Let's call book banning what it is

My life has been shaped by words and literature. I’ve been an avid reader from a young age, and my parents (my dad especially) and my teachers encouraged me to explore diverse authors, titles, and subjects. Reading helped me explore other worlds and perspectives. It helped me develop critical thinking skills. Most importantly, it helped me understand myself and the world around me.

Iowa Public Radio reported last week that school district officials in Urbandale have made a list of nearly 400 books that are no longer allowed in classrooms or libraries.

The list features titles that may be unsurprising to those following the culture war arguments about what’s appropriate for school-aged kids to read, but many others are shocking. Hemingway. Salinger. Knowles. Atwood. Orwell. Acclaimed works by writers of color including Mya Angelou, Toni Morrison, and Alice Walker.

The article quotes school board members who express frustration over the lack of guidance at the state level and no explanation from the Iowa Department of Education on the law’s boundaries.

Urbandale school board member Daniel Gutmann says, “In that vacuum of leadership, school districts are fearful and they’re putting out lists that are exhaustive and possibly exceed the scope of Senate File 496. It’s infuriating as a parent, it’s infuriating as an educator, and it’s infuriating as a board member tasked with the oversight of a school district.”

Infuriating doesn’t begin to describe it for a host of reasons. Let’s start with the “law” that was slapped together to score political points (on brand for this recently concluded legislative session), resulting in a profound lack of clarity for those responsible for carrying it out. How about the rationale behind violating the First Amendment rights of students, couching it under the more palatable guise of “protecting children” and “parent choice?” We could talk for days about how the subjectivity of some shouldn’t guide decisions for everyone else, to say nothing of the focus on LGBTQ+ literature or titles by authors of color.

A Separate Peace and A Farewell to Arms were required reading for me in ninth grade. The need not have required them – I loved both titles. Yes, they’re both by white male authors, but both are beautifully written and explore themes of how history and relationships shape who we are.

I remember the first time I read The Color Purple. I was a sophomore in high school and its powerful depiction of struggle and bravery and resilience powered by connection and companionship resonated with me in a way that made the violence and sexual content in the book simply details. (I have since then seen far more explicit content in any number of more accessible ways than reading a book. Statistically, kids have already accessed porn online by sixth grade. The Color Purple and porn are in completely different stratospheres.)

A Separate Peace has been dubbed “a classic American novel.” A Farewell to Arms is considered a classic. The Color Purple won the Pulitzer Prize.

All three of the aforementioned novels are on Urbandale's list.

I don’t read all books, and there are some genres I just don’t care for (brace yourself – I never read Harry Potter. I just didn’t get into it). Other books I have found to be violent or gratuitously sexualized and I just stopped reading them. I didn't tell other people they shouldn't read them. I just decided they weren't for me. I read Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. Its themes elevate a different set of beliefs than mine, but it was well written, and I learned something by reading it. This discernment has been my practice all my life, and it was taught by my parents and my teachers. 

I talked with Shannon Horton, our school librarian. I liked her before she told me about her job, and I absolutely adore her after I learned what she does for kids. Students have asked her for more Christian-based literature. She researched it and brought in additional titles. Others asked her for hunting books. Again, she researched them and brought in titles that her students love reading. (Read that again: students love reading.)

There are more books written for young adults available today than any time in history. Shannon actively researches a wide range of subjects and titles and works to learn what’s important to students and connects them with books they may enjoy.

She describes reading as an avenue to parent conversations. Parents have a right to tell their kids they can’t read something, but it’s an opportunity to open a discussion.

Bans shut down discussion. Children can’t learn critical thinking skills if they’re never exposed to ideas they don’t agree with. “Indoctrination” comes up a lot in debate. Development of critical thought is a tool to fight indoctrination if that’s what we’re truly talking about.

It's not.

Banning access to information is a tool of control. It is un-democratic and anti-American. 

Last spring, I wrote a Facebook post about Iowa's proposed legislation banning books at public schools. A friend I grew up with challenged me, saying it was “toxic” that I called the legislation banning.

My key takeaways from that exchange: 1) How effective the carefully-designed conservative messages are – people saying, “Hey, this isn’t what you think it is” when it absolutely is what it is, which is book banning, and 2) As such, some people have no problem with shoddy legislation, an absence of leadership, and having basic rights just swept away when served up as “parents should decide what's right for their kids" and "our schools shouldn't provide porn for kindergarteners." 

Calling this banning isn't toxic. The fact it was written into law is what’s toxic. 

These are all tactics designed to restrict and control, and we've gone from "that would never happen here" to "it's the law" in one legislative session. 

We should be infuriated.

What are we willing to do to ensure our children have access to books that reflect the nuance and complexity of the world around them?

The time for action is now.

All our moms

It's Mother's Day weekend, and I am one of many who call a cherished friend "Mom." Mom turns 93 today. She entered hospice care yesterday. 

I saw her last night, and she’s weak, but she still has all her faculties. She’s still Mom - asking after my kids and our friends, making sure everyone is doing ok.

It’s raining where I am today - a steady and comforting spring rain that invites contemplation, and I haven’t been able to think about anything other than Mom and her actual kids wading through the logistics of hospice care and the related stress and grief. Even if you think you’re ready, you’re not.

Mom’s actual daughter (one of my closest friends) texts me updates. Mom is still running the show, so I’m comforted by the idea that she’ll get everyone focused on joy and gratitude in a hurry.

That has been her gift to us. She’s been a mom figure for sure. But she has also shaped us - with her wit, her perspective, her curiosity, her faith in people, and her capacity for love. That’s been my biggest comfort today. While I can’t quite imagine a world without her, when it’s time to leave, she’ll still be with us in lots of amazing ways.

It’s short-sighted to paint all moms with this brush, and I know there are plenty of people for whom Mother’s Day is painful for a number of reasons. The day tends to be hyper-sentimentalized and misses the many nuances that come with complicated roles and relationships.

This point hit home during one of my most memorable Mother’s Days, which was spent alongside my own mom, helping our close friends with their annual plant sale. My mom is an avid gardener, and she quickly fell into point-of-sale tasks - answering questions about whether this variety would work on the porch on the north side of the house, taking money, and making change.

I am what I would describe as an average gardener, and counting back change is not among my favorite activities, so I took on the role of “goodwill ambassador,” greeting people upon their arrival, directing them to parking, and helping them schlep their purchases back to their cars.

A gentle spring sun was out and the colorful annuals dialed up the brightness on our friends’ beautiful farm. The vast majority of customers were moms of some sort: Moms, dad moms, mothers in-law, godmothers, adopted moms, second moms, stepmoms, aunt moms, neighbor moms, my mom’s-roommate-in-college-who-is-like-my-mom-but-better-because-she’s-not moms, moms who lost their moms, moms who lost their children, moms who no longer talk to their children, moms who weren’t planning on being moms, moms that worry every day that they’re doing everything wrong.

Several of them shared their connections and what they meant to each other. Others carried the tension and tone that comes from trying when relationships are strained. I noticed the pain of loss in the faces of a few others as I loaded their flowers in backs of their cars.

I realized how lucky I am - my own mom is strong, wise, and loving. I’m also fortunate to have people like “Mom” who love me like a daughter.

I remember calling Mom out of the blue many years ago when I couldn’t get my head around an insensitive question that came to me in a very public way about a friend’s private matter. I just needed someone to talk to about it, and Mom was the first person I thought of. When she answered the phone, I couldn’t stop crying. She patiently listened. When I eventually pulled it together, her advice was sound, and went something like, “give yourself some space, and forgive this person, because she doesn’t understand. Just keep being loving, sweetheart.”

Mom has taught me the value of being loving - through care and attention, service to others, and always being prepared to lay out a really great appetizer spread.

Loving well is not limited to moms, but there are some who are particularly brilliant at it.

Thank you, Mom. 

Doubt

"Then the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted." Matthew 28:16-17

I'm a trusting person, but I have doubts. Everyone does. Even in the bright light of the miracle of Easter, Jesus' most cherished friends and companions doubted.

Doubt makes us vulnerable. Doubt exposes us to things we don't want to feel: anger, betrayal, hurt, confusion, misunderstanding. It forces us to consider the idea that maybe were were wrong about something, or perhaps something we believed isn't true.

In a world that demands assurance and certainty, living with doubt is tough. So we cram doubt into a sort of built-in bullshit detector that questions everything. Show me. Prove it. I don't care who publishes it - if it gets close to validating what I'm thinking, no matter how ridiculous, sure - I'll share it. I'll trust it. I'll defend it. And I'll tell anyone who doesn't believe it that they're an idiot.

We get defensive when people call us on it and lash out in the most unproductive and hurtful of ways: name-calling, dismissal, divisiveness, blame, threats, hatred.

Emboldened by those who validate us when we do that, we double down and keep going until our social media feeds are a weird dichotomy of "look who owned who today" memes and cat videos.

This behavior is prevalent across all of our spectrums - social, political, religious, ideological.

Fear has become our common denominator, and fear is the shakiest of foundations. But fear is also something every one of us understands all too well, so maybe that's a start.

Today, my faith tradition celebrates Christ's victory over death. The events leading up to Easter are dark. They're days full of betrayal and darkness and fear and violence and grief and doubt. From Thursday to Sunday, Christians are asked to sit with that stew and all the uncertainty that comes with it.

Then - like a breath of fresh air - morning comes, the sun rises, the rock rolls away, and we're left with hope that comforts us when we fear things like death and uncertainty. It's not unlike the relief you feel when you learn your test was negative. Or that your mom is going to be ok. Or when your kid finally arrives home safely after curfew. Or when your friend texts you the kiss emoticon in the middle of a really rough day.

Because doubt will continue to plague us. We're smack in the center of a season filled with doubt right now. We're sitting at home (hopefully) with nothing but our thoughts and our anxieties and our bargaining and our reasoning and we're bumping around like pinballs in a machine trying to find something - anything - that can make sense of something we can't see or anticipate, but we know has the ability to wreck so much havoc.

Unless you're doubting this is all a thing at all. I'm sure there are a few of you. Stay with me.

As vulnerability goes, I can't remember ever feeling it as acutely as I have over the past few weeks. All of my numbing agents are out of reach, and I have no opportunity to even attempt to control what is happening. I'm afraid - for myself, my family, my kids, my colleagues, my community.

As trusting as I am, I have doubts. And I have no choice but to sit with that.

Until.

Until my friends insist on staying connected in ways that are sometimes ridiculous, but comforting in ways only they can be.

Until the first thing our community does is develop a volunteer care network to assess needs and find ways to meet them so no one feels alone.

Until health care workers, grocers, garbage collectors, public service personnel and so many others just keep showing up to do the work that makes our lives better - day after day.

Until teachers line up a parade to let students know they're missed and they're loved.

Until local businesses discover ways not only to keep income flowing, but to show us they miss us and that they care.

Until those same businesses that are struggling continue to find ways to serve others.

Until friends and neighbors organize a birthday parade for our young neighbor and three police officers show up to participate.

Until the school district turns on the field lights on Friday to show support for our students and the seniors.

Until the local fire department offers birthday lights and sirens because having a birthday while in quarantine sucks, and our fire department seems to always know the right thing to do.

Until the local hardware store staff show up at my friend's house to help her install a basketball hoop for her nine-year-old.

Until people, time and again, show up for the lonely, the hungry, the abused and neglected and the struggling.

With that, light shines through. With that comes hope that sends fear and despair packing. With that comes assurance that while our doubts will always be a given, what we are promised will still be here.

No matter what your faith tradition, I pray today your heart is full of these virtues.

We'll be ok.

Alleluia.

Dance of the Trout Run Trail

August starts its descent into fall ...
the sun takes longer to rise and, like a toddler, tires easily at the end of the day
the crickets chirp a requiem to the loss of summer.

Yet the trail gives a final party - a dance in reverence to all that summer brings
billowing clouds suspended from the clearest of blue skies
providing shade to tassels thrust high by maturing corn.

The tails of dairy cows keep time as they swoosh the buzzing flies away
their mouths pull sweet clover from the ground
their gentle moos join together in chorus.

The trout streams gurgle as the sun flits across their rapids
the rocks carry a cadence that elevates the laughter
of children with fishing lines hanging from the bridge.

The woods push out the pungent odor of death
the thicket buries a small animal that has gone there to rest
taking its energy and keeping an eternity of secrets.

My tires bump across railroad ties laid out like a xylophone
wafting up the smell of oil and licorice and smoke
layered into their core from years of service and miles of journeys.

The monarchs waltz among Queen Anne's lace ... dainty, yet majestic
the yellow petals of black-eyed Susans dip like hula skirts
the bees two-step with the sunflowers.

Birds sing to each other as they grasp the grasses
taking a rest from their daily chores
red-winged blackbirds sing instructions like the caller at a square dance.

The breezes stir as the sun dips further
the crickets begin their song
my tires stop with the grind of loose gravel
and I look back with a final bow of gratitude.

'Tis the (graduation) season: a coping guide

May 1 is here and Graduation Season is just about upon us … it’s a lot like the Holiday Season, except that instead of cookies, caroling and decorated trees, it’s all about sheet cake, photo boards and transforming your garage into a second living room to host 300 of your nearest and dearest.

I don’t have a graduate this year, but I recognize this season both for what it is for graduates (you’re excited, but you’re on your last nerve and freaking out) and for the parents (you’re stressed, you’re terrified, you’re on your last nerve and freaking out.) Lots of lessons to be learned here, friends – but here are a few that come to mind.

For the seniors: 

Take a breath.

It’s been a while since I have been in high school, but here are a few things I know:

• Other than my college application, no one asks me what my GPA was in high school. No one. Don’t phone it in, but let go of the idea that you have to get everything perfect at this stage of the game.
• Don’t be a jerk to your teachers. This time of year is hard on them, too.
• Take it easy on your mom. She’s struggling with a lot of issues that are playing out like they’re all about you cleaning your room or writing thank you notes, but they’re more about creating the illusion of control. She knows you’re on your way out and she’s struggling with that, so give her a break and let her give you the lingering hugs and feel all the feels. She loves you like you haven’t loved anything yet … you’ll understand that someday.
• Savor your last few weeks. You won’t ever have an experience like high school again. For many, that’s a good thing. But there’s a good chance you’ll remember and appreciate your teachers and your friends more than you ever imagined. High school is a community, and each community we are part of stays with us. Think about what this season of your life has taught you – both good and bad.
• Take stock of what’s happening in your life right now, but also take some time to think about what’s next. I don’t mean picking a job or a major or your courses … your next few years aren’t going to be so much what you’re going to do but how you’re going to become the person you want to be. That matters. Pay attention to what’s going on around you and think about the ways that you being uniquely you is being pulled to make the world around you better.
• Know you have people rooting for you. Many of them are asking what you’re doing next year, and I know you’re sick of responding. We’re sorry … we just love you and we care.
• Take good, good care of yourself.

For the parents:

Take a breath.

You're feeling tired, stressed and unappreciated. Everything you say to your senior is taken the wrong way and blown out of proportion. You're losing sleep over stuff like they're out of blue napkins at the Dollar Store, should I bite the bullet and buy a new love seat and how am I going to wrangle another graduation ticket. It's been a while since I have had a graduate, but here's what I know:

• Everyone who comes to your kid’s graduation party has eaten something someplace else. Don’t worry about how much food you have. I swear it’s a loaves and fishes thing, but that stuff works itself out.
• Your student is managing emotions they don’t understand and they’re taking it all out on you – the slammed doors, the eye rolls, the defiance, the raised voices. Try to cut them some slack. They don’t get the significance of this transition in their life, but they’re sensing it. That’s a lot to deal with, so pick your battles.
• Talk with your tribe about what’s going on with you. It’s ok to admit this is hard, because it is. We understand.
• Savor these last few weeks. Even though you’re meeting yourself coming and going, you’re doing laundry constantly, your front door feels like Black Friday with all the people going in and out of it, and you stood in Carharts under an umbrella at last week’s soccer game and skipped work, dinner and wine with your friends to go to the spring music concert, you will still grieve over no longer being the parent of a high school student. It’s more of your identity than you probably understand at this point.
• Your student isn’t your baby anymore, and that’s hard to come to grips with. But they’re also becoming adults – and it’s fun to get to know them in a different way as they’re starting to figure themselves out. They become a whole new level of interesting – and best of all, they figure out in a hurry you’re not the idiot they always figured you to be.
• Remember that growing is a process. They’re learning and they can, will and should make mistakes. Watching your kiddos stumble is not fun, and watching them fall is excruciating - but it’s necessary. Keep reminding them you’re there for them and let them go.
• Take good, good care of yourself.

Reining in the new year

My favorite Hallmark holiday movie went something like this: A woman tried (kind of) to eat healthy (well, most of the time) during the month of December. Then, when her birthday came, she decided it was the festive season and there were parties and a holiday breakfast at work and then someone brought doughnuts and Elke sent the Cedarburg cheese ... and she ate and drank whatever she wanted.

She went to the gym, but not very often. On Jan. 1, she put on her pants and realized her lack of a strategy turned on her - it's all fun and games until you put your jeans on. So the woman told her husband, "You should do this, too" and they threw away all their chips and gave away the rest of the Christmas cookies and they ate kale and they were happy. The end.

Most of the aforementioned is true ... kale isn't making us happy (unless Andy is serving the kale in the form of his Kale Caesar - call Rubaiyat at 382-9463 for reservations). It was time for a reality check. Seriously, when the food groups coming out of your kitchen consist of cheese, scrambled eggs, red wine, more cheese and Casey's Pizza, it's time to do something before your Christmas wish list for next year includes a gift certificate for bypass surgery. My metabolism isn't what it used to be, and it was never really very great, so it's time to stop eating like I'm 20. That ship has sailed.

Pat and I made a goal for the month of January to pursue health by eschewing all alcohol (yep, all of it ), added sugars (including honey and all artificial sweeteners, but we ate natural sources like what comes in fruit) and processed food (nothing containing ingredients we couldn't pronounce, and nothing with added sugar - which is in just about everything with ingredients you can't pronounce.)

Dec. 31 marked my last glass of wine for a month - to be honest, I was ready to give it up, which tells you just how celebratory my mood had been in the weeks leading up to Christmas. On New Year's Eve, I relished in some spinach-artichoke dip and some caramel corn concoction that Tom came up with that had pretzels and chocolate mixed in - I had to put the lid on so I didn't put my face in it. Anyway, the morning of Jan. 1 came and we implemented the "Rein in the New Year" plan.

A few have asked me if we did Whole30. We didn't. And I know Whole30 has done amazing things for people and their joints are working and they are sleeping better and their hair is shiny and all of the things, but I wanted to do something more sustainable that would make us more mindful of not only what we're eating, but what we're preparing and how we're preparing it. I also am a strong believer that absolutely no one found themselves in a pants sitch by eating stuff like legumes and brown rice, and those are no-no's on Whole30. Trust me, as lovable at Pat and I are, Us - Carbs = Bad News.

So anyway, here we are in February. On Friday (Feb. 1), we toasted (with wine) successfully completing our goal with no noticeable fallout. Here are some things we learned.

No alcohol was a cinch. 
I came home from work after stressful days and didn't have a glass of wine and I was fine. We went out with friends and didn't have alcohol and no one thought we were weird (we did get some inquiries as to what we were doing, but that was out of interest, not criticism). All of our relationships carried on as usual.

We talked about it, and realized how much of our alcohol consumption was out of habit, rather than making a conscious decision to drink it. We are surrounded by pervasive messages that support - and even encourage - drinking. A lot of our social activities have centered around eating and drinking. We branched out and hosted a few game nights, drank our sparkling water out of wine glasses spiked with lemons or limes and had some great conversations with folks. We also stayed home more than we usually do, which was kind of nice, too.

The realization for me was how much I tend to use wine and food to numb a rough day or conflicted feelings. This past month forced me to find different ways to deal with things. While it wasn't always easy, it was a good lesson learned - and a good journey to continue exploring.

No added sugar was a surprisingly heavy lift.
For the first four days, I felt sluggish, foggy and tired and had a headache. I didn't sleep well. It was astonishing to me how much my body seemed to crave sugar. I had actually trained my body to crave crappy food.

Sugar (and its kissing cousin, corn syrup) is in just about everything you can buy in the store that isn't sold in its natural state. Read a few labels and you'll realize this is true - it's in everything from bread to spaghetti sauce to that seemingly innocuous roasted red pepper spread. Yoplait strawberry yogurt (one of my faves) has as much sugar in it as a glazed doughnut. It's no wonder that the average American eats 17 teaspoons of sugar a day when the recommended amount is actually 6 for women and 9 for men.

Once I went through the detox, the cravings subsided. One day I felt like eating a cupcake, but that was one day out of 31. Four day outside the challenge, and I have only had one cookie. What I did discover is that fruit tastes more robust to taste buds that haven't been desensitized and I have re-discovered the natural sweetness in other foods, such as tomatoes. Sweet!

Processed food: the good, the bad and the ugly
Staying away from processed food was for my partner, who is on a first-name basis with the staff at our local Kwik Star. Pat loves stuff like breakfast sandwiches with sausage, cheddar wursts, chips and pizza slices. And I'm not going to say that I've never enjoyed a bag of chips or a slice of pizza from a gas station (anyone who has been on a road trip with me knows I can't claim that), but it's usually not my default treat.

Turns out, not all processed food is created equal, and the label "processed" gets a bad rap. If you've ever eaten bagged spinach, baby carrots or frozen strawberries, you're technically eating processed food. And we ate those things during the month of January because they're minimally processed for convenience. What I will say about this is I tried both pre-packaged baby carrots and slicing and cutting my own whole carrots from the store, and the latter had much deeper flavor - the baby carrots didn't really taste like much in comparison. Consuming food from its natural state matters.

What we were avoiding was the "hyper-processed" food like frozen pizza, boxed dinners and fast food. These foods almost always have high sugar and sodium content, which is by design - they go down faster and easier and leave you wanting more. It's a win-win for the food industry but bad news for your waistline. To be clear, I'm not swearing off Culver's snack packs or chicken strips forever. But on Friday, I had a fried cheese curd and it tasted like I was eating table salt by the spoonful. I'll eat processed foods (cookie dough happens), but I'll work on making them more the exception than the rule after last month.

On being aware of your bullshit
A month abstaining from some of my poorer habits will not get me any closer to being the poster child for healthy eating. I eat stuff like Bugles mixed with Peanut Butter M&Ms and crush potato chips on my cottage cheese, for crying out loud. But January did help me take stock of some of the bullshit I've talked myself into. Stuff like:

"I can't possibly do this."
I actually can. It was much easier having Pat along for the ride, but anyone can do anything for a month. I'm actually pretty proud of myself.

"I don't have time."
When did we decide we didn't have enough time to cook? That chopping an onion was just far to taxing on my busy schedule? That meal planning was as complicated as trigonometry? That I'm just too busy to work out? My iPad started sending me notices about how much screen time I average on a daily basis. I have plenty of time to do the aforementioned. If I'm being truthful, "I don't feel like it" is a much more accurate statement. Once we started planning meals and cooking together, it became an enjoyable way to wind down at the end of the day - and the leftovers worked great for lunches and days when we didn't have time to do much cooking.

"I've earned it/I deserve it."
Eating a salad for lunch doesn't negate four pieces of pizza and half a bottle of wine for dinner. You can't rationalize your way around balanced eating and you can't exercise your way out of a bad diet.

"Everyone knows you ..."
Everyone's health journey is different. Stop comparing yourself to others. And the scale is not a definitive measure of healthy living.

"As much as you want."
Americans in particular seem to love this. "Don't eat carbs and you can eat as much as you want." "Don't eat fat and you can eat as much as you want." Like everything in life, eating is a balancing act. There are very few "as much as you wants" that exist without eventually having some sort of negative effect.

"Everyone will think I'm ..."
I seriously need to stop caring about this in all aspects of my life. Join me, won't you?

It wasn't perfect or pretty, but we did it ... and we learned a lot in the process.

And my pants fit great.

Sandwiched

I'm reading a book by Kelly Corrigan called The Middle Place that she defines as "that sliver of time when parenthood and childhood overlap."

She's warm and irreverent and hilarious and I'm halfway through the book that resonates with me so much because I'm sandwiched in the middle of that part of my life when I am a full-fledged adult and am called on to managed life's complexities and most of the days I'm somewhat successful at it but there are still days when I just want a hug from my mom or a pep talk from my dad and for someone to just be responsible for a while so I don't have to be and I'm within spitting distance of being 50 years old.

I'm convinced my parents feel sandwiched, too. For the past few days, I've been in Pennsylvania to help out as my dad has hip replacement surgery. One minute, I'm of counsel - what kind of anesthesia do I think would be best, what kinds of adjustments do I think we should make to the house before my dad comes home with a cane and a walker, what should we do if his stubborn self doesn't want to take pain medication, how will we manage when his competitive self wants to burn through therapy as fast as possible, as if rehabilitation is some sort of frivolous activity for people who just can't take the heat and that he'll get some sort of imaginary gold medal for getting done first.

The next minute, I'm 16. My parents live in a part of the state where, between major highways, there are centuries-old farm houses tucked into rolling hills like bookmarks and you can imagine a team of Revolutionary War minutemen walking through a field to the tempo of a fife and drum. The roads are windy and hilly and there is no shoulder to speak of, yet my mom insists on drinking coffee from a regular mug while she's driving and my dad refuses to put a lid on a to-go cup when we pick up coffee at the Wawa. When I bring up the idea of perhaps using a travel mug, they look at me with annoyance, as if it's some kind of weakness to drink coffee out of a cup that's a fortress against spills and burns and my suggestion is just another example of my generation lacking fortitude and grit.

We were running late this morning because of traffic and my mom nabbed a spot in the parking garage but noticed the back of her car was over the yellow parking line. "Give me your keys, Mom - I'll straighten it out and meet you inside." She hesitated, looking in a panic at the cars coming into the garage. "There are cars out here," she protested. "You will need to be careful." She danced around, looking in a panic between me and the incoming cars.

I rolled down the window. "Mom, I swear to God ..." She threw her arms up and scuttled toward the entrance, but she kept glancing with worry at the cars that she knew were going to form a pile-up when I inevitably slammed into one of them while absently backing up at 50 miles an hour.

But my mom also found time to make my favorite apricot bars and my dad stocked my favorite wine and I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good to be staying in their house, with their familiar furniture and artwork and dishes and the ever-present scent of coffee, candles and Lubriderm lotion, secure in the knowledge that, even under these circumstances, I don't need to be in charge for a few days. Not really.

The last couple of months of found me in a midlife crisis of sorts - the kids are gone, we are enduring the unexpected death of a very close friend and I have been asking myself some important but difficult questions about what I want to do with my career - questions I need to answer if I am to get at it while the getting is good. I have talked to a few people about all of these things, but not my parents. I assumed that anything I told them would be met with worry, concern and probing questions that I just didn't want to put energy into. I was spent enough just trying to figure everything out.

Until they called a few weeks ago and both of them were on the extension (which is high-tech in their household), and after a smattering of updates about the rest of the family my mom finally said, "Honey, what's going on? Or don't you want to talk about it?"

I told them everything. It just tumbled out. As my voice choked with tears, I told them about the acute grief I had been feeling that never seemed to fully go away. That I was lonely and confused and afraid. That I didn't know where to focus now that the kids weren't at home and Pat was occupied with football. That I was uncertain and shaken and lacking confidence in what I wanted to do with my work, but I was too afraid to make tough decisions and take a leap of faith. That I was worried about being judged about all of this. That I was feeling ashamed and like a failure.

Oh, how we sell our parents short. They're so much wiser than we give them credit for.

They generously shared their stories of times when they had felt exactly the same way. They reassured me that everything I was feeling was normal. They told me they believed in me. They said that they were proud of what I had done with my life and looked forward to what I would do next. They supported the direction I was headed with some of the tough decisions I was making. They said goodbye assuring me that I was talented and successful, but more importantly, loved unconditionally. 

"Hang in there," was my dad's parting advice. And, like a cool drink of water after mowing the lawn on a hot day, I felt lighter, more lucid, revived.

And yesterday, while I said good-bye to him before they wheeled him into the OR, he kissed me and said, "I know you're doing the right things and making the right decisions, and I'm proud of you."

No matter how old we are, life hands us so many experiences for which we need assurance, support and presence. That's what we're called to do for each other, and though my parents aren't perfect, they have always had the best of intentions of doing that for me. If I can be helpful by supporting my mom as she nurses my dad, who is a terrible patient, back to full strength, I'm there. If I can lend my dad some strength as he deals with my mom throwing down the control gauntlet because she's worried and scared, I can take it.

I'm reminded that we need to savor the love of our parents in sips like a rare wine vintage. They're not always going to be there. And I'm reminded that the "sandwiched" phase of parenting requires grace on both ends. (Don't worry - I'm taking notes, Sean, Mariah and Abby.)

I'm off to referee the patient and the caregiver, but I have a smile on my face. I'm here for them and they're here for me. I'm going to hang onto that for as long as I can.