PlumbingDemons

How did I Miss Training on Barf-Cleaning?

2012-02-13T10:53:00.000-05:00

Long ago, when my sister threw up on our nubbly green carpet, I remember being amazed as Mama calmly took care of her and then scrubbed the carpet on her hands and knees. I thought, "I'm never going to be able to do that."

And sure enough. I'm not.

This morning, a kid was practicing piano and made a horrible gurgling sound. I happened to be at home rather than the gym because I needed to interview a volunteer at 7 a.m. down near MIT.

"What's going on?" I said in a not-so-calm voice.

"I don't know." And then another retching gulping noise.

"Get to the toilet!" I shouted.

The kid got there, retching and retching, "I feel like I'm going to throw up but there's nothing's coming up."

"Just stay there," I warned.

And then the sound changed. There certainly was something coming up. When the kid stumbled away from the bathroom, I said, "Didn't you flush the toilet?"

"Oh."

I followed the kid back to the bathroom and saw to my horror--tomato soup. Sorry to be graphic. But it was everywhere, all over the toilet, on the walls, on the floor.

"Were you going to leave that whole mess?" I asked.

I'm sure all you other kind, nice, gentle and sacrificial parents out there would have sent your dear child to bed. But I gave my child a bin of Clorox wipes and said, "Clean it up."

The child made an effort and then tried to escape to bed.

"Take a bowl with you!! But did you wash your hands first??"

Because my co-interviewer leaves tomorrow for Costa Rica, there was no way to cancel or change the interview. I left the sick kid in bed and the other two getting ready for school with orders to avoid the bathroom.

During the interview, the volunteer candidate asked about whether we had on-line training modules. Sadly, no. Although we have all sorts of great training opportunities, thus far we haven't done well at orienting them towards volunteers, especially volunteers who work a normal schedule. And I wonder how many ministry skills can actually be trained through an on-line module. Surely it's most helpful to be trained in person?

Finishing the interview, I came home, checked on sick kid who's still in bed but hasn't thrown up again. . . yet. . . and proceeded to the bathroom. As I realized that the nice formerly white bead board around the toilet had tomato soup in all its grooves, and that I needed a toothbrush along with bleach solution and sponge to restore the walls to their former white glory, I thought, "I haven't been trained in this. Where's my neat training module?"

The toilet's scrubbed. The beadboard's been toothbrushed over. The grout and tile wiped. The garbage can, magazine rack, toilet plunger and toilet scrub brush all disinfected. . . I hope. But I fear I might have missed something. I needed training here.

Or better yet, a trainer who would have led the way and done it for me so I could observe.

Not our bathroom, but you get the picture.

Why it's Sometimes Better to Work Alone

2012-02-10T08:56:00.000-05:00

Those who follow this blog know that we've struggled as a family around work, especially housework.

A lot.

Maybe if I had trained better at this age. . .

It led to Family Rehab last summer. The deal was we paid more allowance, they did more work around the house without complaining. We definitely paid more allowance, but their end of the bargain? Not so much.

And to make matters worse, not only did I not get a clean kitchen every night after shopping for ingredients and cooking a healthy, nutritious and delicious dinner, I got to hear and mediate a lot of squabbling, mostly about who wasn't doing their fair share of cleaning.

So this week we tried a new strategy. Every kid gets two nights/week to clean the kitchen and they have to clean everything on their own--dishes, counters, table, floors--all of it.

For 3 nights, it worked like a dream. Ling cleaned Monday, Kai cleaned Tuesday, and Ren (with Scott's help) cleaned Wednesday. It took each of them less time because instead of shrieking "___'s doing nothing! ___'s reading! ____'s useless!" They were actually cleaning.

You would think it'd be better to work hard, work together and get it all done. The more the merrier, many hands make light work, etc. etc. But clearly not in our family.

All this makes me wonder what my kids are learning about teamwork. And what I actually believe about teamwork myself. Recently I read a study that people's best work happens alone, and that if you want your employees to be efficient, making them spend their best time alone is the best solution.

This goes against what I thought I believed, yet it's also what we've been experiencing as a family. Most often, when the kids have group projects, they turn into nightmares. We just experienced one of these projects, a project that was 20% of the grade, and where my kid's partner said she couldn't work all day the Sunday before the project was due. My child ended up working all day and all night on the project, finished it, but didn't study for a math test which then was flunked. The other child did not flunk the math test and the cynic in me thinks this child was studying for math all day Sunday.

There's not an academic group project I've done from elementary through grad school where I did not perceive that I did the vast majority of the work--mostly because I was NOT going to let my partner(s) affect my GPA.

Yet in ministry it's been so different. Yes, there are projects where I feel like I pulled most of the weight, but there are plenty of other projects where someone else did. And there's not a single project that would have come out as well if I had worked alone. Not a talk. Not a training. Not a retreat. Not a missions project. Nothing.

When you work with a bunch of highly motivated colleagues who're willing to work hard and well, there's no comparison! No single person can put out that level of excellence or create the joy of synergy. And because my work involves trying to reach a diverse graduate population of students and faculty, we need our differences, our gender, ethnic, Myers-Briggs, Enneagram, age and perspective differences.

Our fall retreat tradition has been to have a male and a female preacher preach together Sunday morning. It takes about 500% more work to write a great sermon with someone else, but having the two voices, the two perspectives has been priceless.

But add a person or two who doesn't work, who whines, who criticizes others work while neglecting to do their own, and the whole equation changes.

In other words, our family system.

Last night we hit a snag. I thought I'd been clear about who was supposed to clean but a big argument ensued and because Scott couldn't stand the noise, he insisted on cleaning the kitchen instead.

Time for a sign up list, but 3 cheers for kids cleaning alone!

How do you manage household cleaning?
How do you get kids (or anyone) to work as a team?
Do you think it's better to work alone or in groups?

Do You Think Chinese Girls are Pretty?

2012-02-09T10:48:00.000-05:00

Last week I joined the challenge to talk about race by wondering Why Aren’t People Talking to Me? This week I write about seeing (and hearing)

Click here to read the post

Why Aren't People Talking to Me?

2012-02-02T09:09:00.000-05:00

Today I'm responding to Rebecca Cusey's blog Let's Talk about Race Baby: A White Girl Experiences Minority, where she talks about being a minority in her 'hood, and her perception of Blacks' loudness.

Click here to read mine!

Why I had a Hissy Fit over King Ranch Casserole

2012-01-30T10:40:00.000-05:00

Last week was a hard week. Work and life were crammed. I caught a cold. And my computer died.

The cold was not a minor cold, it gave me aches and pains that felt like evil meany-poo viruses had attacked every cell of my body.

Although Scott would say it's my own darn fault that I kept going despite feeling miserable (which is true) I also felt constrained. A colleague from Milwaukee flew in just for me to mentor her for 2 days--a very enjoyable time assuming I didn't sneeze and cough her into receiving a Boston gift she never wanted. My sister flew in for a day and this was our chance to celebrate her 40th birthday.

Because my main language of love is food, receiving food and serving food, I kept cooking for the family through it all. We've been back on the i-diet since January 2nd, so I really dug deep into my kindly heart to make King Ranch Casserole--knowing the kids were sick of non-creamy, non-carbohydrate laden, non-cheesy food. Everyone was happy--even Scott, because I also made chicken soup and a really great salad with strawberries and avocados, so we were still eating within reason.

But when I returned to the kitchen in the middle of kids cleaning, my son was scooping the casserole with big plops into a Tupperware so all the cheese on top mixed with the rest of the casserole and it looked like a huge pile of creamy vomit.

I couldn't take it. I started shrieking "What are you doing to my casserole!!!!"

"What's wrong? I thought I was being helpful," he said, "I'm putting it away."

"Why aren't you using a spatula and cutting out pieces so the cheese stays on top and it looks nice?" I continued shrieking. "The way I always do???"

The kids all looked at me as if I'd lost my mind, which I had.

"What's the big deal?"

Wrong words. But my kids are getting too old and too wise to deal with their mother melting over stupid things.

"You're sick, we're cleaning, you should just go to bed," one of them said. They sounded just like their dad.

Defeated, I slunk away. Later, when I said sorry to 2 for yelling, one said I wasn't forgiven.

Sigh.

King Ranch Casserole

King Ranch Casserole is a tortilla chicken casserole that's incredibly yummy and not too unhealthy if you use whole wheat tortillas. I'd never heard of it before Moira Goode, the wife of the rector at All Angels who married us, made it for an Urban Project I directed in NYC. You've never seen such joy as those students and staff scarfing up this casserole. When random folks happen into my house and try a bite, they rave about this casserole.

Moira says that everything is interchangeable and you can change proportions also. So I often use more peppers and onions to raise the health quotient. I also poke the sauce into the casserole to make sure it sinks in. I find that if I use a Costco/BJs rotisserie chicken, the casserole gets too salty, so I prefer just plain boiled chicken. Especially because then I can save the broth for soup that qualifies for the i-diet.

4 cups diced cooked chicken

1 can Rotel diced tomatoes and green chilis

2 cans cream of chicken soup, or cream of mushroom, or cream of whatever you like

½ can chicken broth

1 cup sour cream (I use light)

1 package (8-10) flour tortillas cut into small pieces (I use Trader Joe’s 100% whole wheat)

1 Large onion, diced

½ green pepper diced (or use a whole pepper if you want more veggies in it)

½ red pepper diced

1 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese (or more if you like it cheesy)

Mix tomatoes, soups, broth and sour cream in a bowl
Layer 9 X 13 pan with ½ chicken, onion, peppers, tortillas, repeat the layer.
Pour sauce over whole casserole
Sprinkle grated cheese on top
Bake 1 hour @ 350

Computer Woes. . . Again

2012-01-27T07:30:00.000-05:00

Please forgive me as I whine.

Last week Monday, I noticed my 9 month Apple Macbook Pro was really slow and wouldn't boot up IPhoto. After rebooting multiple times, I booked the first available appointment at the Genius Bar for Wednesday. And I actually remembered to back up everything on my external hard drive.

At the Genius Bar, the very nice Apple guy said the problem with Iphoto was my corrupted Iphoto library. Which means the hours I've spent tagging faces and retouching photos? All wasted. All gone. None of it saved, even on the external hard drive.

We spent the next 2 hours waiting for my computer to transfer photos from somewhere to somewhere, I don't even know where. Meanwhile, my computer ran slower and slower and slower until both Apple Geniuses who were working with me concluded it might be a failing hard drive. Unfortunately, none were in stock, so they ordered a new one and said they hoped it would be in by Saturday.

Thursday morning I wrote my Patheos blog, interviewed a friend for my latest book idea, came up with more interview questions. By Thursday evening, my computer stopped booting up at all. It had died.

Thank God for Dropbox! Dropbox is like the Cloud. My Regional Leadership Team's using it to share documents with one another. I've put all my work, writing and recipes in Dropbox, and every time I make a change, it saves it out on some server somewhere. Because of Dropbox, I could continue working, cook my Chinese New Year's feast and didn't lose my new questions and interview.

To make a long story short (er), after the new hard drive finally showed up on Tuesday, I went home to transfer my back-up only to see they'd installed Lion, the newest operating system. That was actually very generous of them, except that Lion won't run Entourage, where all my mailing lists, email lists, and old emails reside.

Back to the Mac store for 30 minutes, where they switched me back to Snow Leopard. I went home, backed up, and then realized I backed up everything from my old computer, not the newest one. AACK.

Yesterday afternoon I went back to the Genius bar for the 4th time in a week where they re-wiped my hard drive and told me to go home, restore my back-up using the right file and I should be all set.

Finally, after an entire week, I was overjoyed to see the smiling picture of our family in Hawaii on my desktop. Then I opened Entourage only to find that none of my groups, categories, email folders or old emails exist anymore--the whole reason I couldn't use Lion.

Pray for me. I need it.

Who Works the Hardest Around here?

2012-01-26T10:33:00.000-05:00

“Oh RIGHT,” said a kid when asked to finish cleaning up the kitchen. With a scorn only raging adolescent hormones can generate, “Why does the hardest working member of the family always get asked to do the most work?”

Click here to read more of this blog.

How We Almost Forgot Chinese New Year

2012-01-22T08:30:00.000-05:00

"When's Chinese New Year this year?" I asked the kids this past Wednesday night.

"I think it was Monday," said Kai.

"WHAT????" I shrieked, "We missed it?"

"No, no," she amended, "Maybe it's this Monday."

I checked on-line and sure enough, Chinese New Year falls on January 23. Whew!

What kind of Tiger Mom am I, if I can't even remember to celebrate Chinese New Year? The answer, just a Tiger Mom wannabe.

I couldn't even remember what animal this upcoming year will be without Googling it. The answer--the year of the Dragon, something I should have known because both Scott and Ren are Dragons. Scott will turn 48 while Ren will turn 12. (The Chinese zodiac rotates around a 12 year cycle).

It just shows that I don't dance to the rhythms of the Chinese beat.

Last Chinese New Year's I wrote about the dilemma of remembering Chinese New Year, raising bi-racial kids who'll feel good about their Chinese side, and the challenge of getting the right Chinese New Year foods. You'd think that writing about these things publicly would mean I'd do better this year, wouldn't you?

It feels like it was just dumb luck that last Wednesday I happened to shop at H-Mart, the Korean superstore. I went to buy frozen Chinese dumplings, my most popular go-to potluck dish, for a potluck on Tuesday. Whenever I find myself in an Asian grocery store I can't resist buying Asian vegetables, so baby Shanghai choy, garlic chives, Napa cabbage, dou miao (pea shoots), and Japanese eggplant all went in the shopping cart. Without planning, I purchased a bonanza of veggies at just the right time.

Friday, Ling and I celebrated the end of her midterms with Indian buffet, then drove to Chinatown to buy nian gao (sticky cake). I gave her $20 and told her to run into the bakery--expecting that Chinatown would be a mad rush of cars and people, but not only was it not crowded, I found a parking space right after dropping Ling off. Good thing too--when I found her, with nian gao and banana rolls already purchased, I said, "Where's the change?"

"Uh, they didn't give me any."

"You've got to be kidding? Those things shouldn't have cost 20 bucks!"

So we marched back into the bakery, found the woman who helped her, and as politely as possible asked how much it should have cost ($12.20) and if we could have the change.

"Oh? I didn't give you the change?" she asked all innocence. (Here's where I am a Tiger Mom--you don't go short-changing my daughter just because she's 5'11", doesn't look pure Chinese, and is too shy and timid to ask for what's rightfully hers!)

Tonight our friends and co-Cana leaders, Larry and Lois, will come for dinner and to watch the Patriots game. It's Lois's birthday. Before I remembered it was Chinese New Year's Eve, I was going to make her a nice healthy dinner with appropriate portions because all 4 of us are constantly watching our weight. But it's Chinese New Year's Eve. So instead we'll have:

Some frozen dumplings made into potstickers
Stir-fried dou miao
Shiitake Mushrooms with baby Shanghai choy
Eggplant in Garlic Sauce
Chicken with Garlic Chive Nian Gao (rice cakes)
Tomatoes with Egg
Barley/Brown Rice (for dieting purposes)
Nian Gao from Chinatown
Hawaiian Butter Mochi

And Kai might bake a real Western birthday cake as well.

Yum.

Midterms and Catastrophic Thinking

2012-01-19T11:29:00.000-05:00

Between directing the Faculty retreat this past weekend and midterms this week for Ling, haven't had a chance to blog until today. Read what's been going on through this midterm season.

Am I my Greatest Love of All?

2012-01-12T12:39:00.000-05:00

I had an interesting conversation with Kai-Kai about the song The Greatest Love of All.

Click here to read about it at What She Said!

Thai Squash Soup

2012-01-10T22:08:00.000-05:00

As always, not a short of my soup, but this is what it looks
like--this cook garnished the soup with toasted coconut

I'm feeling so inspired by my new ability to post recipes that I can't resist sharing this one, that I made for dinner tonight. It's a delicious, fairly nutritious (depends on whether you think coconut milk is good or bad for you) squash soup that's tangy, creamy and exploding with flavor.

I found this recipe somewhere online, and then combined it with another. The first time I made it, the kids, who were really young, grabbed their tongues and started crying, it was so spicy. I thought they were being wimps, but then Scott and I tried it and realized it was inedible it was that hot.

Big guilty parenting moment.

The next day I made a whole other recipe to try to diffuse the heat and succeeded enough for the grown-ups, but not the kids. Needless to say, we had a lot of Thai Squash soup for a long long time.

The problem was the brand of red curry paste I used--some authentic brand that I can't remember. 1 tsp of that red curry paste was enough to over-heat 6 quarts of soup. Now I use Thai Kitchen red curry paste which is far milder, so I use 1 Tbs/recipe. My advice? If you're not using Thai Kitchen, start with 1/2 a tsp. and work up.

Enjoy!

Thai Squash Soup

2 large butternut squash

1 lg. Can pumpkin

2 c. chopped onion

6 cloves garlic

2 Tbs. Grated ginger

2 limes, zest and juice (about 1/2 cup)

½ tsp. Turmeric

½ tsp red curry paste (Taste of Thai is not spicy, used 1 Tbs.)

1 Tbs. oil

3 cups chicken Broth

6 cups water,

1 can coconut milk

Salt to taste

Halve squash, scoop out seeds, roast covered with foil for at least an hour at 350 until soft.
Saute onion, garlic, ginger and zest in oil until soft.
Add turmeric & chili paste. Saute.
Add scooped out of skin squash, pumpkin, water/broth, simmer. Add coconut milk and lime juice. Puree.
Adjust seasonings.

Note: If you don't want a very tangy soup--akin to Chinese hot sour soup--use only the juice of 1 lime

Just Dance!

2012-01-09T15:30:00.000-05:00

For our first Christmas, I bought Scott a quilt and 2 quilt shams. He opened them and said something like, "Gee, it's nice you bought yourself a present!"

Have I said before that I don't have the love language of gift-giving?

I certainly wasn't sure he'd like the quilt, but I didn't think he'd so totally reject it. After all, it was for our marital bed and I thought guys were really into the significance of that bed. . .

Ever since, our family regularly refers to "quilt" presents.

So on Christmas, after opening various kitchen utensil gifts from my kids, imagine my surprise when I opened the Wii game Just Dance 3.

"Oh! A quilt present!" I even said out loud.

I felt a stab of guilt--kids have asked for Just Dance for over a year now, maybe two. But I'm so not into video games that I've literally forgotten to buy it when I've had the chance.

Here's what's great about Just Dance:

It's fun
It's a good workout--almost as good as Zumba.
They've taken all the swear words out of the songs so they're PG
There's even an Indian dance, an African dance, a Latin dance and a complete un-PC cringe-worthy Native dance.
I crush my kids almost every single song. I think Kai's managed too beat me on one measly song.

Because my New Year's resolutions include moving my body every day, I've wiggled my way through 4 sessions thus far.

Not so bad for a "quilt" present.

Recipe Index And Portuguese Bean Soup

2012-01-06T09:34:00.000-05:00

For months now, ever since I used Word Press to publish the Boston Faculty Fellowship website (I don't know how to create websites. I do know how to blog. Hence a blog as a website!) I've bemoaned that I couldn't create separate pages on blogspot.

I really needed separate pages so I could index the recipes I publish. I'm not sure any of you care about my recipes, but I do, and I wanted a quick way to find them!

So lo and behold, I happened to look on the toolbar yesterday, and right there in front of my eyes there's a link that says "Edit Pages."

"Edit Pages"? If there's a toolbar for edit pages, surely there's an ability to create a separate page??

As my kids would say, "Duh."

Have I ever said before I'm not known for my spatial-visual abilities?

So now dear friends and readers, if you just have to have my great granola or Mom MacLean's deviled eggs, or Auntie Heather's taco dip, just click on the recipe page and on the name of the recipe. You can read my blog that accompanies the recipe, or just scroll down to what you want.

To celebrate figuring all this out, today I'm giving you all the gift of my version of Portuguese Bean Soup.

Portuguese Bean soup is a staple in Hawaii. My sophomore year of high school I served in the Portuguese Bean soup booth at Punahou Carnival and got a gigantic shirt with the recipe printed on front.

That recipe, plus my own modifications, serve as the basis for this soup.

I hope you enjoy!

Portuguese Bean Soup

1 lb kidney beans or small red beans, cooked (or about 4 cans worth)
2 ham hocks
4 sprigs celery, diced

4 carrots, diced

3 onions, diced

4 cloves garlic, minced

1 28 oz can diced tomatoes

2 tbs. chili powder

1 Tbs. cumin powder

3 Bay leaves

1 Tbs. oregano

4 cups chicken broth

10 oz. - 1 lb. Portuguese sausage, quartered lengthwise and then sliced so you have little pizza slice shaped sausages (linguica or chourico on the Mainland, if you can get Redondo hot sausage from HI, I think that's the best--my mother brings it to me when she visits)

½ head cabbage, sliced into strips

2 potatoes, cubed

1 cup cooked macaroni (can use whole wheat)

Salt and pepper to taste

1. Most tasty: Boil ham hocks and beans covered with water in a large pot. Bring to a simmer until meat falls off ham hocks (can be several hours)

2. More convenient: Combine in large pot beans, ham hocks, celery, carrots, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and spices. Pour water over it. Bring to a boil, then simmer for at least 30 minutes

3. Cut meat off ham hocks, add back to soup, discard skin and bone

4. Add sausage, cabbage, potatoes and chicken broth about 30 minutes before serving

5. Salt to taste

6. Add macaroni just before serving

1 Notes:

*Don’t add macaroni to the soup if you think it’s going to last more than this one meal—the pasta will soak up all the liquid and become mushy.

**I find that between the ham hocks, sausage, canned tomatoes and low-sodium chicken broth, I don’t need to add any more salt to the soup (shows how much sodium’s hiding in various products!)

Reflections on Tiger Moms, a year later

2012-01-05T11:59:00.000-05:00

It's been a year since Amy Chua's Wall Street Journal article, "Why Chinese Mothers are Superior."

Click here to read my What She Said post on the topic.

Binging

2012-01-04T09:46:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! I haven't blogged much because 1) I've been on vacation and 2) I've been binging. Not on all the treats that've surrounded me the past month but on young adult novels.

It started right before Christmas when Kai-Kai raved about Sarah Dessen books. She gave me a list she wanted for Christmas.

"That won't happen." I said.

"Why?????"

"Because you know I don't believe in buying books--order them from the library."

So she did, and brought me her favorite The Truth About Forever, begging me to read it. I did. And then I read another and another and another.

I've now read 6 Sarah Dessen books plus 2 books by Pam Jenoff that Ling brought to me with the command, "Read them!"

I've heard it said that romance novels are women's porn. If what gets us going is the perfect love, the perfect romance, being pursued and desired even if you're plain and unremarkable, these books got it all. Literary fiction just doesn't provide the same bang for the buck (or rental).

In the Dessen books, the vast majority of male love interests are teenage rebels who've dealt with their dead parent/broken home/alienated father/etc. and can love and support the female protagonist perfectly, helping her work through her own issues with her dead parent/broken home/anorexic sister/alienated mother/etc.

Love wins. Healing happens. Hope abounds.

Yum.

In this new generation of girls' novels, none of the main characters depend on a boy to make their lives perfect. They're not looking for someone who will support them financially. They certainly aren't after an "M-R-S" degree (a new male acquaintance during freshman new student week at Northwestern asked me if that's what I was at school for--I didn't even know what he was talking about for several minutes).

But they still want perfect love.

Even in this current era, an era where my girls have the privilege of seeing their lives and futures full of all possibilities, an era where thus far at least, they've never been taunted for being a smart girl, a talented girl, a girl who has "boy" strengths instead of "girl" strengths, something deep inside still yearns for a Prince Charming who will love them unconditionally. Who will complete them.

Some say that all stories lead us back to the ultimate story, the story of a God who loves us, seeks after us--even to the point of dying for us, and will never let us go. A God who chooses us despite our plainness, or bad eyes, or even worse hair. For men, the story may be the hero's journey. For women, it might be the great romance.

So I'm not going to feel guilty about indulging in sweet confections all Christmas break. It's back to the real world this week of cleaning my office, working out life and love with my husband, parenting 3 kids who got used to waking at 11 a.m. and are back on the 6 a.m. grind.

After all, we all need a little love, hope and romance in the new year, don't we?

New Year’s Transformations instead of Resolutions

2011-12-29T13:54:00.000-05:00

Click here to read about what I'm thinking about New Year's resolutions

Why Santa Comes to our Home and Brings my Kids Crap

2011-12-22T09:11:00.000-05:00

Click here for today's post on Patheos!

Tricks to Slow Me down, even as I need to Step it Up

2011-12-20T10:06:00.000-05:00

"Slow down!" Ren whined as we walked the mile downtown.

"Nope, I got to walk fast--this is my exercise for today." I picked up the pace even more.

Thursday was my physical. Can you believe my PCP called me on a Saturday to chastise me for being overdue on my physical, mammogram, and pap smear?

I warned her as soon as I walked in that I've put on weight in the past 2 months. She even let me strip naked. But there I was--3 pounds heavier naked than a year ago clothed.

Sigh.

She grilled me about my eating, drinking and exercise. Which I believe are all at healthy levels. Finally, she poked me in the stomach, pointed out how I was protruding, and said "This is metabolic--you need to exercise more."

"What? I already exercise 5-6 times a week, how can I exercise more?"

"You need to exercise 7 days a week."

You've got to be kidding. 7 days a week???

She conceded that a couple of those days could be walks, but stuck to her guns that I need to move my body every day. I’m fighting my body’s proclivity for Type II diabetes, and one of the key ways is keeping my weight down.

I debated whether or not to tell Scott. I knew that telling him means he’ll hold it over me until the day I die. But the chances that I'd self-motivate 7 days a week of exercise are slim to none. So I told him.

Sure enough, Saturday he asked me what I was going to do. I couldn't go to my favorite spin class because we were going to the mall.

"I'm going to walk."

After the mall, he said, "When are you going to walk?"

"Sometime. . ."

"You should go now and take Ren to the hardware store to see if they have a wheel for his history project."

So off we went.

I felt annoyed on many levels:

1. This was my future--taking an extraneous walk every day just because I have to

2. I was cold. I wore my light black leather jacket instead of warm red coat because I was wearing red pants and I didn't want to look like a candy cane. So I was also vain.

3. Ren was lollygagging along

4. We were looking for a wheel for a school project I didn't believe was doable

5. Ren whined incessantly about walking and how fast I was going.

6. To slow me down, he kept grabbing my hand, or pulling on my arm, or leaning on my shoulder

On the way back, after indeed, not finding a wheel for this school project that I was now doubly convinced wasn't doable, Ren, with even less motivation to walk fast, lollygagged even more.

"Slow down!" he kept begging.

"Nope!" I speed-walked on.

Now the kid really started grabbing me--pulling on my shoulder, my arms, anything to get me to slow down. Which made me more annoyed and made me speed up even more. "Stop grabbing me!"

But he wouldn't stop. We bickered back and forth, and finally he put his hand on my shoulder, holding me back and said, "I'm praying for you--you have to let me put my hand on your shoulder!"

"You've got to be kidding"

"No, I'm praying. . . God," he looked up in the sky, "Please make Mom walk slower."

What does it say about me that I still tried to shake him off of me so I could go faster?

But he was relentless. He grabbed my shoulder again, "I'm still praying! God. . . PLEASE make Mom go slower."

He giggled. I couldn't help it. Even with my annoyance, I laughed too. And laughter can really help break a funk.

Ever the budding thespian who wants his glory, he said, “Are you going to blog about this?”

So here it is Ren. A blog about you praying for me to slow down.

Amen

Almond Macaroons and the Curse of a Tradition

2011-12-16T08:47:00.000-05:00

Someone else's macaroons, but
this is what the plain ones look like

I have a special cookie--do you?

Every Christmas for the past 15 years, I've baked Almond Macaroons, a recipe from Cook's Illustrated. I make them 3 ways--plain, fudge and sometimes pine-nut crusted. These cookies are actually relatively healthy because their only ingredients are almonds, sugar, egg whites & almond extract (plus cocoa powder for the fudge ones and pine-nuts for the pine-nut crusted.)

The funny thing though, is that while I like these cookies, I no longer LOVE them. They're still good, but perhaps familiarity breeds contempt.

Yet I make them every year because it's expected, they're what I'm known for, and it almost feels like it's not really Christmas if I don't.

I liked the idea of creating traditions in our family like our nightly Advent celebration, but me being me, almost all other traditions have to do with food. As the resident chef, that means I'm cooking. So we have the cinnamon rolls on Thanksgiving and Christmas morning tradition, the Christmas Beef Wellington tradition, and the whatever kind of dinner & birthday cake you want tradition.

This is the pickle (hah!) you get into when your primary language of love is food.

This is the Cook's Illustrated version--mine have
only looked this nice once--usually the pastry
splits.

There's outrage in my family that we're going 2 Christmases in a row without Beef Wellington. Last year we traveled to Maine for turkey with the grandparents, and this year we're traveling to New York for who knows what with my cousins. It's been decided by powers beyond me that we WILL have beef wellington on New Year's Eve.

This year, I was tempted to skip the almond macaroons but my mother was in town and they are her favorite cookies of all time, especially the pine-nut version--I sometimes even mail them to her in Hawaii via next day mail.

Anyway, I've already had 3 requests for the recipe, so thought I should post it.

Bon Appetit!

Note: I usually make a quadruple recipe of both plain and fudge. These cookies dry out quickly, so I freeze them as soon as cooled and pull them out of the freezer before serving. I've kept them in the freezer as long as six months and they still tasted pretty darn good.

ALMOND MACAROONS

Makes about 2 dozen 2-inch cookies. Published September 1, 1996.

Macaroons must be baked on parchment paper. They will stick to an ungreased sheet and spread on a greased one. You need a slightly less stiff dough if piping the macaroons, so add water, as needed, to make a pipeable paste.

INGREDIENTS

3	cups blanched slivered almonds (12 ounces), measured without packing or shaking the cup
1 1/2	cups granulated sugar
1/3	cup large egg whites , plus 1 tablespoon, from about 3 large eggs
1	teaspoon almond extract

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Set racks in upper-middle and lower-middle levels of oven and heat oven to 325 degrees. Line two large cookie sheets with parchment paper.

2. Turn almonds into food processor fitted with the metal chopping blade; process 1 minute. Add sugar; process 15 seconds longer. Add whites and extract; process until the paste wads around blade. Scrape sides and corners of workbowl with spatula; process until stiff but cohesive, malleable paste (similar in consistency to marzipan or pasta dough) forms, about 5 seconds longer. If mixture is crumbly or dry, turn machine back on and add water by drops through feeder tube until proper consistency is reached.  

3. Allowing scant 2 tablespoons of paste for each macaroon, form a dozen cookies upon each paper-lined sheet, spacing the cookies 1 1/2 inches apart. You can drop the paste from a spoon (see illustration below) or for a neater look, roll it into 1-inch balls between your palms (illustration 2). (Rinse and dry your hands if they become too sticky.) To make fancy macaroons, pipe the paste using a large pastry bag fitted with a 3/4-inch open star tip, (illustrations 3 and 4).

4. Bake macaroons, switching cookie sheet positions midway through baking, until golden brown, 20 to 25 minutes. If overbaked, macaroons will dry out rather quickly when stored. Leave macaroons on papers until completely cooled or else they may tear. (Can be stored in an airtight container for at least 4 days or frozen up to 1 month.)

FUDGE-ALMOND MACAROONS

INGREDIENTS

1 1/2	cups blanched slivered almonds (6 ounces), measured without packing or shaking the cup
1 1/2	cups granulated sugar
1	cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder
1/4	teaspoon table salt
1/3	cup large egg whites , plus 1 tablespoon, from about 3 large eggs
1	teaspoon almond extract

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Set racks in upper-middle and lower-middle levels of oven and heat oven to 325 degrees. Line two large cookie sheets with parchment paper.

2. Turn almonds into food processor fitted with the metal chopping blade; process 1 minute. Add sugar, cocoa and salt; process 15 seconds longer. Add whites and extract; process until the paste wads around blade. Scrape sides and corners of workbowl with spatula; process until stiff but cohesive, malleable paste (similar in consistency to marzipan or pasta dough) forms, about 5 seconds longer. If mixture is crumbly or dry, turn machine back on and add water by drops through feeder tube until proper consistency is reached.  

3. Allowing scant 2 tablespoons of paste for each macaroon, form a dozen cookies upon each paper-lined sheet, spacing the cookies 1 1/2 inches apart. You can drop the paste from a spoon or for a neater look, roll it into 1-inch balls between your palms . (Rinse and dry your hands if they become too sticky.) To make fancy macaroons, pipe the paste using a large pastry bag fitted with a 3/4-inch open star tip.

4. Bake macaroons, switching cookie sheet positions midway through baking, until golden brown, 20 to 25 minutes. The macaroons are done when they have cracked lightly across top. If overbaked, macaroons will dry out rather quickly when stored. Leave macaroons on papers until completely cooled or else they may tear. (Can be stored in an airtight container for at least 4 days or frozen up to 1 month.)

PINE NUT-CRUSTED ALMOND MACAROONS

INGREDIENTS

3	cups blanched slivered almonds (12 ounces), measured without packing or shaking the cup
1 1/2	cups granulated sugar
6	large egg whites , separated
1	teaspoon almond extract
10	ounces pine nuts (2 1/2 to 3 cups)

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Set racks in upper-middle and lower-middle levels of oven and heat oven to 325 degrees. Line two large cookie sheets with parchment paper.

2. Place 1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon egg whites in a small bowl. Place remaining in second bowl and beat lightly, set aside for dipping. Turn almonds into food processor fitted with the metal chopping blade; process 1 minute. Add sugar; process 15 seconds longer. Add first bowl of egg whites and extract; process until the paste wads around blade. Scrape sides and corners of workbowl with spatula; process until stiff but cohesive, malleable paste (similar in consistency to marzipan or pasta dough) forms, about 5 seconds longer. If mixture is crumbly or dry, turn machine back on and add water by drops through feeder tube until proper consistency is reached.

3. Allowing scant 2 tablespoons of paste for each macaroon, form a dozen cookies upon each paper-lined sheet. Roll into 1-inch balls between your palms . (Rinse and dry your hands if they become too sticky.) Dip each ball into beaten egg white, then roll in pine nuts, lightly pressing with fingertips, (see illustration 5 below). Transfer cookies to parchment-lined baking sheet and flatten slightly with fingers, making inch-wide buttons, (illustration 6).

Singing the Down on Myself Blues

2011-12-15T12:27:00.000-05:00

Not a good blog week--I was on spiritual retreat Monday-Wednesday and figured I should be resting from blogging along with all other work! But click here for today's blog that's hosted at Patheos.

Why I Got Soap in my Mouth Yesterday

2011-12-08T09:37:00.001-05:00

Today's a "What She Said" day. Click here for this latest debacle, I mean adventure!

God in the Disguises

2011-12-07T09:08:00.001-05:00

Today in my Richard Rohr Daily Reading that comes via email, Rohr quotes Paula D’Arcy

God comes to us disguised as our life.

Hmmm. That's deep. He quoted D'Arcy as he reflected on Mary:

The events of life are themselves Mary’s guide and teacher. She does not need to figure it out and plan accordingly; the plan will be given by God through life’s ordinary events and encounters. Reality itself is her teacher. That is why she could hear angels. And that is why she could hear Elizabeth.

That's also deep.

This is why I love Richard Rohr. He's so deep. If only I could understand what he means half the time.

So here are the events of my life this week that I'm trying to understand God within:

Scott being out of town for 6 days this week in Las Vegas. I trust him completely. But a kid told me I should be worrying between the sexual temptation and gambling. . .
Struggling through the i-diet (read here for why): 2 whole days, yesterday only cheated with 1/2 cup white rice, some honey and sugar in tea and coffee, some half and half, several chocolates, 4 parmesan croutons and a slice of french bread with butter. OK. That sounds like a lot of cheating--but I was at an all day/night work meeting with treats galore!
Feeling sandwiched between the needs of my parents and my kids in the 3rd week of my parents' stay
1 kid saying she's hugging me so much (remember that physical affection is NOT my language of love) because we're not getting any special time together
Another kid making sarcastic comments about how I'm supposed to be available and NOT work while she's home as I'm trying to get a massive mailing out that needs all my free time this week
Another kid screaming that a sibling stepped on his giant Knex project and ruined it

Driving home with Ling from youth group on Sunday, we talked about the old adage, "If we pray for patience, God will put us in circumstances that require patience." We both agreed that we hate that principle, even if it's true.

For years and years I prayed every morning that God would give me the fruits of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, PATIENCE, kindness, gentleness, faithfulness and SELF-CONTROL!

I've never felt that God answered those prayers very well, although if the answer was putting me in situations that required those fruits, perhaps that was His answer.

Today I'm wishing God would disguise Himself a little less and show up tangibly a little more.

I guess that's the heart of an Advent prayer, isn't it?

Post-Weekend Away, Thanksgiving and Christmas Party Blues

2011-12-05T23:08:00.000-05:00

As of this morning, I'm the fattest I've been at any time of my life other than when pregnant.

What's sadder is that several of my friends have heard me make that same statement about 6 times in the past month as the scale kept inching higher in .2 increments.

What's even sadder is that the culprit was one wonderful weekend alone with my husband and a slowing metabolism that needs about one lettuce leaf a day to survive.

And I hardly gorged compared to how much gorging was possible!

Scott received a $200 gift certificate to the Capital Grille as a going-away present from his former colleagues. I've never been to the Capital Grille, but Scott's been several times with bosses who like to treat him to beef. Scott, knowing my deprivation, made a reservation for my birthday last April. But I didn't want to spend the money, thought we should be with the kids, and had a Groupon on top of it, so cancelled. (I not only don't have the gift-giving language of love, I obviously also don't have the receiving gifts language of love)

So we finally went the weekend the kids were gone on a youth retreat. We ordered a bottle of wine, a steak each, 3 sides and one dessert. The only things we finished were the wine and the dessert. Kind parents that we are, we even shared our leftovers with our kids, and now these pipsqueaks clamor about going to the Capital Grille. Sorry kids. If I didn't get to go until 46, you'll just have to hope for more leftovers.

We ate our typical granola/high fiber cereal/ fruit Saturday breakfast and salad for lunch. For dinner we redeemed yet another Groupon for a 5 course meal--but all the courses were incredibly light--pumpkin soup, pear and pomegranate salad, bluefish for an entree. We picked at one dessert and took the other one home (and shared that with kids also--did I say we were kind parents?).

Sunday morning we played hooky from church and went to Masa Southwest (which has the best deal of a brunch in town, $7.95 for Southwesterny breads, coffee/tea, first course and a main course)--and ate Southwestern eggs benedict on biscuits with guacamole. That blew the top off our weekend.

And blew my scale. I gained 3 pounds in 2 days.

Ever since, I've been trying to lose those 3 pounds with portion control, good food choices and upping my workouts from 4-5 to 5-6/week. I succeed only to whiff a white flour dessert or glass of wine and bam! Those pounds are back on bringing even more fat friends with them. This weekend, one moderate Chinese dinner out brought 1.8 lbs, and the MacLean family Christmas party another 1.2.

I couldn't figure out how to place the actual widget that
announces so gleefully my weight gain

My Livestrong account proudly declares on the side of MyPlate "I've gained 5 lbs!"

So as of this morning, I'm back on the Instinct Diet and I've convinced my mother, who's here for a week more, to join me.

20.5 years ago, when a broken heart rendered me almost as heavy as I am now, I went home to Hawaii to heal.

Mama bought me a new haircut, some new clothes, and when I found an expired can of Slimfast in her cupboard, agreed to Slimfast with me. In 3 weeks I lost 6 pounds. She cheated merrily away, drinking Slimfast like a milkshake to go with her meals.

I left Hawaii, went to Orientation for New Staff and met Scott. Would he have walked across the room to meet me if I was 6 pounds heavier in baggy stretch pants with a tumbleweed of hair on my head? We'll never know.

Last week, after gaining 3 lbs over Thanksgiving weekend, I ruminated, "If I ever decide to let myself go, I'm just going to totally let myself go. . ." I let myself day-dream a little about what I would eat, and how large the quantities would be.

My kids looked a little alarmed, "Yeah mom. If you let yourself go, you're going to REALLY let yourself go!" They know how much I adore food.

I'm blessed that my husband has promised to love and cherish me no matter what the scale says. I know God loves me no matter how large I get. AND I want to avoid diabetes, keep healthy and fit my clothes.

I managed to stick to the diet today. Mama sort of did. Ask me how I'm doing tomorrow or the next day or the next.

Meanwhile, one day at a time. . .

Welcoming Advent or the Necessity of Cheap Chocolate

2011-12-01T13:17:00.000-05:00

Thursday again, posting in "What She Said!"

Click here for my musings on Advent and our family tradition.

Happy 5th day of Advent (and 1st day of chocolate)!

Thanks for what?

2011-11-28T17:28:00.000-05:00

This Thanksgiving we tried a new tradition. Our friends Jeff and Tara created a practice where everyone goes around the table and shares their past year's worst thing. Each sharing is followed by everyone raising their glass and saying, "Praise God!" (to read Tara's fuller explanation, read here)

I wanted to try their ritual because I feel like I'm raising 3 entitled brats, kids who think there's no God who loves them or justice in the world because they don't own a summer home, the right clothing or any of a whole bunch of other accoutrements.

I realize much, if not all of this, is our fault--when you choose to live in a wealthy suburb where it feels like the vast majority of folks earn more or own more (even if that might not be true)--how can we not expect our kids to grow up feeling this way?

We hoped that exposing them to a month in China would help, but it didn't. They still feel like we're big meanies who won't give them what they think they need.

It seems to me that a damaging consequence of privilege is feeling like God has abandoned us or no longer exists if we don't get what we want or life doesn't go the way we think it should. So I wanted to implement a mini-course in training our children to praise God in all circumstances.

I didn't know how my suggestion would go over with my parents and sister's family. At first, they were open, but when I explained it further, my sister said, "You want us say 'Praise God! My father-in-law died???"

When you put it that way, it doesn't sound so good, does it?

At my church, there's a stream of folks who would say that, who believe that we should praise God FOR everything, good or evil.

I'm still not there. So far, I can't bring myself to praise God for my friends' cancers or broken marriages or my inability to control my anger or my tongue.

"We're not praising God FOR his death," I said, "We're praising God IN his death. Because God tells us to praise IN ALL circumstances."

So we gave it a try. We praised God IN:

death and mourning
poor health
bad math grades
unreconciled relationships
disappointed dreams
broken world affairs
not achieving what we hoped to achieve

We ranged in age from 7 to 79. Everyone had something to say. And even though it felt bad at first to shout "Praise God!" with lifted glass to the tragedy of my brother-in-law's Dad's death, it still felt right to somehow affirm that God is good in the midst of that.

My nephew suggested that we go around after the sad round with the best thing that happened. So we did that too. And it was striking that even though there were a bunch of personal successes among us, for the parents in the room, our best moments came in seeing our kids thriving.

So even if my kids are entitled, even if they're ungrateful, even if I want to kill certain ones like I did last night when there was a meltdown about going to bed AFTER I let everyone watch Captain America against my better judgment. . .

Praise God!

The Show must go on. . . even if your Pants are Falling Down!

2011-11-23T10:43:00.000-05:00

"I think Ren's losing his pants," whispered Scott as we watched Annie Get Your Gun for the 2nd time in one weekend.

I looked over to my boy dancing on stage and sure enough he was grasping his pants with one hand while trying to wave his other in unison with everyone else while singing "I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night."

In horror, we watched as he'd let go, raise his arms, and then quickly shoot his hands down again to yank up his pants.

But give my boy credit. He kept singing and dancing with a big grin splayed on his face despite the periodic clutching at pants.

Scott and I couldn't stop laughing. There's something about an upbeat song and a son losing his pants before 500 spectators that just has to be enjoyed.

Parental mortification happens to us on a regular basis and comes in all shapes and sizes. Our family incidences include:

a kid forgetting how to play piano in the middle of a piano recital (come to think of it, that's happened to more than one kid more than one times)
the whole Somerville pool being evacuated because someone pooped during swim lesson and then finding a poop smear in my kid's bathing suit
a 4 year old screaming and lying on the floor outside Sunday School kicking at me
all of our kids running in the opposite direction of soccer balls, baseballs, pretty much anything round or that's meant to be thrown, and looking in all directions OTHER than the ball
the same kid who lost his pants this weekend looking like a frozen deer in the headlights on stage, barely singing, dancing or waving his arms (read here)

And I'm not even writing about my own behavior that's caused everyone, including me, mortification!

But the gift we receive from regular bouts of mortification is parental pride. Because almost always, it takes a little mortification to achieve anything. Falling down, failing, being mediocre, feeling humiliated are usually necessary steps towards gaining skills and eventually excelling.

Two falls ago, Kai-Kai played Maid #1 in My Fair Lady. Her only line was "Professor Higgins, may I take your coat?" And that darn Professor Higgins forgot to bring his coat on stage so her one line made no sense because there was no coat to hand off!

She hates it when we joke about that story.

"It wasn't your fault!" we protest. "And you dealt with it great!"

But receiving no coat at her only line seems to have wounded her deeply.

Since then, she's played the shopkeeper in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, a government official in Annie, and this year, Frieda Wilson, the hotel keeper's wife. She's gone from one line to 17, and has sang a solo line or even verse at every show since. She's blossomed in confidence and grace.

Ren-Ren didn't get into the first play he auditioned for and as mentioned earlier, looked like a deer in the headlights in his first show.

Because I served as a volunteer coordinator this year, I was invited to Cathy, the director's party. I've never talked to her before, but when she saw me, she called out across a crowded room, "Can you believe how far your kids have come?"

I reminded her of Ren's frozen deer imitation in Little Shop of Horrors.

"Finally!" Cathy shouted, "A parent who has an honest assessment of her kid!"

Yup, that's the thing with us Tiger moms--we have honest assessments of our kids weaknesses and failings--too much so often.

But Cathy's right, both my kids have drastically improved on stage, and the confidence they've gained has led to being different kids in school as well--not nearly as quiet and shut-down.

After the show, we asked Ren what happened. "I had such a quick change and I couldn't get my tie on right so I forgot to zip and button my pants."

Wow. Big oversight.

As if to make us feel better, he said, "At least I had knickers underneath--I kept thinking I should take my pants off, do you think anyone would have noticed?"

"Ren, believe me, if you had stripped off your pants on stage in the middle of the show, everyone in the audience would have noticed."

Whew! Just dodged a bigger bullet!

Our Saga towards a Black Belt

2011-11-21T22:08:00.000-05:00

This past weekend was momentous--Kai and Ren in 4 shows of Annie Get Your Gun and Ren's black belt test. Tonight I'm going to write about the latter.

Tae kwon do has been, to put it mildly, a battle.

If I've been a Tiger Mom in any sphere, tae kwon do is probably it. I've pressured him. I've forced him to do it. I've made my son cry. My mother, who doesn't believe in bribing kids for anything, has bribed him with $50 for the red and brown belts with a bonanza of $100 for the black belt. And for 2 women who really could care less about anything athletic, that's a lot of Tiger Momming and Tiger Po-Po-ing.

Ren at 14 months, able to get to sitting,
not able to walk for 3 more months

A neurologist once called Ren a boneless chicken breast he had such low tone. I began worrying when he was 6 months and all he could do was lie there. His sisters had been able to get themselves to sitting by then, so I mentioned it to our pediatrician, who of course told me not to worry.

Three months later, he could sit if we put him in sitting position, but still couldn't get himself there by himself. The pediatrician then agreed that we should look into early intervention.

That took awhile to start, so by the time he was 11.5 months and still unable to get himself to sitting, I was really worried. When Carol, his early intervention therapist first showed up, she taught me the simple trick of placing toys by his sides, cajoling him to cross his mid-line. Within a week, he could get himself to sitting.

Wow.

Since then, it's been a journey.

By the time he was 4, he was too "normal" to qualify for any help, but clearly not "normal" by "normal" kid standards. The last physical therapist we saw on the government's dime said in parting, "Keep him active because he's not going to want to do it on his own."

So we've forced our son to learn gymnastics, swimming, skiing, snow-boarding and tae kwon do. Everyone of those accompanied with tears, shouts and accusations that I'm a really really mean mommy.

Extra-curriculars are a privilege for his sisters. With him, they're mandatory.

Ren after his first lesson with "Sir"

I liked the idea of martial arts because any half-Asian boy with the potential of being painfully skinny or seen as a wimp could use a martial arts boost--seemingly the one cool manly Asian activity in our culture.

And Ren was pretty enthusiastic. He went in for a private lesson with Tom, known as "Sir" to the kids, who taught him the first 6 basics, and gave him the outfit.

But by his blue belt in 2008, he was ready to quit. Belts came farther apart. The moves were harder. He felt bored.

It didn't change the advice we'd received so long ago, and it was clear he wasn't going to replace tae kwon do with any other physical activity--hence more cajoling, arguing, shouting, tears and "you've come too far to quit now."

By the time he earned his brown belt, we were adamant. "You don't come this far to not go for black belt!" Scott was Tiger-dadding along with me.

The fateful day finally arrived Saturday, 5.5 years after Ren received his white belt--the morning after he opened in Annie Get Your Gun, and 4 hours before the next show.

My parents are here for Thanksgiving (first time I'm with them in 29 years--read here), and came early to catch the show and the black belt test.

The test took 2 1/4 hours--poor Baba was snoozing during much of it. The kids performed their forms individually and sparred at the end. The girls were ferocious! Ren and his partner a bit more cautious, but Ren impressed us all with his spin kicks.

When the test was over, Sir said some wonderful life lessons including

Getting your black belt and then quitting is like getting your driver's license and never driving a car again.

Tae kwon do is a sport you can grow in for the rest of your life--you'll never get cut, you'll only be encouraged to improve

And best of all:

When you received your white belt, I said the next time I tie a belt around you will be when you receive your black belt. Now I want you to come forward, hand your brown belt over and I will tie on your black belt for you.

Wah!!! I had forgotten he said that 5.5 years ago.

Watching Sir tie Ren's black belt after years of practice, perseverence and pain (mostly mine as I argued with Ren about going to tae kwon do) made me all teary.

And today, the first tae kwon do class since receiving his belt, Ren couldn't wait to go--to show up as a genuine black belt.

I guess he's decided to drive that car now that he's gotten the license.

Good for him!

Chinese Thanksgiving, Hawaiian Style

2011-11-17T15:19:00.000-05:00

It's Thursday, so this post is published on Patheos. Click here to read it!

Why my Thighs won't be in our Christmas Picture This Year

2011-11-16T09:14:00.000-05:00

Well frankly, all you ladies know exactly why, and most of you gents as well.

Last night I checked my yahoo account where I do all consumer transactions so I don't get junk in my work/personal email account. And I saw that Shutterfly's 40% off sale on Christmas cards ends TODAY. Now that's extremely annoying because I'd been watching for Shutterfly to announce its sale so I could know when to make our Christmas cards. But either I missed it, or they are marketing so that poor schmoes like me fly into a pre-Christmas frenzy just to get that deal.

We send out almost 500 Christmas cards--I want that 40% discount.

So while watching Glee with the kids I started working on our card.

In some ways it was easy. Last summer, when our family went home to Hawaii, we all took a surfing lesson. I had surfed 4 whole times growing up. Scott had a surfing lesson with a sort of ex-flame of mine that went badly (wonder why?) and the kids had never surfed at all.

It was excellent!

Mama's photo showing us learning on land first--my
thighs are almost unnoticeable here--they look much
better lying down because the fat can't sag to the knees

After the lesson, when we got back to the shop, a photographer approached us and told us that he'd been taking pictures the whole time, and for a mere $20/person we could get the photos on a CD. Even though my photo-holic mother was sitting on the beach and had been snapping away at us, she had no tele-photo high-faluting camera like he did.

He scrolled through the pictures and they were so great that my miserly and frugal soul wavered.

Then he said he'd give us all the pictures for $80 and Mama (who's not frugal) said she'd pay for them, so we have 160 glorious shots of my family surfing.

For 80 bucks, we knew what was going to be on our family Christmas card. Scott wanted shots of all 5 of us.

But last night, scrolling through the pics and uploading them to Shutterfly, I just couldn't do it.

I can't display my thighs to 500 of our nearest and dearest friends.

My kids look cute. My girls, thank God, have inherited Scott's long legs. Scott looks studly. I look like a stumpy-legged-beginning-to-paunch middle-aged woman heading towards the inevitable in my favorite cartoon that I wrote about in "Asian Aging":

It's happening. Haven't hit menopause yet (TMI I know, sorry), but those surfing photos show where I'm headed. After not wearing glasses my whole life, I even now have progressive lenses and I already have frizzy hair. All I'll need soon is to cut my hair shorter and get that sweatshirt jacket.

Last night I created 9 different Christmas cards using various Hawaii photos and 4 surfing photos of Scott and the kids--but none of me.

When I showed my work to Scott, he called me names and told me I was forsaking our family unity--and then he refused to include his surfing photos if I didn't include mine.

So neither of us will have surfing photos in our Christmas card. Because I'm just not going to do it.

But if you're really curious, you can read about our surfing adventure (and even see my thighs) here.

Enjoy.

Ma mere, Kathy

2011-11-14T21:27:00.000-05:00

Kai-Kai has a family album project due tomorrow and just showed it to me.

Here's what she wrote about me (without the accent marks because I don't know how to put them in the text)

Voila ma mere. Elle s'appelle Kathy. Elle a 46 ans. Elle est la femme de Scott. Elle est petite. Elle n'est pas grosse. Elle est brune foncee. Elle a les yeux bruns. Elle est penible, mais elle est intelligente. Elle adore fair les magasins et manger au restaurant. Elle n'aime pas regarder les matchs a la tele.

Not being a French speaker, I could still figure out most of the things she wrote, but penible?

"What's penible mean?" I asked.

"She is a pain in the neck," she responded.

"No really, what does it mean?"

"She's a pain in the neck."

"You wrote that about me?"

Lots and lots of giggles to the point of bending over. Then she translated the whole thing:

There is my mother. Her name is Kathy. She is 46 years. She is the wife of Scott. She is short. She is not fat. She has dark brown hair. She has brown eyes. She is a pain in the neck, but she is smart. She loves to shop and eat out. She doesn't like to watch games on the TV.

"I wrote it when you were being mean to me, and I was running out of adjectives because you were #6 on the list."

Great. Not only am I a pain in the neck, but I was #6 on the list after Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Andy, Auntie Michele and Dad. (Much giggling about how I was #6)

"You were #6 when I wrote the paragraphs, but you're #4 in the book."

#4, #6. Guess who I'm thinking est penible?

Jesus and the Helicopter Mom

2011-11-11T12:26:00.000-05:00

OK, you clicked on this title thinking you'd get to read about Jesus and the Helicopter Mom. And you still can!

But once a week I'm going to write for the Patheos "What she said" blog--a blog by women, many mommies. So yesterday I wrote for that site. Because I think I'm supposed to mostly just post in one place, click here for that blog:

Check it out--a bunch of my friends are writing for "What she said" and a bunch of much more famous writers/bloggers also!

Rookie of the Year!

2011-11-10T07:20:00.000-05:00

Last night Scott and I made a point of attending the swim team banquet with Ling-Ling . We both missed her Foreign Language Award ceremony last spring because we of work commitments. Ling had said it was OK, that she wasn't getting any special awards so it wasn't a big deal, but then came home saying, "Um, I think you guys should have come, I was the only kid who had no parents there."

(Let me just pause to stab myself in the heart.)

Swim team has been a bit of a saga (read about it in Faking Robyn, T-P-ed, Sports Mama. . . Not).

Ling's awakened every morning at 4:15 a.m. to be picked up by 4:40 to swim by 5. After following the bad advice of her YMCA swim coach to not swim with the high school team last year, she started this year as a sophomore. As an extremely shy and introverted girl, she felt totally insecure about joining late. Everyone else had already made friends and she was odd girl out.

But she kept showing up for practice. She kept swimming. And because she actually can butterfly (a stroke I've never even learned!), she swam butterfly in 2 events every single meet. She's improved her swim times. She's made a lot of cheerful acquaintances, if not actual friends. Most importantly, she's been a part of a team.

The swim meet in Sudbury that took an hour to drive to and from--in rush hour

At the Winchester Country Club, 39 girls with great toned arms in teeny dresses and teenier skirts revealed their "Secret Swimmer" status and gave each other their final "Secret Swimmer" gifts. They sat together while parents drank wine and commiserated about 4 a.m. wake up times.

I had a great time despite the woman next to me saying, "They let you in with jeans?" pointing at my skirt. "They usually kick you out for wearing denim! You can't wear anything like that here!"

We went to the banquet not knowing what to expect (as made extremely clear by my neighbor's comments). Ling thought she might letter, but lost the scoring sheet so didn't know if she'd earned enough points. But no matter what she achieved we wanted to support Ling. And after doing the dump run fundraiser, the ovarian cancer fundraiser, and paying for all sorts of swim paraphernalia, I wanted the one free parent meal (paying $30 for Scott).

So imagine our surprise and delight when she not only earned a Varsity letter but also "Rookie of the Year!" The coach praised her for giving her all, and always being willing to jump in and compete in whatever the coach threw at her.

Wow!

How did my spawn actually achieve such athletic glory?

First quarter sophomore year, I got a C+ in PE. Mama looked at that grade, laughed and said, "PE is the only area you're allowed to get a C." I pulled my PE grades up to the B range for the rest of the year, but student/athlete I was NOT.

I'm the 4 year old kid who Mama put in ballet because I was such a klutz. She hoped ballet would teach me some grace. I became more graceful--neighborhood kids incessantly teased me that when I walked it looked like I was dancing--but I was still a klutz.

I walk into sofas and doors and walls. I shut my trunk on my pinky while telling a friend how bad I am at knowing where my body lies in space.

I may be a Chinese Tiger mom who got her only high school C in PE. I may embarrass humiliate myself and my daughter by wearing denim to the Winchester Country Club. I may still have not a single sports bone in my body. But I'm sure proud of my girl.

And so glad she doesn't take after me.

The Help was so good--why can't I remember it?

2011-11-07T15:24:00.000-05:00

2 weekends ago, all 3 kids went on a church retreat which meant Scott and I were alone [raucous cheering and whooping]. I enjoyed many blissful activities including several hours each day to read. I dug into Ling's banned books (click here to read about that).

All day Sunday I re-read The Help, which I had read a couple years ago. It's just my kind of book--chronicling the stories of Black maids in Mississippi in the 1960s. Even though there's been controversy around the book, with questions around a White woman writing in the voice of Black women, and a White character mobilizing Black characters rather than Black characters mobilizing themselves, I still loved it.

So I couldn't wait to see the movie. A month ago, I played hooky from work, kids and life to see a matinee.

Just me, myself and I. . . and a crew of senior citizens. Very senior senior citizens. They rolled in with wheelchairs and nurses. The whole movie long, their beepers went off, their nurses scurried to and fro to take care of them, and they squawked, "WHAT DID SHE SAY???"

I had to laugh. The whole reason I was sneaking off to the matinee was so I could enjoy the movie without my kids squawking and fighting and asking, "WHAT?? WHAT JUST HAPPENED?"

But I didn't care. I wasn't responsible for the senior set. I could just enjoy the movie.

During the movie, I kept thinking, "This is different from the book! The director really changed things!"

Yet re-reading the book last week, I realized the movie was actually incredibly faithful to the book. I just didn't remember anything from the book.

Re-reading, I flipped through pages in awe over various characters and scenes and dramatic moments. So many were in the movie. So few were in my mind.

Apparently I have a lot in common with the senior set with which I viewed The Help.

Although this all makes me worry I have early on-set Alzheimers (something my father constantly worried about by the time he was my age--so even that might be genetic), there's a huge upside to losing my memory. I can now look forward to re-reading, and re-reading, and re-reading all my favorite books without the hardest part of reading--finding a book I love.

I'll already know I love the book, but won't remember anything about it. I can enjoy each book as much as the first time.

The Pleasure of a Banned Book

2011-11-03T11:19:00.000-04:00

A week ago, I took away Ling's library books, banning her from reading them.

Growing up, I read whatever I wanted. Mama, believing that nothing led to academic success more than avid reading, censored nothing. So I read everything, including junk.

I read literary junk--Harlequin and Regency romances, soon learning that reading the last chapter of each book while standing by the rack at the library gave me everything I needed to know including the satisfying romantic conclusion.

I read sordid junk--sitting on my bed next to my best friend in junior high, we flipped through stacks I had borrowed finding all the sex scenes and passed them back and forth to each other.

Each time we checked out books, Mama felt she had to protest to the librarian, "I don't approve of what she's reading!!!"

I even read violent and sordid junk. Ironically, Mama picked out the worst of these at tag sales and mailed them to China where we spent my 9th grade for Baba's sabbatical. She sent 424 books to Beijing in 1979, determined her kids would keep reading even if there were no available English books in the country. I read The Godfather on Thanksgiving Day. I read a gay porn book. I read a book on Roman coliseums that detailed how Romans got zebras and lions to rape women. I learned a lot.

My dear aunt, so instrumental in leading me to love and follow Jesus, did not agree with Mama's philosophy. The summer after 4th grade when we visited for a month and I was in the throes of Laura Ingalls Wilder "Little House" books, she would only borrow one a week for me, telling my cousins that she wanted me to read Christian books instead. As a bookaholic who finished my latest Little House book on the first day, I was forced to read her Christian novels in my spare time.

They were terrible.

One series chronicled the lives of twins Ted and Terrie. Ted, the devout brother and an enabler, constantly rescued Terrie, a pretty “bad girl” who was always drawn towards wild boys, cool clothes, and forbidden adventure. By the end of each novel, Terrie would have experienced some terrible consequence to her sinful desires (although never pregnancy, STDs or bodily harm, which seem like the real consequences for those sorts of temptations), and would come back penitently to Jesus. Of course, her repentance never lasted long, because by the next novel, off she was again, chasing something worldly that would lead to her sorrow.

So why am I, a product of free reading banning books in my home?

Because my oldest child is also a bookaholic and doesn't have time to read. Between 4.5 hours of homework a night and waking at 4:15 a.m. for swim practice, she doesn't have hours to immerse herself in alternate worlds, and she doesn't have the discipline to resist peeking into the towering stack of library books on her desk.

I warned her each time I found her lying on her bed with a book, so engrossed she didn't hear me come in, and looking up with a start and a guilty face. I told her I would take away her books if she couldn't control herself. After all, dieters should get rid of all junk food, and alcoholics should get rid of all booze.

But she couldn't help herself, so I took away the books a week ago. They're sitting in a pile on my bedroom floor.

In my spare time--believe it or not I have more than my daughter--I've been digging into her stash.

So sad for her. So fun for me.

What's so bad about FUGGs?

2011-11-02T09:12:00.000-04:00

"Today was a good day," Kai-Kai said when I picked her up from play rehearsal, "Today was a gold medal day!"

"Wonderful!" said I, imagining a 100% on a test, an A+ on an essay, or maybe even a lab project with a big gold star plastered on the "good work" board, "What made it so great?"

"Today I had my brand new Uggs, my Northface jacket and my LL Bean backpack. Finally the exact right pieces for school."

Hmmm.

For those of you who either live in sunny Hawaii/CA or under a rock so are unaware of the most important teen fashion trend of the past decade, Uggs are those furry boots that Uma Thurman made famous a long time ago. They are the footwear de rigueur of the middle school set, and even middle aged moms. Pity those of us who live in cold weather and for months are consigned to bulky ugly footwear just to keep warm.

My girls longed for Uggs, not because they're beautiful or warm or comfortable, but because they're in style and "every girl in Winchester wears them."

The also cost, at minimum $150/pair. There was no way I was paying that sort of money for girls whose feet grew an inch every six months. I won't pay that sort of money for myself and my feet haven't grown since my last pregnancy. Even more, because they're suede, you can't actually wear Uggs in snow or slush--which is a lot of the time you need boots in the winter in New England!

3 or 4 years ago, I found FUggs (Fake Uggs) at BJs Wholesale Club for $38/pair. The miser in me still felt like those were a bit expensive given I did most of my boot shopping for kids on Sierra Trading Post (the best place for activewear and sundries at deep discount), but I swallowed, bought them each a pair and wrapped them up for Christmas.

The screams and shouts of joy warmed the cockles of my heart. The happiness lasted for months with hardly a complaint about their fakeness.

It became a yearly ritual, buying FUggs.

But in the past year or so FUggs lost their glamour--they became seen for what they are, fake. They don't have that Ugg label on the back of the heel. They don't leave the Ugg prints in the snow from their stamped plastic bottoms. Friends look at your feet and know you're an imposter in the middle school world.

Last year, an adolescent psychologist talking about parenting middle school kids, said the reason all the girls need Uggs and Northface jackets is they have so much going on in their brains, they're so sure that everyone's looking at them and judging them, that if they wear the right uniform, they don't have to worry--they can relax about just one thing, and getting just one thing off their minds is a huge relief.

That stuck with me. So when I flew to CA for my uncle's 80th birthday last December, I asked my mom to take me straight off the plane to the Northface Outlet, where I bought every one of my kids a jacket. I wasn't going to buy one for my son because he never talks about the latest fashion, but Mama insisted I include him and then threw in $ towards the jackets as her Christmas present to the kids.

Not bad.

But I still held out against Uggs because I'm not going to plop down $150 on feet that are still growing. And even if they stop growing, I'm still not going to plop down $150.

So Kai-Kai, who's been babysitting up a storm ever since turning 13, decided to save for her own Uggs. It didn't even take her that long. Scott took her to Nordstrom's on Sunday and she spent her own $180 on chocolate brown Uggs that look just like the picture at the top.

And finally, after years of FUggs and insufficient clothing, she could walk into 8th grade with the proper uniform and not worry about it. I'm glad she saved and got what she wanted so she could feel good about herself in middle school.

Good for her. She had a gold medal day.

Kai-Kai with her LL Bean backpack (as we're leaving
for China 2 summers ago)

Kicked out of Trick-or-Treating

2011-11-01T09:13:00.000-04:00

Last night I was excluded from trick-or-treating.

As has been our tradition for many years, we had folks over for chili (click here for my world-famous recipe), sweet potato cake and ginger molasses cookies. My goal? Shove healthy food into kids before they dive into their candy bonanza. It hasn't worked for the 12 years we've been doing this, but I'm always one to keep trying strategies that are proven failures. As Scott loves to quote to me in so much of our parenting, "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."

Of course, in some of the faith traditions to which I belong, the fact that we celebrate Halloween and I've led my children into the devil's holiday means I have just proven that I'm not trustworthy to be a minister. Of course, in the larger Boston university culture in which I minister, the fact that I might not consider celebrating Halloween because I believe evil spiritual powers do exist makes me even more suspect.

So why do we love Halloween?

Because it's fun. It's fun for the kids. It's fun for the grown-ups. You get to wear funny clothes. And how many times do families genuinely have a lot of fun together? I take comfort in the fact that Jesus seemed to be a guy who liked to have fun and got killed, in part, for that penchant by more religious folks.
Because it's the best time to meet your neighbors. There is no other holiday when you go to your neighbor's doors and greet one another with big smiles. As neighbors stand in front of lit jack-o-lanterns wearing funny hats and passing out candy, I love the smiles, the greetings and the well-wishes.
Because it's a time to be generous. Apart from showering friends with chili they don't eat, it's also a time to shower neighborhood kids with substances that will rot their teeth and grow their bellies but give their hearts joy.

When we lived in Somerville, we lived on a "Halloween" street. Our neighbors decorated out the wazoo. The former owners warned us that we'd need bags and bags of candy. The first year I bought 9 and ran out within 45 minutes. We had to take the candy our kids' AND their friends' had spent the last 45 minutes collecting to soothe the masses.

A Harry Potter Halloween--3 witches, Dobby, an
adorable bat and a tiger

But gone are the days of Tinker Bell, princess and adorable little bat costumes. My kids have gotten big. Both girls decided they were too "mature" to trick-or-treat anymore. Ling, as a 10th grader, kept telling Kai she was being ridiculous--that 8th grade was the last year she could trick-or-treat and she should do it. But Kai was adamant.

Ren told me he wanted to trick-or-treat with his friends, but did nothing about it. Running far behind this year, I sent out invitations on Sunday and we got a full house!

By the time everyone arrived, we had a hot dog (Ren), a dwarf, 2 mad scientists, a convict, a monster, and 2 guys in camouflage (including a dad). Then the 2 girls drew mustaches on their faces and Kai-Kai decided to "supervise" the boys as they trick-or-treated.

"Do you want me to come?" I asked Ren.

"Noooooo," he said, "Kai-Kai is coming, she'll watch us to make sure we behave." (all spoken with the utmost respect as you can imagine)

So Scott and I sat with fellow parents eating chili, sweet potato cake and ginger molasses cookies. Ling handed out candy while working on her homework. Kai "supervised" the boys who had a grand old time trick-or-treating in 38 degree weather.

The kids might not have eaten much chili, but doing Halloween this way over and over, even if I'm excluded from trick-or-treating? Completely worth it.

The Way to my Heart is Through my Feet

2011-10-27T11:51:00.000-04:00

A couple nights ago, Kai-Kai came into our bedroom after Scott and I had both settled in for pre-bedtime reading. She took one look at me ensconced on my pillows with Entertainment Weekly (my favorite guilty read thanks to expiring airline miles), and knew I would be in no mood to chat.

"Hi Mom," she said with a smile, "Do you want me to rub your feet?"

I looked at her, disbelieving, but sat up a little and said, "Sure!"

She grabbed the Peppermint Cooling Foot Rescue Treatment off my dresser (cream I bought for myself in hopes someone would make just such an offer) and settled down. I stuck my left foot out from the covers, put down the magazine, and became all ears.

Getting my feet rubbed was a good swap for listening to a 13 year old when I've completely run out of steam and ability to be a nurturing mom anymore, which unfortunately seems to be the rule rather than the exception to my life.

I wish I was the sort of mom who has endless reserves and waits with bated breath for the moment her child finally wants to confide in her. But I wake up at 5:15 a.m., so I'm tired by 9 p.m.

I also spend my entire work life listening to others.

Using up all my emotional energy is an occupational hazard with ministry. My first four years with InterVarsity, when I lived in New York City, I basically had enough emotional energy to create healthy relationships with my housemates (who also happened to be my boss and his family) and to make one good friend. As someone who was studying interracial friendships for her dissertation, in part because I thought I was good at friendship when I chose that topic, those 4 years were sorely disillusioning.

The 2 years after that, when I went to part-time ministry and full-time dissertation writing, to my surprise, I found I had boundless energy for friendships and community building again. Spending 8-10 hours/day with my computer and books took zero emotional energy. I made more and better friends in those 2 years than I had in the 4 years previous.

Perhaps that should have been telling and I should have switched careers then and there, but I actually love ministry and the awesome folks I've met through being a campus chaplain these past 21 years.

When we moved to Boston, I switched from undergraduate to graduate student ministry, hoping that I would use more of my mind and less of my heart. I wanted to keep more of my heart for myself, especially in light of marriage and new parenthood.

Grad/faculty ministry has indeed taken more of my mind, but it still takes a lot of heart, and adding 2 more kids takes even more heart.

Which leaves me at 8:30 on a weekday night just wanting to read Entertainment Weekly and learn about movie stars I'll never meet, TV shows I'll never watch, and movies I'll add to my Netflix queue but never get around to playing (case in point: I have 117 titles in my DVD queue and 151 in my instant queue).

But Kai-Kai's a really smart and emotionally intelligent girl. She's learned that if she wants to connect with me, the positive way to do so is to offer physical affection that's purely for my benefit. I've written on "The Chinese Problem with Hugs," but I don't have any problem with full body massages or foot rubs. So periodically she gives me an offer she knows I can't refuse.

Kai-Kai rubbed my feet, my calves and then even worked on my arms, chatting the whole time. Because I enjoyed both being rubbed and enveloped in zingy peppermint, I didn't nod along, waiting for her to stop talking. I just lay there semi-comatose and let her words wash over me while her hands massaged my tired limbs. She didn't really want me to talk back much anyway.

It was a good deal for both of us.

Why am I the bad cop?

2011-10-25T09:06:00.000-04:00

It was a rough weekend.

At one point, after a day of bickering and wrangling with 2 out of 3 kids, one of them went up to Scott, hugged him, and said, "Good night Dad, I love you!" and stalked off ignoring me.

"Why do I get to be the bad parent?" I demanded.

Meanwhile, the other kid kept referring to me as "she," as in "SHE is making my life miserable."

"Don't call your mother 'she,' that's disrespectful," said my dear husband.

"Well SHE deserves it."

He spoke strongly with that child who finally stooped to calling me Mom, and then hugged and kissed Dad goodnight without a further look at me.

Did I say it was a hard weekend?

My friend Tara says its what you get for being a mom. This is the same friend, famous for her love of well heated homes, who insisted on sleeping in a tent with her husband and 2 boys in 40 degree weather even though I offered her a warm bed AND private room at our over-crowded fall retreat. "I refuse to be the un-fun mom," she said, "I'm going to sleep in that tent so the boys will remember me as the type of mom who slept in a tent with them."

Knowing Mom luck, they'll remember that super-fun tent night all right. They just won't remember Mom was freezing in there along with Dad.

As Mom, I am the quintessential presence in my kids' lives. I get to:

take them to the doctor
take them to the dentist (tomorrow at 3)
chastise them for eating junk snacks and not cleaning up after themselves after school
talk about the most recent bad math test grade and how they need to go talk to the teacher (which always leads to more conflict and more references to me as "she")
take them shoe shopping
Read and sign almost all paperwork coming from the school

I really don't understand that last responsibility. When I'm out late, a kid will hand me some paper with a glare the next day and say, "You weren't home to sign this!"

"You had another parent at home," I'll say, "Why didn't you get him to sign it?"

But somehow it's just not within their worldview or realm of possibility to think of Dad signing papers.

So I get to be the dirty work parent, and he gets to be the fun one. Even though I take them out individually each week for "special time" (except when they're knee deep in the musical like now), do they seem to remember or appreciate that? Nope.

Instead they remember that when I go out of town, Dad takes them out to dinner, finds friends to hang out with, and lets them have sodas with maraschino cherries in them.

When I complained further to Scott about the inequities that I'm the bad cop, he reminded me of a study I learned about in a human development class. Apparently, girls with the highest self-esteem and highest performance had pushy mothers who insisted on high achievement and fathers who loved them unconditionally. I remembered that study, because that was my family of origin constellation. Girls whose moms were their "best friends" had the lowest self-esteem and performance of all.

Well, I guess I won't have to worry about that for my girls. No chance of being their best friend.

These days, I'm lucky to be "she."

Glad to know SOMEONE felt better

2011-10-20T10:29:00.000-04:00

2 days ago, as I chit-chatted with a friend before our faculty leaders meeting, he said, "On Sunday I saw Scott picking up your girls from youth group. They raced to the car, pushing and shoving, competing for the front seat. Then the one who lost punched the winner."

He laughed heartily.

"Wow, great. . ." I said.

He chuckled, "It just made me feel so good! We're not the only parents with kids who act like that."

As the father of 4 girls, he should know. He added, "Of course, now that we only have one kid at home, it's not a problem anymore."

So there's hope. The hope of empty nest.

Luckily, I feel comfortable enough with this friend that I didn't sink through the floor that he witnessed what regularly happens in our home. Usually our kids are smart enough to keep their shenanigans out of public view, but apparently church youth group took them over the edge.

But what can I expect? I fought non-stop with my siblings. Even when I was in GRADUATE SCHOOL, during a family trip to England I got into a squabble with my 13 year old brother. I didn't punch him, but I was mean enough to make him cry.

Yup. Not proud of it, but that's where my kids get it from.

There's nothing from my past or present that knows how to help my kids stop shrieking, shoving, and slapping one another. Especially since I can't seem to stop myself from terrible behaviors when I'm mad either.

But even if it was mortifying that my friend witnessed our version of GirlFight, there was something extremely encouraging knowing that his girls also go at it. Interacting with them over the years, his girls always look poised, friendly, smart and kind. They also seem to love each other and enjoy one another’s company. All 3 of his girls who’ve left home, have written letters saying they (finally) realized they have an awesome family and amazing parents.

That's my hope and prayer. Unlike the feedback from the kid who said last night, "I hate family dinner more than anything," I want to someday receive affirmation from our kids that we did OK, or even more, better than OK.

If we don't kill each other first.

The Blessing (and Curse) of Chinese Hospitality

2011-10-18T15:02:00.001-04:00

2 summers ago, when we spent a month in China working with a house church, the leaders showered us with hospitality. They took us to the famous pearl market, treated us to lavish Chinese banquets, took us to see pandas at the zoo, and our last night, hosted us in their home for yet another sumptuous Chinese meal.

As the house church pastor said, "In China, we show hospitality by taking our friends to the very best Chinese restaurants. In America, you show hospitality by having people into your homes, that's why we're having you to our house."

Some of the dishes his family served

So when I learned this pastor was coming to Boston, I immediately offered to host. But I felt stymied. As a Chinese-American, do I show hospitality by taking him and assorted Chinese students and scholars to a great restaurant or by cooking for them?

I floated the question with the crowd, and a student said they'd love to come to my house. That was a relief because hosting 10 adults at a really nice restaurant involves a bundle of cash we don't have.

But then, what do I cook?

Although (IMHO) I'm a good cook, I'm mediocre when it comes to Chinese food. Growing up, my mother cooked all the Chinese food and I cooked all the Western food, so I never developed dexterity with my native cuisine or its cooking methods. Non-Chinese who eat my Chinese dishes are usually satisfied. True Chinese (or Chinese-Americans) immediately know I'm an imposter.

Also complicating Western menu options, most Chinese don't eat cheese or dairy products.

On top of it all, I spent last weekend leading a gigantic graduate student fall retreat, then flew to meetings in Chicago. There wasn't time to shop or cook ahead of time. AND Scott was spending the weekend at the monastery on silent retreat so I was flying solo with the kids.

On Thursday, as I sat with colleagues at a bar in O'Hare because half of our flights were delayed, I shared my dilemma.

"My wife makes this really great slow-cooker chicken using cream of mushroom soup," said my wonderful colleague from Nashville.

Now I love cream of mushroom soup recipes as much as anyone (as evidenced by my pork chop recipe previously posted--ironically, that blog post was also on the challenges of feeding and honoring our youth pastor), but I looked at him and said, "I can't do that."

"It's really good!" he suggested helpfully.

"Yeah. . . I can't do that."


The meal a Chinese family served us. This includes a chicken soup that took all day to make, Yunnan ham (a delicacy), and a rare mushroom. I think we counted 17 different dishes they cooked!

When I got back, another friend suggested I do take out. Once again, "I can't do that."

I decided to make Thanksgiving dinner using the extra turkey I bought last Thanksgiving that's been sleeping in our deep freeze. No cheese, a festive meal, perfect!

But I wondered what was going on within me at 8:15 a.m. Saturday morning as I grocery shopped only to find there were no turkey thighs (We Chinese like dark meat better than white). My skinny 16 lb. bird just wasn't going to cut it. I asked the butcher to call around to all the nearby stores. Store after store, he came out shaking his head until finally, he found 3 packages 10 miles away.

I wondered at my craziness again as I drove to the other store only to have the butcher say, "We don't have any turkey thighs."

Sheer horror.

Then a laugh, "Just joking!"

Here's what I came up with:

The Chinese language of love, hospitality and abundance is food.
I'm Chinese. That means I need to show lavish hospitality to honor my guests well
The way I do that is feeding guests with gusto
Yet if I was entertaining any old American group, I would have made my mother's beef curry with lots of condiments, served it over rice and called it a night.
Did I say the Chinese language of love, hospitality and abundance is food?

Thank God Kai-Kai has inherited my obsession with cooking and has culinary skills. When I woke her at 10 a.m., turkey thighs in hand, she jumped right out of bed and helped me for 3 straight hours.

I still descended into screaming mania for a few minutes the hour before guests arrived because house was dirty. But overall, it ended deliciously. Our guests felt well welcomed and fed, and the only mishaps were a broken wine glass (strange since almost no one drank alcohol--but being married to a Scot means I've been socialized also into believing that good hospitality always involves wine), and forgetting to serve Kai's cranberry sauce.

We cleaned up the glass, served the cranberries with dessert and enjoyed warm fellowship and conversation (much of it in Mandarin) throughout the evening. The food wasn't the center of attention, but it served its role: it spoke welcome--telling our guests they were important; it served as social lubricant; it strengthened our bodies and tasted good all at the same time.

Definitely worth the search for turkey thighs.

i don wan 2 talk 2 u. U no y

2011-10-17T10:51:00.000-04:00

While I was in Chicago last week on a business trip, here's the communication that happened between me and a child throughout Tuesday:

1 p.m.

Child (on cell phone): Hi Mom, I got a D+ on my history exam.

Me: You need to talk to your teacher.

(Much argument while I'm standing in the hallway about to go into the meeting so I can lead worship)

3:57 p.m. My phone rings during someone's talk--I hastily scramble in my briefcase, looking for the phone so I can turn it off.

Me (text): I'm in a mtg. Can call u in an hour

Child (voicemail that I never listened to until just now because it didn't show up): Hi Mom, I just wanted to let you know I got an A-/B+ on my English paper which was pretty good compared to what everyone got, and only one person I know got higher than me. So yeah. And also, I just read your latest blog on Boy Parts vs. Girl Parts, and I just wanted to say that it sounded really sexual but I didn't want to comment on that in case you thought it was mean. So OK. Bye.

5:38 p.m.

Child (text): Also, dont cal bak cuz i don wan 2 talk 2 u. U no y.

5:54 p.m.

Child (email):
History:
There's not really much point to going to see him about my test because i know exactly what i did wrong and there isn't really anything he can tell me that i don't already know
Conditioner:
It is true that we have two big bottles of conditioner, but they both have the pushy-top thingys so i can't (use them) so i went to cvs and bought one without a push top today. wil you pay me back?
i have to go to piano now but i'll email u more. don't call me cuz i dont want to talk to you.

7:59 p.m.

Me (email with Scott cc-ed so he can also parent in this D+ mess):

We love you no matter how you do in school.

That being said, you need to go see your teacher, if for no reason other than saying, “I’m really disappointed in myself and want to do better, do you have any hints?” This guy is supposed to be one of the best teachers in Winchester—figuring out how to learn as well as possible from him is essential. Learning how to talk to those with whom you fail is also an incredibly important life skill.

Please go talk to your teacher!

Love, Mom

8:07 p.m.

Child (email): thanks for that mom. that was so helpful. can you tell im using sarcasm? and just cuz u love me no matter how well i do in school, you like me better if i do well. don't deny it cuz its true.

also im wondering if it would be a good idea to. . . (invite friends to youth group)

8:12 p.m.

Child (email): also i raised 20 dollars for (charity). will u pay the other 30? cuz u kinda said u would...

8:27 p.m.

Scott (email): I’m not sure I understand all of this, but I’m supportive of the $30.

8:29 p.m.

Child (email): also i want to see the help after i read the book and 50/50. when it comes out on dvd.

Schizophrenic communication in an increasing changing world! But I guess the good news is that no matter how often my child writes "i don wan 2 talk 2 u. U no y" the emails, texts and voicemails keep coming.

The Proof of My Love

2011-10-13T09:00:00.001-04:00

Last week Thursday, the day before my biggest work weekend of the year, the day before 201 students traveled up to NH for our gigantic Fall Retreat that I direct, the hours I should have been figuring out how to stuff 30 extra students into housing and supporting my staff as they bombarded me with questions and emails, what was I doing?

Driving 20 minutes to the Burlington Barnes and Nobles to buy 3 copies of The Son of Neptune by Rick Riordan.

Here's the backstory:

4 summers ago, Ling trounced into the house a week into summer vacation with the CDs for Rick Riordan's The Lightning Thief. The book had been assigned as summer reading for 7th grade, and Ling being Ling, had borrowed the book from the library in the first week and finished it already.

"We HAVE to listen to this book--it's SO good, even though it's really scary."

That became the summer of Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief. For those of you who haven't been swept into Rick Riordan mania, Percy Jackson learns he is a a demi-god, the son of Poseidon, anathema to all the monsters and evil forces from ancient Greek mythology. Having always been the worst student in his class, he now finds his ADHD serves him well as he fights to stay alive and defend his friends in modern day New York (Olympus rests on top of the Empire State building). The books are funny, exciting, and provide an excellent primer for Greek myths.

We listened to the first 4 books of the series as we drove to and from Niagara Falls and all became rabid Rick Riordan fans, all except for my husband. Scott and I have had a little struggle around long trips ever since I discovered that books on tape are the best way to keep the kids from melting, fighting and whining. But I enjoy listening to the books as much as the kids. Scott would prefer to invest in our marriage by carrying on adult conversations. The nerve of the guy! He finds it very annoying when he thinks I'm listening intently to him, only to discover I've drifted back to Olympus.

When the last Lightning Thief book was published, we went into mini-mourning. But then to our delight we found out that Rick Riordan was starting a new series based on Egyptian mythology. And then to our joy we learned he was starting yet another series based on Roman mythology. Even better--it intersected with Camp Half-Blood, the world of his first series.

Even muchos more better, I discovered that giving the latest copy of a Riordan book to my son, NOT my daughters, gave him immense motivation to read. He just loved the power of having a book they so desperately wanted.

Several months ago, Ling, having already scoped out when The Son of Neptune, the 2nd book in the Roman mythology series, would be published, also found out Rick Riordan was coming to the Burlington Barnes and Noble for a book signing.

"On October 7th we are going to the Burlington Barnes and Nobles to meet him," she announced.

"Sure, uh, nope, can't do it," I replied, "I'm going on the fall retreat that day and leaving around noon. Plus Kai and Ren have piano lessons."

Much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.

But several weeks ago, she found out the signing was at 7 p.m., that we needed advance copies, and wristbands to even have the privilege of standing in line to see Rick Riordan. But that meant Scott could take them and there was rejoicing all around.

Fast forward to last week. By Saturday, our retreat had filled. By Tuesday we had 27 students on the waiting list. I seemed to spend every waking minute working on how to deal with the overflow. Wednesday night I had my women's accountability group. Thursday morning I asked Scott if Ling had gotten him to order The Son of Neptune online. She hadn't.

With a pit in my stomach, I called Barnes and Noble.

"Sure you can still get wristbands!" they said, "Come on in today!"

So on the most hectic day of my year, I drove 20 minutes, stood in line, learned all the details around wristbands and proper attire for waiting in line given that they expected 2000 fans to descend on the store the next day.

I drove away with 3 copies of the book and 4 wristbands that allowed my husband and 3 children to stand in line for 2 hours until Rick Riordan spent 8 seconds (Ren counted) scrawling his initials on the inside flaps.

As I said to Ling when I called her to tell her what I had done, "What does this prove to you??"

"That you love me?"

"Yes!!!!"

"Thanks Mom, I love you too!"

I'm writing from Chicago, left Tuesday for the Grad/Faculty Staff Director's meeting. This morning I awoke at 5:45 and finished The Son of Neptune, having read the first half on the plane. Sigh. It was great.

Totally worth it.

Boy Parts vs. Girl Parts--More on Gender and Justice

2011-10-10T20:39:00.000-04:00

All right, I know what you thought I was going to write on. . . but. . .

On Thursday, Kai-Kai called me at 5:30 with the great news, "Ren got Little Jake!" Little Jake is Annie (in Annie Get Your Gun)'s little brother. It's probably the best role he, as a 6th grader, could have gotten.

"Wow!" I said. "What did you get?"

"Frieda, Wilson's wife, it's an OK part, but Ren got Little Jake!"

Later, when they got home, Ren was exultant. "I've got 23 lines! Kai has 17."

My two younger kids tried out a couple of weeks ago for "Annie Get your Gun" (read here for how the family reacted to watching the movie), but the first weeks of rehearsal were basically ongoing auditions.

Alfred Doolittle

I was thrilled that Kai's first response to hearing their roles was to call me with the good news about Ren, but all the same, it's hard.

Last week I wrote on toilet paper, equality and justice, where I argued that life isn't fair and sometimes for good reasons--that boys' needs for toilet paper and girls' needs for toilet paper are just different and it's OK to treat them differently. But today, I'm writing about the other side.

Boy parts are just better than girl parts and it's just wrong.

Daddy Warbucks

Last year the middle school production was Annie, the year before My Fair Lady. My Fair Lady has one (count it, just one) juicy role for one lucky girl (Eliza Doolittle), but has 4 great boy parts, each with at least one solo (Henry Higgins, Pickering, Freddie Eynsford-Hill and Eliza's dad). Annie has several great girl roles, but also provides at least 2 plum boy parts--Daddie Warbucks and Rooster.

Rooster

IMHO, my kids are about equal in their acting and singing talent. When Kai was in 6th grade, she got a terrific role as the shopkeeper with 7 lines and a solo verse for the song "Candy Man" in the elementary school musical Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. For a girl, who had just tried out for her first play, she super scored.

Ren, in his first outing as a 5th grader, played Robert, steward to the king, in Sleeping Beauty. Robert had 24 lines.

Henry Higgins

What makes it all more challenging is that there are about twice as many girls in these plays as boys, and frankly, the girl talent way exceeds the boy talent. The 2 girls who alternated playing Eliza could have been on Broadway.

However, it's funny how my perspective shifts. As Kai-Kai's mom, I feel outraged that musicals provide excellent boy parts while shafting the girls. What's wrong with our society? What's going on here? We should change as many boy parts as we can into girl parts so we can not only get some justice, but also watch a better show!

Freddie Eynsford-Hill

But when I'm Ren-Ren's mom, I'm secretly glad he gets a leg up--that his demographics get him better parts, even if his talent doesn't. Because I'm really just a stage mother who wants to see her son shine and get opportunities to feel good about his own performance.

All to say, it's not surprising there's no justice in musical theatre (or the world)--clearly there's no justice in me.

Mike Chang, Glee and The Asian "F"

2011-10-04T21:56:00.001-04:00

Tonight was a good night for Asian-Americans and Gleeks.

Thousands of us heaved a big sigh as Mike Chang, played by Harry Shum Jr., aka as "The Asian Guy" finally not only got his own story line, but sang two whole solos including the whole song "Cool" from West Side Story--one of my most favorite songs!

Boy, boy, crazy boy,
Get cool, boy!
Got a rocket in your pocket,
Keep coolly cool, boy!

I admit it, my whole life I've always looked out for whatever Asian actor or actress somehow squeezed onto a show, from Bernadette on Zoom, to the Asian girl on the Electric Company. And call me racist, but that person was always also my favorite character. I craved seeing people like me in art and media.

So when Glee came out and I immediately fell into Gleekdom, it made me happy that it showcased 2 Asian-American actors, Jenna Ushkowitz and Shum. Jenna's adopted, hence her ability to even become an actor. But at least her character sang and talked. . . sometimes.

Almost all of Season 1, Mike Chang and the only Black guy in New Directions never spoke, never sang, danced occasionally and did reaction shots.

Really Glee? For diversity you have 2 minority guys but you don't give them a voice? (Hmmm, I think that's often the issue. . .)

In Season 2, Mike Chang's role slowly grew, a little. He even did a sort of solo "Sing" from A Chorus Line, which is a song all about how he can't sing--and he didn't.

Despite the lack of Asian-American sensitivity, Glee was my guilty pleasure. We didn't let the kids watch because Scott didn't like the disrespect of the kid characters and the terrible behavior of the adult characters, and we weren't clear they would get "This isn't how high schoolers should behave."

Last year Ling was allowed to watch it with me, but we never could find the time, so we missed the last half of the season. The only consolation is that I bought all the songs from the first season.

This fall we caved and our whole family watches Glee on Tuesday nights, but only if kids have done ALL their homework, piano practice AND cleaned the kitchen. (A teeny bit of Tiger mom remains)

But tonight! Tonight the show opened with Mike's father excoriating the principal that Mike got an A- in Chemistry--an Asian F. My girls cheered as they recognized those words--not because I tell them they get Asian Fs with an A-, but because their Asian friends do. (Only Ling says in Winchester an Asian F is an A. You should have gotten the A+)

Even if Glee dealt in Asian stereotypes, it's a stereotype that rings true in our community, and they gave us something to talk about. I think my kids recognized a little of themselves up there on that screen. Kai even asked to "process" what we saw. (I said tomorrow, tonight, bed!)

It was even cooler than Bernadette twirling her arms on Zoom!

Toilet Paper Distribution, or how Equality and Justice aren't the Same Thing

2011-10-03T20:05:00.000-04:00

At our church, once a month, I get to serve on the set-up team. One of the most important tasks for set-up is examining the toilet paper in the ladies room.

When Kathy (a brilliant financial analyst with graduate degrees) trained me in toilet paper inspection, I was amazed at the thoroughness with which she had thought through this challenge. In each stall, a large industrial toilet paper dispenser sits attached to the wall and holds 2 rolls of toilet paper, each about a foot in diameter. The dispensers look something like the photo below, but not exactly, because each dispenser can't actually hold 2 12"rolls of paper. If you shove in 2 full rolls, they're squeezed so tight you can't pull any toilet paper out of the bottom.

Therefore, the toilet paper checker (me) needs to make sure that there's one almost full large roll, and a smaller, about half-way used up roll, so that there's both enough toilet paper to last through 3 services, but not so much that the rolls stick together so incoming women can't retrieve any paper when they most need it.

This means I go from stall to stall, eyeing toilet paper roll proportions and transferring rolls from dispenser to dispenser, trying to get the exact right amount of toilet paper in each stall. It's a surprisingly satisfying task.

Yesterday, however, the church changed the storage for large toilet paper rolls and it just didn't look like we'd make it through 1 service, let alone 3. I was forced to tell John, Kathy's husband and the head of our service team (who has a doctorate and an MBA and is a brilliant businessman) about the toilet paper dilemma. A man of quick and decisive action, he ran into the men's bathroom and brought out a roll with a big smile.

"Oh no! That won't do," I said, "I need the large ones!"

"Large ones?" he crooked his head.

And that's when we both realized that the men have different toilet paper than the women. Having never been in the men's bathroom, I didn't know. Likewise, John never learned the toilet-paper-whisperer ways of his wife.

That got me thinking about justice and equality.

Men and women's toilet paper needs are different. Judging by the size of women's toilet paper rolls and the amount of training needed to ensure a welcoming bathroom environment, women need about 75% more toilet paper than men. Our needs are just not equal. But I suspect there's a general sense of justice happening, even if men are 75% short of toilet paper compared to women. After all, no men have picketed the church demanding their toilet paper rights.

Likewise, at InterVarsity's gigantic 25,000 Urbana student convention, held in the old days at the University of Illinois-Champaigne/Urbana, in order to create justice for the hordes needing to relieve themselves, half the men's bathrooms were turned into women's bathrooms. With women using 75% of the bathrooms, the lines into the bathrooms were almost equal between the sexes.

This is relevant because our kids are constantly crying out about unfairness, how some kid gets the goods while this particular whining kid gets squat.

Each time, I say, "Life isn't fair."

To their further outcry, I continue, "Only God is just."

And when they whine more, I say, "Everyone in our family has different needs. We try to meet those needs to the best of our ability, but we may get it wrong which is why you should plan on getting therapy later in life."

In a family I know, the parents tried really hard to treat each kid equally and even boast about it. But the problem is that each kid was different and what worked for one, didn't work for the other. The kid for whom the equal tactics didn't work, has had to work through feeling like even if he got equality, he didn't get what he needed.

Paying for a math tutor for the kid who's struggling with math, or vision therapy for the kid who can't read, or an extra party for the kid who has no friends may be unfair, but it's my best attempt to meet my kids where they need it most.

And they should be happy! At the very least, in our home, everyone gets all the toilet paper they need OR want.

The Chinese Problem with Hugs

2011-09-29T12:32:00.001-04:00

I am not a touchy sort of person. Physical affection is most definitely NOT one of my languages of love.

As with so many things, I blame this all on being Chinese.

In my family, we didn't really hug, kiss or say "I love you." That was the American way of showing love, like the Brady bunch or the Cosby family. I didn't think there was anything strange because growing up in very Asian Hawaii, most of my friend's families seemed even less affectionate than mine.

I realized my experience was uniquely Chinese during a college Family Communication Behavior class. Dr. Kathy Galvin noted that Chinese families shower their babies and kids with physical affection (and almost no discipline), but when their kids turn 6, they almost completely cease expressing any physical affection at all.

Immediately, several thoughts raced through my mind: Wow! That's why. . .

We don't all kill ourselves.
I can't resist pawing and kissing babies incessantly
I feel so uncomfortable with affection from non-Chinese friends, namely hugs and kisses

As a human development major, I knew that the most important years of personality and identity formation were from birth to age 6. It was fascinating that the Chinese had perfected a parenting style that eked out the most performance from their children--basically showering kids with love, affection and unconditional approval from birth to 6, providing a solid core of identity and love, then yanking it all away right when they're ready to go to school.

We hapless kids spend the rest of our lives trying to win back what we lost and barely remember. . .

And as a single (very single) young female, I realized I was starved for physical affection, and that I could get used to my non-Chinese friends greeting me with a hug and a kiss.

When I became a parent, armed with this knowledge, I was determined to not inflict this same Tiger Mom manipulation behavior over my kids. It was easy when they were little and cute. My Chinese instincts took over and I couldn't stop myself from hugging, kissing and squeezing their fat little thighs (usually accompanied with the words, "Squish, squish, squish").

But when they got bigger, that Chinese instinct of reserve took over and I couldn't help it. I literally felt myself stiffen. I had to force myself to hug older ones and invite them to sit in my lap.

Now that my 2 older girls are not only big, but bigger than me, with a son catching up quickly, it's even harder. Frankly, I just want them to wave hi. But as bi-racial kids showered with affection, they don't get that I, as a Chinese parent, get to stop giving it now that they're long past age 6. Like the worst of ugly Americans, they demand it of me and take it.

They hug me as a form of torture.

I tell them, "Physical affection is NOT my language of love. Give me a quick hug after you come home from school, but don't hang on me after that."

"Don't care!" they insist, "We want hugs!" And then they drape their long heavy arms over my shoulders, or grab me around the waist. Sometimes all 3 of them go for it at once--I get gang-hugged and feel like I'm going to suffocate.

I know, I know, I could have many worse problems than 3 kids who want to express physical affection. But I can't help just wanting to be left alone.

It's in my genes. I'm Chinese.

A Guest Blog by Kai-Kai: My Agitating Kinfolks

2011-09-28T11:42:00.000-04:00

For the first time ever, I'm featuring a guest blogger, my daughter Kai-Kai, who wrote this essay based on "The Outsiders" for school. I thought it was hilarious and an apt picture of our family. I also don't remember the chicken drumstick incident. Enjoy!

My Agitating Kinfolk

Many times in life, humans encounter events that they believe unfair, bothersome, and angering. I have felt this way many times in my life. One of the main conflicts in my life is the way I fight with my siblings. Almost every day, we find something new to argue about. My sister, Ling, is the oldest and is in tenth grade. My brother, Ren, is the baby of the family and is in sixth grade. Being the middle child is hard, because half the time you’re responsible for being an older sister, and the other half you get blamed for being an annoying younger sister. Throughout my time living, I have felt many things are unfair, especially things that have to do with my brother and sister.

Kai and her brother at the age of the
infamous drumstick incidence

I remember one time I thought life was really unfair. I was about five, and it was an ordinary day in my life. Lunchtime came around, and my mom was microwaving leftover baked chicken. Back when my siblings and I were kids, we loved to eat chicken drumsticks. We would wrap a napkin around the end bone, and eat the top. Since we were eating leftovers, there were only two drumsticks left. I tried to be diplomatic, so I challenged my sister to a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Whoever won got one of the drumsticks. We began shaking our fists.

“Shoot!” I held out scissors, but my sister held out a rock. I had lost. Immediately, I began to scream and throw a temper tantrum. I didn’t even bother bargaining for the second drumstick. My mother sent me to my room, so I stamped up the stairs of our house, swung the door to my room wide open, and lay down on the floor.

Anguish swept over me as I lay on the carpeted ground. I wailed in misery. I would not get a drumstick. Disappointment brimmed in my body and I trembled, wallowing in my own sadness. I cried a while longer, and then pulled myself together.

When I had calmed down, I haughtily pranced down the stairs. I entered the kitchen. My brother and sister sat together at the table, contentedly chewing on their chicken, which were wrapped neatly in napkins. My lips trembled again, as I stared longingly at their drumsticks. My mother then offered me a chicken thigh. I could burst into tears and stomp back upstairs, refusing the chicken thigh like it was dirt under my foot. Or, I could sit down and eat the chicken and forget about the whole incident. I heaved a big sigh, sat down, and ate the thigh, trying not to be jealous. After lunch, none of us kids could even remember the whole brawl, and we went out to play as usual. But, that was just one example of a time I thought life was unfair.

Us agitating kinfolk when Ling was 7, Kai 5, and Ren 3.
(At our 10th anniversary renewal of vows)

Now that my siblings and I are older, we don’t fight as much about ridiculous things. I actually like to spend time with my brother and sister. My brother and I love to goof around and make videos of us acting out little skits. My sister and I love to shop together and tell jokes to each other.

We still have our squabbles and disagreements, though. A typical day to day conflict that we have now starts like this: I’m in my room, reading. My sister is in her room, doing homework, which is like cutting marble-slow, difficult, and lengthy. My brother has finished all of his sixth-grade homework, and is bored. He runs into my sister’s room, and yells, “Hello!!” He flops onto her queen-sized bed and rolls around like an excited hound.

“REN!” she’s shrieking as loud as she can. “GET OUT OF MY ROOM!” He continues to roll around and disrupt the orderly position of the blankets, creasing the perfectly made bed. “You are such an annoying brat!” my sister screams at him.

Finally, I realize that I cannot read my book with the incessant screeching. Something inside my body snaps, like an elastic band. I smack the book facedown on my bed, swing my legs off the edge, and stomp downstairs. “JUST BE QUIET!” I holler at both of them.

My sister is very furious now. There are two unwanted outsiders standing in her room. “Both of you, get OUT!” she screams.

I yell at my brother, “Let’s just get out so she’ll stop squealing!” By now, my mother has gotten involved.

“Ling, stop screeching! Ren, I don’t see why you need to be in her room!” She sends all of us to each of our respective rooms, and we stew silently for several hours. By dinnertime, the storm cloud of conflict has been blown away, and we’re all back to normal, talking to each other.

In life, we can be disappointed by people, events, or places. These things we feel might not be fair. If you have siblings, you have probably experienced times where they got something you didn’t, so it felt unfair to you, and you exerted anger at them. I have felt angry at my brother and sister so many times a day; it’s hard to keep count. No matter how many times I tell myself that I hate my siblings, that they’re annoying, and that they want to make me miserable, I always manage to forgive them and reconcile with them. Even though we feel exasperated by people, we always manage to still love them.

In The Outsiders, Ponyboy feels the same way. He loves both his brothers, Darry and Soda. Sometimes, he feels like Darry is cold and harsh and doesn’t actually care about him. When Darry strikes out and hits him, Ponyboy runs away, surprised and hurt. As he runs to the park, he tells himself that Darry doesn’t care about him, and doesn’t want him around. But as the story progresses, and Ponyboy spends more time with Darry, it becomes clear to him that Darry really cares about him, and they begin to understand each other. By the end of the book, Darry and Ponyboy are getting along, and Ponyboy realizes how much both his brothers love him.

At the end of the day, you may feel like life is unfair still, but you also realize how much you love your siblings, even if they drive you crazy.

Fierce Conversations

2011-09-27T11:09:00.000-04:00

Back in February, I borrowed Fierce Conversations, written by Susan Scott, from my friends Jeff and Tara. They used the book at their church's marriage retreat, and to prepare, had engaged in their own fierce conversation about their marriage. Because I'm Jeff's supervisor as well as friend, they sent me their notes from their conversation.

Whew!

And "Whew!" was what folks at their retreat said as well after they shared from their experience.

A week ago, I went through books on my shelf while looking for 2 books I never found. Instead, I found Fierce Conversations, felt guilty that I'd held the book hostage for 6 months without even cracking it open, so decided I would read the first chapter.

Needless to say, I finished the whole book.

Now I generally think I'm pretty good at having open/honest conversations. Being open and truthful about my own life, plus challenging folks to be open and truthful about their own lives has probably been the main hallmark of my ministry over 21 years.

But this book makes me feel like a wuss.

Here are the 7 principles:

Master the courage to interrogate reality
Come out from behind yourself into the conversation and make it real
Be here, prepared to be nowhere else
Tackle your toughest challenge today
Obey your instincts
Take responsibility for your emotional wake
Let silence do the heavy lifting

All of the principles hit me, but #6 leapt off the page at me.

Take responsibility for your own emotional wake.

When we're young, it's easy to think that difficult relationships are all the fault of the other, but as we age we soon find that our difficult relationships often follow patterns--the same sort of person can't stand you, you get into the same emotional messes but with different people, you offend in a uniquely "you" sort of way.

As a "blamer," I REALLY like to think it's 99% the other person's fault. But if I keep causing the same problems wherever I go, the same emotional wake, at some point, I've got to point the finger back at me.

Whew!

Real Leaders, Real Bosses, Failure Parents

2011-09-26T14:59:00.000-04:00

Dad, as we drive to church while I'm ripping the kids for not cleaning the kitchen the night before: If you grow up and don’t meet your expectations at work, you get fired.

Kid: At work they have real leaders and people that actually care about you--unlike you two.

Ouch.

Of course, this statement was so ludicrous on so many levels that the 4 other members of the family burst into laughter and laughed the rest of the way to church. A good thing too, because before then I was in a very foul mood.

I've been on a rampage over the state of our kitchen. Those of you who follow this blog may remember that we went through a whole family rehab in early summer (read here). Our family rehab revealed 2 things: our kids want more money; we parents want more cooperation--especially cleaning up after dinner.

So we bumped up our kids salaries with the agreement that they would do the extra work of cleaning the entire kitchen without complaining. This includes:

loading the dishwasher
washing cooking dishes
putting away leftovers
wiping and polishing the granite countertops
wiping off the Target vinyl placemats and the dining room table
sweeping
making your lunch for tomorrow

Our new plan sort of worked during the summer, but then the kids and I went to Hawaii for a month and my mother refused to let the kids clean up anything--mostly because she didn't want anyone messing with her piles of stuff. Cleaning up meant delicately balancing stuff on top of stuff, and stuffing stuff amidst tons of other stuff in the fridge. Even I couldn't make my kids fight that battle.

When we came home to Boston, the school year started and the younger generation felt too overwhelmed with their new schedules to clean up after dinner. We parents (or fools) catered to them because we got how stressful this transition could be. And when kids were actually conscripted to clean the kitchen, they squabbled incessantly about who's doing the tiniest smidgen more than the other.

All to say at this point I'm paying 3 kids big bucks to not clean the kitchen, and spend my days regularly polishing granite and sweeping during conference calls.

So call me a tyrant, call me a fake leader and someone who doesn't really care about you unlike all your future bosses. I don't care.

I just want a clean kitchen.

Sports Mama. . . Not

2011-09-21T10:54:00.000-04:00

In so many movies and novels, a wounded, emotionally-stunted protagonist (maybe even a serial killer) tearfully blurts out, "My father never came to one of my games. . ." The implication being that not attending one's kids' sports events is at the very least child neglect and at the most child abuse.

Guilty.

I can't believe it! There's even jewelry
for the moms I'm not!

In 15 years of parenting, I've managed to miss the vast majority of kid soccer, softball, baseball, swimming or track events. I'm not proud of it, but it's true.

In softball and baseball season, I often dropped them off at the field and returned to pick them up a couple hours later. To my credit, I was often dropping off one kid at Field A, driving another kid to Field B, and then driving the 3rd kid to tae kwon do. By the time I got them all dropped off, I usually had 50 minutes to make dinner before doing the rounds in reverse to pick them all up.

And in my defense, when you look at our profusion of:

orchestra/band concerts
piano recitals
fall plays
spring plays
parent-teacher conferences
open houses
moving-on ceremonies
tae kwon do belt tests

I think I've missed 2 orchestra concerts (traveling out of town), 1 parent-teacher conference (threw out my back and felt like I was giving birth to a 4th kid), and all of Ling's "Clocks" piano recital except for the last chord (dropping off Kai and her birthday party gaggle of girls at the 7th grade dance).

That's pretty good for 15 1/2 years of parenting.

But as you can tell, I prioritize what I care about, and even though I'm a bit rabid about my kids exercising, I care very little about them competing.

My friend Tara says she was a mathlete, not an athlete in high school. I wasn't even a mathlete, I was just Chinese.

My parents didn't let me do any extra-curricular activities throughout most of high school, believing that straight As were the way to succeed as a human being. Since I never could achieve a 4.0, they thought I should be studying more. And since I was the oldest child, they didn't know any better. Screaming fights finally gave me the right to join yearbook senior year, and broke the way for my siblings behind me to do all sorts of cool extra-curriculars.

When 12 years later, my mother confided, "I'm worried about your brother's college applications, he doesn't have the extra curricular activities you girls had," I could have screamed (and did so away from her).

But in the same way that not being allowed pets as a kid means I just don't want pets now (too smelly, too much work, why should I care for an animal when I can barely care for 3 kids?), not being allowed or encouraged to play sports as a kid means I just can't get myself excited about them as a grown-up.

I'm sure my kids would say I'm too pushy, but probably
not in sports!

Two of my friends, both Chinese-American, were athletes in high school (they probably were mathletes as well since they're your typical over-achieving wonders), and both speak unhappily about how their parents never came to their games.

So this year, I'm trying to turn over a new leaf. I've made it so far to both of Ling's swim meets. Despite being late both times, I saw her swim all her events, and it was definitely more exciting and fun than I expected. However, yesterday's meet turned out to be in a Western suburb 45 minutes away when there's no traffic. I got to drive back at 5 p.m.

All to say, kids, please don't become emotionally stunted serial killers. Because I'm pretty sure I'll continue to fail as a sports mom.

Annie, Shoot your Gun Already!

2011-09-19T17:13:00.000-04:00

SPOILER ALERT! Don't read if you don't want to know what happens at the end of Annie get Your Gun!

"That's the worst movie I've ever seen," Ling announced after we watched Annie Get your Gun, the Irving Berlin musical about Annie Oakley, a sharpshooter with the Buffalo Bill Wild West show.

Today, Kai and Ren auditioned for the play, so we watched the movie as part of their research.

It's a fun story. Annie Oakley, a spunky, illiterate hick gets discovered when she joins a shoot-off against Frank Butler, a famous sharp-shooter. Buffalo Bill sees her talent, she falls instantly in love with Frank, and the musical explores the ups and downs of their courtship.

Much of it was very enjoyable! There are famous songs we all recognize like "There's No Business like Show Business," and "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better," as well as fun less known songs like "Doin' What Comes Natur'lly."

At the same time, the musical's a product of its times with many cringe-worthy moments.
The demeaning portrayals of "Indians" acting like uncouth savages, and the unquestioned segregation between them and Whites was seriously disturbing.

But at the very end, when Annie purposely loses another shoot-off to Frank so he will feel superior and marry her, there was an outcry in our house.

"What??" the kids cried, "How could she do that?"

How times have changed. When I was growing up, playin' dumb's what women did natur'lly.

I spent almost all of my young womanhood hearing I was too smart, too strong, too opinionated, too gifted with the wrong (masculine) gifts, just TOO MUCH for any man to ever want me.

When I broke up with a grad school boyfriend, my father's 1st question was, "How much does your intelligence have to do with this?"

Brokenhearted, I admitted it probably had something to do with the sad current state of affairs, to which he responded, "You need a man like me--with a big ego! I don't care that your Ma goes in a room and dominates everything--I don't WANT to talk to people anyway."

When my mother got on the phone, she proclaimed, "You need a man just like your Baba, a man with a big ego."

I think my father's ego came from knowing he was often the smartest person in the room. But his ego didn't need to make others feel dumb, it just made him feel good about himself. And despite being a typical Chinese slightly misogynistic man of his generation, he raised 3 daughters and a son to be strong, intelligent, and proud of what they could contribute to the world.

And perhaps the best way he did that was by making it clear how proud he was to have a wife who was strong, intelligent, and constantly contributing to her world.

I asked my son, "As a boy, what do you think about a girl pretending she's bad at something just to get you to like her?"

"That's stupid," he said.

Glad to hear it. And glad to hear that so far at least, my girls will forge ahead "doin' what comes natur'lly," whether a guy approves or not.

Parenthood

2011-09-16T12:40:00.002-04:00

Last week, the whole family watched the movie Parenthood to celebrate Labor Day Eve.

Friends recently saw it and raved. So when I noticed it was a a streaming video on Netflix, and remembered that the last time I watched the movie I was not a parent (in fact, I hadn't even met Scott), I thought it would be a good chance for Scott and I to laugh and commiserate.

Problem #1, the movie's rated PG-13, and we have an 11 year old.

Problem #2, what to do with kids?

With a day off the next day, they weren't going to go to bed and would float in and out of the family room anyway. They also LOVE just about every Steve Martin movie they've seen, so they weren't going to be happy about being excluded. We decided to include them.

Problem #3: We knew there were going to be some gags that stretched their knowledge of adult material.

Problem #4: There were more gags and references than we even remembered. Our 15 and 13 year old didn't understand things, let alone our 11 year old. Like when Steve Martin during a black-out goes searching for a flashlight in his sister's bedroom and comes out with. . . something shaped like a flashlight with a whole other very private function. . .

Problem #5: Repeatedly, we had to stop the movie to explain what the object/saying/action/etc. meant. To most explanations we got, "That's disgusting! Who does that??"

Who knew that Parenthood would be such an opportunity to further our kids' sex ed? And we got to talk about broken families and driven parents and how everyone has problems no matter how hard we try to be perfect.

So come to think about it, overall there weren't that many problems after all.

The Gift of an Hour

2011-09-15T12:11:00.005-04:00

When I was in graduate school, a senior director in my ministry gave a testimony about taking day-long quiet days with God. It was such a great talk I invited him to give it 2 more times to 2 different groups.

But one thing he said has stuck in my craw ever since becoming a mom. His daily prayer involved showing up 45 minutes before the first appointment of the morning and having a quiet time in a nearby park or coffee shop.

As I've borne 3 kids and tried to work part-time throughout it all, I've often bitterly thought, "Only a man with a wife at home caring for the kids could do that!"

Since we moved to Winchester, for 7 years, 4 mornings a week, I've faithfully driven down Cambridge at 5:40 a.m., taken a spinning, strength or Zumba class, then still sweaty, jumped into the car and booked it home by 7:25 for a kid pass-off with Scott. I rushed through showering while cajoling my kids to wake up, dress, eat breakfast, practice piano, pack up lunches/homework and get out the door.

Each morning was a whirlwind. And then I sat through 45-50 minutes of traffic as I drove back to Cambridge to meet with students, faculty or staff.

But now that Ren started middle school, I have a new lease on life. The middle school begins at 7:45, 45 minutes earlier than elementary school. Because we're mean parents who hatefully punish our kids by forcing them to walk a mile to school (uphill both ways), they leave by 7:10 each morning.

I have been given the gift of an extra hour each morning.

I no longer have to rush home from the gym to see kids off because they're off to school before I can get back. Instead, I can actually shower at the gym, then stay in Cambridge for work if I so choose.

For the past 2 weeks, this extra hour to hour has been wonderful. Here's what I've done with the extra time thus far:

Extra stretching and "lazy abs" (ab exercises done while reading a magazine and lying on a mat--fellow gym-rats laugh at me)
Take a leisurely shower
Sit in the hot tub for at least 5 minutes
Blow-dry my hair
Buy a cup of decaf coffee at Panera or Starbucks to pay for sitting rights
Read the Bible (I've been enjoying IFES's daily read thirsty, and my church's lectionary readings)
Journal
Read a helpful book: I read Fierce Conversations over the past week--am sure I'll be reflecting on that in days to come.

My kid going to middle school has made me into the sort of person who can give a talk about doing a great spiritual practice that will make parents in the future hate my guts!

I talked with my spiritual director about how while the driven part of me thinks I should get cracking on work during that hour, the rest of me resists. She applauded the decisions I've made, "Resist the work! Rest!" she said.

I'm going to try to do just that. After all, I've been given a gift.

T-P-ed

2011-09-14T09:18:00.001-04:00

Last Friday our house was T-P- ed.

The 2 girls and I drove home at 8:30 pm to find toilet paper streamers hanging from trees, wrapped around the front railings and strewn over our new sod. Shaving cream squiggles decorated the sidewalk along with a couple feminine hygiene products (new and used--eew!).

Not our house--Ling took pictures, but I don't have them!

A sinking feeling hit my gut--who hates us so much that they would do this? Who have we unwittingly offended?

My thoughts flitted to the kid who's bullied my kid--but surely he wouldn't go this far? And how in the world did someone manage to TP our house while Scott and Ren were sitting inside?

Both girls were shocked and appalled and a little frightened.

When we walked in the house, Scott didn't seem perturbed.

"What happened?" we asked.

"The swim team came by," he said, "there were giggles, and whsk, whsk, whsk [some large arm movements], they rang the doorbell 2 times and 2 cars sped away."

Oh. . .

We just got initiated into the Winchester High School swim team family. The shaving team squiggles, once inspected, read, "Swim Ling Swim!"

No wonder the swim team dinner only lasted 50 minutes. ("What?" I said when Ling called to be picked up, "What kind of party only lasts for 50 minutes???")

So after whining about the swim team a little here, I'm actually much more impressed with it now. Here's what I like:

They're actively forming a community and team spirit:

team dinners each night before meets,
they choose a "secret swimmer" who they buy treats for at each meet, and a gift for at the end of the season
there'll be a Harbor cruise bonding trip in late September
and a banquet at the end of the season.

They had a parent meeting--I know what's going on!
They have a google-group and send emails--I know what's going on!
On Saturday they'll do a dump run fundraiser--in our town, we don't have trash pick-up. For a mere $10, the swim team girls (accompanied by parent drivers) will pick up your trash and take it to the dump for you.

And even though I feel mixed about the practice of hazing, TPing my house, and especially leaving used feminine hygiene products on my lawn, I get that it actually helps form a sense of community. After all, research has shown that the more severely folks are hazed, the more committed they are to the group.

Ling! Welcome to the swim team!

1912 British women's Olympics swim team

Comb-Over

2011-09-08T11:44:00.000-04:00

You may have noticed that I'm just slightly obsessive around turning gray, yet not wanting to dye my hair. This was exacerbated when several folks in Hawaii last month exclaimed about the gray/white streak running down the right side of my head. That's what happens when you don't see your friends for 5 years.

I took a closer look in the mirror and noticed that indeed, the gray streak that runs from just below my temple to my ear is quite noticeable. Flipping my hair around, I noticed that there's virtually no similar streak on the left side of my head.

So I tried a comb over.

After 23 years of wearing my hair parted on the right (I changed my part in graduate school when I realized my hair waved better that way), I combed my hair over to part it on the left.

"There's a big bump on top of your head," said my kids.

I wore it that way for a day and a half, and then felt so silly I had to change my part back letting the white streak declare itself again.

Soon after returning, I went to my hairdresser, my very expensive Chinese-American hair-dresser who is one of 3 persons in this world who has ever given me a terrific haircut. (All 3 were Asian, all 3 were astoundingly expensive, but all 3 knew what they were doing.)

Fourteen years ago, when we had no money because Scott was in B-school and I was supporting the family on an InterVarsity salary with a baby and no childcare, I had a very bad hair life. My sister suggested I call this expensive salon on Newbury St. (the chic expensive store street in Boston) and ask for a good hairdresser. Scott, always supportive of my attempts to tame my hair even with no expendable income, said I should go for it.

"I have extremely difficult Asian hair--do you have anyone who can cut it?" I asked the receptionist.

"I think Kwan would be a great choice."

"But I have EXTREMELY difficult Asian hair--no one knows how to deal with it--are you sure she's the best one?"

"Kwan is very good, I think you'll be happy with her,"

Kwan, indeed, is very good. So good I've followed her through 3 salons and been committed to her for going on 15 years. I scheduled my hair appointments around her pregnancies, and when she gave birth 3 weeks early so I couldn't see her, I ended up looking like a mushroom.

So as I sat in Kwan's chair, I told her about my comb-over and how bad it looked. Sure enough, like I guessed, she cuts my hair according to my part, a reason it didn't work.

She flipped my hair back and forth, examined me closely, and said she was willing to try the comb-over, saying that she wouldn't do it if she didn't think it would eventually look OK.

So we went for it.

Meanwhile, I could tell she just doesn't get why I go to such measures when I could just dye my hair and not worry about it at all. "It takes at least 5 years off," she said.

But that's part of the problem--I feel like a lesser human that I can't reconcile feeling OK about being the age I am. . . and looking it. And therefore I'm trying to get my emotions to grow up along with my hair.

When I walked out the door and met my kids who'd I sent wandering Newbury even though they couldn't afford a thing on the street, I asked them what they thought of my official new comb-over.

"There's still a big bump on your head," said my son.

Oh well. . .

A Conversation Last Week

2011-09-06T20:40:00.000-04:00

She: Would I still have to go to youth group tonight if there was a family death?

Me: Probably not. . . (I think about it a little more). Well maybe you'd still go because what else would you to do tonight other than be sad?

She: I'd have things to do!

Me: Like what?

She: Like plan my funeral outfit!

Perhaps I need to buy this book. . .

Me: (After some shocked silence and open-mouthed gaping) You do remember that vanity's a sin, don't you?

She: (In a non-commital voice) Yeah. . . But it's not as bad a sin as LAZINESS!!! (with a glare at a sibling)

A few minutes later. . .

She: Sigh. . . I love family funerals--it's so good to see everyone. . .

There are so many problems/issues/theological heresies going on here that I can't even write anything else about it.

All I can say is "Lord have mercy. . ."

To Save a Life

2011-09-02T11:28:00.000-04:00

Last night our family watched To Save a Life, an indie Christian movie aimed towards high school students. When we watched Soul Surfer back in Hawaii, there was a preview for this movie, the kids begged to see it, and luckily Netflix offered it.

Generally I don't prefer "Christian" art. Too often, it isn't very good art--trite, simplistic, sentimental. More concerning, I often don't recognize the faith the art espouses or recognize the God it serves, even though I've been following Jesus most of my life. (Just like I don't recognize what the media calls "evangelicals," even though that's been the church stream I've swum in most of my life)

But all 5 of us loved to To Save a Life.

It begins with the funeral of a school shooter who took his own life. Jake, his former best friend, dumped him to pursue popularity, a hot girlfriend, and acclaim as a sports star. The movie follows Jake as he wrestles with his role in his friend's suicide, the meaning of life in general, and how to respond to the pain of high school culture, his parents' failing marriage, his girlfriend's rejection, and the consequences of his own behavior.

Here're some things I liked about the movie:

The problems Jake and the kids wrestled with were real: drinking, drugs, sex, peer pressure, broken families, cutting, rejection, isolation, a social caste system.
The youth pastor who tries to help offered the love of the God I know. He listened, he asked questions, he didn't preach. Hey, I'd hire the guy!!
The church had serious flaws, including a head pastor who didn't get it, and whose son was rebelling. Unfortunately, I recognize that too well also.

But what I liked most was how the movie gave us the chance to talk with our kids about values, how we treat people, and what it means to risk leading so that life and good come to your community.

Not to beat up on the high school swim team captains, but the fact that my kid, who, as a new kid, was excluded from the carpool, was an example of bad leadership. As I said to her, "Good leadership always watches out FIRST for the marginalized, the new, the weak. The older girls who are 'in' can always find a way to take care of themselves."

Scott pointed out that the swim team captains acted like all high school students do. Of course they took care of the popular, the in-crowd and their friends first.

That may be the stream of high school culture, but I think we can ask more of high school leaders, even if their only in their teens.

I felt vindicated when my friend told me her son's baseball team, with 12 year old captains, have been trained by their coach to call around the night before every game to make sure everyone gets a good night sleep, has a ride, and is doing OK before the game. Now that's GOOD leadership.

So if you have kids old enough to think about these topics, I highly recommend watching To Save a Life as a family. After all, if our kids can stand courageous on behalf of others, who knows what lives could be saved?