage to Paul I learned that I had to stop mentioning anything that I needed in her presence, as the next time I saw her it would be given to me. If she could solve your problem or meet your need, she would. Without hesitation.

The most important aspect of Jane’s life, without question, was her relationship with Jesus Christ. Jane’s faith was a simple one. And by simple, I don’t mean uninformed. She knew her Bible and she was extremely involved in her church and her church family. By simple, I mean uncomplicated. Her faith was rooted in the love embodied by Jesus Christ. The love of Christ was the rudder that directed her marriage, her parenting, her friendships, her work relationships. Jesus was her companion, her guiding light, and her savior. And while we have spent the last few days literally brimming with tears because we will miss her so, we rejoice in her faith. We rejoice in the hope that she and Nelson are reunited…I can hear Nelly saying, “Joan,” (that was his nickname for her), “what took you so long?” And we rejoice in the love of family and friends who share Jane’s faith in a loving God who has prepared a marvelous eternity for us all. We rejoice in the promise that Jesus has welcomed her into heaven saying, “Well done Janie, you good and faithful servant.”

The Lessons of Running

One year ago today I did my first Couch to 5K workout...so, happy running-versary to me.

Trying something new takes courage. That's a fact.

I fully recognize that I am a diver-inner. I am embarrassed to admit that the first thing written in my baby book to describe me is "stubborn." If I had any motivation, I would actually go dig it out of the piles of nostalgia stored in my shed and take a photo of that page. (In fact, when I was finishing graduate school, my father looked me in the eye and told me that I "aim too high" implying I should have quit before I began...which makes zero sense to me, both then and now.)

Recently, I considered my boys and how much potential still exists in their lives. And then I considered my own...most of my pure, innate potential was reached three decades ago. It feels like all my big accomplishments are behind me.

And than my husband decided to ask me to start the Couch to 5K running program with him. I am almost 50 years old and I have never done anything athletic in my life (I don't consider dancing athletic, rather purely artistic). On March 13, 2011 I ran a half a mile and thought my lungs were going to explode. Now I can run 10 miles whenever I want and in January I ran a 7:13 mile. So what have I learned?

• Perseverance pays off.
More than once I have been running and battling that small voice in my head that is nagging me to quit. I picture my son, the lefty pitcher, who at age 12 learned to dig deep in the face of a 3-0 count with a number 4 batter and stay calm, reach beyond what he thinks he can do, and get an out. Often, when I feel like quitting, I picture him on the mound. What is your image of perseverance that will motivate you?
• Walk before you run...literally.
Now that I am 365 days into my running pursuits, I am struck by the fact that I have enjoyed it every step of the way. Because I started with the Couch to 5K workouts that were a combination of running and walking, I never felt over my head. And there were times early on when I repeated weeks of the Cto5K until I felt ready to move on. Take your time and increase gradually, avoid getting in over your head and, god forbid, causing an injury. You don't want to quit before you even get started.
• Encouragement matters—from friends and others who are doing what you aspire to do.
Every time I go out for run, my mom cheers me on. Every time I get home from a run, my husband asks me how I did. It is a small thing to them, but it means the world to me. My mom has been supporting me unabashedly since I was 10 and went to my first dance class, so I am not surprised. And my husband's repeated queries tickle me as they imply to me that he believes I still have room for improvement. If encouragement matters to you, be sure to thank those who are supporting you. Let them know they are an important part of your success.
• Race your own race; don't worry what other people can do or are doing...only worry about what you can do and do that.
It is dangerous to compare your work to what others can achieve. Everyone's body is different. It is imperative to do your own thing. Celebrate the accomplishments of others and they will celebrate yours.

So whatever it is you are trying to accomplish...be brave. Dive in. Persevere. And above all, race your own race.

2.18.12 Haiku
Running. Blood pulsing,
arms pulling. Music filled mind.
Spirit soars. Freedom.

School Communication

I know it is not surprising that I would have strong opinions about school communication, since a) I have been a director of communication for a school for the last 10 years, b) I'm a mom to two kids in school, and c) I'm generally known to have very strong opinions.

Last week, my youngest was bullied in the bathroom at school. I am talking full on: verbal abuse, hitting, kicking... the works. And you know how I found out about it? Not from the school. Not from my son. I found out from my neighbor's son who hollared, "I heard H got beat up in the bathroom," as he was running across the lawn between his house and ours.

I can totally appreciate and respect H's desire to not be known as the kid who got beat up in the bathroom. He just didn't want to talk about it. But what possible reason is there for the school to not communicate proactively with parents in this instance? I just don't get it.

Coincidentally, I am in the midst of writing grades and comments for the students I teach at Watkinson School. I took great care to write deliberately and specifically to each of the students I was grading. As I was doing this, I considered how H's situation would have been handled by the Dean of Students at Watkinson. There is no way our dean would have let H come home and not have communicated with us first.

I am so disappointed in the system that educates our children in Wallingford. Since I complain so much, I decided to join the PTAC at my eldest's middle school. PTAC is a process and structure that really appears to work well. When I participate in these conversations, I get cautiously optimistic that positive change is afoot. Then my youngest gets knocked around in the boys' bathroom and no one communicates with me, and I am instantly back in that frustrating and frustrated place.

Do not undervalue proactive, transparent communication...I implore you to expect it from your child's teachers and administrators.

Skinny Jeans and Fairness

If you have met my eldest, you know why we call him Big T. He has grown 6.5 inches in the last year. From afar, he looks like a double stick popsicle with a head. Skinny jeans are all the rage with the youngins these days. For T, they are a fashion necessity. If he wears normal jeans, they look like bozo pants.

In anticipation of returning to school, we cleaned out T's closet to see what still fit from last year. The answer: nothing. Skinny jeans go for about $50 full price at Kohls or Zumiez. I was bumming.

The Scottish in me took over, however. I found one pair of skinny jeans for $19 at Marshalls, and another pair on sale at Kohls (for which I also used a 30% coupon) so I paid only $25. Now I felt victorious.

However, now that I am back at work, laundry isn't being done with the frequency it has been over the summer. So after many squabbles and seemingly endless bickering, I was back at Kohls with another 30% off coupon.

This was the end for Hayden (who only got one pair of skinny jeans). His invisible, proverbial cork popped and out came, "Mom, that's not fair."

At this point, you might be thinking, "Why is Jenni bothering to blog this story?"

The events of the last 24 hours have been extraordinary. My husband and my puppy were attacked by a German Shepherd. My hubby is fine...went to the doc, was given a prescription and, other than a little soreness, he's recovering fine.

My puppy Brutus, on the other hand, hasn't fared so well. He is a twelve pound yorkie-dachsund, and cuter than that renowned bug's ear. The attack has left him with a 10-12" cut across his entire back. The vet described the injury as "what it would look like if you tried to pull a stuffed animal apart not by the seams." It is absolutely tragic.

I have really been struggling with my anger and grief over the situation. I am an admitted dog freak. And have been since I was about 8 years old. Brutus is an innocent creature. He has never harmed anyone or anything. He didn't deserve what happened yesterday.

That's when it hit me. Fairness is a man made concept. It is an ideal, not reality. If it were real, then my friends on Batey 50 in La Romana (photos above) would have a house as nice as mine and as much food to eat as I do. My friend Samantha wouldn't have juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, but rather two healthy knees like my boys. Little Macey King wouldn't have battled cancer (and won, by the way) numerous times before she turned 10, while I sit here at 45 still chugging along as healthy as an ox. There is no question, life isn't fair.

What dawned on me is that fairness isn't a God-given gift, but I do believe that justice is. Justice is eternal and not of this world. I am hanging on for that.

Back to School Musings by Paul

This post is by my guest blogger, who also happens to be my husband, Paul. 

Today always reminds me of this old Staples commercial. Classic! And funny because it rings true (at least a little bit) with every parent I know.

Anyone with children has experienced it: Toward the end of the summer, our kids begin to sit in front of the TV a little longer … they bicker a little more frequently … they miss their friends from school.  It’s time to go back. We all know it in our gut.

And yet, there’s a sadness to the first day of school. It signals the end of the relatively carefree days of summer. ANOTHER summer gone. We’re 8 months through another year. Where does the time go? Our kids are growing up way too fast! Is it possible that next year I’ll have one in Middle School and one in High School!? It just doesn’t seem possible.

This snowball of a thought process is why this time of year also puts me in mind of eternity. Call me weird … it’s just how my mind works. To borrow from another commercial: Life comes at you fast. I find it scary to think about just how fast life moves. It’s like that line in the song “Fireflies”: “I’d like to make myself believe, that planet Earth turns slowly.” But it doesn’t. It moves fast. Really fast. And so, I lapse into this momentary sadness and it threatens to envelope me. But then something else takes over. It’s a kind of excitement. In fact, it’s why I don’t hate going through this whole thought process every September.

You see, the first day of school – in the midst of the separation anxiety I’m feeling from missing my kids – also reminds me to take stock in what’s important in life. For me, it becomes another opportunity to stop and appreciate my family and friends and, more importantly, to re-energize my faith. To thank God for His many blessings and to think about how, in return, I can bless others in His name. This is why I’m here … why I exist. And, so, in a way not intended by Staples … I do indeed count this as the most wonderful time of year. 

The Faces of H

Today, Hayden let me photograph him for about 20 minutes straight. He was funny, awkward, belligerent, adorable, serious, and directable; these are but a few of the results.

If you have the time, you might want to try this endeavor. It proved to be a bonding time and also yielded some photos that I, and Hayden's future wife, will treasure.

Taking Me to the Edge

Thirteen years ago today I became a mom. At 12:16 a.m. on May 20, 1997 I wasn't a mom. Then some cosmic switch was flipped and at 12:17 a.m. I was a mom. I had no idea what I was in for.

I was never one of those little girls obsessed with dollies who dreamed of being a mom. Quite frankly I just couldn't picture it. Yet my God had other plans for me; first Paulie came into my life, and then together we created Turner.

There is something extraordinary about your first born. They are the one that takes you from the "before" version of you to the "after" version of you. I can't imagine my first child being anyone else but Turner. He is my limit-testing, boundary-pushing, curious, energetic, sensitive, talkative, goofy, and so-so-so loving big boy. He loves to figure things out...from how to make a bird house out of tape to helping his dad assemble or repair anything (often figuring out just the solution to make it all work perfectly). He has an emotional depth well beyond his years (and quite frankly not often found in his gender) that makes him an extraordinary friend, brother, son, grandson, etc.

The challenge of parenting Turner is often the joy of parenting him. I find that when I am in the process of helping him to become his best self, I am at my best. It is a rare and precious gift he gives me.

So this one is for my Big T on his big day...Happy 13th birthday buddy. Thanks for taking me to the interesting edges of life on a daily basis. I love you more than my tongue can tell!

—Mom

Like Cindy, But More So

Like the “Lost In Space” robot,
short circuited,
arms flailing,
I am confused.
Tight-chested,
my lungs are so tense
that the air won’t
come.

Feeling like the 21st-century, female version of Atlas,
overwhelmed,
yet simultaneously underwhelmed,
I am tired.
Reality hasn’t met expectations,
but when do they,
ever.

Desiring to be special,
a treasure,
someone’s beauty,
like a well-worn baseball glove or
a coveted pair of pumps,
flats—shoes of any kind really—
I am not.

Like the fabled Cinderella,
cleaning, laundry, shopping, cooking, dishes
some more laundry, yard work….
and if Cindy had kids, add in disciplining.
I am Mom.

(written winter 1996, never published anywhere until now.)

More than the Sum of its Parts

Here in the middle of winter, while everything is cold and stark, my mind, like yours probably, is already turning to spring. What is it about us that is wired to always be thinking about the next thing? Why is it so hard to live in the moment? Perhaps that is fodder for a future blog?

To me, Spring means two things: gardening and baseball.

I am already imagining the schedule change that takes place in my house beginning mid-April: where homework must be done as soon as school is over and dinners are eaten on the bleachers of the Yalesville Little League fields while my boys are practicing or playing. I’ve also already begun searching the seed catalogues for what new items I want to put in my vegetable garden and considering an expansion of the amount of space I’ve allotted for it.

My thought this morning is about the commonality of these two pursuits; the idea that in both cases, the whole is often more than the sum of its parts.

Right now, in mid-January, my garden is merely an eyesore. The plot is piled high with leaves from the garden that, once the ground thaws, will be turned into the soil. The stakes that hold up the fence that keeps deer and Turner’s size 10-and-a-half hoofers out of my garden stand gawking against the snowy ground. Yes, more than once, a child chasing an errant fly ball in our backyard has landed square on top of a tomato plant. It’s amazing how a few five foot pieces of lumber sticking out of the ground will suddenly make my boys more careful.

But I know that come June, July and August, this otherwise insignificant plot of land will be bursting with the greens, reds, and purples of my basil, lettuce, cukes, tomatos, eggplant, beets, etc., and I can’t wait!

Similarly, when the baseball season starts, the teams are comprised of children with a very wide range of playing ability. Coaching staffs haven’t necessarily gelled yet. And sometimes, emotions run high.

Yet, by mid-June, individual players have mastered numerous skills and strategies (I still can get giddy remembering Turner’s 56 pitch shut out during all-stars last summer), and teams have coalesced into … well ….teams.

While none of this may be particularly surprising or miraculous ... it all signifies something more to me. As a parent, I eagerly wait for the fulfillment of possibility in my own children. Where will they excel? Where will they meet their fullest potential? What pursuits, traits, and rigors of their childhood will they carry into adulthood? This to me is when they will become more of the sum of their parts. Just as the combination of seeds, water and sunshine can yield one surprisingly perfect tomato, I wonder what habits of mind, body and spirit will push my children toward excellence? In the same way that running, batting and fielding drills create muscle memory so game play is instinctive, I wonder which of our family’s drills or traditions will become instinctive?

It happens to each of us. Suddenly, magically, we all mature and assemble all the gangly, disparate elements of our youths into one, recognizable adult persona. This Spring will find me, once again, taking the lessons of gardening and little league and applying those truths to my children. I am confident an adventure awaits my spirited boys and, indeed, our entire family. I wonder what it will be.