Miss Ryan

Happy Saint Patricks Day!

I committed yesterday to share my very first journal entries from little, eleven-year old Blue. So here you go, exactly as written 31 years ago today (Gives me great hope for Gator, frankly!):

March 17, 1980 - Saint Pactricks Day Monday

Thay anounced the winners of the play and I was suposed to be Miss Hanigan

I hate Miss Hanigan and Miss Ryan my Mean fith grade teacher kicked me out

Kim Pricherd got the part I wanted, Annie

Boy I hate Miss Ryan

Miss Ryan Hates Me so Much

she wouldnt even tell me who grace was

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March 19, 1980

Mrs. Ryan Likes me now and

Im in the play as Miss Hanigan

But I dont care that much

Im in math right now But i'm done.

(Sadly, the next entry was seven months later so we will ever be deprived of further detail about the glories of playing Miss Hanagan which were increased by the casting of my younger sister as one of the orphans I got to pick on.)

I've written before about Miss Ryan (no, she didn't get married between entries). She was my all-time favorite teacher and had an invaluable impact on me at a critical time in my life. So I was surprised when I read that first entry to Gator. My childhood was a field of extremes...love, hate, good, bad, ugly, pretty, all, nothing. It's taken a lot of work to embrace the middle, the myriad shades of gray.

Two months ago while on a layover in California I decided to track down my beloved teacher. She's been married for decades now, but she always will be Miss Ryan to me because I refuse to grow up.

I had so many questions for her. I wanted to know if she knew, or even suspected, anything about my home life and how things were going for me. I mean, it was 1980...a different era in terms of awareness of neglect and abuse. But still, was that why she took an interest in me? Did she know what a huge impact she had on me?

It was a Sunday evening when I finally met up with her. Ever the superhero teacher, she was in her classroom at the school where she now teaches, preparing for her week.

I only had an hour before I had to head back to the airport, but it was such a sweet visit for me. Miss Ryan's had thousands of students in the course of her career, yet she absolutely remembered me (I must have a way about me).

Miss Ryan and me...31 years later

We had a nice visit, filling in the gaps in our lives. I was able to thank her for what she did for me...after telling her how important she was in my life. Despite what I wrote on March 17, 1980, she really has always been one of my heroes...one of my life's angels. And being in that play was the start of some fun experiences for me...despite not getting to wear the red afro wig!

So the moral of these stories is (this really should have been part of yesterday's post), keep a journal, kids! You never know but what it might come in handy in enchanting your beloved someday. And it's like free therapy when you're struggling...but be honest and thoughtful about what you write. Show the whole picture. We can't learn and grow from our mistakes and follies, or see how far we've come, if we don't acknowledge them. And your kids won't be able to laugh their heads off at how ridiculous you use to be if you don't put in all the good stuff! Put the date on each page. Don't bother with stuff that really doesn't matter, but do include feelings and thoughts that are significant. Remember, venting on paper is better than being mean to others. You can always tear a page out if you really don't want words you've written to be remembered...but you can't take actions or spoken words back.

Have you ever gotten in touch with someone you'd lost touch with from your past (not counting Facebook)? Did you have any heroes as a child? Were any of your teachers exceptionally important in your life?

Grateful for:

1) Education. Gracious, I had no idea how atrocious my grammar and spelling use to be!

2) Perspective that comes through the passage of time.

3) Chances to thank those who have blessed my life.

Memories of Halloween

Memories of Halloween

A Personal Essay

As a child, I couldn’t wait for Halloween. It was my favorite holiday because I was in direct control of how much loot I acquired, whereas during other holidays, I had to rely on the generosity of Santa and others. Whoever invented Halloween was brilliant!

There was no limit to the amount of candy I hoped to collect, so as soon as I could possibly get started, I was out the door. Trick-or-Treating was a sport to me--and I ran from house to house to reach as many as possible, till there were no more lights on and I had to return home.

I felt justified in this marathon effort, because the amount of candy I collected, and the amount I was allowed to eat, were two different things. We weren’t allowed so much as one piece of candy before coming home, because my mom had to inspect it for poison or razor blades. Which confused me because it seemed to me if someone were devious enough to dip your Tootsie Pop in arsenic, they'd probably re-wrap so it would look untouched.

The driving force behind my quest was that we had to give fully *half* of our haul to, oddly enough, the kids at the State Mental Hospital. In all my life I never heard of anyone else who did this. It wasn’t advertised or promoted at school, church, or on the television. I honestly have no idea how they came up with this idea, but nevertheless, upon returning home we'd dump out the spoils, line them up in order of importance, and then skim off the top half to keep ourselves, sacrificing the rest to the poor unfortunates who couldn’t participate in this annual free-for-all. It should go without saying that the kids at the mental hospital never saw any of my chocolate bars.

I assume my parents wanted to teach us selflessness, or at the very least, curb sweet tooth development, but that clearly backfired. Deprivation has a sneaky way of making you want more of the item, and so I became a bonafide sugaraholic. Starting in 3rd grade I worked in my school cafeteria so I could get a free lunch, and I remember the cook telling me that I'd probably have diabetes someday because of all the sweets I consumed (hail the chocolate chip cookies, cinnamon buns, and those tasty grape Popsicles!) I didn’t know what diabetes was, but I definitely wasn't concerned…I was an immortal nine-year old.

One thing I was grateful for was that I never had to wear the cheap-o box costumes sold at stores in the 1970’s; if you’re old enough, you’ll remember these printed plastic-sheets that tied on, topped off with a mask with tiny nostril holes for breathing. Most kids wore the mask on top of their head like a hat because they were so uncomfortable, especially pokey eye holes. But fortunately, we had a good assortment of dress-ups at our house, including a few wigs which always added legitimacy to any outfit. We always came up with something so as to avoid resorting to the dreaded boxed costume option.

The year I was eight Halloween came on a Sunday. Nothing could have been more devastating to me, a church-going, newly baptized, commandment-abiding Mormon girl, than to have my favorite holiday fall on a Sunday. I knew there was no way we'd be allowed to trick-or-treat on the Sabbath. My parents were surrounded by a pack of sad-faced kids, wondering how we could make it through the next year without our annual stockpile of goodies. Their solution? We’ll let you go trick-or-treating on Saturday instead! That’s what they do out in Utah. Which was great, except that we lived in California.

Perhaps they were embarrassed to be seen out on the 30th, but for whatever reason, instead coming with us they got our teenage neighbor Peggy to take us. Peggy had struggled with her weight for years, which was, in this situation, to our advantage. We knew she’d be a respectable escort because she was as interested in the free candy as we were.

We started making our way around the neighborhood, but it was noticeably slim pickings that night. Many people weren't even home, and those who were wondered why this pack of kids was at their door a day earlier than scheduled. We boldly announced "we can't trick-or-treat on Sunday" (some suspected us of planning to go out both nights--which was, in my mind, not a bad idea!). A number of them hadn't bought their candy yet. We got a lot of apologies and pennies that year. It was awkward, but I was a devoted disciple to sugar and would not be deterred.

I looked forward with great anticipation to sixth grade, when I would start junior high school at TeWinkle, which was named for the first mayor of our town years before. But despite my anticipation, that was a difficult time for me. Already wildly unpopular in grade school, the problem only got worse at TeWinkle. I struggled to fit in with not only the kids I'd known during grade school, but also all the new kids. Most of them seemed to be from well-off families, and they had an air of confidence about them that I simply couldn’t seem to acquire. I thought if I could just get myself into the popular group life would be a dream, and spent hours wondering how I could achieve that goal.

The year I was in sixth grade, the Rubik's Cube became enormously popular. Everyone had one, and contests were held regularly among students to see how fast the puzzle could be solved. I had a stroke of genius one day to be a Rubik's Cube for Halloween that year! We got a big, square cardboard box, a half-dozen florescent, glow-in-the-dark paints and some black tape to divide the colors into sharp, perfect squares. Holes were cut out for my head and arms, and the bottom was left open for my legs. It was a beautiful costume and I couldn't wait to wear it. Though sitting in my desk was, admittedly, awkward. But my costume was a big hit with my classmates. It was a happy day.

In seventh grade, I had a horrible time trying to decide what to be for Halloween. I yearned come up with something clever, even better than the Rubik’s Cube of the previous year. But by the afternoon before Halloween, I still hadn't settled on anything and was feeling discouraged. A friend of my mother's from church was over visiting my mom that day. Honestly, she wasn’t my favorite person; her son was one of my primary tormentors but she never intervened which made me wonder if she had something against me. Plus she usually just ignored me when I was around her. But this particular occasion she was being so friendly that I decided I perhaps I’d been mistaken (after all, her husband was a bishop, and everyone knows that only men with nearly perfect wives are made bishop!)

While mourning over my plight, my mom’s friend (who was one of those who always seemed to have advice for every situation) began telling me about some wonderful costumes she'd heard of. The first one got me really excited. She knew a man who had made a costume toilet out of cardboard for his child! The child stood in the tank part, which had holes for his head, arms, and feet. The bowl of the toilet extended out front and had a lid on it, which the child lifted up for people to put candy into. The whole thing was painted white, and a plunger was used as a hat. She said it was just darling! I was very sad that I'd heard about it so late; I'd have to wait till the following year to be a toilet, because there just wasn't time to put it together that day.

But her next idea was even more wonderful because it was totally doable! “Take a garbage bag, cut holes for your head and arms to go through, write the word "GLAD" on the front with masking tape in big letters, and go to school as a GLAD Bag!” Why hadn't I thought of such an idea? It was unique, quick and easy, and I had everything I needed. Plus, I was an upbeat, Glad-kinda-gal! Boy, she really did always have an answer for everything, that’s for sure.

I decided to wear a leotard and black tights underneath the bag, and I could also carry an extra GLAD bag for trick-or-treating at night...which, BONUS, would hold a massive amount of candy! This was going to be a big hit at school the next day; I could hardly wait!

Morning came and I eagerly donned my costume and rode my bike to school. It was always such fun to arrive at school on Halloween day and see all the other kids, especially when you had a great costume on yourself.

It started in the bike rack where some boys were just arriving as I was walking out. Some comment was made about a garbage bag. I ignored them, knowing inside they were just jealous because my costume was better than theirs (after all, how original is dressing up as a girl?). But as I walked to class, several other comments were tossed at me (I would soon wish that was all that got thrown that day), and I started feeling frustrated that they couldn't see that I was a GLAD bag, not a garbage bag.

First period in English class I took my seat. There was a garbage can a few feet in front of me in the corner, but when you have a bag sitting three feet closer, why bother with the can? All during class little wads of paper, erasers, tissues, and other trash were surreptitiously tossed at me. I couldn't wait for class to end so I could get away from there.

By lunch time I was wishing desperately that I had worn something else, but I kept my chin up. Our lunch yard was outdoors, so I got my lunch in the cafeteria and went to find a seat. I was specifically looking for somewhere to eat that wasn't anywhere near a garbage can. I found a table near the front of the lunch yard, in hopes that the lunch attendant would be able to see me and ward off any attempts to "help keep America looking good" through proper waste disposal.

Sometimes when you're a kid it seems like responsible adults are never there when you need them (eg: wasn't that pretty much Harry Potter’s whole problem?), and this lunch period was one of those days. Butter, soft from sitting in the sun, found it's way into my hair. A spoonful of mashed potatoes flew through the air and emergency-landed in my lap. It rained chocolate milk that sunny afternoon, followed by a hail storm of peas. When a ketchup-covered hot dog chunk hit me in the face I could no longer ignore the attacks. Humiliated, I ran for the bathroom. After cleaning myself up as much as I could, I called my mom and told her I was sick, got released, and rode my bike home.

After that, my zeal for Halloween diminished appreciably. Since I’d come home “sick” I couldn't go trick-or-treating that night…but somehow filling my enormous GLAD bag with candy didn't seem as important to me anymore. Halloween had lost some of it's magic.

Oh, in case you were wondering, No, I didn't go to school as an eighth-grade toilet the next year either. After what I’d been through, I had new insight into what being a toilet at a junior high school named WeTinkle, I mean TeWinkle, might be like.

Battle of the Jedi - A Stop Motion Movie

Gator isn't interested in sports, which, he laments, makes him different from other kids. Most of his time is spent reading, playing with his Legos, or begging for screen time, which features Star Wars a disproportionate amount of time. But every few months, he also decides to make a movie.

His interest in movie making dates back about seven years, when one day a question that had just occurred to him popped out of his mouth, "do people who make movies get paid for them?" The concept seemed to blow his four year old mind.

Not that he has specific film industry ambitions. It's just a fun hobby and we've enjoyed a number of his short productions in the past two years. It's quirky, but I've assured him that before he knows it, he'll find "his people" who have similar interests. Meanwhile, my favorite movie creations star his massive paper airplane collection, and his snakes and plastic animals. So far they have all just been on the camera, without audio tracks.

This year he decided to make a movie to enter into the Reflections contest held by the PTA. I'd like to say I was a supportive, involved parent, but the truth is it was all his initiative. Suddenly, he informed me that he had hundreds of photos that he needed to edit.

So I did the honorable thing of A) giving up the computer so he could work on it, and B) walked him through a crash course in Windows Movie Maker software so he could put the thing together. Oh, I also bought him the music and installed a new font for him. But this is his baby, including adding all the "blood" and special effects (just in case you were wondering if that was my handiwork).

As far as I'm concerned, different IS good!

Grateful for:

1) Gator. And yes, I realize that the movie calls him something else, but as far as we're concerned, he will always be our dear Gator. Just like I will always be Blue to my online besties!
2) That sunset tonight was a gift straight from the good Lord above!
3) Working out to "24". I'm doing stepper while I watch it. Hope it gets me into exercising again!

Yesterday

School started!
Here's the traditional "leaving for the first day of school" pictures of Bunch & Gator.






Technically, I should probably have written "Gator and Bunch", as the first picture is actually of Gator--who prefers riding bikes or being driven to school over The Bus. But the good news is NEW BUS DRIVER who has a lovely accent...I'm thinking South Africa but could be off by a few continents. We bribed her with gave her some of my amazing toffee and a friendly note so hopefully she'll be superniceallyear to my kid.

Bunch is my lovely 8th grader this year. She couldn't wait for school to start, and was SO EXCITED to get rid of me when I took her to school that I was summarily dismissed and told to "go and do whatever it is that you do" when we got to school. (That "thing I do" would be the forest-worth of paperwork that it takes for a student to be completely registered and official these days.) I do believe it was the first time in my life that I didn't receive a hug and "I love you" upon saying goodbye.

She made up for it after school.

Gator and I rode bikes to his school which is a nice form of forced exercise as I have two round trips minimum on those days. He's had a fantastic attitude so far this year. I'm very impressed. I'm thinking 5th grade is going to be his year!

More tomorrow.

Grateful for:

1) Happy kids in the morning
2) Great school teachers. If they get more of my kid's time than I do, I want them to be nice!
3) Tomorrow.

It's Over

Staycation 2010 has officially ended. In eight hours, I'll be driving a car full of kids to another first day of school. It begins.

In June we brainstormed a list of fun stuff to do this summer. Since it was a brainstorm, we didn't exclude any ideas the kids came up with., and we got about half of them in during the past 2 months. But we also had a lot of fun experiences that we didn't write down.

The majority of the summer was shared with cousins doing various activities together...which is about as close to heaven as my kids can imagine. I think it's a good sign that you've had a nice vacation when your 11 year old turns down a free trip to Disneyland for his birthday. (Yes, you read that right! His sister was having a hard time wrapping her head around this, but it was his call.)


In addition to an abundance of extended-family time, I've had some fun experiences too. I went on my first cruise (will be getting a post of it's own soon), remodeled my bedroom (pictures to follow), started painting (pictures, not walls), read some great books, made some new friends, started writing a book, ate too much, didn't work out regularly, grew a big & happy basil plant, dreamed some dreams, baked goodies for people, set some goals, felt happy.

I Love Summer! I love that I'm nearly 3/4 of the way through this year, and so far I'm doing pretty well with my 2010 slogan (see header above). Life is good.

Grateful for:
1) So many people who make my life, and lots of other people's lives, rich. Thank you.
2) Forced structure that school-time dictate. I'll be trying to make some good habits.
3) Happy moments with Doc. He's been amazing at juggling his life

PS: I have a confession: The junior high girls want to go to school a little early to set up their lockers etc., and I'm the driver tomorrow. But Gator hates waking up early...so I snuck in and set his clock 10 minutes ahead so he'll get up when I need him to.
Deception of the highest order, I know. Shoot me.

The Mother of All Candy Cards

I finally did the video like I promised. Here is Doc reading the candy card I made him for his birthday last month, which was the day before he graduated from medical school.

Grateful For:
1) Friends. Don't they just make life grand?!
2) Sunny, hot days. 'Cause we've had a shortage of them round here this year. (It's only 55 degrees Fahrenheit right now!)
3) Our kids are taking swimming lessons. I'm so glad about this! (I've been rather a lame mom in the making sure my kids are well-trained in water department.)
*•♫*♥Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ♥*♫´¯`☆

Doctor Doctor

In about 3 hours, Doc and his fellow classmates will again join together and take the Hipocratic Oath, only this time they will be attired in traditional academic regalia and be hooded as they receive their diplomas.

It seems like just a couple months have passed since their white coat ceremony when they first made that same oath and began this journey. Doc has some of the finest people I know as classmates, and it has been an honor to get to know them as they've studied their brains out these past four years.

So naturally I can't sleep. The only other time in my life that I have felt this crazy combination of excited/happy was the night before our wedding...random, huh?! I'm just so proud of Doc, and all that he has accomplished! It's been a zany, difficult, happy, painful, exciting and successful road this past four years. And it's going to be more of the same for the next six or seven. But I'm so glad we've come this far as a family.

Doc is going to be a neuroradiologist. The path from here to there begins with today's graduation ceremony, followed by a transitional year at a local hospital, followed by four years of radiology residency at a different local hospital, and then a year or two of fellowship in neuroradiology. So for the foreseeable future, he will be training and working crazy hours just like the last four. But he'll be helping people and learning vast amounts of information that will bless countless lives. And he loves this stuff! I've never met anyone who was as passionate about learning as Doc is (well, except for maybe my sister. Maybe.)

Some people have asked why I call him "Doc" when he isn't actually a doctor yet and it's because I'M A COMPLETE NARCISIST. But as my sister always reminds me, he already is a doctor. He earned a Ph.D. in biology and anatomy years ago, and then taught medical school in New England before deciding to become a physician.

For some reason we didn't really celebrate that accomplishment-which is too bad because it was a lot of work. He didn't even attend his graduation ceremony. I think we might have already moved by the time it took place. But not this time! We're doing it up in fine fashion. Partly because this whole week has been a series of award ceremonies and banquets, but also because yesterday was Doc's birthday!

He had an award banquet last night, and when I found out about it, I coordinated with the people in charge to present him with his birthday cake when they gave him his award. It worked out perfectly because alphabetically, he was the last recipient of the evening, so when the dean called him up, he announced that it was also his birthday as the cake I'd made was brought out and everybody sang to him.

Doc and the dean after the ceremony.

It was awesome. And a total surprise for Doc. We were delighted that his parents, our kids, and my sister and brother could join us for the event. It was a fun night.

Close-up of his cake

When we returned home, the MOTHER OF ALL CANDY CARDS was waiting for Doc. I made a little video of him reading it which I'll post when I get a chance, but here's a photo of it.

Candy Card

Well, I best get ready for this day. The butterflies in my stomach don't really make sense to me; I'm not the one walking across the stage! But never again will we have a day like today. I'm so happy for Doc, and so proud of him. And Doc, when you read this (yes, he actually does read my blog and all your comments even though he's never left a comment himself)...WAY TO GO! You're simply amazing and I love you!

Grateful for:

1) The Enormous Village who have helped us get this far.

2) Generous friends who let me commandeer their home for 2 days while working on the cake and card. Wouldn't have happened without everything you did!
3) People everywhere who work hard to be the best at what they do. Don't you love how they make the world so much better?!

My Favorite Things

We don't often have fresh flowers around here, but they are some of my favorite things. The bright colors and exquisite details of the different varieties just make me happy, and I've needed the little boost they offer this week especially.

Watching my kids grow through new experiences is another one of my favorite things, and this week Bunch experienced her theatrical debut as one very happy nun in her school's production of The Sound of Music.

They did a excellent job with it...far better than the plays I was in during junior high. Her school has a top-notch drama teacher, and our schools are happily known for having abundant parental and community involvement and support. All the kids worked very hard and it was such a good experience that Bunch is thinking next year maybe she'll audition for one of the leads.

Below is a shot of the playbill with signed autographs from her fellow cast members, along with the flowers she was given. Thanks Bunch for brightening our home and our lives...you are beautiful...the Deep Beauty kind of beautiful ♥




Grateful For:
1) The goodness of my children
2) The goodness of my spouse
3) The goodness of people everywhere. I'm just grateful for goodness.

Yesterday was TEAONUI

Teaonui [tay-ow-new-ee] ~ noun
A Tahitian given name meaning "Dawn of an important day".

Teaonui is my darling nephew's middle name, but it also aptly describes yesterday.

For anyone who has any doctors or future doctors in their lives, I recommend reading "An Insider's Guide to the Biggest Week in Medical Education" which explains Match Day with great humor and clarity.

It was a very busy day too...which is why I just now added a photo to yesterday's post. Between the Match ceremony brunch and the match dinner in the evening, we picked up Bunch and Gator from their schools and took them to a frozen yogurt shop. After allowing them as many toppings as they liked (we never splurge for toppings), I asked if they wanted to enjoy their yogurts first before we told them the news. "NOOOOO!" thy both insisted. So Doc laid it out: "We're staying here. For all of it. We're not moving at all."

It took a moment to sink in, but they were so happy! Both had assumed we were moving for sure.

At the ceremony when Doc first opened the envelope, any disappointment at not matching at our 1st choice in Boston for the coming year was immediately tempered by the fact that we knew our kids would be thrilled about staying put. Especially Gator. He's been praying for months and months that we wouldn't have to move. Bunch had a more adventurous attitude about it, and was looking forward to parts of it in a way, but she's very happy to just stay here, too.

When we read the letter, I confess that tears sprang to my eyes. Part of it was probably just relief. Relief at knowing our future and having the ability to make plans is huge. And in that moment, my huge mental "Thing's I'm going to Have To Do" list just simply evaporated. No packing. No finding renters, or a place to rent, planning the details of two transcontinental moves in a year, or dealing with utilities, registering for schools, finding music teachers, doctors, dentists, etc.

But a tiny bit of those tears was due to the things that won't be now, either. Like living near the ocean and the amazing natural beauty of the area (I watched the sun set in Boston on Tuesday and rise there on Wednesday morning and was filled with peace and anticipation about more moments like that). Or getting to know the friends I made there better. I really liked them.

And my WORK! I was SO excited about not commuting by plane to get to work for a year. To have the luxury of just getting in my car and driving 20 minutes to the airport when I need to be there was so appealing. Especially after last weekend when I had to leave a day earlier than planned to make sure I'd get there because of canceled flights the next day, and then my flight was canceled, so I was scrambling to find ANYONE with an empty seat to any southern California airport that I could jump on. Ten hours after leaving home, I finally arrived, exhausted at the Orange County airport.

A dear friend offered to let me stay at her place, but she had to work early, so she enlisted her boyfriend to pick me up and drive me to LAX for my flight the next morning. We were about 40 minutes from LAX, in the far left lane of the 405 freeway, when there was a tremendous BANG and this happened:



After quick silent prayer and heartfelt plea for help, a tow truck arrived in record time, a kind stranger at the tire store offered to drive me to Long Beach airport, and from there I hopped on a shuttle to LAX and made it before the plane arrived.

All that just to get TO get to work.

It's not like that every time obviously, but you can imagine now why I was looking forward to just living at my crew base for a year.

But apparently we're meant to stay put, and I'm fine with it. Doc will have a much harder year at the program he matched into...it was his last choice out of all those he interviewed with in terms of the program, but he ranked it 2nd because it's here, and unless we lived by a crew base, moving would only make things harder for all of us. So we'll work it out, month by month, and soon we'll be looking back on the next year just like we have these past four years, and wondering at how fast it passed by.

As for today, it's the first day of the rest of our lives here. Time to run a few errands that I've been putting off, and then I think I'll start finally turning this house into a home. Our real home. More on that later...

Grateful for:
1) The kindness of all the people I met in Boston last December. I'm sad we won't get to be neighbors and better friends.
2) All the happy support we got yesterday. A special thanks to each of you bloggy readers, known and unknown, for all the feedback and good wishes. You're the best! ♥
3) Since we're staying, and thanks to Doc's parents, we're going to get new carpet!!! Goodbye nasty, ripped, stained, dirty, snagged carpet that I've just always tried to make peace with.

And The Actor, errr, DOCTOR Goes To...

Utah (transitional year) and Utah (radiology residency)!

We're stayin' put for the rest of our kid's childhoods. More later...

Grateful for:
1) my son's anxiety over possibly moving not actually resulting in vomit last night
2) my potential "to do" list just got a whole lot shorter
3) how ecstatic our kids were when we broke the news.

It's ALMOST like having a baby

When I was expecting both my babies, I was among the increasingly rare "I don't want to find out what we're having" group. In fact, during that time, I didn't know anyone else who opted not to find out the gender of their child before the birth (or at least try to find out. And sometimes they were told one thing but got the other. Ooops!)

Your mileage may vary, but I figured I didn't have that many more happy surprises ahead of me in life, and it just seemed like delaying finding out that tidbit of information would generate a level of anticipation and excitement for me that is elusive and hard to come by. I wanted that excitement all at once at the end.

That said, if there were an ultra sound place that would tell me where Doc is going to match for his Transitional Year and Residency, I'd have camped out on the doorstep of the office to be first in line.

This waiting thing is KILLING me!

To be fair, pregnancy lasts just 40 weeks. Medical school has lasted four years. And though here we are, winding up for the home stretch, it feels like that last month of pregnancy feels...where the being pregnant part is getting old, and you'd really like to move on to the being a parent part of the process.

Next week, on the 18th at 10:00 a.m. in fact, Doc will be handed an envelope which will finally reveal all, and that moment will change all our lives forever. See...it's almost like having a baby...via scheduled c-section! So in just over 200 hours, the waiting will be over.

I should try to adopt that same "I don't know, I don't want to know, and I'm fine with not knowing" attitude I came by so naturally back when I was expecting. After all, this is potentially the quiet before the storm. Right now, I can't really make any plans. I don't know if I'm going to have to kick it into high-gear and prepare for one move, or two moves, or if I'll just be staying put here for the next five years, in which case you can bank on me making some fun summer plans.

I'll certainly keep you posted.

Grateful for:
1) The unlikelihood of Doc not matching (despite his anxiety about this possibility)
2) Knowing that whatever happens, things always work out after all. And besides, my motto is now Come what may and love it.
3) That my blog will go with me wherever I go. Or don't go.
4) That even though my laptop broke a few weeks ago (hence the reduced blogging time lately), at least the information on it can be recovered...and now I have to get a new computer! (just as soon as I get some more money).
5) Spring is almost here. Yay!!!
6) I made these "Just for Fun" cupcakes yesterday and had a good time giving them away to people:

Click picture to enlarge. Which is your favorite?

Trying to catch up

I am frightfully (heh. Halloween) behind on a load of posts. Seriously dating back to at least August.

For example: I never managed to write about the trip I took Gator on to California to see John Williams conduct his annual “Night at the Movies” concert at the Hollywood bowl. Gator is crazy for John Williams…it's the only music he really likes. So it was a chance for Gator to see him live, you know, cause John is getting along in life and I felt like we should carpe diem and all that.

It was a fantastic show, and next time we'll know to bring a light-up light saber because the moment the Star Wars theme started, the entire audience pulled them out and "conducted" along with JW. It was so awesome. And actually the show choked me up. So many memories tied to his music. What a master. Gator loved this trip.

Blog friend Debbie and I had corresponded online for better part of a year at least, but we finally had our first in-real-life meet up, and she is as delightful in person as she is on her blog. We met during the trip to CA for the John Williams concert, and enjoyed sunshine, sand, sounds, smells and sweet conversations while Gator played in the ocean. She brought me a beautiful book (“Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh) tied up in a fabulous ribbon with a heart-rock and some blue sea glass which she collects on her many walks. It was a lovely visit.

In August, I flew to Syracuse, NY where blog-reader-stalker friend Keri and I met for the first time. Keri has the distinct honor of being the one who sought ME out…and can I just tell you what a massive deposit that was in my self-esteem account?! She contacted me and we began corresponding back and forth, till I ended up visiting her where she spends summers with her inlaws on an island in the middle of the St. Lawrence river which is the boarder between the USA and Canada. It was such a wondrous time for me. I loved meeting Keri and her darling children, and we became fast friends within about 20 seconds I think. Among other things, she introduced me to river baths (what it sounds like), and got me up on water skis for the first time in a couple decades (which my muscles paid for for days) It was a spectacular visit, restorative in many ways. Fast forward to this past week when I was able to visit her again in Connecticut for a couple days. I feel Seriously, So Blessed!

Also last week I met up with the amazing Lorrie at her home in Mid-town Manhattan. Her adorable children delighted me, and then we all went over to her studio and painted pottery. Her devoted spouse, who definitely earned his title (SexyHusbandOfMine, or “SHOM”) showed up too. It was so great to finally meet her IRL after reading her blog for the past year+. Meeting Debbie, Keri and Lorrie in person has been one of the highlights of the past 3 months.

The reason I was in NYC in the first place is because my bestie Joni planned a girls-weekend get-away with some friends and invited me along. Joni is responsible for much of my mental well-being this past year, so please send her thanks if that matters to you. She likes FastBreak candy bars and Starbucks. Joni watered and dined me all over the city for three glorious days, and truly, if she hadn’t planned the trip, I wouldn’t have gone out at all. I’ll have to do a separate post about that trip, because it’s full of adventure and intrigue, and I saw a lot more people than I have mentioned here.

School started back in August and Bunch & Gator attend two different schools now, which is a first. It’s tricky to keep up with their different schedules, but I’m starting to get the swing of it. Bunch is loving junior high , and Gator seems to be writing an updated iteration of Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. We’re working on it.

And finally, Doc is racking up interview invitations for Transitional Year and Residency programs. He’s got them strewn from coast to coast in the next three months. When I told him he didn't need to interview at SO many places ("we're not going to end up matching at your last choice" I said), he said "you never know..." To which Bunchkin replied "I guess there is such thing as being too modest".

It’s going to be a spendy few months, because despite the fact that he has flight benefits on my airline, the fact is you just don’t fly standby to job interviews. So we’ll be buying up seats, hotels, and car rentals all over the country. Good times. (I’m hoping I can get away and join him at some of his interviews…of course it’s okay if I fly standby!)

Alrighty then. I’ve been working on this post for 3 days and it’s kind of lame, but I’m posting it now and moving on because the day is beconing and there is work to do.

Grateful for:
1) Debbie. You will likely read this; you are insight in my life.
2) Joni. You may never read this, but you are light in my life.
3) Lorrie. You might read this; you are kindness in my life.
3) Keri. You will probably read this, and you are joy in my life.
4) Insight, Light, Kindness and Joy.

Shout Out for Bunch the Writer

Good morning my little Gems,

For today's random topic I shall regale you with BunchkinTales.

My daughter Bunch is a writer. Even though she's never taken a writing course beyond your basic elementary school curriculum, we are constantly amazed at the stories, poems, songs, and ideas she comes up with. It's Doc's opinion that of all her many talents, writing is her greatest innate ability, and I'd have to agree.

When she was eleven, Bunch wrote a song. It wasn't the first one she's written, but this particular song has a catchy little tune and a great message. She's been working on piano accompaniment for it recently.

Right before bed last night we were chatting about making a music video of her song, and then I dreamed that we actually did! It starred lots of the kids at her school, and because of that she decided to enter it in the school talent show (which will be held before the end of the school year). It was a big hit with everyone. At least in my dream. Maybe we'll have to find a way to do it as a project. That'd be fun. Any of you have mad video skills?Also when she was eleven, Bunch started writing a novel based on an imaginative game she and Gator made up and play together. In their game, they are both elves, and have various powers which they use during their assorted adventures. Her ideas for the book are drawn from their play sessions, and for this reason she's dedicated the book to her brother.

This week she finished writing Part One of the book, which is called Conquest. There is an optional program in the 6th grade here called University of Learning in which the students who participate can earn any of the four degrees (Associates, Bachelors, Masters and Doctorate). Bunch decided to earn a Ph.D. with a focus on writing fiction. Students can do their degree on any subject they like, and have various requirements for each degree. For the Ph.D., a "product" is required, and she's submitting Part One of her book.

The entire project is due tomorrow, and she's worked really hard to finish all the various components of this degree. She volunteered at the Ronald McDonald House for the community service component, did online research, interviewed one of her favorite published authors, read books on writing, and wrote and wrote and wrote. Part One of Conquest is nearly 10,000 words long.

Though it wasn't required for the school project, I designed a cover for her book tonight. Once she's finished writing the other parts, we'll have to print some up for gifts to her fan base. I know at least one boy who would be very excited to get a copy! ☺





(PS: Her name isn't actually Bunch Kin...but "Bunch" looked kind of odd all by itself so I added "Kin" just for my blog version of the cover. Also, as it turns out, my last name isn't actually Jeuls, but wouldn't that be cool if it was?!)

Blessings from today:
1) Talents
2) Walks with Doc for Slurpees at 11:00 pm cause 7-11 never closes
3) Six weeks left till Doc finishes 3rd year!

What are the odds?

It had been ingrained in me from my earliest days: “You’re Not Allowed To Be At The School When School Is Over”. This was one of the most clear-cut rules we had as kids.

I don’t remember being given any examples of what might happen if we did go to the school when it wasn’t in session. But I had a vivid imagination as a child. It was big enough to conjure up reasons enough to obey it without question.

Till 7th grade that is.

One day when I was in 7th grade, my friend Ann* and I went to her friend Dana’s* house after school to hang out. (By middle school you don’t “play” any more, you just hang out.)

Ann and Dana were in 6th grade, and had a homework assignment in one of their classes that they had to finish. I was just chillin’ when Dana realized that she needed a book out of her locker for the report they were working on.

“Blue, can you run over to the school and get a book for me?” she asked.

Duuuh, duh duh Duuuuuuuuuuuh. Here was the moment of truth. I analyzed the facts:

1) It was against our family’s rules for me to go.
2) Those rules had been in effect since before I was in kindergarten.
3) I was 14 now.
4) Dana’s house was just one block from the school.
5) Ann and Dana were busy working, and I was doing nothing.

But still, fact #1 was huge in my mind. I lived in fear of doing anything that could get me in trouble at home.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to go to the school after hours” I sheepishly told Dana.

This excuse didn’t go over well.

“It’s only a block away”, she replied, derision clear in her voice. “You can even take my bike. It won't take you any time at all.”

With the pressure on, I finally relented. Dana wrote down her locker number for me, and I set off on her bike.

It was really only about a 2 minute ride from Dana’s house to her locker, and I was just closing it after getting the book out when two girls walked around the corner into the courtyard where I was standing.

One of the girls was someone I had played with in the past (back when we were young enough to “play” after school). Her name was Lisa, and though we hadn’t had much contact in recent history, there was no bad blood between us. The other girl seemed much older, and I had never seen her before.

“I don’t like what you’ve been saying about my friends”, the older girl said to me as they approached.

I looked at her confused. I hadn’t said anything about Lisa ever.

“I don’t know what you mean”, I replied.

“Yes you DO!” she said, suddenly reaching out and punching me in the face.

I had never been hit in the face before. Especially by someone who meant business. The moment was so surreal that time seemed suspended, as if in slow motion. This complete stranger continued to pelt me with a mean left hook, slamming me back against the lockers. Once I collapsed and sank to the ground, she started kicking me. I looked up at Lisa, my eyes filled pleading, fear, pain, and the question Why?

After what seemed like a long time, (but in reality was probably less than 2 minutes) I heard Lisa’s voice. “Come on, Tari. Let's go.” So her name is Tari.

At Lisa’s insistence, Tari finally turned as if to leave, but then thinking twice, she turned back and decided to take the bike with her. Dana’s bike.

At that point I knew I was already in trouble, and I didn’t want to catch even more hot water by letting Dana’s bike get stolen too while in my possession. So I reached out and grabbed the only thing close enough get my hands on…the back tire. We wrestled for control for a moment asTari tried to pull the bike out of my grip, the spokes cutting into my fingers.

“Just leave it!” Lisa implored. And for some reason, Tari relinquished the bike, and the two of them walked away, leaving me alone in the courtyard.

I was a mess. My nose was bleeding, my eye was swelling up, and I was bruised from the kicking and punching. As soon as they were gone, the fear that had gripped me broke, and I just lay on the ground sobbing for a few minutes. Finally, it occurred to me that I’d better get out of there in case they returned for another round. After struggling to my feet, I realized I couldn’t ride the bike because of my injuries, so I just put the text book in the basket, and pushed it back to the house.

Time hadn’t quite yet returned to normal speed as I trudged back to the house. I remember the looks on the faces of the drivers who stopped for me as I crossed in the crosswalk. At that point I still had no idea what I looked like. All I knew was that I couldn’t risk my parents finding out that I had Been At The School When School Was Over. Because I just desperately didn’t want to get in trouble. I decided while walking that I would swear Ann and Dana to secrecy about the matter.

Letting the bike fall in the yard, I walked into the house to hear Dana call out, “took you long enough”. Then they looked up and saw me.

It doesn’t take much to make a thirteen year old girl freak out. Dana’s face was a portrait of shock, wonder, and probably a little bit of guilt, as she realized that I hadn’t wanted to go, but had done it at her insistence. Ann just looked horrified.

“What happened?” they demanded in unison.

“I got beat up” I said through my tears.

“By who?”

As the details of the experience tumbled out, I tried to get them to swear that they wouldn’t tell my parents. But Ann wasn’t having any of it. “You have to tell them”, she informed me.

“NO!” I told her. “I’ll just get in more trouble.”

“Then I’m going to tell my mom” she said. “Cause you can’t walk home like this, and besides, the second you do, your parents will know any way.” She pointed me towards a mirror.

My face! It was completely messed. Granted the crying hadn’t improved matters. But there was a shiner forming and several bruises and cuts. My nose had stopped bleeding, but even after washing the blood off I realized Ann was right. There was no way to hide the situation. My parents would find out.

This awareness added a whole new level of anxiety to the situation, but there was nothing else to be done. Ann called her mom and told her the scoop. Her mom then called my parents. Shortly thereafter, my parents arrived at Dana’s house to pick me up. After rehearsing the story for them, they decided to call the police.

A police officer arrived and questioned me. Then the officer and my parents and I drove me over to Lisa’s house in his squad car.

I can’t imagine that any parent relishes seeing a police car pull up in their driveway. Lisa's door opened slowly at our knock, and the timid woman I hadn’t seen since more innocent times stood there nervously.

Even though it had been a couple years since I’d played at their house, she still remembered me. She was a meek woman, and after hearing the situation I could tell that she felt really bad, but also relieved that it wasn’t her daughter who’d kicked my can.

“Lisa’s been hanging out with some pretty rough kids lately” she confided with worry in her voice. "I don't really know what to do with her."

“Do you know who this ‘Tari’ girl might be?” the officer asked.

Thankfully she at least knew a last name, which the officer called in to look up.

After getting an address, we drove to the apartment that Tari lived in with her dad and step-brother. They were both home when we got there, but hadn’t seen Tari in a few hours. Thankfully the officer did the talking…which was a relief for me. He gathered the information he needed, and then drove us home.

I was dreading the moment when I would finally be left alone with my parents. After all, I had Gone To The School When School Is Over. Surely there would be wrath.

But I was mistaken. Perhaps they figured I’d been punished enough. Perhaps it was just the Lord’s tender mercy. But they didn’t meet out any further consequences beyond a simple “we warned you.”

What are the odds that the first time I set foot on the school campus something like this would happen? Probably not too high. The incident has made me wonder how different our lives would be if we all paid a heavy price the very first time we disobeyed, instead of getting away with things till we're past feeling bad about them. It was a painful lesson to learn, but at least I learned it. Never again did I go to the school after hours.

Post Script:
It turned out that Tari was 18 years old at the time, and therefore was arrested and charged as an adult with assault, battery, and attempted theft.

I have no memories of Lisa after that day. Needless-to-say, we never played after school again.

Though I was completely naive about everything to do with drugs at that time, looking back I’m pretty convinced that Tari, and possibly Lisa, were probably high on something when this happened. I hope their lives have turned around!


* name has been changed

"Wilbur"

“This is just a taste of what's waiting for you after school”, she said with a menacing voice, before slapping me across the face harder than I’d ever been struck in my life. Then she simply turned and walked away.

It happened so fast that the whole incident was nearly over before I realized what was going on. I'd staggered and dropped a few papers and books, but had managed to stay on my feet. Barely.

Class had just gotten out, and we were in the crowded hallway of our portable classroom trailer, which had been set up to relieve over crowding at our junior high school. Even though it was a wide-body, there crush of people during passing period made it difficult to move freely. The incident brought out the typical cat calls and excitement you’d expect from teenage kids.

I fled the scene, embarrassed, dazed and hurt. Who was she? Why did she slap me? Is she really going to beat me up later?

Stopping in the girls bathroom on the way to my next class, I glanced in the mirror to discover a red hand print across my left cheek. There were actual finger imprints on my face! I knew two things at that moment: First, I was terrified of after school, and second, I really didn’t want to cry. Having a slap mark was bad enough. The blotchy red eyes that are the hallmark of my face whenever I cry would be too much.

Thankfully my next class was off campus, giving me time to calm down before facing anyone. The elementary school next door provided an opportunity for junior high students to be a “teacher’s aid” during an elective period. I had been assigned to the kindergarten class, and adored all the sweet little kids. My youngest sibling happened to be in the class too, which was kind of special.

If the kindergarten teacher noticed anything amiss she didn't say anything, and of course the kids didn’t. I welcomed the distraction they provided, and tried to focus on them while correcting papers and helping them work on their art projects that day. My time as a teacher’s aid was a daily reprieve from the stresses of junior high, but all too soon it was time to return to my hellish reality next door.

Walking slowly back to the middle school, I thought about the situation. I had seen the girl before, but we'd never spoken. With just over a thousand students at the school, most people's faces were at least familiar. She was considerably bigger than me. Quite tall, with fair skin and lots of bright red hair. She was also a little on the heavy side, and I’d heard other kids call her Wilbur...obviously referencing the pig in Charlotte's Web. But that was my grandpa’s name, and not a term I thought of as derogatory. Besides, I wasn’t the kind of kid to call others names or pick on them. Especially tough kids…and this girl definitely had a tough demeanor.

My afternoon classes passed without incident. I didn’t even hear chatter about it from anyone, which kind of surprised me. Perhaps it was over. Maybe she’d dropped it. Whatever “it” was.

My last class was math with Mr. Battey. John Battey had been my math teacher for three years, despite the fact that he and I didn’t exactly mesh well. I’d begged my parents to make the school give me a different teacher after 6th grade, but nothing changed. After 7th grade things were no better, and here I was in 8th grade, stuck with him yet again. With each successive year, my comprehension of and facility with math decreased. To this day it has never quite recovered.

That day though, I lingered after class was over. I don’t know why, after 3 years with this teacher, I wasn’t able to ask for some help. Some protection. Some adult company. He just wasn’t the kind of teacher you could go to in times of need. So I lingered, feigning work on a problem as he wrapped up his day, and then dragging my heels as I put my papers and books together and packed up to go home. She’s probably already gone, I told myself eyeing the clock. Maybe she’ll think I went home early and she missed me.

Hope springs eternal.

Trying not to seem obvious about it, I shadowed my teacher as he locked up the room, hoping he’d head in the direction of my locker, which was on the way to the office. Alas, he didn’t, but the school was looking pretty deserted.

Optimism peaked.

I rounded the corner hesitantly. There was my locker, and no “Wilbur” in sight! In fact, my locker was a straight shot to the Vice Principal’s office with it's dark, tinted windows facing me. It was a mere 50 feet away. Surly I was safe.

With the coast clear, I quickly headed over to unload books and grab my homework assignments for the night.

It surprised me then, and still does, that she managed to catch me off guard. I never heard a thing. Where was my sixth sense? To say nothing of my street smarts!

As my face slammed into my combination lock, the pain erased my ability to think rationally. She grabbed me, wheeled me around to face her and started throwing punches right and left, at my face, stomach, chest.

I was not a fighter. Even if I’d known anything about fighting or self-defense (I didn’t), and even if I could have hurt her, I was not a fighter. In my mind, if I hit her, that would mean I was fighting. And if I was fighting, then I could get in trouble. I was a kid who avoided trouble at all costs.

So since I couldn’t hit her or get away from her, I did the only thing I could think of in that moment: I grabbed two fistfuls of her bright red hair, and lifted my feet off the ground. Hanging from her hair with my entire body weight actually got her attention. It also put me close enough to her body that it was harder to hit the front of me…which was hurting pretty bad at that point.

“Let go of my hair or I’ll kill you!”, she shrieked. And again, because I was completely ill-versed in how these things work, I obeyed her. Also because by then I felt like I was about to throw up, and I was terrified of what she would do to me if I barfed on her.

Thankfully I didn’t find out, because finally an adult noticed the commotion and came to my rescue. A good sized crowd had gathered around and were all in a frenzy over the “cat fight” (though a more accurate description would be a cat and mouse fight).

When the dust settled, my eye was swollen shut with a bright, puffy purple shiner and there were some cuts from getting my face slammed into the locker, but I didn’t have any serious injuries. I also never saw “Wilbur” again. Because of this and prior offenses, she was expelled and sent to a different school. A part of me has always felt bad for her. What kind of life must she have been having that she could do something like that?

I never found out why me? There just wasn’t any explanation for the incident. Why a perfect stranger would beat me up didn’t make sense, even though this was the second time it had happened to me (sometime I’ll have to write about the 7th grade beating).

It was experiences like this that were behind my daily petition to God throughout Junior High, “Please let me die in my sleep tonight.” This seemed like a perfectly reasonable request for someone like me to have. At least till the day I read a statement by Camilla Kimball, which said something to the effect of “Our lives are the greatest blessing we’ve received from our Heavenly Father, and we should cherish every day that we are blessed with.”

It’s an obvious thing, of course. But to my 13 year old mind, it was life-changing, and clearly I was meant to hear it. No one knew of my nightly petition, but I immediately stopped praying to die (peacefully, please!) in my sleep, and started praying for an improvement in the conditions in my life. And though the situation with my peers never really improved, my ability to cope with it did.

Sometimes the Lord calms the storm, and sometimes He calms His child. In my life it has almost always been the latter, but that has made all the difference.

The Ugliest Girl in the World

Growing up in my dysfunctional family resulted in me being a pretty big social misfit. The first few years of elementary school weren't too bad, but by around 3rd grade, things started deteriorating fast.  Daily teasing and ridicule was pretty much the norm. I eventually stopped questioning the labels given me by various classmates, and coped in the only way I knew how; I tried to be nice.

I was eager to please my teachers, tried to be a "good girl" and obey all the rules, but it wasn't making things better. "Just ignore it and they'll get bored and find someone who they can get a rise out of", grownups would tell me. I clung to the hope that if I just hung in there without retaliating, eventually my tormentors would give up, and maybe even come to like me. I told myself "sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me".

But labels do hurt. They are like splinters that get under the skin and fester if not dealt with. I began to actually believe some of the things the kids were telling me. "You're the ugliest girl in the world" was the big one. "No one will ever marry you! You're worthless."

By about age twelve, I was convinced that it was true.

Junior high was especially rough. I got beat up a couple of times at school, my home life was pretty miserable, and I could just not figure out how to fit in. 

Even though I was allegedly the ugliest girl in the world and no one would ever marry me, I actually had a secret fantasy that there would be an Ugliest Person in the World contest, and I would be the winner. The runner up in my contest would be male, and though he wasn't as ugly as me, he would agree to marry me...out of pity.

(You could make this stuff up, but I'm not.)

By the time I got to high school, it was (ironically) the guys from my church and their friends who were the most ruthless. Every morning at 6:00 a.m., we had an hour-long scripture study class at the church...you know, where we learned about Jesus, and treating others with love and kindness...after which we would head up to the school and wait in the cafeteria for an hour till school started.

This was one of the toughest hours of my day.

These guys had a yellow Pee Chee folder filled with paper, and my initials written in big, bold letters on the front. Every morning they'd get out the folder, and compete with each other to see who could come up with the best insults to call me. They'd write them down, and use them on me. Their lists grew long over time. I sat a distance away from them and tried to ignore them, but they never gave up.

Freshman year I was enrolled in drama, in which there were students from every grade including some twin brothers named Nick and Todd. They were seniors, and nice guys who were generally well-liked. I didn't think they'd ever noticed me. But one morning in the cafeteria before school, the twins walked by. One of the Pee Chee folder guys called out to them, "hey, check out 'Blackbutt's lame hat today", gesturing my direction.

What happened next quite literally changed my life. 

Rather than join in on the ridicule, these two guys stopped, glanced at me, then looked back at the boys and said, "You mean Blue?"

"No, the one sitting on her face" a different guy said, pointing toward me.

Nick looked at these freshmen boys and said "Actually, that's our friend, Blue". His look and tone indicated to them that he knew exactly what they were doing, and that they'd better watch it. With a warm smile in my direction, they wished me good morning, then continued on their way.

It was a very small moment for Nick and Todd; it cost them nothing. But for me it was literally life-saving. It ignited a flicker of hope in my heart. The twins made an effort to be friendly to me from then on. They were good guys who probably had no idea that this small, kind gesture literally started me on the road to healing and self-esteem. They gave me the first glimmer of hope that I wasn't completely worthless. Their kindness meant a great deal to me that year before they graduated and moved on with their lives.

Twenty years quickly passed. I actually managed to marry a great guy (without entering any contests even!) and have a beautiful family. Life has turned out to be far richer than I ever dared imagine back in those dark days.

A couple years ago I ran across the twins and decided to share with them the rest of the story. I didn't know if they'd remember me, but I wanted them to know what a difference their small kindness that morning had made. They had no idea what my life was like at that time, what kind of abuse or neglect I was living through, nor what their gesture could have meant to someone in my position. It was a joyful moment for all of us.

I'm so grateful for the random acts of kindness that I get to do for others. There are so many opportunities around us to brighten a life, and those are the moments that fill our own lives with joy. The effort may not change a person's destiny, but then again, it just might.