Clothes Make the Man

As LJ marched into the gym for his fifth grade graduation ceremony last Friday, I couldn't help but notice that -- although he looked extremely handsome in his brand-new shirt, first "real" tie, and freshly ironed pants -- he was the only boy in the entire grade who was not wearing a blazer.

Or a belt.

And he was probably the only boy sporting navy socks with his black pants and black loafers.

It was actually a minor miracle that LJ was wearing pants at all that morning. Suddenly, his black pants no longer fit him. And these were the same pants that, when I bought them just months before, were so big his ankles were practically swimming in the cuffs.

Now, just 30 minutes before he needed to be at school for the culminating experience of his elementary school career, we couldn't even get his pants to button. 

Zip, yes -- never mind it required a metal captain's hook and the strength of 10 oxen. But the button just didn't want to budge, and I had serious concerns that I would tear the button from its tenuous threads if I pulled much harder.

Divine grace intervened ... or perhaps God just got tired of hearing me curse in Yiddish ... and the button somehow found its way into the hole.

After I made LJ swear that he wouldn't cough, sneeze or bend over until after the graduation reception, I handed him his belt.

Now, I should have known the belt -- which I bought more than a year ago -- wouldn't fit anymore, but it simply didn't cross my mind until it was too late.

And the navy socks? Well, I can't really explain that, except to assure you that I will be having my annual eye exam sooner rather than later.

As I helped LJ get ready that morning, I found myself panicked that we wouldn't make it to school in time, or if we did, my son would be sans pants.

But then, as I watched Jack show LJ how to put on his first "clipless" tie, I realized that these clothes did indeed make the man. 

Baggy pants to barely buttoned.

Brand new shirt that hardly stretched across his broad shoulders.

Belt that was more suited to my waist than his.

My oldest child is hardly a child at all anymore.

Despite his lack of a blazer, belt, and matching socks, LJ didn't miss a beat at graduation. He confidently strode in with his classmates during the processional, glided across the stage to receive his certificate, and even turned to the camera and posed when he shook the Head of School's hand -- just as he had been instructed to do during rehearsal.

For those of you who have been through a "milestone" experience with a child, you'll understand why I had to choke back the tears as he processed in and out of the gym. And you'll also commiserate with me on the "how did time fly so fast" sentiment. It may be cliche but could not have rang more true last Friday.

It's also true that LJ's first 11 years have gone too quickly. I haven't taken enough photos, scrapbooked enough pages, or captured nearly enough memories. I am, however, comforted by knowing that we still have Middle School and Upper School ahead of us. That's seven more years of moments I have to look forward to and memories to make ... and it's plenty of time to get him a pair of pants and a belt that actually fit.

Photos by Steve Abrahams

'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.

Food for Thought

On the list ranking dogs by intelligence (yes there is such a list), Newfoundlands come in at a paltry #34.

To put this in perspective, they rank just above something named a Clumber, and slightly below something called a Bouvier Des Flandres.

To be honest, I'm not thrilled about my puppy ranking beneath some breed that sounds like a French porn star. But I also can't really argue that Indy's been unfairly rated or even the least bit misunderstood.

It's nearly impossible to defend the intelligence of a creature who sucks up anything in its path like an industrial-strength Shop-Vac.

When Indy ate the doormat on our deck, dozens of rolls of toilet tissue, and the daily paper, we chalked it up to puppy play.

We he consumed an extra-large box of candied sour trout, a gherkin pickle, a warehouse-sized log of goat cheese, and 17 chili peppers, an unripe tomato and several overgrown cucumbers from our backyard garden, we figured it was a canine culinary oddity. 

When he scavenged our windowsills licking up dead flies, combed the neighborhood streets for dried earthworms and goose poop, and devoured a common toad he caught outside, we thought it was just his Newfie instincts at work.

When he snatched my retainer from the bathroom counter and gently gnawed it to a warped and unusable mess, we assumed he had a thing for plastic (how else to explain the half dozen or so fang-marked cups we've found lodged beneath our sofa).

When he shattered a glass lantern on the deck and then proceeded to chew the broken shards ... well, we knew he was just stupid.

(And I haven't even discussed the video game, pillows, pairs of scissors, kitchen utensils, pencils, stickers, toothbrushes, 2 porcelain bowls, stuffed animals, winter boots, remote control, 3 fuzzy blankets, pet frog, Christmas tree light strands, action figures, flower pots, garden hose, kitchen timer, patio table, gingerbread house, matches, dreidel, and ADHD medication that all have served as bedtime snacks).

It may be divine intervention. Could be survival of the fittest. Or perhaps it's just dumb luck. But to date, Newfus has managed to eat all of this without harming himself.

A couple of weeks ago, just after Jack returned from a winning trip to Las Vegas, Indy swiped his wallet off the counter. I caught the Newf on the area rug, money scattered, Visa card in his muzzle.

There may never be a more apropos metaphor for a Newf -- or a more disturbing epiphany for his owners -- than to find him eating your credit cards straight out of the wallet. 

Touche, Indy.

This past week, Indy ushered in a new era of puppy consumables. Unsatisfied by his previous conquests, the Newf stalked our downstairs in search of flashier, more expensive household items to destroy.

Indy didn't need to look far. He found glory in the form of two digital devices -- my new iPhone and a cordless handset lying on the kitchen table that was just taunting him ... begging him to taste it.

Fortunately Apple's trademark bumper -- which Indy mangled -- kept him from doing any major damage to my iPhone (prevents antenna problems AND thwarts Newf attacks)!

But our cordless phone was not so lucky.

Our irritation and frustration quickly turned to concern when we realized that he had punctured one of the phone batteries and was therefore at risk of ingesting battery acid.

As all good pet owners do, we immediately consulted a trusted Newfoundland expert ... Google.

Here's what we found:

"If battery fluid has been ingested ... The dog will generally drool heavily."

Glancing at Indy -- standing by the water dish with streams of saliva pouring from his jowls -- we were dismayed.

And confused.

Newfs may not rate particularly high on the intelligence scale, but if there is one thing at which they are unrivaled, it is their slobber.

Another Google search instantly set our minds at ease.

"Male Newfs may be hardheaded, and they also pant a lot, drink a lot (sometimes dunking half of their head into their water bucket), and are champion droolers."

With Google knowledge coming to the rescue once again, relief set in.

The acid disaster had been averted, and we knew that Indy -- while maybe not the smartest dog -- was going to be just fine.

Well ... at least until we plant next year's watermelon crop.