Family Pictures 2012

Conquering Crazy

I stared at my doctor, my allergist, "So basically I'm making all of this up, and I'm not allergic to anything?"

"Yep."

I laughed, "Awesome.  Always good to know you are a little crazy."  I stared at my arm with little prick marks tracing it from my wrist to my elbow, "You've had this happen before, right?  I'm not like the only one who thinks they are dying, but are really having panic attacks?"

He nodded.  I chose to believe him.  Not that I went immediately to the nearest seafood restaurant and ingested my growing list of food allergies: shell fish, hazelnuts, unusual cheese, hard cider....

"Something is triggering the beginning of your panic attack and that part is legitimate.  You had a real reaction to penicillin when you were young and the body remembers and so is mimicking the symptoms."  This made sense.  I remembered from my college acting class that truly, the body does remember.  You'd better be careful what you practice or when the show comes up...that's what you'll do.

"What do you think is the real symptom?"

"Heart burn?  Too much chocolate, so caffeine...racing heart etc."

I looked at him. I looked at my arm, "OK, I believe you.  This is cheaper than counseling."

Not that convincing my body that I wasn't going into anaphalactic shock would be easy, no way!  My challenge was great and my admiration for my mind was unparalleled.

I told my story to my friends.  I refused to be ashamed.  I think this was perhaps the first part toward conquering my mind.  It is always good to admit you are crazy, right?

First I decided to try rare and delicious cheese.  My mind began to work: my heart started to race, and I was sure my throat was constricting.  I sipped water and told myself over and over that if my throat was constricting then I would not be able to drink the water I was swallowing.  Slowly I calmed myself down and the symptoms went away.  The cheese was delicious.

Next I moved on to hard cider.  This was tricky because the night when I was sure I was having a reaction to this drink, my friends all saw the red rash climbing up my throat and neck.  It seemed so real. I had witnesses.  But then I remembered the words of my doctor, "No one is ever allergic to alcohol.  Many people come in here thinking they are allergic, and they are just not used to the effects of alcohol or they are eating really rich foods and having heartburn." (Mine was probably a combination...we were all enjoying some nachos together, nachos and jalapenos.) I pushed through the panic, and trusted the evidence.

Hazelnuts were fairly easy to break since they were my most recent allergy, and the panic attack I had associated with them was fairly minimal, plus I really wanted to continue my love affair with Nutella.

But the shell fish.  That one I wanted to hold on to.  I mean, couldn't my doctor have been wrong on at least one of his tests?  I mean, people die from shell fish allergies.  The time I reacted to shellfish the reaction had been so immediate, so real, so connected.  I decided to avoid all seafood except salmon.

This last weekend I was helping myself to the Thanksgiving snack bar and didn't realize the dip that I was thoroughly enjoying had crab in it.  Into my second helping I cautioned myself, "Wait, that looks like crab."  Sure enough, my symptoms began.  I tried to battle it myself, tell myself that I only began to have the reactions once my mind knew what it was, but the crab panic was hard to break.  I pulled my husband aside and told him what was happening.  He laughed.

And so did I.  "No, that's good...make me laugh.  That will help me relax.  So he did.  I sipped some water and he made fun of me."  Victory!

This has been a powerful experience for me, really.  One I am glad I've had.  I have new respect for panic attacks in general.  I think I might have made this all sound too easy, but really it has been almost a year of working through these matters-of-the-mind.  I also have great sympothy for people who have panic attacks.  It is really horrible and gets worse with each attack.

I know so many people who have gone to allergists and are told they are not allergic to anything, but they disagree. They find another "expert" who gives them a list of intolerances and they continue to avoid many delicious foods.  I hardly want to recommend doing what I did...I mean, what if I'm wrong, but I certainly can't be the only one out there.  I know I'm not the only one who has had this happen to them or is letting this happen to them.  Right?  Thoughts?

(Note:  Food concerns/beliefs have become fairly major in the last few years and there are some very real allergies, but I just wonder if a lot of it is all in our heads.  I feel a bit risky posting this because beliefs on food can be just as sacred as beliefs on religion or politics.  Let the comments begin!)

Why Is Three So Hard?

Why is three so hard?  My memory is not kind either, because unfortunately I’ve forgotten how tricky the other two boys were at this age.  In the moment, I feel like A is my nemesis, my nightmare.  He’s the one proving to the world that I am an unfit parent, mother.  Hans tells me B and C were both rough at this age.  I seem to have forgotten.  I’m sure A is the hardest.

My nightly reading is a book titled, Knowing Your Three-Year-Old.  I find comfort and encouragement from this read.  My favorite line goes something like this, “The three-year-old sees his mother as his enemy at age three-and-a-half.  This is a good age for the mother to enroll her child in preschool, to give her and her child a few hours off from each other.”  Unfortunately it is hard to take this book’s advice since I am my son’s preschool teacher.  Oh dear.  We are doomed.

I have put all my faith, hope, and love into the fact that his 4th birthday keeps getting closer and closer.  February, come quickly. 

I try and remind myself that he is cute, sweet, plays well by himself, is smart, creative, and ingenious…focus on these things.  But it is hard when he seems so volatile.  I pleaded with his oldest brother to play with him and build a furniture fort with our little demon on a day when A was especially difficult.  A was so excited, so giddy.  He adores B.  “Yeah, let’s build a fort B!”  But something wasn’t quite right with the fort.  A’s toes stuck out and were exposed to the harsh weather elements of our living room.  Rage ensued.  Couch cushions scattered.  B looked for an escape.   

“B, you don’t have to play with him.”  Relief.

A was devastated, “But I wanted to build a fort.”

“Yeah, but when you get angry like that it is scary to play with you.”  Tears.  Favorite blanket, chair snuggle…calm.

At preschool last week we were at a total impasse.  A refused to sit and eat his snack with the other children.  He crumpled his pathetic body into the corner of the classroom.  It had been a rough morning up to that point and it felt like my limit of tolerance.  I was ready to call Grandma and send him home.  I knelt down beside him, “Can you use your words and tell me what is wrong?”

“But I wanted to share my fruit snacks.”  I wanted to cry.  This stubborn tantrum came from a really good place.  Here I thought he was just being obstinate, but instead he was devastated.  I had no idea that the fruit snacks he asked me to buy him were supposed to be passed out and share with his friends.  Sweet boy.  “Let’s go get them.  I think they are in your cubby.”  Up he bounded, joy in his step…making sure each classmate got a handful of his special treats.

I have to remind myself to look at what is motivating the meltdown.  Usually it is sadness, frustration, or disappointment…not pure anger…just miscommunication.

And then the memories begin to come back.  B, at a young age had to sort out his feelings over his new baby brother, C.  Oh the meltdowns!  Whenever it was time to nurse this new intrusion, B, would wail and moan as he tossed and turned all over the living room carpet.  C had certain expectations and desires at age three too.  He threw a royal fit during his swim lessons when his instructor handed him the pink floating noodle.  Wow, what a scene.  I was at a total loss.

And guess what…C and B are very nice little boys.  I always get compliments after play dates and birthday parties.  No complaints from their teachers.  They are kind and thoughtful; they communicate their wants and desires, and can balance their emotions with the world around them.   

Still, I forget this, I forget how far they’ve come.  It is always good to take time to remember.  However, in this particular era, A is very frustrating, and I’m still looking forward to four…along with everyone else.

(I wrote this after a week of intense power struggles with A.  This last week has been blissful.  He's been sweet and good at communicating.  We've had special one-on-one times, like making his famous cookie pie and playing games together.  But when I wrote this I was in a very frustrated state.)

No More Hugs

The first blatant sign happened this fall when my oldest, B, walked off the bus and crossed the road to the safety my arms…except he didn’t walk into my arms.  That was the sign.   For the last two years I have always gotten an exuberant, best-mommy-ever-hug each and every afternoon as the big, yellow, bus delivered my oldest to me.  I still get a hug from the middle brother, C, who almost knocks me over like a lab puppy, but not from B.  He made it clear on that first day when he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I think I’m too old to hug you anymore.”

I smiled and touched his hair, probably totally embarrassing, “OK, maybe we can give each other a hug later when no one is watching.”

“Yeah” he liked this option.

This is what we want.  This is what his dad and I have been working towards:  independence.  I didn’t get upset, throw a fit, take it personally…it was what it was…a sign of the times.

B is still very much a little boy.  The other day he saw me in his school and raced over to grab my hand only to have his little eyes fill with tears when he learned I wasn’t there to work in his classroom.  I wanted to cry too.  At night he always wants a snuggle and could, “You please run your fingers through my hair.”  But there is a little “leave and cleave” going on within him.  Today when he got home from school I asked him for a hug, once we were in the house and no one from the bus would be able to see us, and he looked at me and said, “Maybe later, like tonight.”  That one did hurt a bit.

I’m also learning to give him space in other areas, trying to give him room for his personality.  C and I are verbal processors.  B is not.  I finally agreed to stop asking him about his day right when he gets home.  He promised to eventually tell me about it, especially if he thinks anything very interesting happened.  I’ve been trusting this process, and it appears to be working for me.  B’s actually telling me more stuff about school than he has ever before.  And it is way more interesting than the forced short-answers I was getting before about if he chose a chicken burger or hamburger for lunch and if he played kickball or soccer at recess.  (I’m learning things like, “Miguel is really fun.  He said…”

However, I’m glad we had a third boy, A.  I think I might be quite emotional with all this growing up if I didn’t have at least one more preschooler at home.  In no way do I want to go back to that era of blending baby food, toilet training, and sleepless nights, but the nostalgia visits are sweet.  I do hate that my memory does get hazy with time.  I was so certain I would always remember.

Still, I can take myself back to those first days when I brought home my first newborn to a quiet and peaceful house.  I can hear the way the wood floor creaked under my tip-toes.  I can smell the special bath lotion that I used religiously each night at the kitchen sink, and feel the cozy texture of those first sleepers.  Our world slowed a bit and became focused on one little person.  There is a simplicity in becoming a new mom that can only be discovered once, and so I take the time to remember and savor it because there is nothing quiet and calm and simple anymore about parenting.  My counters are full of backpacks and lunch boxes, soccer uniforms to be washed and folded, homework to be monitored, and little lives to be fostered towards more and more independence. 

These moments of no-more-hugs are really affirmations that all is going well.  And I like that.

 

You Are Teaching What?

When I entered college back in 1995, it was my sincere goal to become a high school history teacher.  I was determined to inspire hundreds of students.  I would change perceptions.  My line was, "I will not be a boring history teacher.  History is exciting.  Students should experiencing this."  I was one of the very few freshman who declared their major on the first day of their first year of college, announcing with confidence to my orientation group, "Yep, social studies teaching major."

I stuck with my plan, except I kept getting pulled toward a random writing class here and there, wishing I could double major, but wanting to finish in four years I stuck to my plan.  Then I graduated.  No high school principal would hire me.  I don't blame them now.  I was 21 and looked 17.  So, I landed my first job, instead, at a middle school teaching in a self-contained, multi-age classroom.  Oh and I was the science rep for our middle school house.  This lead me to taking more classes and adding my language arts endorsement.

My next job was teaching language arts and social studies to just 7th and 8th graders.  I loved middle schoolers, still do.  When people heard the age I taught most reactions went something like this, "Wow, why would you ever want to do that?"  Ouch.  Is something wrong with me that I like middle schoolers?

Then life transitioned me again.  I became a mom.  I started tutoring a bit on the side, tutoring preschoolers and grade schoolers and high schoolers at my kitchen table.  I enjoyed it.  I loved teaching the younger kids.  I was learning so much about those middle school students I had been teaching for seven years.  I was understanding the pieces they were missing in their writing and reading development when I worked with my much younger students.  I was growing as a person and as a teacher.

But there was something else I wanted to try: writing.  I got a gig writing a humor column for the Newberg Graphic.  I had a bit of success with some other freelance work.  And then I scored my dream job: teaching writing at George Fox.  I couldn't believe how perfect this job was and how passionate I was about it.  I knew I loved writing and I loved teaching writing to middle school students, but teaching it to freshman at college...this was brilliant!  They absorbed everything I taught them.  The growth they made was incredible.

An opportunity came.  We moved.  Oh how I wanted to stay at Fox, but I chose something different for my family.  We were being moved in a new direction.  We headed back to the family farm: more space; more access to nature.  There were plenty of days we thought we'd made a mistake, but again and again God confirmed our decision, and we pressed ourselves into it.

I signed my oldest up for a preschool co-op sponsored by our local community college.  I dove in.  This program changed my thinking about early childhood education.  I learned much.  I became a believer.  I waited.  And then I felt it again, another transition was coming.  I opened myself up for something new and different.  I have gotten better, as I've gotten older, at holding life loosely.

And that is where I find myself now: preschool teacher.  If you would have told my 17-year-old self that I'd be teaching and facilitating a preschool program I'm not sure I would have believed you.  But I am not that same 17-year-old girl.  I'm in a different space, and it is good.  I'm excited.  I didn't force anything. I waited.  And here it is.  For this I am thankful.

 

Laura Hillenbrand, I Applaud You

Unbroken, is by far the best book I've read all year, if not in the last few years.  I want to see this title at the top of the New York Times Best Seller List as a way that we as a country and people extend our thanks to those men who were POW's in the Pacific during WWII.  It is also a way for us to show our gratitude to an author for making sure this story of dignity, survival, and forgiveness was not lost in the passing of time.

The story is centered around Olympic runner Louis Zamperini whose plane went down in the Pacific during WWII.  He and his companion Phillip survive a record 46 days in the ocean only to be captured by the Japanese and tortured for YEARS, until the end of the war.  The details are horrific, amazing, gripping, and astounding.  But it was the themes and the life lessons that we all can learn from this story that made this book worth passing on and buying for others.

I truly believe that Laura's aim is to tell the truth, she worked on this project for seven years and spoke with numerous individuals, eye-witnesses, read letters, looked up records etc....and tell the Truth she does.  This book was a spiritual encouragement to me in my faith.  Throughout Louie's entire journey, from a young boy living in California to even the publication of this story, you see a man who was sought and pursued and loved by God...yes, and bad things did happen to him...something that he worked through as he came to believe in a loving and forgiving God.

While he was floating in the ocean, desperate, he made a promise that he would serve God if God would save him.  God did.  Then the horrors of being a POW came into play.  The Japanese tried to strip the men of their humanity and dignity.  It was a mental battle as much as a physical one.  The horrors endured were, at times, unbelievable.  But somehow the men used their sense of community with each other to support each other and retain the inner knowledge that they were human and worthy of life.

I was astounded that after the POW's were released that they did not seek out vengeance, but instead looked around and saw that the Japanese people were starving.  They had empathy toward them, sharing their food drops and any supplies they were given by the US government.

Still, the scars on Louie's soul were great.  After his release, he had been declared dead so his return home was shocking to many many people...being he was a famous runner, he had flashbacks and demons to contend with.  Laura does a good job of detailing the scars that many POW's carried with them for their rest of their tortured lives living on US soil.  At the very least, many used alcohol to numb their plagued minds.  This was Louie's method.  His life appeared to be broken: broke, failed marriage, alcoholic...but God had other plans.  Billy Graham came to town and through some manipulation, Louis went.  (His wife had gone earlier in the week and had become a Christian and wanted Louis to attend and hear the message of Good News.)

Hillenbrand does an excellent job piecing together Zamperini's account of his conversation and parts from Graham's actual sermon.  It gives a person chills as Louie submits himself to God and extends forgiveness toward the Japanese, and especially one guard, the Bird.

The rest of the book is full of hope.  Louie is free from his flashbacks, completely healed and made whole.  His marriage saved.  He's able to provide for his family and buy a home...free from alcoholism.  (He spent his life telling his story and testimony.)  He went back to Japan and forgave his captors.  He wrote a letter to the Bird praying that he would come to know Christ.  Zamperini's conversation was real and undeniable.

What a true hero Mr. Zamperini is, truly unbroken.  What a completely perfect title for this story.  One of the best pictures in the book is of Louie at age 81 riding a skateboard...full of life and hardly defeated.  This story is of grace and forgiveness, and how Christ and His Spirit is a spirit of miraculous peace.

My soul was fed with this read.

Olympics: Schneiter Style

“Here, put these three hats on and try to walk across the laundry room.  You are the Japanese.  I’m the Russians,” C instructed his older brother B.  The Olympics have descended upon the Schneiter household.  New Olympic events are being created each hour.  After watching the men’s gymnastics, my boys were flipping and twirling down our stairway.  I’m sure they felt athletic and fluid as they went flopping and thudding down the steps.  At least the scores they were giving each other reflected champion status.

There is a new furor for the race: swimming, running, hopping…  Our youngest is struggling over this.  A’s the one begging for it, begging to line up beside his older brothers and race through the living room, to the kitchen, and back around to end up in the TV room for his triumphant finish.  Each time he doesn’t win, which is every time we don’t make B lose, is a major emotional upset.  A might be getting some of these pointers from the London athletes, but mostly it’s in his nature to find losing extremely frustrating.  His lips pout; he hits the sides of his body with fists clenched and cries, “B won!  I lost.  I not faster than B.”

The other day B named himself B Phelps and C morphed into C Lochte.  Cultural observations are being drawn also.  “The Japanese and Chinese are rivals, but the Chinese are better,” C surmised.  Then he added, “Russia and Germany are rivals too, but no one is rivals with the US.  People stop trying when they compete against the US.”  What?  Remember, he’s 5.

My sons are learning a lot this summer. I was feeling like a bad mom because I decided to not push any type of literacy this summer, but instead decided to focus on the art of play, but now that we’ve been engrossed in the Olympics, I’ve concluded  I’ve done my scholastic job by emphasizing geography.  My boys now recognize flags and country abbreviations.  They are learning which countries are in Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Caribbean.  They are learning about language…just listen as a Chinese gymnast is on an apparatus.  They are getting music appreciation each time an anthem is played.  Points for Mama!

Exposure to culture and diversity is also happening…it isn’t every day that we get to see synchronized swimming or diving, cycling, badminton, pommel horse, or even beach volleyball.  We are watching as a family and it is something we are all enjoying, no more Power Rangers!  At least we are getting a few weeks off from all things cartoon. 

B and C are learning a bit about England.  (I'm assuming A is a bit too young, but he might just be absorbing it all.)  They’ve finally got all the names sorted out, “Whose Great Britain?  Who’s the United Kingdom?”

I love that their world is getting a bit smaller, more attainable.  The other day we were driving back from Idaho and Bren decided to explore the GPS.  He started giggling, “There’s China!  Now I’m in Portugal.  Hey, there’s Russia!  Dad!  Dad!  I found Manchester United.”  Each boy took turns with the touch screen, whizzing over land and sea, zooming in and out.”

Thanks to the Olympics, I’m going to get a gold medal this summer for achieving a bit of educational learning.  It was touch and go for a bit, but now when the boys return to teachers and books this fall they will be able to read such words as Botswana, Dominican Republic, and Australia.   And if there’s a flag recognition game, they might just smoke their competition.  But mostly they’ve seen what years of dedication and hard work can give someone:  satisfaction and pride.  Not a bad lesson to learn.  I love the Olympics.