'Tis the Season

A couple of days ago a mysterious letter arrived in the mailbox. I say "mysterious" because I couldn't imagine why I was receiving a type-written, stamped letter from my 8-year-old daughter. And it was addressed to "Mrs. Penny  Rogers". Quite formal ... and rather curious.

I quickly made the connection that her third-grade class was learning to write persuasive letters. Still, I was amused - and mildly disturbed - by the letter's content.

Dear Mom, 

Please, please, please can I have an iTouch. I am almost NINE YEARS OLD! ... It's only fair that you let me have the iTouch. You say yourself that I am very mature!!" I promise I wouldn't let Indy get it ...

Julianna & Indy

With Christmas just around the corner, Julianna wasn't taking any chances. She wanted to cover all the bases and make sure she got her point across to the ultimate gatekeeper of gifts. She knows that going straight to Santa isn't enough ... I've made it pretty clear that I have a direct line to the Big Guy and that ultimately, Mom & Dad make the decisions about what St. Nick delivers under the tree.

Julianna's letter -- which is pictured in its entirety at the bottom of this post -- was creative if not persuasive, and it now hangs on our refrigerator.

It will stay there through the holidays, and maybe even longer.

Her letter hangs there as a reminder. It's a reminder of all the blessings I have in my life. Health, family, home, job, food ... the list goes on and on.

(Notice I did not include the Newf on this list. He still rates as more of a curse than a blessing. Did you know that both Christmas tree ornaments and dreidels make fabulous doggy snacks?)

But I digress ...

The arrival of Julianna's letter particularly struck a chord with me because, earlier in the day, she delivered a holiday gift to her teacher. We attached a note to the gift that said, in the teacher's honor, we had made a donation to the Food Bank of Central and Eastern North Carolina.

These two notes -- Julianna's letter and the holiday gift for her teacher -- were very much at opposite ends of the spectrum.

My daughter, despite her eloquent and flawed argument, does not need much of anything. And she needs that iTouch just about as much as she needs any of the other gifts that Santa will be bringing to her this Christmas ... which is to say, not at all.

But there are little girls her age across our nation, some who also have fabulous curly hair and big blue eyes, who do have real needs this holiday season, and year round.

According to the Food Bank's website, "in central and eastern North Carolina counties alone, more than 500,000 people struggle each day to provide enough food for their families". The small donation I made in honor of my coworkers and my children's teachers will provide 200 meals for those in need. But this is only a fraction of the 1.4 million meals the Food Bank hopes to raise for its Holiday Meals Drive before Dec. 31.

The way I figure it, for the same cost as an Angry Birds download or a few iTunes songs, I can make an impact that will spread beyond the virtual world and into the real one.

Happy Holidays to all of you, and if you can give even a little bit to the Food Bank or your favorite charity, I encourage you to do so.

We have much for which to be thankful, and after all, 'Tis the Season!

Julianna's letter

You Must Be THIS Tall

Life is measured in milestones. First words … beginning steps … birthdays … graduations. And while I certainly use the same technique to measure my own children’s growth and development, I also use a different system. I call it The Tweetsie Method.

As we walked along Main Street during our most recent visit to Tweetsie Railroad, I wondered if my son, LJ, now 10, and my daughter, Julianna, 8, would still find the same magic they had on previous trips.

The kids made a beeline for the Turnpike Cruisers, and LJ confidently marched up to the You Must Be This Tall to drive alone sign. Last year, he came within an inch or two of clearing the mark, and this time it wasn’t even close. He stood proud and beaming as the ride attendant waved him through to his own shiny green car.

I, on the other hand, had a flashback. I saw the 3-year-old toddler who sat wide-eyed as I bumped around the track. I pictured the 5-year-old Kindergartner who gripped my hands in his as I steered the path. And I envisioned the 7-year-old little boy who jerked into the safety wall as he managed the steering wheel and I controlled the pedals.

And then I watched. I marveled as this young man – my son – maneuvered easily around the turnpike, focused intently on the path ahead, never once looking behind.

It wasn’t a first word, a birthday, or a major life event. But to me, this was a milestone. A Tweetsie Milestone.

And there have been many. Staying awake long enough to watch Tweetsie’s Fourth of July fireworks from the car rooftop; moving up from the kiddie rides on Miner’s Mountain to the big kid rides at the Country Fair; LJ and Julianna getting up the nerve to enter the Black Hole at the Ghost Train Halloween Festival; and me getting up the nerve to let them ride the chair lift by themselves for the first time – that was a big one.

I remember visiting Tweetsie when I was a child, and now, it’s become an annual tradition for my own family. The beauty of the park is that, although it remains frozen in time with the steam engine, arcade games, and good old-fashioned Southern hospitality, there’s room for children to grow and discover new adventures each and every visit.

I can only hope LJ and Julianna continue the tradition when they are parents someday. What a Tweetsie Milestone that would be.

Note: I wrote this post specifically -- and happily -- for the Tweetsie Railroad blog.

Let Freedom Ring

During the last three months, we've celebrated three birthdays in our house. Both kids aged up, which means I now have an 8-year-old daughter and a 10-year-old son (or as LJ puts it, he's a "ten-ager").

The third birthday belonged to none other than the Newfus, who managed to somehow make it through an entire year without ingesting something fatal or running into traffic on I-40.

It's hard to believe that it's been more than 365 days since God smote Earth - and in particular my house - with this beast.

Each of these birthday milestones has been cause for reflection, as my kids seem to mature a little and yearn for a bit more freedom each and every day. Julianna, for example, recently decided to move into the guest room so she could have her own bathroom. After the move, she promptly hung a bell on her doorknob and taped a sign to the door that said "Please ring bell to enter."

I forgot to ring once and was immediately admonished.

LJ has also been spreading his wings. He doesn't want me scrutinizing his homework or badgering him to get it done. He'd just as soon ride his bike around the neighborhood alone than wait for me and Indy to catch up. And just yesterday, when his sister asked him to play stuffed animals with her, he said, "You know, Juli, I'm getting older and I'm just not into that kind of thing anymore."

But as I struggle to accept my children's rapid ascent toward adolescence, I find I have the opposite problem with the Newf.

Desperately wanting Indy to have a little more of his own freedom, we decided to start leaving him out of his crate during the day for a few minutes at a time. After all, as a giant breed dog at 1 year old, that loosely translates into 15 human years. Surely it was time.

Indy's first few whiffs of freedom went very well. No damage was done ... unless you count that one time he bulled through the office door, dragged an extension cord out of a box and shredded it.

But we all know that cord was asking for it. 

So we continued with our doomed experiment. After he spent several successful nights and a half dozen incident-free stints during the day out of his crate, we decided to go for it. A half a day ... alone. With the run of the downstairs.

As I entered the house that evening, I breathed a sigh of relief. There was a gnarled piece of paper on the area rug, but other than that, everything seemed to be in order.

I found Indy stretched out in the dining room near his open crate and I stooped to praise him for his goodness.

It was a miracle! We had turned the corner! There was hope for this furry monster! There was a light at the end of the tunnel! There was ...

A foot missing from the leg of my dining room table.

Once the initial shock of my discovery wore off,  I gathered myself and shrugged. After all, it wasn't really Indy's fault that we put him in a situation he wasn't ready to handle. He just wasn't quite ready for prime time, and we pushed him to his breaking point. A point that included a hearty diet of very expensive cherry-stained wood veneer.

And just in case I needed a reminder, the Newf provided one I won't soon forget ... especially as it applies to highly destructive yet utterly lovable puppies.

Freedom isn't free.